While Jake was enjoying his brief breakfast at Clayton Bauer's mansion, Claus van Clynne was in need of much stronger relief. Having been transported downriver to a small landing north of Peekskill, he was bundled and taken south in the back of a hay cart. The cart skirted the American patrols and defenses in the Highlands, which centered around the immense river chain and its neighboring forts on the river. South of King's Ferry, the small group of disguised British sailors and the renegade Egans took a road that led to the shore. Had he not been gagged, the squire might have remarked that he knew this particular lane well, as he had ridden down it during his adventures as the adopted general of a Connecticut brigade but a month and a half before. He might also have protested, with great severity, when Egans took up his hat and placed it on his own head, deciding to treat it as a trophy of war.
But then there was much van Clynne might have said at any stage of his journey. He could have waxed eloquent about the indignities of being lifted like a bag of year-old potatoes from the back of the cart and dumped unceremoniously into a longboat. He might have essayed at length about the untidy and haphazard rowing that took him to the river sloop waiting in the shadows offshore. He undoubtedly would have complained of the fickleness of the starlight as he stared at the sky for three hours while the sloop raced furiously south. Nor should anyone suspect that he would have stifled his complaints at the bidding of the marines who stood guard, nor Egans himself, who brooded at the front of the vessel.
More Indian than white, the Oneida was suspicious of his British paymasters, and his many dealings with them had made him less, rather than more, inclined to trust them. But he nonetheless had made himself their agent, and an effective one at that. His motivations were a mixture of revenge against the people who had killed his adopted father, a misguided notion that adventure against the whites was the equivalent of glory in battle, and a determination to use the wealth he received to increase his own position and standing among his adopted people. Indeed, the man who was called Snowsnake longed above all else for acceptance and honor, not merely from his immediate family but from Iroquois in general. The lines of power in his clan and nation ran through the maternal side, and Egans with some reason felt he had never been properly appreciated by his adopted aunts. Returning with the trophies British silver could provide was one way of raising their esteem.
His adopted father's death had left a great hole within his breast, which he felt could only be closed by over-awed respect. He would trade half the fingers on his hands for the position a man such as Johnson — also white — commanded among the confederacy.
For his part, Claus van Clynne believed Egans more misguided than evil. In the Dutchman's opinion, his alignment with the British was due solely to the misidentification of his adopted father's killer. The Dutchman placed a great trust in blood instincts, as well as his own abilities of persuasion, and felt that if the gag around his mouth were removed, he would soon have Egans leading the charge against the English. A word here, a hint there, and Egans would be among the hottest Revolutionists.
Alas, his theory was never put to the test, for the gag was not removed; not when the sloop pulled into Loyalist Spuyten Duyvil to discharge some other passengers, nor when it slipped along the shore to find the wharfs further south in Manhattan at early morn. The rag was still firmly around his mouth as van Clynne, with considerable straining from the crew, was loaded into a wheelbarrow and dragged ashore, where he was hoisted into a wagon.
If they chafed at taking directions from a man they might regard as a traitor to their race, the crew nonetheless followed Egans's orders and took some care as the trussed prisoner was lifted from the back and carried — again with a surfeit of groans — up the steps to the British administration building across from the jail.
Even in wartime, there' are forms to be completed and papers signed. Egans waited stoically while the British went through their procedures for interning the prisoner. Van Clynne's money and his passes had been transferred to a satchel Egans kept at his side. He judged it unnecessary to produce them for the clerk, especially as they might be of use in his future endeavors.
It was a good thing, too, for otherwise the process would have taken three times as long, between the cataloging and accounting.
"An examination will have to be arranged," said the clerk at the desk, pointing at van Clynne after the forms were filled. "According to the calendar, it will not be before next week. After that, he will provide nice ballast at Wallabout Bay."
Egans did not join in the laughter. The mud flats of Wallabout Bay were the home of a series of derelict hulks used as prison ships. In his mind, there was no glory in keeping prisoners in such torturous conditions. Better to kill a man outright, so that his spirit might be used by the victorious warrior.
Needless to say, van Clynne had his own ideas. In fact, he tried to share them with the clerk.
"I cannot hear you through your gag," the man told him.
Van Clynne's gesticulations that it be removed were insufficient to convince him. The clerk was, however, required by the regulations to ascertain from the prisoner his name and role in the rebellion. Custom also dictated a few other inquiries, such as the nature of his religion. At length, therefore, the clerk nodded at the sergeant-at-arms, who removed the spittle-drenched gag.
"I was just about to wonder what had happened to the custom of law in this country," thundered van Clynne the moment his lips were freed. "To be tied like a common hog — "
"We were confused by your grunts," said the clerk dryly. "What is your name?"
"I am a personal friend of Sir William Howe. I demand to be taken to him at once!"
"The general will be with you shortly," said the clerk. "He is currently on his way to tea with Mr. Washington. What is your name?"
"It was not two months ago when I dined with Sir William aboard his brother's ship and debated the merits of Madeira versus ale," answered the Dutchman. (He happened to be speaking the truth, though the clerk should be forgiven for not thinking it possible.) "Take me to him immediately."
"This gentleman will show you there," said the Englishman, nodding at the sergeant-at-arms. "For the record, do you refuse to give me your name?"
"I refuse to answer any of your questions," said van Clynne indignantly. "I refuse to be a party to this injustice, and stand on my rights."
"You would do better to stand on your feet," said the clerk, making a notation in his book. "Take him away."
"My hat, I demand my hat!"
"You do not require a hat in jail," answered the clerk.
"I stand upon my rights," blustered van Clynne. "A man cannot be deprived of his hat under British law."
The clerk's brow knotted. He realized the Dutchman might indeed be correct, and in any case, there were considerable forms to fill out regarding its loss. The crisis was averted by Egans, who stepped forward and jammed the beaver on van Clynne's head. "Here it is," he said. "Wear it in good health."
"I demand restitution," said van Clynne. "I was without its services for several hours and am entitled to just compensation."
But the possibilities of delay, if not argument, had been exhausted. Van Clynne was taken, with great consternation, across the street to the jail.
With his prisoner gone, Egans asked the clerk where his reward was.
"Which reward would that be?"
"I am promised twenty crowns for each rebel spy I bring to the city," said Egans.
"I know nothing of that," said the clerk. He turned to his other work. "That is not my department."
"I will not leave without my money."
The clerk did not bother answering. Instead, he gave a minuscule motion with his hand, and the two guards who had been standing by the side door promptly came to take hold of Egans. The Oneida shook his arms out so fiercely they hesitated.
"I will have my money."
"Consult General Bacon's staff," said the clerk.
"Give me a receipt for my prisoner."
"That I will gladly do," said the clerk. "Once you complete the proper forms."