Had he stayed on the horse and continued riding, even at an easy pace, he would have gotten there just in time to see the last escaping prisoner kick a bit of dirt back in the direction of the church before running to catch up with the others. But wanting to keep the borrowed horse from accidental harm, he stopped and tied her by the side of the road in front of a house he knew belonged to another former student. The man — a carpenter whose politics were radical but who was otherwise honest and fair — undoubtedly would recognize the mare and see that she was returned.
Folding his arms across his vest, Busch walked on toward the prison. It took a little over a half hour for him to arrive at the neighboring creek. From the small bridge he could see that the church door was open and there were no militia guards in sight; he walked on cautiously, realizing the operation must be over.
His plan to slip through the hamlet and continue on toward Stoneman's was ruined, however, when a man and woman emerged from the barn across from the church shouting. The two militiamen Jake had tied up earlier followed them out, and Busch saw that the entire population of the hamlet — counting children, this came to nine people — had been alerted and were running back and forth, shouting alarms.
Another person, indeed, nearly any British officer, would have faded into the woods. But Busch was a highly conscientious leader, and trusting that he could talk himself out of danger if confronted, he decided to step briefly into the church to make sure all the prisoners had escaped.
The building was deserted, except for the bully, Charles Wedget, who remained tied in the corner. Wedget had formerly been apprenticed to a tubal-cain or iron founder several miles north; Busch recognized him and knew he was a Tory sympathizer. He also knew the oaf well enough to realize why he'd been left behind. He frowned and spun quickly on his heel. "Free me, John Busch, or I'll give you away." Wedget had barely closed his mouth when Busch was upon him, pistol drawn and held to his head. "Prepare to die, then."
Tears welled in Wedget's eyes as his bully's facade crumbled like the ruins around Rome. "Save me, and I can help you. The escape was planned." "I planned it myself," replied Busch. "Those were my rangers you saw." "There was no troop of rangers. The guards had all disappeared. It is a rebel plot. Please," pleaded Wedget. Busch was still considering what to do when two citizens with rifles entered the building.
"They beat this man up because he was a patriot," he said quickly, pointing at Wedget. "Apparently they're planning an attack on White Plains."
"One of them locked the guards in the barn," said the plump man in front. "We've sent for a troop of Massachusetts men."
"I'm with the Committee on Conspiracies," said Busch. "I'll go on south and alert the forces at White Plains." "You look familiar, sir," said the man as the other untied Wedget. Busch thrust out his hand. "John Busch." "Are you from this area?"
"Further west, near the river." Busch turned quickly. "Myself and this man will take the road south; send someone north to General McDougall. Hurry, man; John Jay will have my head if these villains get away."
Busch's mention of the well-respected Jay — besides heading the Committee on Conspiracies, he was a member of half a dozen other patriot committees and a state judge besides — set aside any doubts and got the locals into motion. Busch was able to commandeer two horses; he and Wedget were heading for Pine's Bridge and Stoneman's beyond it before the citizens had even stumbled across the third guard tied in the woods.
At the intersection of the road to Stoneman's, Busch wheeled his horse to a halt and confronted Wedget. The bully's face immediately clouded; Busch kept his hand near his belt but realized his pistol would not be needed to gain more information. "What was it you meant to tell me?" asked Busch. "Make it quick, man." "Everyone got drunk last night on some squeezings we'd made." "Everyone but yourself."
Wedget nodded. "And one other man, brought in late by the militia. He said his name was Smith, and a more suspicious lurker could not be found anywhere in the country."
Busch betrayed no emotion at the mention of his comrade, though he was glad he was alive — and not surprised Smith had withstood the temptation of alcohol. Nor did he think it unusual that such a man as Wedget would misjudge his character. But as the tale of Smith's mysterious disappearance from the loft continued, Busch felt the sharp pang a bullet makes when it enters the gut. The pain took a crooked path, wrenching much of his insides, and though he endeavored to keep his face motionless, Wedget was encouraged by the turn of his lip to embellish his tale.
"When this Smith returned," said the bully, "the guards were gone, and all of the prisoners walked free from the jail. Something had been arranged; I heard this Smith whispering outside."
"How could you have done that when you were tied in the corner?"
"I did, sir," said the bully. "The door was broken from the inside, to make the escape look genuine. The man is a traitor and a rebel, this Smith. You can tell by his eyes." Busch took his pistol from his belt. "Where did they go?" "D-don't shoot me." "I will if I find you've lied. Where did they go?" "They were talking about a farm over the bridge."
"Come with me," said Busch, uncocking his pistol. "And pray to God my guess is right. For if I'm wrong, I'll kill you."
Wedget struggled to keep up as the Tory captain, filled with regret as well as rage, turned his horse toward Stoneman's.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Though he might have understood them, Jake was not aware of the Tory captain's strong emotions, nor did he know he had reached the church. In fact, Jake suspected that Busch was waiting at Stoneman's, and spent most of the journey from the jail to the Tory hideout rehearsing an account of his capture that might sound somewhat plausible in the commander's ears.
The motley parade of Tories encountered no resistance. Caleb and the others seemed content to let Jake take the lead. The American secret agent kept the irony of his position to himself.
When they reached Stoneman's, they found the remnants of the ranger force in disarray. The clouds gathering overhead were but a hint of the dark mood that had descended on the supposedly unflappable irregulars. The captain had failed to return, and the attack on the jail had been forgotten as they attempted to regroup after last night's ferocious assault.
The details of what had happened were sketchy at best, and varied depending on the teller. The story gaining the most currency was that no less than three full regiments under General Alexander McDougall had overrun the corps as it slept. The rebels were said to have been beaten off by a determined counterattack, the rangers' only ally the attackers' inherent cowardice. Even so, the barn had been set ablaze, several horses lost, and a sentry killed. In addition, one of the servants seemed to have been carried off as a war prize.
Sergeant Lewis was wearing a bandage that swelled his already large head to twice its normal size. He was in a dismal, cranky mood, and not even the news of the bloodless escape from the rebel jail could cheer him.
A pugnacious sort who wore his ranger beanie far forward on his head when it wasn't injured, Lewis had just the kind of bravery for which Tories are known. While his commander and the British were nearby, he strutted back and forth in his fine boots, tugging at his green jacket with all the pride of an Italian prince. But under the pressure of the night's difficulties, his fine facade had crumbled. He was now a testament to indecision, inclined to wait at the farm for Busch to arrive, even if that took the rest of the war.