The Iron Chain

Chapter Twenty-four

Claus van Clynne was generally known as a punctual man, at least as far as business was concerned. He was therefore greatly grieved that he could not arrive on time for his appointment with Jake at Pine's Bridge.

To put it more accurately, he was greatly grieved that he could not be anywhere other than his present location, a small house near Colabaugh Pond. The effects of the drug Major Dr. Keen had administered had worn off not long after midnight, now nearly four hours gone; the Dutchman was therefore in full possession of his senses — which meant he not only could watch as Keen snapped the lid off the large, coffin-like box his assistant Phillip Percival brought into the cottage, but he fully understood that the collection of jars inside contained particularly loathsome leeches.

Under normal circumstances, a bloodletting can be most beneficial when one's bodily humors are out of balance. The efficacy of the treatment has been documented for centuries, and one need no more fear a good medicinal leech than worry about being somehow poisoned by tobacco smoke. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

Nor were they ordinary leeches. Imported from a river in South America, each filled an entire two-gallon jar by itself. The black on the upper portion of its body was complemented by a tawny red on the belly, coincidentally the exact color of dried blood. Rows of small pincers shaped like tiny, vibrating daggers protruded from the elongated belly, stretching out like Howe's army marching up Manhattan after the debacle of Kipp's Bay.

Keen handled each animal with great care, grabbing the tail end with a long set of wrought-iron pincers and using a pointed rod to keep the head in line as he approached his patient. He wore a thick set of leather gloves that rose to his elbows, stiff riding boots, and a leather apron such as a glassblower might wear, sturdy protection should the massive worm test his availability as a target.

Stripped to a small loincloth that had been cut from his red flannel under suit — Percival had taken great pleasure wielding his knife to slice away the material — van Clynne attempted to employ a special mind technique he had learned from an old Huron Indian. Confronted by a host of Iroquois eager for his beaver pelts, the Indian had concentrated his will, flooding his opponents' minds with frightening hallucinations designed to make them run away empty-handed.

In this case, the Dutchman conjured a portrait of the most grievous beast he could think of — an irate Dutchwoman cheated of the proper price for a cow, coming at Keen with a large butcher knife.

The trick worked about as well for van Clynne as it had for the Indian — Keen used his black metal prod to guide the leech's head around the Dutchman's right ankle, whereupon the animal's instincts took over and it wrapped itself around the rest of the bare leg, up to the knee joint.

The sensation was something like what might be felt if a hundred kittens took their tiny paws and stuck them into the skin all at once; it was more a light tickle than a sharp pain. Far worse was the gentle slurping sound that accompanied the pricking.

"Well, sir, it was just about time for my monthly bloodletting," said van Clynne as cheerfully as possible. "I suppose this will cure me of the headache I suffered from your last potion."

"This will cure you of many ailments," said Keen. "Though I must say I have never liked bloodletting as a general therapy. My experimentation has proven it rather ineffective."

"Well then, perhaps we should desist. I wouldn't want to prove the exception to the rule."

"We must always seek more empirical evidence," said Keen.

The second leech was a bit rambunctious when released from its jar; Keen had to bat its head several times before getting it under control. But the creature was quite happy once it found van Clynne's left leg; it wrapped itself around even more tightly than the first, uttering a contented slurp. "Tickles," said van Clynne. "Good." "I wonder if this might be the proper time to inquire as to what you have done with my money." "Really, I hardly think a few odd pounds would occupy your thoughts at a moment like this." "Actually, sir, it was more than just a few odd pounds. Not that I wish to question your mathematical abilities."

"Your paper money is on the bench there," said Keen, pointing as he opened another jar. The interaction of the glass, air, and alkaline solution produced a peculiar pffff sound when each vessel was first breached. "As for the real money-"

"I do not carry counterfeit, sir. My paper currency is all genuine."

"I am holding your purses myself for safekeeping. These woods are filled with miscreants, and I would not want your coins to fall into the wrong hands while you are otherwise occupied. My assistant Mr. Percival shall issue a receipt, of course."

"Perhaps there is the possibility of a business arrangement," suggested the Dutchman, eying the third worm.

"Quite late in the game for that," answered Keen.

The third leech was as big as the first two combined, and Keen had to ask Percival to help retrieve him. The assistant used a glassblower's wooden-handled stirrer to keep the worm's midsection taut as they walked the creature across and applied him to van Clynne's arm. The leech squirmed violently as it positioned itself around the ropes and the arm of the chair where the Dutchman was held. Its body exerted greater pressure than the last two; van Clynne felt as if a powerful vice had been applied.

"There is one piece of information of some interest to me," said Keen. "I wonder where you got your ruby knife."

"Which knife was that?"

"This one," said Keen, slipping the blade into his hand — and from there, into the floorboards directly at the Dutchman's feet.

"Oh, that knife," said van Clynne. "I'm afraid that is a very long story."

"I suspect I have more time to listen than you have to tell it," said Keen, opening the next jar.

However accomplished Major Dr. Keen was in other arts, he was not such a good time-teller as might be supposed. For as he was aiming his next leech, Rose McGuiness was approaching along the road at a goodly pace.

While Jake had impressed the importance of the mission on her so severely that she would have wrestled Pluto himself had he tried to delay her, she slowed and then pulled over to the side of the road near the cottage for three reasons, the first two of which were related: first, she was struck by the extremely odd sight of a fancy city carriage on this country highway. Second, she hoped its equipage might include some rein or rope she could use to keep herself from falling off her horse, as she had resorted to gripping the poor but patient animal's mane for the several miles she'd ridden thus far.

Last but not least, her hoops were killing her.

As the author has only a passing acquaintanceship with the intricacies of female accoutrements, the description of the cause of her discomfort necessarily will be brief. Jake had told her to take anything of value with her; being that the girl was not from a very rich family, the only thing worth more than a pence or two besides her affections were her clothes.

Lacking a satchel, she could only take one set, which she naturally wore. Her fancy dress had been given to her by her employer but a week before, with a stiff corset and hoops. She was only too happy to leave the corset behind, substituting a much more practical un-boned jump, which performed the same function with considerably less poking around the ribs. But not being completely unmindful of her appearance, she had kept the hoops, putting them to their usual use beneath her dress. This proved to be a mistake — while they did not come close to approaching the dimensions of the more fashionable city attire, they were nonetheless stiff enough to cause distress as she rode bareback through the countryside.

Spotting Keen's coach thus provided a good reason to stop, as well as cover to remove the annoying barrel beneath her waist. The house appeared occupied, and light escaped from the cracks around the shutters, but the yard was empty and the shutters blocked anyone inside from seeing out as effectively as they kept anyone outside from looking in.

Rose coaxed her horse to a stop behind the carriage and slipped off. The animal was well trained and placid, standing still as she reached her hand to a lash dangling from a rear compartment. In a second the leather rope had been placed into service as a makeshift rein, tied gently to the horse's neck; the stallion was not pleased with this new arrangement but stoically refused to complain.

Rose's next priority was to liberate herself from her portable prison. Once free of the whalebones, she cast her eye over the elaborate coach. It took no imagination at all to conclude that it must belong to a Tory — no patriot could afford such an elaborate rig. She resolved to do the Cause a favor by freeing the team of horses, and sprang forward to do so — stopping short when she saw the shadow of the large gun mounted at the driver's bench.

Before Rose could climb up and examine the gun, however, she heard a loud groan from the house. As quietly as she could, she crept to the window. Climbing atop a battered old tree trunk for a better view, she pressed her face to the dusty glass. The crack between the interior shutters gave her a view of Keen and his assistant wrestling with their leeches. Her eye followed the worm to the rotund body before them; with its red-bearded face, it could only belong to the Dutchman Jake had described.

Just as she realized this, the rotted tree trunk gave way, sending her in a noisy heap to the ground.

If she had moved quickly before, she nearly flew now as she threw herself back to the carriage and onto the driver's station. Though she was no expert on weapons, she quickly saw that the miniature cannon was loaded and ready to shoot. The firing mechanism was in all the important ways exactly similar to the lock on a regular rifle, with which she was fully familiar. The swivel mechanism was perfectly balanced, and so it took no great strength for her to maneuver the business end of the weapon and sight it at the front door of the cottage.

A good portion of van Clynne had been covered by leeches, whose black bodies were not only rapidly swelling but had begun to take on a sheen. The animals jostled lightly against each other as they fed, grudgingly admitting newcomers as Keen continued to pack them tightly against the Dutchman's skin. There were still some reddish pink blotches of flesh poking out between the worms at van Clynne's prodigious waist, however, and the doctor expressed the fear that he might not have enough to properly complete the job.

"What a shame that would be," commented van Clynne. "So you won't be able to kill me after all."

"Oh, these aren't intended to kill you," said Keen, hoisting another leech from its jar. "This would be much too pleasant a way to die."

"I had begun to worry about that myself," said van Clynne.

Keen's assistant Percival grinned in satisfaction at the door. He still had his poker under his arm, but as the largest animals had been applied already, his help was unnecessary.

"So, are you ready to tell me about the knife, or will you wait until I have the leeches applied to your eyeballs?"

"I have been ready to tell that story for a half hour or more," conceded van Clynne, who was somewhat thankful when Keen applied the worm to a spot on his chest instead of his face.

"Go ahead then."

"Well, it began several years ago, when I was a young boy on business in South Carolina. A man named Bacon, I believe — a dour-faced fart, but then so are most British gentlemen, present company excepted — approached me and asked if I should like to earn a few guineas by doing an errand for the king. Naturally, I thought he was referring to the Dutch king."

Keen's laughter at the improbable tale was cut short by sounds outside. He listened for a moment as the horses began to whicker.

"Go see what's wrong with them," the doctor barked at Percival.

Keen turned back to van Clynne and placed his tongs on the Dutchman's nose as Percival went slowly to the door. The doctor was just starting to give a sharp twist when the front of the room exploded with warm shot.