by Jim DeFelice
Jake nodded solemnly.
Had the sergeant boiled the leaves they would have been rendered impotent. Uncooked, they would have the same effect on him as on the horses. Lewis made a face but picked up some of the leaves, chewing a moment and then swallowing with a hasty gulp. "Try some sugar with it," said Jake. "That's how I like it." Between the sergeant and the horses, the troop would be completely incapacitated within two hours. And the area would be uninhabitable for months.
Chapter Thirteen
Wherein, Claus van Clynne falls in with the wrong kind of fellow.
As a general rule, Claus van Clynne would not have gone back to the Loaded with Mischief Inn for several weeks at least, long enough to let its proprietor forget his role in raising the price of salt. But as the tavern was the first to present itself and as van Clynne's thirst had reached powerful proportions, he consented to break his rule just this once. His reward was an outraged shout from the keeper, who directed his wife to swat the Dutchman on the back with her broom on his way off the premises.
"Tut, tut, my good man," said van Clynne, fussing with the large gold buttons of his coat as he eyed the woman's raised weapon. "Surely you can't be upset with me for facilitating your deal."
"Surely I can. You doubled the price."
"You bought your salt at a third what I paid for mine," said van Clynne, nodding at the inn's only other customer as he walked to the table. Van Clynne was not actually lying, merely neglecting to divide his cost across all of his purchase. "You'll make a fine profit off it, I suspect. As I see by your clock that it is just about noon, I'd like a mug of stout, please."
The keeper frowned heavily and considered the matter. It was one thing to hold a grudge; it was quite another to let that grudge prevent you from making a bit of profit. And so he directed his wife to disarm and went and fetched some beer for van Clynne.
"Do you mind if we set up an account?" queried the Dutchman when the tankard was set down.
The vessel was whisked back so quickly its contents did not have an opportunity to spill.
"Just a jest, my good man," said van Clynne, reaching for one of the purses he carried on a string suspended from his neck.
"Legal money," said the keeper. "You will use coins or you will find yourself sitting on the roadway talking to yourself."
"I had no intention of burdening you with paper," said van Clynne haughtily. "I have been looking for a way to get rid of this shilling for many months."
He dropped the coin so that it rolled across the table and continued onto the floor, making straight for the door. As the keeper dove to intercept it, van Clynne looked over and nodded at the customer sitting in the large armchair near the unlit fireplace. He was dressed in a powder blue coat with a brocaded yellow vest and very properly arranged hair. He sipped a thimble's worth of Madeira from a tiny silver beaker, undoubtedly one that he had brought to the inn himself. A walking stick crowned by a golden eagle stood at the side of his chair.
The reader has already made the man's acquaintance, for the stranger is the notorious Dr. Harland Keen, as he introduces himself — without the "notorious," of course.
"And I, sir, am Squire Claus van Clynne, at your service I'm sure. It is always a pleasure to meet a man of the medical profession. There are not enough doctors in this world, that's my motto."
"And what, sir, is your profession?"
"I am a man of the world, a traveler and a philosopher, a person who sees needs and fills them — in short, I am a good man of business. I am currently engaged in an enterprise involving a little salt," added van Clynne in a confidential tones. "Salt which has been separated from me. Stolen, in fact."
"Ha! It serves you right," said the keeper, who'd been eavesdropping on the conversation.
"I am looking for a troop of bandits," continued van Clynne. "They were dressed in green coats and wore odd brown beanies, as if they'd caught some hideous cancer."
"Interesting," replied Keen, feigning not to know the significance of the coats. "And these were Loyalists or Americans?"
"Robbers, sir, no matter what flag they fly. These woods are filled with miscreants of every stripe. It is something about the air, I believe — the archbishop of Canterbury himself would think of lifting a man's purse if he rode here."
"It's the times, not the geography," replied Keen. "I have often thought that things have gone very much downhill since the Dutch ruled this land." "Indeed, you're very right, sir. Most observant. You say you're a doctor?" "I have passed the necessary examination." "I could tell you were a man of great learning the moment I set eye on you. That is your coach outside, no doubt." Keen nodded.
"Quite an interesting vehicle," said van Clynne, who naturally recognized it as having been made in England and had concluded that its owner was not only well — off but probably allied with the British. While this might shade van Clynne's attitude toward him, a man's allegiance was not necessarily a barrier to business in a time of crisis, especially as he showed proper deference to the squire's ancestry. "I have had occasion to deal with some similar carts in the past."
"I'd hardly call it a cart," said Keen quite lightly.
"True, I suppose you would call it a carriage, with the high wheels and all," allowed van Clynne. "Still, it is most impractical on these roads." "Impractical? I find it handy indeed." "It requires a driver, does it not? That's an added expense in these days of inflation." "My driver is most useful," said Keen. Van Clynne nodded, and turned to signal for another beer. "I don't suppose it's for sale then." "For sale? I think not. But perhaps we can do business on another front."
The Dutchman took this under advisement while he watched the innkeeper pour out a refill. Keen took a sip from his silver cup so slight that a bird would have been considered a guzzler by comparison.
"I am always ready to do business," said van Clynne when the keeper had gone. "Even with a British officer."
"Why do you think I'm a British officer?"
"Come, sir, let us be frank with each other. What rebel would dress as you, or display such wealth? And no Royalist could afford to be so bold."
"And your allegiance?"
"I am Dutch. My allegiance is my own."
Now the reader will realize that both men were jousting, each aware the other was more than he presented but not necessarily sure what that more was. Keen had the advantage, not so much because Bacon had told him of the Dutchman's strengths, but because while van Clynne was signaling the innkeeper he had sprinkled some dust from his hand into the bottom of the Dutchman's cup.
The active ingredient in the powder was largely distilled from jimsonweed, but a pharmaceutical analysis would fill several pages. More important to note was that its intended effect was as something of a truth serum; anyone who consumed a healthy dose found within a few minutes that they were amazingly agreeable and unable to dissemble. This condition lasted only a short time, for the belladonna at the formula's core tended to have a heavy impact on a person's consciousness, quickly delivering him into a state of extended drunkenness — or worse.
Except in this case. The scientist in Keen was quite intrigued by the Dutchman's apparent resistance to the drug, for his companion not only continued speaking coherently — if at enormous length — but drained the entire tankard of beer without any noticeable effect.
To keep the conversation going, Keen made up a story about wanting to buy wheat, but as he knew nothing about the prevailing prices made a suggestion so low that van Clynne quickly brushed the offer aside.
"If you see your way clear to triple the amount per bushel, we might have some grounds for discussion," said van Clynne, sliding his mug away and rising from the table. "But in the meantime, I have other business to attend to. And if that is your hat… " — the Dutchman pointed to the folded beaver on the post near the door — "… you would do well to get a sturdier one. It's quite ruined by your bending."
"Which way are you going?"
"Generally, north, though as I am in se
arch of my salt, I could not say specifically." Van Clynne's suspicions had been raised by the low offer for the wheat — ordinarily British purchasing agents bid far too high. So he wondered if this man might actually be an American disguised so as to lure people of loose business ethics into a trap. Not that such a description would ever apply to him.
"Perhaps I can be of service," said Keen. "Would you like to ride with me?"
"Thank you, but I think not. With all due respect, sir, your wagon is quite a magnet for rascals of all sorts. I am best off sticking to my horse."
"A traveler who refuses hospitable company?"
"Surely, sir, I do not mean to insult you," said van Clynne, stroking his beard absentmindedly. "I am as great a follower of the etiquette of travel as any man on this continent, I dare say. But as I am currently on business, and on a sharp error, errand…" "Is something the matter?" "No, no, just a slight flutter in my eyes. It is nothing," said van Clynne. "Here, let me take a look." "I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, Dr. Quack!"
Blame the intemperate behavior on the late-acting drugs and van Clynne's natural aversion to the English. He pulled his lapels and strode to the door, fixing his large beaver on his head as he reached the threshold. Dr. Keen followed, and was by his side as van Clynne reached up for his horse — and fell straight to the ground.
Chapter Fourteen
Wherein, Claus van Clynne is left to complain about the inefficiency of thieves.
Major Dr. Keen had his driver load the incapacitated van Clynne into the coach and then climbed into the cabin behind him. The Dutchman's reaction to the drug was atypical, to say the least; he seemed to have skipped not only the suggestive period but the hallucinatory phase as well, moving right on to sleeping — unless the British doctor was confusing his convulsions for loud snores.
No, a convulsive would hardly have such a benign smile on his face. Keen directed Percival to proceed down the road and then fell to searching the Dutchman.
His immediate attention was drawn to the ruby-hilted knife secreted in van Clynne's vest. The blade was an authentic sibling of the weapon in Keen's own possession; unless the Dutchman had succeeded in besting another agent, he must be a member of the dark brotherhood.
Difficult to believe, though. Leaving his nationality aside, van Clynne did not cut the robust figure Major Dr. Keen took to be typical of the species. But perhaps that was his secret efficiency. Clearly he had some intelligence — he had quickly discerned that Keen was British, and knew enough to steer away from him behind enemy lines. It might even be that his reaction to the truth drug was the result of some far-reaching general antidote ingested prior to entering the inn.
If so, the doctor was highly interested — so far as he knew, there was no known remedy, even for a fatal overdose.
Van Clynne's coat and vest had a large number of interior pockets. All number of documents were deposited within them, mostly testimonials to his honesty and safe passages of conduct. It appeared he could go anywhere in the world he wanted and produce the necessary permission; here was a voucher from the King of Spain, here a recommendation from Guy Carleton, governor of Canada. The sheer number convinced Keen they must be forgeries, but all looked most convincing, and when the doctor compared a pass purported to have been signed by General Howe to an authentic one he owned himself, he could discern no difference in the hand.
The Dutchman also carried representative samples of the currency of every major legitimate nation in Europe and at least half the illegitimate ones in the New World. Indented bills from Maryland, Connecticut warrants, a note from Massachusetts, and leaf-inscribed papers from New Jersey were among the most plentiful. They were numbered where required and appeared authentic, or at least good copies — the quaint “to counterfeit is death” warnings the notes boasted notwithstanding.
There was no counterfeiting the coins in his several purses. Here Spanish doubloons mixed with old British crowns, French money mingled with German, loose wampum lay next to a mysterious coin that looked old enough to be the Biblical widow's mite. If the rotund squire was not a spy then he was a veritable walking bank.
British gentlemen in general were so prejudiced toward their own racial superiority that most would quickly conclude van Clynne must be in their service, for the colonists could never manage to attract, let alone pay, such a man. Major Dr. Keen, however, was remarkably free of prejudices and blinding opinions. His entire nature rested on firm philosophical principles; he believed one must not jump to conclusions not directly supported by empirical evidence. And evidence as to van Clynne's loyalties, the knife aside, was lacking.
His snores were not, however. As a young man, Keen had spent some time traveling in the Levant, gaining ancient knowledge. He had witnessed a particular practice among Syrian tribesmen involving the butchering of a live bull ox. The animal's wails were remarkably similar to van Clynne's, except that the Dutchman's were louder. The carriage shook with every inhalation, and the crushed velvet curtains at the sides flew fiercely apart every time he exhaled.
Keen flicked the two assassins' blades back and forth as he contemplated the situation. The most expedient thing to do was to kill the Dutchman and be done with him. Another dose of the truth powder ought to prove fatal, despite van Clynne's strange resistance to it; Keen could always claim it was an accident if it was subsequently discovered that the Dutchman was indeed a legitimate member of the Secret Department. On the other hand, this might deprive His Majesty of an effective if unusual agent.
Two, actually. Bacon's hint notwithstanding, such an "accident" very likely would be deemed unforgivable if discovered.
Besides, there was no art involved in killing a man who was already sleeping; a thief or coward could do that, and Major Dr. Keen was neither.
If this Dutchman did prove an imposter, he would be a fitting subject for several experiments Keen had long hoped to perform. The fact that all would undoubtedly prove fatal was unfortunate; it meant he'd only be able to perform one or, at best, two. In the meantime, a way must be found to discover his allegiance.
The ringed jewels on Keen's hand sparkled as he reached up and pulled the silk string near the coach door. The string rang a small bell near Percival on the driver's bench, and they immediately stopped.
"Help me with him," said the doctor as he got out. The two men had a difficult time retrieving the rotund Dutchman from his resting place and ended up half dragging him to the woods, where they tied him to a tree.
The only effect the ropes had on van Clynne was to make him snore louder. Keen wondered if one of those famous American moose might think this a mating call and come for an inspection.
"We'll let him untie the knots and escape, then follow along and see what he does," said Keen. "Sooner or later, his true nature will come clear. Since he still has the knife, he has not yet discharged his duty."
"How long will he be like this, Major?" asked Percival. The driver was well used to the sounds of torture, but these wails twisted his large, ox like face through fearsome contortions.
"Ordinarily the drug wears off in six hours, but I've never seen it follow this specific course," said Keen, returning van Clynne's ruby-hilted blade to his coat. "Take a few coins from his purse to make him think it was a robbery. The big purse that's so obvious. Drop a few and he'll conclude we were startled away when he wakes."
Which proved to be the case when van Clynne came to barely twenty minutes later.
"Came to" perhaps does not correctly describe his mental state. He did come to something, but it was more like a dazed drunkenness. His inability to focus and the slurring of his thoughts into one another alarmed him in no small degree, though it must be noted that the realization he was missing money from one of his several purses sobered him considerably. Van Clynne immediately began cursing the downtrodden times; as his wits slowly regrouped, he realized that his hands were just loose enough to reach into the back of his belt where he kept a finger-sized razor.
"Ra
scals didn't even take the time to tie proper knots," complained the Dutchman as he undid himself. "And left coins on the ground. Does no one know the proper way to rob a man anymore? They leave after rifling only one purse, and the most obvious one at that. In the days of Stuyvesant, a man was left penniless when he was robbed. Those were halcyon days, to be sure."
The grumbling picked up steam and within a short time the Dutchman's verbal apparatus had returned to normal. His vision, however, remained somewhat corrupted, and the communication between his head and feet had been scrambled to such a degree that he found it difficult to proceed. He stumbled from the tree, flopped into the dust, and spent a good ten minutes floundering on the ground. Regaining a vertical position, he steadied himself on a thick tree and took another dive toward the roadway, proceeding with all the stability of a wobbly top.
The Dutchman's unsteady progress was studied through a spyglass from a distance of several hundred leagues by Major Dr. Keen, who had secreted himself and his carriage in the woods off the roadway. The recovery from the drug astounded him; Keen found himself wishing, nay, praying, that the Dutchman would turn out to be a rebel so he could dissect his brain with a clear conscience and see what chemicals it possessed to ward off the belladonna and attendant drugs.
"Be sure to keep our distance," the doctor told Percival as he mounted the carriage to sit alongside him at the front. He reached beneath the seat and removed a large weapon that attached to a metal brace in the middle of the open compartment. With an oversized, ornate stock and a thick barrel, it looked like an antique blunderbuss, but was in fact a newly adopted naval swivel gun. A light canvas container with perforated sides held a collection of grapeshot; the devastating ammunition was quickly loaded, a fresh flint secured in the lock.
"Be a shame to waste this on our friend," the doctor confided to his assistant. "But with some luck we'll run into a rebel patrol."
