Refreshed from breakfast, Squire van Clynne set out with new vigor, though his pace was even slower than before. The chafing of his posterior against the horse's back was so severe that he would have gladly reopened his heel for the purchase of a saddle, if only one were to be had. The country here, rolling hills and forest, had not been adequately developed, in van Clynne's opinion. It was given over entirely to apple farms, and even these appeared to have been abandoned for a considerable length of time. Thus the conveniences of modern life — like saddle shops-were not at hand.
Nonetheless, he made steady progress, prodded by the knowledge that General Putnam was empowered to issue a certificate that would compensate not only his financial losses but his efforts to the Cause as well. Indeed, an even greater plan took shape in the Dutchman's mind as he rode. He would ask — nay, he would demand — that the general appoint him to the lead of a squadron of men, bold soldiers whom he would take against these Tory scoundrels, foiling their attack on the Great Hudson River Chain and, not incidentally, recovering his salt.
And very possibly, his coins as well. His exploits would be proclaimed throughout the continent — he knew newspaper owners in every city of consequence — and General Washington would volunteer to restore his estate. The Congress would demand it, for the population would have his name on its lips: "Claus van Clynne, the man who saved the nation. The man who saved the Great Hudson River Chain."
The Great Hudson River Iron Chain — that had a better ring to it. An iron-willed Dutchman who saved Freedom. Why, he could hear the minstrels celebrating his victory already.
Actually, now that he listened more closely, the music sounded remarkably like "Yankee Doodle." Van Clynne turned his head in the direction of the song and spotted a small wooden house not far off the road. A makeshift banner fluttered on a slender twig stuck near the doorway; van Clynne concluded that the red dots on yellow background were a company marker, designed to give the unit pride as well as identity. The owners were all inside, obviously celebrating a recent victory over the British — for the song, once sung in derision of the American army, had been turned around and appropriated as the boldest curse possible against the British regulars. The young voices sang with such joy and emotion that the roof was shaking, and van Clynne suspected that though the sun had only just risen, the men had gone through their daily quotient of rum.
Providence had sent him his soldiers!
Why not enlist them now, foil this damnable plot against the chain, and present himself to Putnam as a hero instead of one more worthy citizen who had been robbed?
Any reader who thinks van Clynne would have paused to answer such a question, rhetorically or otherwise, does not recognize the true nature of the Dutchman. In a thrice, he had crossed the small stream separating him from the house and hitched his horse outside. Without bothering to knock, he walked straight inside and immediately fell in on the chorus of "Yankee Doodle."
There were a dozen young Connecticut continental privates crammed into the room, all in spirits jolly enough to ignore his frequent sour notes. They passed him a cup of cider and continued their song, venturing into a verse the good Dutchman had scarce heard before:
Heigh for old Cape Cod
Heigh ho Nannatasket
Do not let those Boston wags
Feel your oyster basket.
The ribald play on words — the interested reader should ponder the image contained in the last line — had a curious effect on the Dutchman, whose recent pursuit of love had made him curiously chaste. He turned red and momentarily lost his voice. Nonetheless, he soon fell back in tune as the men swung into a rousing version of "Free America," Dr. Joseph Warren's ingenious revision of "The British Grenadiers."
The accompaniment was provided by a pasty-faced man of twenty or twenty-one, who worked his fiddle with such fervor that his face blotched with red dots and smears of exertion. Every man kept beat with his shoe, and one or two blew tin whistles instead of singing.
Van Clynne was moved by the evident patriotism and spirit of this group; Fate could not have provided him with a better troop to win his fortune back.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said van Clynne, moving to the center of the room as the song ended. "Please, listen to me a moment. Who is the commanding officer here?"
"There's the colonel, sir, John Chandler," said one able young man, a great strapping lad barely out of his teens, if that. "He's up at headquarters, though." "In this cottage, who is in charge?" "Well, there's no one in charge exactly, sir. We're all equals, being free men of Connecticut." Van Clynne nodded his approval; these were men inoculated with the spirit of Democracy from the very cradle.
"Excellent, excellent. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" asked van Clynne with great flourish, determined to commit every detail of this entire episode to memory, so as to provide a careful account for future chroniclers.
"Private Martin, at your service," said the young man, who promptly stuck out his hand and shook van Clynne's.
"My name is Claus van Clynne, gentlemen. I am a special agent assigned in the service of His Excellency General Washington." It was not a great exaggeration, surely, if one follows the logic that Jake Gibbs was Washington's man, and van Clynne his coequal assistant. “As well as a roving member of the Committees of Correspondence, Safety, and Ale Tasting." Ever mindful of his audience, the Dutchman was well aware that these young men would respond most fully to the last. "My rank as a hereditary commissioner of the New Netherlands authority as vested under the Treaty of Amsterdam is the equivalent of captain-general, triple-cluster."
The privates were somewhat stupefied by the speech-making, and while looking for any excuse for action — they had been confined here for some time — did not know precisely what to make of their visitor.
"Begging your pardon, sir," said Martin, seeing he had been designated their spokesman. "With all respect and honor, we've heard of lieutenant generals and major generals and even general generals, but never captain-generals. Where exactly does that fit in?"
"Captain-general, triple-cluster," van Clynne corrected. "Unclustered, it would correlate precisely between my brother generals, the lieutenant and major. But the clusters are indeed multipliers, as I'm sure you recall from your school days. If we turn to the table of threes…"
The reader by now is familiar with the sort of logic and tactics of persuasion the Dutchman habitually calls on, and thus will not be presented with the bulk of his argument as to why the (admittedly) hereditary rank was in (more than) full force at the moment. It should be noted that he was careful at all times to use such words as "equivalent" and "correlate," so that he could not technically be charged with impersonating an American officer, though in spirit he was certainly leading these poor young men to think he was as authorized to direct them as Old Put himself.
The soldiers, naturally, began very doubtful, but a twenty-minute lecture from Claus van Clynne on nearly any subject will weaken the strongest will. And it must be remembered that his speech, if based on premises that were somewhat false, was aimed at an end wholly true — the defeat of the British.
"I won't bore you with my other titles and authorities, gentlemen," said van Clynne, after he had indeed bored them at length. "Suffice to say that we have a mission of vital importance ahead of us. Take your weapons and follow me!"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but follow you where?" asked Martin, who alone among the group had tried to work out the logic of the speech.
"There's no time to lay out the entire mission, son," said van Clynne. "We've no time to lose."
The Dutchman, intending to lead by example, stepped to the door and opened it without waiting for the others. He was surprised to see a bored soldier facing him at thirty or so paces, on the other side of the creek, musket with bayonet fixed in his arms. The man motioned with annoyance that he ought to close the door.
Van Clynne took the action any army commander does when faced with something he does not immediately comprehend — he ignored it, and stepped through the doorway. "Let's go, men. The Tories won't spend their morning waiting, I warrant." "Get back inside," said the guard. The man was a Massachusetts private, and as such, not given to much chatter. "Who do you think you are addressing?" demanded van Clynne. "This troop is now under my direction."
"I don't give a bent penny for whose direction they are," responded the guard. "Get inside and close the door. You're infecting the air."
Van Clynne turned back to his men, determined to lead them onward despite the obviously addle-brained soldier outside the door. "Let's go, boys! The man outside has attended to one too many cannons, since he forgets what side he's on. Try not to harm him."
None of the soldiers moved.
"Come, then, you're not cowards are ye!" thundered the Dutchman, his voice elevating. He knew instinctually that these small trials must be overcome manfully, or the bigger ones will be lost before they are met.
"We're not cowards, no sir," said Martin. "But — "
"But nothing, man! Let's go!"
"We're confined to barracks, sir," ventured another of the soldiers. "What crime have you committed?" asked van Clynne. "Come now, confess; I'll arrange a pardon straight away."
"No crime, surely, sir," answered the man. "We've been inoculated for the small pox, and are under quarantine."