The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  If the man smiled at the seamen, he frowned at van Clynne. But Shorty gave the Dutchman a wink, and then bought him another coffee — even consenting to pay for the two van Clynne had already had.

  "Three," said the innkeeper.

  "Three then," said Shorty.

  The keeper's mood gradually lightened; he would still make a sizeable profit selling the salt in the neighborhood. The seamen were also in a jolly way, spending a portion of their profits on a large breakfast. Even van Clynne remained happy — for he knew the transaction had not quite been concluded.

  The squire stayed talking for a few minutes more before excusing himself. He went outside and gathered his horses, which had been tended to by the keeper's teenage son. Van Clynne took great interest in the lad's description of the animals' care, inspected each part of his mare's saddle and equipage, and otherwise delayed so that he was barely on the roadway when the two seamen came tumbling from the cottage after him, yelling for the "Good Mr. Clynne" to halt and walk with them a bit.

  "What a coincidence that we're going the same way," he ventured.

  "Yes, indeed," said Shorty. "And of further coincidence is some notion that just fell into our heads upon seeing you — we have a few more bushels of salt to spare."

  "Indeed," replied the Dutchman. "How fortunate."

  "Old Harold can never take more than three or four bushels of anything we sell," said Fats. "He's afraid his past will catch up with him if he's accused of profiteering. He was run out of Connecticut, you know."

  "A timid soul does not make a profit, eh, Mr. Clynne?" winked Shorty.

  "The 'van' is an important part of my name," answered the Dutchman, whose tone now was so abruptly different from before that both seamen looked about to see if they had fallen in with the wrong fellow. "What business are you in?"

  "Why salt, of course!" said Fats.

  "And other things," allowed Shorty. "But just salt, right now. We'll sell you a wagon load, eighteen bushels full, at three duros per bushel. And we have a sack of sugar cones for the same price."

  "I have no need for the sugar," said van Clynne. "As for the salt, three dollars a bushel in Spanish currency is much too much. I could arrange for the equivalent of, say, three New York dollars for two bushels." "You were just arguing that three was too little for one!" "I did that solely on the condition of helping you. Think of it as a commission for this new deal." "What!"

  "If you gentlemen are not interested in disposing of your wares, I must take my leave. I have urgent business further north with a friend of mine. He's quite at sea without me — no offense."

  "All of the Dutch are thieves," said Fats, who received a slap across the chest from his partner for his candor.

  "He meant nothing by it, sir," said Shorty. "I have some Dutch blood in me myself."

  "I could tell. If we were dealing in Connecticut warrants, perhaps I could give you better terms," suggested van Clynne.

  "That would be inconvenient."

  "Come now. I would wager you will be traveling that way very shortly."

  The negotiations proceeded for ten more minutes, as the two sides maneuvered for the final few pence advantage. Van Clynne was willing to go higher with the Connecticut money since he found it grossly devalued in New York. Still, he got his salt for less than half what the innkeeper had just paid, a bargain that would bring a sizeable profit in a few hours when he met Putnam's quartermaster in Peekskill.

  Not a dereliction of duty, surely — Peekskill is clearly en route to Albany. And a man with salt in such starved country needs no special introduction beyond a sample of his spice.

  When at last the deal was struck, the men sealed it by spitting in their hands — a bit of unhygienic fuss the Dutchman ordinarily shied from. Considering the profit he was about to make, however, some sacrifices were warranted.

  But such are the contingencies of business during wartime that one finds not even a good wad of spittle will set an agreement in iron. For there proved to be an important codicil to this arrangement — evidence that Shorty did indeed have some Dutch blood in him.

  Van Clynne had assumed that the salt was in a storehouse or hidden somewhere along the highway, where he might direct Putnam's men once the second leg of the transaction was concluded. He could therefore proceed without the bother of bringing more than a pocketful of the substance with him. But the commodity was actually in a wagon, and the wagon was precariously parked in the middle of a streambed, positioned in such a way that water came nearly halfway up the wheels. "We'll just toss it out and be on our way," said Shorty cheerfully. "Sure you don't want any sugar?" "How much for the wagon?" grumbled van Clynne. "I don't know that it's for sale," ventured Shorty.

  But of course, everything has its price, and van Clynne was soon able to work a reasonable transaction: he traded the two Tory horses for the wagon and its ox, with the sugar thrown in to sweeten the deal. Hitching his own mare to the back, he proceeded north, grumbling loudly about the seamen's sharp dealing until they were out of earshot.

  Chapter Ten

  Wherein, a traveler's desires go unmet, with dire results.

  Another traveler was looking for breakfast at this hour, though his appetite was well beyond what could be satiated by the thick mince pie offered by the proprietor of the small ordinary along the Old York Road where he stopped. Major Dr. Keen had traveled north in his coach from the precincts of Manhattan, crossing off the island at King's Bridge. The British soldiers he'd consulted at the various sentry posts had supplied no useful information about his quarry. The Dutchman and his assistant Gibbs had succeeded in vanishing from the environs without visible trace.

  In itself, this neither supported nor refuted Bacon's belief that van Clynne was an imposter. Keen endeavored to keep an open mind on the issue. While naturally inclined toward the hope that his prey would prove counterfeits — and therefore suitable for whatever designs happened to take his fancy — the doctor attacked his problem as he attacked all difficulties, from a scientific angle. Certain drugs included in the large store that he kept in his carriage would aid his inquiries greatly, once he succeeded in locating the Dutchman.

  Keen had left behind the safety of the British lines about an hour before, traveling through the Neutral Ground in the thick neck of the land above Manhattan. The Old York Road was only one of many different routes northward. Keen had gathered from his driver — though not a native, Phillip Percival had spent several years in the country prior to the war — that this was the most likely route a rebel in a hurry would take. The doctor himself knew little of this land; he had been in the county only once before. A small cottage further north owned by one of General Bacon's many intelligence operatives had been placed at Keen's disposal; if circumstances allowed, he would use it as a base of operations. Otherwise, he would have to improvise.

  The small tavern where Keen now stopped was not more than a mile from the spot where Howe had made his headquarters during his unsuccessful foray into central Westchester the previous summer. The establishment was small even by local standards, more a private hovel with food and a spare bed for travelers. It had barely two rooms on the first floor, with the hearth in the main room doubling as kitchen; the upstairs was a half-story attic-cum-bedroom. The thick, rough logs betrayed its early Dutch ancestry and bore witness to a significant and rare battle with the river Indians — but Keen was not much of a local history buff".

  One of the difficulties of working in the wilderness — a man used to London found even the highly cultivated land hereabouts untamed — was that the inhabitants failed to properly anticipate a man's needs. For example, the serving wench who brought him his tea and pie had to make a trip back to her small sideboard to retrieve cream. Such stupidity would not be tolerated even in so primitive a place as New York City.

  And another thing — the people responded to the simplest question with bewilderment.

  "He is Dutch, with a beard, russet-colored clothes, and a large, round, silver-fleck
ed hat," repeated the doctor.

  "No, sir, I have not seen any such man," said the girl. She had a wholesome tint in her cheeks, and her hips were well-rounded beneath the very simple and worn flaxen dress. It occurred to Keen that she was just the sort of morsel whose parts were worth more than the whole.

  "Do you know of him?"

  "No, sir."

  "Come closer, girl; I'm not going to bite." Keen tapped her bottom gently with his gold-topped walking stick. In London, such a young woman would recognize the opportunity and jump into his lap; here in the backwoods the girl froze.

  "I'll thank you to keep your stick off my wife," said the flushed proprietor, appearing in the doorway from the back room. Just past thirty years old, he was a large man and the threshold small; his head brushed against the lintel, and his stubby arms, set against his hips indignantly, crowded the side panels.

  "Well, my good man, I would not have marked you for a cradle robber," said Keen, who gave her another playful tap before returning his cane to his side. "How old are you, girl? Fifteen?"

  "Get into the back, Elizabeth," said the keeper as he took a step forward.

  The man's wife cowered, slipping against the small fireplace and knocking one of the iron pots to the ground. Its top careened madly on the wide-planked floor. She grabbed it, dropped it again because it was hot, and then ran into the other room. "I've no desire to harm you," Keen told the man as he picked up his tea. "But I would not be adverse to it." "Out of that chair, you English snake. Pay for your breakfast and leave my house." "Do I understand that you are declaring yourself a rebel?"

  The man stood over Keen with barely controlled anger. The doctor had given up wearing a wig when he came to America; otherwise the strands of it would now be curling from the heat of the insulted husband's fury.

  "Out! And take your fool with you," said the keeper, gesturing toward Percival, whose large frame had just appeared above the top half of the open Dutch door at the ordinary's entrance.

  "I shall not leave until I have finished my tea," said Keen, raising the fine porcelain cup.

  The keeper swung the back of his hand against it, dashing what until now had been one of his most valuable possessions against the wall. In the next instant, he found his arm grabbed at the wrist, clamped as in a powerful vice.

  He had not expected such physical strength in the gentleman at the table, who not only appeared to be a jack-a-dandy but was at least fifty. The keeper had earned much of his living before the war as a stone mason, but here found himself steadily and slowly sinking to his knees.

  "Do you like flowers?" Keen asked. "Lilies, specifically."

  "Let go of my arm, you bastard," said the man, whose voice betrayed considerably more fear than his words did.

  The doctor smiled, and flicked his left hand to reveal a small handkerchief up his sleeve. He put the cloth to the man's nose, as if to wipe it.

  The scent was pleasant. Keen suddenly released the man, who by reflex grabbed the handkerchief to his mouth.

  The doctor watched with satisfaction as the puzzled expression on the keeper's face changed, the poison beginning to work. In a moment his eyes grew large and he began to gag. Keen stood as the man fell back, his chest heaving wildly.

  "The pity is, that was my last bit of Convallaria," Keen said as he stood. "I shall have to rely on other potions for the duration of my trip. But I suppose one must make do in the wild. Here — " Keen dug into a small pocket in his vest and retrieved a crown. "This should more than pay for my breakfast. I'd stay and chat with your wife, but duty calls. Besides, I wouldn't want to intrude on your wedded bliss. You can keep the handkerchief."

  By now the unfortunate man had collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving in a spasmodic fit. Keen's words were well beyond him; he would spend at least another half hour in convulsions, and then steadily waste away. By evening, his young wife would be a widow.

  Keen picked his hat off the wall post where he had left it and placed it on his head. The beaver was put up as a tricorner, folded in three places in a style quite common in the colonies; he fancied it made him look almost like a native. Steadying it on his head, he tapped his cane at the door and called to the girl who must still be hiding in the back room.

  "If you see the Dutchman, tell him that Major Dr. Keen is looking for him. He'll come to recognize the handiwork, I daresay."

  Chapter Eleven

  Wherein, Jake and van Clynne meet on the road and have a salty time.

  There was nothing like the prospect of a quick and reasonable profit to motivate Claus van Clynne, and as his contemplated salt sale would not only benefit the American Cause but establish the basis for many more transactions, the squire goaded his newly purchased ox with whip and song. The latter was a ditty of his own creation, roughly to the tune of an old Dutch love song, built around the refrain:

  Nothing moves a fighting man like a bellyful of salt,

  Except of course a kettle full of heavenly fermented malt.

  For obvious reasons the reader will be spared further description.

  The Dutchman saw but ignored the clouds starting to gather on the horizon; though still miles from the encampments, he would have his wares unloaded and sold well before rain arrived. At moments like this, his patriotism knew no bounds, and he had entirely forgotten his anger at being treated as a mere subaltern by Jake. A less troubled disposition could not be found for many miles.

  He was thus taken largely by surprise when the woods around him erupted with Indian war whoops.

  Van Clynne's travels prior to the war had made the Dutchman something of an expert on the various sounds emitted by northeastern natives; none of these fell into any recognizable category. His puzzlement was cured directly, when the figures emerging from the brush proved not to be Indians at all, but base imposters — Tory thieves.

  "Halt!" shouted the leader, whom we already know as Captain Busch.

  "What's the meaning of this?" demanded van Clynne. "And what is all this nonsensical shouting?"

  "I arrest you in the name of George the Third," declared Busch. "Smith, get down from your horse and truss him."

  Smith, of course, was our Jake Gibbs, who was dressed so oddly that van Clynne scarcely had a chance to recognize him as he swung from his saddle.

  But recognize him he did. Jake saw the look in his face, and realized the puff of breath the Dutchman took was preparatory to an exclamation. He therefore thought it expedient to wield his carbine-butt-end first-in a preemptive strike. He smashed van Clynne in the stomach, knocking the air out of him and sending him backwards into his cargo.

  "Don't curse King George, even under your breath, you damned rebel pig!" Jake shouted.

  Van Clynne gagged in confused response. Jake slapped him across the face with his open hand. It was an authentically fierce blow, and the Dutchman only barely held on to his wits. "Play along," hissed Jake as he reached an arm down to van Clynne. "You don't know me." "Sir!" "Out of the cart, weasel, before I strike you again. I'd show a dog more mercy."

  The Tories were an amused audience as van Clynne was unceremoniously kicked toward the dust. While some part of him realized he must play along with this charade, a greater part expressed indignation at having to take even an ersatz Tory's orders. And so when Jake commanded him again to get on his knees and profess his allegiance to the king, the Dutchman declined.

  "Claus van Clynne goes on his knees to no man. Who are you sir, and who are your band of bowl-capped pirates?"

  "We are loyal subjects of His Majesty," proclaimed Jake. "Rangers of service to Earl Graycolmb, who has given us warrant and funds to operate here as an adjunct to His Majesty's Marines."

  His fellow marauders choked with pride at Jake's pronouncement, little realizing that his intent was to give van Clynne enough information to have them all arrested. "Treat us with papers that profess your loyalty, or we will treat you to the gibbet."

  Any lingering skepticism about Jake's abilities were removed by this per
formance, and a few Tories were heard to remark that this new fellow was quite a comer.

  "I would sooner give my papers to a pole cat than to someone with such ill taste as to dress in a green coat."

  "Tie the rebel up," ordered Busch. "We'll take his cargo under tow. I know several farmers who would welcome it."

  Now van Clynne became even more upset, objecting that the Tories had no right to take his goods. His words were met by a rope held at arm's length by two rangers, who used it to tie him to a tree.

  "Take the sugar but leave me the salt," offered van Clynne. His magnanimous gesture was met by a titter of laughter. "You're making a dreadful mistake. I was on my way to New York City to deliver this salt to General Howe himself. I am a loyal follower of King George." "A gallows conversion if ever I heard one," said one of the Tories. Well, it wasn't actually a Tory. It was Jake. "I expected better of you, sir," said van Clynne indignantly. "I trusted that-" The end of the sentence was lost in the swallow of air that followed a fresh blow to the Dutchman's waist. "I remember this man from the inn," said Jake. "He was trying to make love to the judge's niece." "Not a crime, surely," said van Clynne weakly. "Yes, I remember him, too," said Busch. "Why did you not come out to us if you were on your way to New York?"

  "You what? Speak up." Jake patted his back; to the others it appeared as if he were helping van Clynne catch his breath, but he chose his spots and his timing to produce the opposite effect — V an Clynne's chokes became uncontrollable, his face now the shade of a beet after it has simmered in a Dutch oven for three hours.

  "Perhaps he meant there were too many rebels around," said Jake, looking up. "I had that impression myself. Here, sir, you sound as if you're drowning on dry land. Let me loosen your waistcoat." He reached into van Clynne's jacket and quickly rifled through the folded papers he knew the Dutchman kept there until he found one marked with a red seal.