by Jim DeFelice
Jake busied his eyes with an appreciation of the rugged tree-lined shore to the north. His focus blurred as he gazed northward, as if he could somehow spot the iron and wood floating in the water. By now, Rose and van Clynne would have delivered his messages to Putnam; the general would be waiting.
The patriot spy bit the inside of his lip, wondering if his decision to admit his identity had been the correct one.
Some reflection on the choices of his life, both immediately past and those of long standing, were inevitable given the circumstances. The ship's crew, having gotten the raiding party safely off, now turned its attention to the traitor. A gibbet party was a rare treat, especially on so disciplined a ship as the Richmond, and the very ad hoc nature of the arrangements added to the excitement. Jake's situation was not unlike that of the first few Christians to be eaten by lions in the Forum, before the Romans truly got the hang of things. There was genuine excitement and anticipation, and even Captain Gidoin, who had witnessed executions of many different varieties, exhibited some jitters, which he disguised by striding back and forth as the rope was readied.
There was some discussion of whether the condemned man ought to be allowed the privilege of climbing up the mast to the spot where he was to be pushed off; this would require his binds be loosened if not completely freed, and it was decided Jake had forfeited such a right by rebelling against the king. Besides, there was some question of whether he might then be able to jump off of his own free will, and what the consequences of that would be; there was a heavy superstition against suicide aboard ship, though the doctor argued that a man who jumped under such circumstances could not be properly considered a suicide.
"You're not going to make me walk the plank?" asked Jake lightly.
"You've been reading too many rebel journals," said the captain. "This is a ship of the Royal Navy. We do not allow such barbarities."
"No, you merely hang people without proper trials."
"Gag him," said Gidoin firmly. "Then haul him up by the neck. If that doesn't kill him, drop him and repeat the process until it does."
Jake's curses were stifled by a stiff cloth that forced its way between his teeth. A rope thick with the toil of the sea was pulled around his throat and the knots adjusted while the other end was tossed upwards. Just as Jake felt the pressure beneath his chin, the ship's captain put up his arm and stopped the proceedings.
Merciful God, thought Jake to himself, at last justice prevails. I will have a trial in New York City, where at least I will gain some fame from a speech before being condemned to death.
"I'm forgetting myself," said Gidoin. "I'll not have a hanging without some passage from the Bible."
A collective sigh of disappointment at the delay rose from the sailors. A lad was sent scurrying to the doctor's cabin. Jake felt the light prick of raindrops on his face and looked up into the pregnant clouds. He wondered how wet he would get before being hanged.
"Ahoy! I say ahoy!"
So many of the ship's complement ran to the side to see who was yelling at them that the Richmond began to list.
"Help me up! Come now, I haven't all day! Toss me a line, lubber your yards, move your masts, I have important business and news for the captain!"
Frowning, Gidoin walked to the side. Without saying a word, he motioned with his arm and a half-dozen sailors flew into action. In a thrice, a rotund Dutchman in a black-gray beaver and old-fashioned clothes unceremoniously toppled through the entry port onto the deck.
Chapter Thirty-six
Wherein, Claus van Clynne has a salty time taking custody of his prisoner.
Allow me to introduce myself," said the Dutchman after he righted himself. "Claus van Clynne, Esquire, counterintelligence agent par excellence, at your service. And — "
Suddenly the squire's complexion, which had been shading toward a deep green, changed to beet red. "There you are, spy!" he shouted. "I arrest you in the name of His Majesty the King! You shall not escape me this time, you cowardly bastard — you are my prisoner!"
Van Clynne advanced on his man like a first-rate warship bearing down on the enemy line. His arms flared, his neck telescoped; were it not for a smudge of mud on his russet socks, he might have appeared the personification of a heavenly avenger. Indeed, his thundering voice and sharp manner brought the entire ship to attention, and a few superstitious souls believed that Old Man River himself had come aboard, aiming to stop a deed that would cast bad luck upon the boat and all who sailed through this stretch of water.
"You there," van Clynne said to a marine. "Take charge of the prisoner. Get that ridiculous necklace off him and double the ropes on his hands and feet. You don't know who you're dealing with. Move!"
The last sentence thundered against the hills loud enough to wake Hudson's crew.
"Belay that," said Gidoin, stepping forward. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Van Clynne swept around and doffed his hat in an aristocratic gesture that would have impressed the dandiest macaroni. His voice changed instantly from brimstone to sugar. "As I was saying, sir, my name is Claus van Clynne, and I am engaged on a mission for the king to rout out treacherous traitors."
"The king?"
"Through Sir Henry Bacon," said van Clynne, letting the name drop like a piece of fiery shot on the deck. "You have heard of General Howe's intelligence chief, I assume." "Don't insult me." "I wouldn't presume to," said van Clynne, "and I expect similar respect." Gidoin eyed him suspiciously. "Captain Busch warned me this man had several accomplices."
"Do I look like a rebel, sir?" Van Clynne stuck his nose into the air. "Here you, marine — double his binds, I tell you. This man is not only clever, he is a thief. He will steal the very ropes you tie him with if they are not heavy enough."
As van Clynne fussed, an assistant followed him aboard. Wearing the somewhat tattered clothes of a country bumpkin, the man — we have met him before as Private Martin, though he now wears even less official markings than previously — saluted his commander and informed him that all was ready.
"Bring it aboard then," said van Clynne. "Must I issue a specific order for every stage of this operation! I tell you, sir," the Dutchman confided to Captain Gidoin, "there was a time when subalterns showed their own initiative. You could count on them to take the proper actions and get where they were going without having to wash their linen for them." "Excuse me," said Gidoin loudly, "but just what do you think you're bringing aboard?" "Salt," said van Clynne. "A dozen barrels of it, and at bargain prices, too. Lord Howe will be overjoyed." "We are not a supply ship."
"Admiral Lord Howe will be pleased to discover your high opinion of yourself," said van Clynne in a withering voice. "Dump the salt overboard!"
Captain Gidoin was an able seafarer and a competent captain, but when van Clynne was in the middle of a streak like this, no mere mortal could resist him. The references to Black Dick Howe, the navy commander whom Gidoin answered to, were particularly potent. The captain grimaced and belayed the latest command, waving two men to help hoist the barrels aboard.
"You thought you saw the last of me, I warrant," said van Clynne, addressing Jake. "Thought you'd escape me by giving yourself up here. Ha, I say. You'll not get away so easily."
"We were just about to hang him," said one of Gidoin's lieutenants, Justin McRae. "Not set him free."
"Oh, surely you jest. Excuse me, sir, but hanging is the least of his worries now. Hanging would be pleasurable. Come, take him to my boat. He must be punished suitably — hanging will follow his being burned at the stake, which itself will come after his being drawn and quartered. The only question is when he will be shot."
Gidoin put his arm up and the two marines who had taken Jake's arms halted. "Do you have any proof that you are who you say you are?" "What sort of proof do you require?" "Some insignia of rank or paper." "A spy who carries proof that he is a spy? Let me ask you, sir — have you been at this business very long?" "It is difficult to believe that a Dutchman could be e
mployed in His Majesty's service," said McRae. "Excuse me, but what is the name of the river we are floating in?" demanded van Clynne. The officer looked at him as if he were a simpleton. "The North River." "Is it not called the Hudson as well?" "What's your point?"
Van Clynne accented his dignity by puffing his belly- an awesome sight. "My point, sir, is that this Hudson fellow belonged to which country?" "He was an Englishman." "Precisely. In the service of which country?" "And what do we have here, an exchange program?" asked Gidoin.
"Well, sir, if that is the tone you're to take with me, I'll be off. Joseph," he said to Martin, "see to the prisoner for me. Find some coat for him; I wouldn't want him catching cold in this drizzle."
"Excuse me," said Gidoin, "but you won't be taking him anywhere until he's been hanged properly as a traitor and a spy. And you'd best provide yourself with some proof of your identification, or you'll suffer the same fate."
"Well, now, there's a complication," answered van Clynne, thoughtfully rubbing his cheek and placing his hand into his pocket. He retrieved a pass from Admiral Howe, another from his brother General Sir William Howe, and a long Dutch pipe. "Would anyone have a match?" he asked after handing over the papers.
One of the sailors fetched a light for him. The rain was not yet coming down hard enough to extinguish the flame, but the Dutchman was careful to shelter the bowl and take no chances. After a pair of puffs, he offered it to the captain but Gidoin declined.
"Now, as I understand it, you want me to take a dead man back to General Bacon for interrogation," said van Clynne, snatching his documents back. "Well now, I fear he would not be overly enthusiastic about that."
Gidoin frowned.
"Perhaps you know the general better than I," said van Clynne. "I will give him your regards."
The Dutchman's bold step toward the edge of the ship was arrested by Gidoin himself, taking hold of his arm. During all of this time, Jake had kept quietly to himself — not difficult to do, considering that he was bound and gagged and had a rope around his neck. His hopes of rescue had alternately soared and soured. Was this all van Clynne had planned, a simple bluff?
Fortunately, the rag in Jake's mouth was thick enough to choke his curses.
"Wait," said Gidoin, his hand on the Dutchman's coat. "Perhaps I'm being too hasty."
There was no need for van Clynne to conceal a smile at this late victory — the view of the pitching waves had quite vanquished any trace of optimism from his face. In fact, he was starting to feel a little woozy — Dutch courage could only travel so far.
"Are you all right?" the captain asked.
"Yes, yes," said van Clynne, sinking against the barrels.
The sailors recognized the problem and started smirking among themselves. Gidoin tapped his foot impatiently, wondering how England would ever conquer the damn colonies with men such as the fat Dutchman in its employ. Jake did nothing, though this was not precisely his wish. "I wonder," van Clynne asked, "would it be possible to get something to wet my thirst?" "Seaman — a cup of water," said the captain. "No, not water. Anything but water," answered van Clynne. "Not used to being on a ship, are you?" said McRae, glad that the Dutchman's weakness had been so easily discovered. "The sea is a dreadful place." "We were discussing who would have custody of this prisoner," said Gidoin. "You can have him," said van Clynne. "What?" "Take him, he's yours."
Jake's reaction could not be properly chronicled if we had eight hundred pages. Gidoin's was somewhat less severe, though the word "shocked" does not quite convey the half of it. But as he was about to question the Dutchman further, he was interrupted by miscellaneous shouts and whistles and piping and perhaps even an orchestra of drums welcoming a new man aboard ship — Major Dr. Harland Keen.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Wherein, Squire van Clynne's plot blows up.
Was the prodigal greeted with such shouts of joy as van Clynne received from Keen? Did Columbus respond with greater happiness as the king and queen of Spain met him at the dock?
Without question. Nor did van Clynne seem willing to put a single metaphor to the test. His body drooped, his arms hung down as he leaned back, practically draping over the nearest salt keg.
Jake's fury simmered. He did not know that van Clynne and the doctor were previously acquainted, and could conjure no explanation for the Dutchman's sudden and obvious — though as yet unstated — capitulation. Nor could he see, from his vantage, that van Clynne's pipe was not quite dangling aimlessly. For the good Dutchman had indeed come aboard with a plan that involved more than mere bluff — he'd fashioned a bomb inside the salt barrel where he was sitting, and was endeavoring to light it.
"Well, is not this my old acquaintance Squire van Clynne?" said Keen. "What a coincidence!"
"Yes, yes," said the Dutchman, fumbling to light the fuse without being detected. Why was nothing ever where it was supposed to be?
"You're looking quite pale, my friend. I hope you've recovered from my blood treatment."
"Superbly," said van Clynne. Worried that Keen would see what he was doing, he turned his head up to attend to him — and silently cursed as the pipe slipped from his hand.
"What are these barrels?" asked the doctor, pointing the eagle-handle of his walking stick. He had not replaced his hat, but otherwise looked as fine and fresh as the day he strode off the ship into the New World.
"I found my salt."
"Ah, very good, very good," said Keen. To this point, the British agent had ignored all the others, playing his moment of triumph for all the drama he could squeeze from it. In truth, the doctor had a thespian streak that would have impressed even Mr. Jonson.
"You are Gidoin, I assume," said Keen when he finally turned to the captain. The doctor knocked his stick once on the deck for emphasis, and then consulted one of his watches, as if concerned about the time.
If Gidoin had taken an immediate dislike to van Clynne, his feelings toward Keen were even worse. "My name is Captain John Lewis Gidoin, master of this ship," he replied tightly. "And whom have I had the pleasure to meet?"
Keen reached into his vest and retrieved his ruby-hilted knife — and with a sharp flick of his wrist, sent it sailing to the deck between the captain's feet. "You will do precisely as I order you to."
Gidoin froze. While he did not know all that the blade implied, he realized from conversations with his father, a former admiral, that it was a signifier for the Secret Department attached directly to the king, and that its bearers were not to be jostled with. In the least.
Reacting to the knife, two of Gidoin's marines took a menacing step toward Keen. The captain immediately commanded them to stop — though the withering glare from the doctor might have accomplished the same on its own.
"What do you want?"
"The Dutchman and the other man are my prisoners," said Keen. "I require a proper boat. I had to induce a few of the rabble to get myself out here, and I fear they may be unreliable."
Gidoin looked over at van Clynne, who had gone to his hands and knees in order to retrieve the pipe — and use it to light the fuse. He was just about to grab it when one of the marines, acting at McRae's nod, took hold of his coat and hauled him to his feet.
"Unhand me," blustered van Clynne. "Captain — arrest that man," he shouted, pointing at Keen. "He claims to be a British operative, but he is only a thief. He stole my money, under the pretense that I was a traitor."
"It was no pretense," said Keen, walking to Jake and ignoring van Clynne's continued protests. "General Bacon took an interest in you," he told the trussed spy. "He mentioned something about a dinner appointment he hoped you would keep. I wonder if that meant he wanted you returned alive?" Jake's eyes displayed no emotion, save fierce hate. "Alas, it's too much bother," said Keen. "Hang him quickly." Finally, something the sailors agreed with. They hopped like children at a May Fair to comply.
The reader will realize that the disguised Private Martin has quite gotten lost in the recent chain of events, so rapidly
progressing. For he has followed the foot-soldier's motto: "When in doubt, keep your head down."
Or more specifically, duck behind the salt barrels and pray that no one sees you.
There is no underestimating the ingenuity of a Connecticut man, nor can his initiative under fire be truly assayed until the moment in question. Martin saw the pipe on the deck boards and realized that General van Clynne was no longer in a position to light the fuse. He therefore came to the fore, crawling on his hands and knees while the sailors took up Jake's rope and the rest of the ship's company turned to watch the entertainment proceed.
"I think you should reconsider," van Clynne said, producing his own ruby-topped knife for the bewildered master of the Richmond. "I, too, am a member of the Secret Department, and Mr. Gibbs is my prisoner. General Bacon will be very angry when I tell him what you've done."
"You will not live to tell him," answered Keen curtly. "Pull him up!"
Jake felt the pressure on his neck and decided to make one last, desperate try at freedom, coiling his legs beneath him and gasping for a breath. As the sailors prepared to give the first pull, he bolted upright, tensing his shoulder muscles and leaning against the rope, so that his neck became a swivel. It was an awful, wrenching motion, but it allowed him to kick his boots against the mast and swing back into the sailors, sending them into a tumble. The rest of the ship's company erupted with laughter.
Lieutenant McRae began shouting at the men; Gidoin cursed; a marine grabbed Jake from the deck where he had fallen and yanked him upright.
Van Clynne, his guards distracted by Jake, took a sniff at the air and made a perfect dive into the oak boards, landing at Gidoin's boots. All eyes turned toward him. "What the hell are you doing?" thundered the ship's captain. At that moment, the disguised salt keg exploded with a loud and very spicy bang.
Not even Homer could describe the scene that followed with proper accuracy. Martin, aware that the fuse was very short, had taken his chance to dive overboard the moment van Clynne fell. The explosion threw splinters and salt in a large circle, small cakes of the mineral acting much the same as pieces of shot. Keen was bowled over by a barrel lid, and knocked unconscious to the deck. Gidoin escaped serious injury, but was blown against a spar and also knocked unconscious. And Jake — ?
