While Jake embarked on his trip to see Bebeef, Claus van Clynne undertook his own mission, starting with a pursuit entirely characteristic of the Dutchman — a twelve-hour nap. The Dutchman's eyes did not open until long after the local birds had gone about their business of catching the early worms. Indeed, there were few worms of any variety, early or late, to be found when van Clynne stretched his arms with a cranky growl and began rubbing his eyes vigorously. He soon discovered himself alone in the hideout. Daltoons had launched a full search for Alison upon finding her missing.
"Just as well," said the Dutchman to himself. "I am most efficient when unhampered by assistants. Or children. A spot of breakfast and I shall be back in order. Assuming I find anything worthy of the name in this town. Really, the quality of food has gone considerably downhill since the demise of the governor."
He being Stuyvesant, of course.
Van Clynne's hunger could not be satisfied at the Sons' hideout, which offered a cruel version of porridge in the kitchen downstairs. The squire did not complain about this; he considered that the few legitimately sick inmates in the small corner ward were aligned with the British side, and ought therefore to be tortured. Instead, he wiped a bit of water around his beard, borrowed a pistol from the armory, and went off to find himself a true breakfast.
Specifically, he wanted sausage. Now, one would think that, in a city with pigs constantly running underfoot, sausage would be an easy commodity. Not so. For there is a specific art to making sausage — a Dutch art, as van Clynne would have gladly explained had anyone asked.
In the event, he explained anyway, speaking loudly as he walked through the streets to a certain inn on Pearl Street owned by Samuel Fraunces. Though not strictly Dutch, Fraunces was a man steeped in the arts of hospitality, and his studies had led him to a formula for sausage construction that fairly rivaled that espoused by van Clynne's own mother. The fact that Fraunces was even now a firm and known member of the Whig party tended also to enhance the flavor.
His tavern was allowed to operate despite its owner's politics for a number of reasons, beginning with the quality of its ale. This morning the place was fairly empty, and van Clynne found himself greeted by the owner as he came through the portal to the main room.
"The sentries at King's Bridge are obviously sleeping," declared Fraunces in his faint West Indies accent. "They are allowing everyone into the city."
"As it happens, Samuel, I did not come via King's Bridge," said van Clynne. "I arrived by boat, with a personal escort."
Two young men sat near the corner window playing a card game; except for them, the room was empty.
"Your politics have not changed?" van Clynne asked the keeper in a soft voice.
"My politics are my own business."
"In that case, you may note that my feelings are as they have always been," declared van Clynne, pulling out a chair.
"I am sure Congress is glad of that," answered the keeper sarcastically. "And the king."
"Are you in the habit of talking all day, or will you ask your guest what he wishes to be served?"
"I see no guest before me, only a Dutchman who owes me ten pounds."
"Bah, ten pounds — a trifle." Van Clynne slipped off his shoe. "A double helping of sausages, if you please. Some fresh eggs, and if you can find any decent coffee in that cramped cellar of a kitchen, I will take that as well."
"You will take nothing until you settle what you owe me. I will have my sailor friends here kick you out." Fraunces gestured at the two young card players, neither one of whom made any sign to have heard. They were engaged in the arcane rite of cribbage. The Americans could have reinvaded New York and they would not have cared a whit, nor a Nobs.
But as the keeper set his fists on his hips, a smelly but genuine two-pound note drawn against Murdock amp; Company in Glasgow appeared in the Dutchman's fist. Fraunces grabbed the paper as it fluttered to the table, then retreated back to the kitchen, humming a song to himself. Coffee was issued, bread was found; within fifteen minutes a girl appeared carrying two plates of fine sausage and a large covered dish of eggs.
Fraunces nearly fainted when she returned to the back with another two-pound note.
A third appeared when the proprietor came to clear the dishes. By now he realized something serious must be afoot.
"I cannot take this money from you, Claus. Cannot, indeed."
Van Clynne looked up in amazement. "The Scottish bank is good for it, I assure you. And you will notice the elaborate engraving, protecting against counterfeits."
"Either you are very ill, or expect some great favor in return."
"Do I look sick?"
"Exactly the case. Exactly." Fraunces started to back away.
Van Clynne took the bill he had proffered and folded it neatly in his fist, where by some sleight of hand he managed to make it produce a twin. This had the effect of arresting Fraunces's retreat.
When a third note materialized in his hand, the keeper found his feet moving forward involuntarily. He knew the inevitable outcome but was powerless to stop himself from snatching for the bills, which naturally disappeared as soon as his fingers were extended.
"I am looking for Miss Melanie Pinkerton," said van Clynne, pushing away his empty plates. "I believe you know the family."
Fraunces frowned heavily. "What would you want with her? She's too young for you."
"I merely wish to speak to her." The squire opened his hand, thumbing the bills as if counting them. "She is no longer seeing General Howe, I trust."
"Baff — the swine claims to have thrown her over. He came within an inch of ruining the girl. For that alone he should be hanged."
"Agreed," said van Clynne, fanning the bills. "I wonder where I might find her."
"What are you up to, Claus?"
While the sum in van Clynne's hand was significant, it would not have been enough under any circumstance for the keeper to betray a trust. Van Clynne recognized this, and so he dropped a hint concerning the wishes of General Washington being involved. This only made Fraunces more suspicious.
"What have you to do with His Excellency?"
"I am on a mission for him."
"He wishes to see the girl?"
"She is but an attending player in a much grander scheme," said the Dutchman. "I assure you, no harm will come to her."
Fraunces frowned and turned his eyes to the bills. "Considering that I know your politics well, I suppose it would do no harm. The family took her north of Delancy's farm, past the encampments, to make sure she did not fall victim to Howe's depredations again. You would think one mistress would be enough."
"You do not get to be a gentleman by limiting your assignations," noted van Clynne with some distraction.
It was not nearly enough distraction to prevent him from whisking away his fist — and the notes-as Fraunces grabbed for them.
"I would be very obliged if you could find me a horse, on temporary loan. Some hatchets, too."
"What will you ask for next, a hat as well?"
"Tut, tut, Samuel, you are becoming quite excited," said van Clynne. "I am prepared to pay the lease in advance."
"In that case, I would be willing to lend you my wife's handsome black pony, barely in its third year, along with a fine cart that will match your exalted social standing," said Fraunces without noticeable irony. "At ten shillings an hour, then, I believe we could reach an arrangement."
"I will not be robbed in broad daylight, no matter who controls the city."
The hemming and hawing that followed was lengthy and resulted in a considerable price reduction. As a faithful reproduction would fill near thirty pages, suffice to say that van Clynne was found within the hour heading north at the bench of a two-wheeled, oak-paneled phaeton pulled by a short though not un-vigorous pony. His armament now included a pair of axes, and he sported a black beaver hat that had been thrown in on good faith to seal the deal. The hatchets were a bit dull and the hat a size too big even for the Dutchman's prodigious skull, but at least it provided the Dutchman with something to doff when he was confronted by an English officer mounted on a white horse just south of Delancy's farm.
"Good morrow, major," called van Clynne cheerfully. "And what can I do for you?"
"You can call me colonel, for one," said the man icily. "You will state your business and reason for being here."
Van Clynne grumbled to himself. It was difficult to keep up with the British army's habit of continually promoting its officers despite their incompetence. In the Dutch forces, this man would never have advanced above the rank of captain, obviously being far too nosey for his own good.
"Sir Colonel, I meant no offense. As for my mission, it is routine in the extreme. I am after some vegetables."
"You do not look like a farmer to me."
"Of course not, sir. I am a man of business. In fact, General Howe himself has asked me to look after this vegetable factor. It appears the soldiers are in great need of vegetative energy for their coming campaign."
"If you are working for Sir William, honor me with a letter from him."
"I will not, sir," said the Dutchman haughtily.
His new hat slipped to one side, ruining the effect. Deciding to change tactics," he grabbed it from his head and held it in his hands, hoping to strike a contrite pose. Though he looked the model of a penitent, the officer did not acknowledge the likeness.
"Stand down and present yourself for arrest. You are very much like the description of one of the prisoners said to have escaped yesterday from the city jail."
The colonel pulled his sword from the scabbard with a great deal of pompous flash. It was a most ornate device, with hand-crafted silver embellishments about the handle and considerable scrolling up and down the blade.
"You did not let me finish," said the Dutchman quickly. "I am under strict orders not to communicate my mission with anyone."
"Piffle."
"Well, I suppose I must make an exception, given your rank," said van Clynne, reaching beneath his hat toward his coat, then letting his fingers take a detour to the floor, where they found his hatchet. In the next instant, the Briton flew backwards as blood burst like a geyser from his skull, the ax having found its mark.
Van Clynne started to rise from the bench to retrieve the hatchet, but was interrupted by a shout from nearby in the woods. A half-dozen British soldiers appeared from their bivouac as van Clynne grabbed for his reins. The little pony Fraunces had lent him strained for everything he was worth as the soldiers let their muskets get some exercise.
The bullets did a nice job engraving their marks in the rear of the wagon. The Dutchman was, nonetheless, unscathed, as was his hat, which remarkably remained on his head despite the pace. But as he began congratulating his fortune and thinking if some way might be found to make the hat shrink a size, van Clynne realized one of the soldiers had appropriated the colonel's horse and was chasing him up the road.
"Come now, little one," the Dutchman told the pony. "Let us see if we cannot reach yonder bend before this galloping horseman. We may effect an ambush if we do. I have often thought a small pony more worthwhile in a pinch than a dozen large stallions."
The pony's ears bloated with the flattery as it strained its legs and pushed its shoulders forward in a manner that would have done fabled Pegasus proud. Alas, the animal was not used to such exertion, and quickly began to tire. When they were still several dozen yards before the turn, van Clynne realized they would not beat the redcoat there.
The soldier had taken the colonel's sword as well as his horse. He began waving it above his head, momentum building as he leaned over his horse menacingly. Van Clynne reached below the seat and retrieved his pistol, endeavoring to pull back the lock into the firing position while all the while urging his little pony forward. The space between the horseman and the cart fell rapidly; van Clynne managed to point the gun and fire just as the swordsman took a swipe at his head. The blade missed. Alas, the same was true of van Clynne's bullet. The pony, exhausted, gave up his attempt at a gallop and fell into a strained trot, his body heaving with exhaustion. The redcoat pulled back on his reins, trying to gain a good angle for attack. Van Clynne threw down his pistol and reached for his remaining hatchet.
He nearly lost it as the pony jerked to the side to avoid the soldier's swipe. Van Clynne just managed to thrust the handle up as the redcoat slashed violently toward his neck. Sword and ax crashed together with a clang so loud anyone in the neighborhood would have thought he was being called to church.
Three times the weapons came together, and each time the Dutchman shuddered with the blow. The redcoat was a strong man born in northern Scotland and raised on red oats; he had ridden much as a youngster and by every right should have been at least a corporal, if not sergeant, except for some troubles he'd had as a young recruit.
But van Clynne was in no position to inquire after his personal history. He pulled back the hatchet, only to see it fly from his grasp, propelled by a quicker-than-expected blow. The redcoat, sensing that victory was but a moment away, pulled back his sword and took a deep breath, savoring his moment of glory.
"Well now," said van Clynne, doffing his hat as if in salute, "I am glad to finally be on even terms with you."
"Even terms?" said the Scotsman with a tongue so thick his words sounded more like
E turn,
"And how do ye figure that 'un, son?"
"Allow me to introduce myself," said van Clynne, taking the opportunity to slip down from the carriage on the side opposite the soldier. "Claus van Clynne, Esquire. You have undoubtedly heard of me."
"Whether I heard of ye or not, it dan't matter. Ye slain the colonel, and I'll be making mince pie of ye in return." The redcoat pushed his horse forward and took another slash, nipping the oversized beaver hat but not its owner. Van Clynne threw himself on the ground and rolled beneath the wheels of the cart, using it for protection. No matter which way the redcoat attacked, van Clynne flew to the other side. Granted, he suffered a few close nicks and scratches, and the ground was not very soft or smooth, but the soldier could not get close enough to strike a serious blow without dismounting.
"Come out, ye damn coward. Out, or I will kill your wee pony."
"A true Scotsman would not harm a pony born on the heath," claimed van Clynne.
The soldier knitted his brow. He had never heard of a pony imported to America from the heath, nor was he altogether certain what distinguishing marks, if any, a Scots pony would bear. Nonetheless, he held all equines in high esteem and felt it beneath him to attack this poor animal, just because its owner was a treacherous, murdering rebel.
Besides, the pony would fetch a nice price back at the city.
"All right then," said the redcoat, jumping from his horse. "But you yourself will get no mercy."
Van Clynne just made it out from under the cart as the redcoat charged. He slipped onto the other side as the sword crashed so heavily against the wood that three inches of it were splintered.
"Stand and fight like a man!" declared the Scotsman.
"Oh gladly, sir," answered van Clynne. "But the odds are little lopsided, given that you have a sword and I have only my wits to protect me."
"Ye dan't object when ye had the gun and axes."
"I am only saying that I will put aside my wit, if you put aside your sword."
This rather generous offer was answered by a vigorous flail of the sword. But as van Clynne circled the cart and the terms of the standoff became clear, the redcoat took a new assessment of the situation. Clearly, he could defeat the rotund Dutchman if they fought hand to hand — even without the dirk he had secreted in his belt.
"All right, laddie," he said, holding the sword at his side. "I will fight you fair, like a man."
He dropped the sword in the dust.
"Oh, you want to play at fisticuffs," said van Clynne, edging to his right. "I should warn you, sir: I am Dutch."
"So?"
Van Clynne's answer was a feint toward the sword. The Scotsman grabbed his knife as he performed a spectacular front-roll to the ground in front of the saber. He landed on his feet in a fighting position, quite prepared to take on an entire regiment of rebels, if need be.
He needn't. For the Dutchman had taken the opportunity to bolt not for the sword, but the soldier's nearby horse.
"As you were not prepared to completely abandon your weapons, I did not forsake mine," shouted van Clynne as he leaped aboard and thundered away.