Free The Iron Chain by Jim DeFelice

French-made weapon was its partially rifled barrel; these grooves, meant to improve accuracy, stopped about eight inches from the end of the gun. In theory, this combined the advantages of the musket —ready loading ― with the advantages of the rifle — better accuracy. The reality fell somewhat short, but there was more chance of hitting a target at fifty yards than with a pistol.
    The musket Jake was given was an older model Brown Bess with a shorter barrel than was now standard issue in the British army, the idea being either that it was easier to carry on horseback or provincials were second-class troops anyway and so could get by with obsolete weapons.
    Readers who have heard of the fearsomeness of cavalry attacks but never experienced them may be surprised to learn that even the carbine was not meant to be fired from horseback. Pistols and swords were the weapons of choice from the saddle, and a fully equipped dragoon — or Tory ranger, for that matter — would carry two pistols in a saddle holster or else his belt. But these were in short supply, and none were issued. Jake had to make do with the single officer's pistol he had arrived with; the gun was a bit lighter than the excellent models Busch owned, but it was finer than most of the other hand pistols displayed in the barn.
    The swords were long, well-sharpened, and balanced weapons that could slice the head off an opponent if the horse's momentum were used properly. They were not so ornate as was common among British officers, but they had come directly from a London armory.
    In truth, Jake wished the blades were rusted and the guns fouled. Considerable destructive power was arrayed beneath these wide rafters; if it were used to only half of its potential, the American toll would be great.
    The rangers mustered and mounted, with Captain Busch now dressed in his own dark green coat at their head. One of their number bears a light green flag as insignia, so drunken is their arrogance despite their location behind enemy lines.
    But nowhere is their insolent gall more obvious than in their hats. While most Loyalist units wear some similar shade of green coat, the men had been issued a distinct uniform cap meant to instill unit pride, as well as offer some protection. The helmets had started as leather coverings, with a small beak at the front; a smart, thick piece of bear fur was crisscrossed on the top, tied down with a thick rope of horse hair and pinned by a small brass button on either side. At the back, the hair and fur were knotted in a red bow, an emblem, or so Busch declared, of their patron, the Earl Graycolmb.
    Claus van Clynne, a connoisseur of headgear who had derided Jake's customary tricorner on several occasions, would have laughed at these beanies, but to a man the troop thought them rather smart. They pressed forward in single file formation toward the road, looking for all the world as if they were heading toward a King's Day parade. At the intersection with the road, Captain Busch swung his horse aside and signaled his two dozen mounted followers to fan out and listen to his speech.
    We do not wish to alarm the weak-willed into fleeing the countryside, and thus will not repeat his fiery charge here. Suffice to say it was well formed, praising their benefactor, the Earl Graycolmb, who had made this troop possible, and denouncing the ungrateful American rebels, who had made it necessary. The speech touched on rival Tory brigades, including the famous Rogers Rangers (the original leader's occasional remarks in favor of the Revolution went unreported). It ended with a stirring invocation of the king's name, which resulted in a strong cheer that sent a deep chill down Jake's spine.
     

 
     
     
    -Chapter Nine-
     
    Wherein, Claus van Clynne engages in activities of value to the war effort and, not coincidentally, to himself.
     
    T he reader should not think that Squire van Clynne has been idle during this interlude; in fact, the good and portly