by Jim DeFelice
Van Clynne intended to win this man to his small army in the manner he had won the others. But when he lifted his arm and pointed his finger as a necessary precursor to making his point, Private Martin and a few of the others misunderstood, and rushed at the soldier. The Massachusetts man stood his ground as they approached, right up until the moment he heard a few of the soldiers begin to cough. At that moment he decided there was no honor in catching the pox from a fellow American and ran for his health, if not his life. The Connecticut troops responded with a laugh, boasting that this was an omen of the easy time they would have with the egg-laying Tories their general had promised to take them against.
They led van Clynne to a barn on the farmer's property where they were camped. Here they liberated their weapons, a healthy supply of ammunition, rations for the march — and a pipe of rum, to help speed their progress.
The inn that Busch headed for after his horse pulled up lame was in fact the same establishment so recently darkened by Claus van Clynne. Indeed, the somewhat smelly odor of his folded dollar bill still hung in the air, midway between the chestnut floorboards and the white-washed ceiling. Missy Lina was hard at work scrubbing the floor with the aid of some fresh sand when Captain Busch stepped inside.
"John Busch, I never," she said, standing. "We thought you'd gone and joined the Tories."
"Not quite," said Busch, deciding on the spot to play the rebel for this old acquaintance. "I had forgotten this was your inn, Missy. Is your husband at home?"
"He just walked up to Elmendorff s to sell some eggs for me," she said, wiping her hands. Missy gestured at the square table to Busch's right. "Sit down; I'll fetch you dinner."
"I haven't time," said Busch. "I'm pursuing a rogue." He caught himself, just barely, from saying 'rebel.'
"A Tory thief?"
"Yes," said the ranger captain, who realized that by embellishing his lie he might win a horse with no trouble. It is not difficult to cobble a falsehood from the truth. "His name is Jake Smith. He stands six-foot-two, with very blond hair. Have you seen him?"
"He sounds quite a lot like Claus van Clynne's friend," said Missy. "Which would certainly make him a rogue."
Busch nodded, not knowing whom she meant but definitely wanting to encourage her. "He's my age or a little older," said Busch. "He gives his name as Jake Smith. He has the accent of a man from Philadelphia, and I daresay he is a clever sort. We must capture him directly."
"That is exactly the man Claus described," said Missy. "But he said his last name was Gibbs."
"Jake Gibbs? And who was this van Clynne?"
Missy had never liked the squire and now gave full vent to her feelings. "As fat a Dutchman as any sow in the city of New York streets, I'm sorry to say."
As her description continued, Busch realized that she was describing the man Smith — make it Gibbs — had harassed on the road, the man from the inn whose salt they had stolen. Suddenly the entire plot unfolded before his eyes: everything had been cleverly arranged to deceive him.
No wonder they had been surprised above his father's farm. But the fact that his fat Dutch compatriot was searching for him must mean some part of their plot had gone awry. The rebel army must not yet know of the plan against the chain; if Gibbs could be captured quickly, they would be thwarted.
"I've never heard of Claus being partial to the British," continued Missy. "Still, he is capable of almost anything."
"I need a horse," said Busch. "Quickly. I think I know where this Gibbs fellow is headed."
"Claus went north," said Missy hopefully.
"A horse?"
For a moment, the mistress of the inn hesitated. She and her husband had only one horse, and lending it to Busch, even for the good of the American Cause, entailed a severe sacrifice. Busch was just slipping his hand to his belt to retrieve a knife and force the issue when Missy set her jaw and shook her head so vigorously her kerchief slipped.
"If it will help foil a Tory, I'm sure Jan would gladly lend it," said the woman.
Van Clynne had been told that the rangers used Stoneman's as their camp. The Dutch squire therefore decided to strike there immediately, rather than waiting for them to attack the chain. He knew the farmer — an old countryman, barely six years removed from England — and was quite satisfied that his low opinions of him had been borne out by this perfidious association with the British forces.
The distance from the inoculation barracks to Stoneman's was at least ten miles, even with the several shortcuts the Dutchman led his men over. This was an immense march, given their condition, and van Clynne found it necessary to keep up their spirits with a variety of exhortations and, in a few instances, complaints. Mounted on the fine carriage horse stolen from Keen — now equipped with a proper rein and saddle from the supply barn — he rode up and down the column cheering and chiding his troop. He made wild promises of success, and gave out not a few hints of fantastic rewards if only their pace could be accelerated.
The result was severe disappointment when the men, formed into a picket line and charging through the woods, burst onto the grounds and discovered Stoneman's to be practically deserted. The only occupant was the former Tory and now ex-bully, Charles Wedget. The man sat on the ground between the barn and the house, picking at his unshod toes, lamenting his fate.
Wedget took no notice of the Connecticut soldiers as they assaulted the place. They, in turn, were inclined to dismiss him as inconsequential, until they realized he was the only enemy they were likely to find here. They surrounded him and waited while their commander trotted his horse back and forth across the barnyard, in the forlorn hope of having somehow missed an entire company of rangers.
By the time Private Martin flagged him down and asked what should be done about Wedget, van Clynne was in his habitual mode of complaint, grumbling about the fact that no one in the country was ever where they were supposed to be anymore.
"We have a prisoner, sir," said Martin, breaking van Clynne's litany.
"A prisoner! Excellent work. Lead me to him." The Dutchman slipped from his horse and the animal gave a whinny of gratitude, not because its physical burden had been eased but because the Dutchman's grumbling had begun to weigh on its nerves. "Is he armed? Has he barricaded himself in some makeshift fortress?"
"Not exactly, sir. In fact, he is sitting alone in front of the barn, without a weapon or even shoes."
"We will be on guard for some sort of trick," said van Clynne, approaching the knot of soldiers in front of the barn. "Reinforcements may be nearby. Search the rest of the farm." The Dutchman glanced over the crowd at the prisoner. "What is he doing?"
"He appears to be talking to his toes, sir."
"Do they answer back?"
"Not that I can tell."
"That's something, at least," said the Dutchman. He took up a spot and observed Wedget a moment. The former bully had stopped playing with his feet, and was frowning toward the rest of the company in a somewhat threatening manner. But he made no sign to get up — wisely, as half a dozen muskets were pointed in his direction.
"Well, sir," said van Clynne, stepping forward, "it seems we have finally met." Van Clynne bent to Wedget and extended his hand. "I have searched the entire countryside looking for you."
"Run back to your hole, rebel. I have no idea who you are, and you won't trick information from me. I have sworn an oath."
Wedget clamped his mouth shut, refusing to speak. Considerable beard stroking and even some hat preening followed before van Clynne decided on a new tactic. He sat in the dust with the man, then asked a variety of questions in the friendliest tone possible. None drew a response until he happened to ask if the man had met a Jake Smith, the name his companion had been using when he was last seen among the Tory rangers.
"I'll kill him! I'll kill him! And any of his friends!" Wedget launched himself against the Dutchman's throat. Taken by surprise, van Clynne had everything he could do to avoid being throttled. It was only after two soldiers came to his
aid that he was able to free himself.
But the sudden outburst represented Wedget's last stand as a Tory. As he fussed against the two men holding him — they were able to bring him under control only by stomping on his wounded feet — van Clynne realized the man would now answer anything put to him.
"What happened to your shoes?" he demanded.
"Captain Busch took my shoes and left me here because he didn't want me to follow," answered Wedget.
"Where did he go?"
"To the river. There are men there. Jake Smith is a traitor and a rebel."
"Where along the river? Do you know?"
Wedget shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes.
"Which road did he take?" asked the Dutchman.
Wedget shook his head. "He was going to the cove and boats."
"Which cove?"
Again Wedget shook his head.
"Should I twist your toes?" threatened the Dutchman.
"They're going to the Richard, a boat or something." Wedget erupted into tears, and van Clynne realized his usefulness was at an end.
"That might be the Richmond," suggested Martin. "It's a British ship off Dobb's Ferry or thereabouts. We've heard talk of it."
The mention of the word ship brought with it the necessary association of water, and van Clynne's cheeks momentarily paled. He turned from his soldiers and began calculating the number of coves on the river between Peekskill and Dobb's; the number ran to the hundreds.
But you would not need a cove if you rode to Dobb's, or any place where wharfs and docks would make boarding boats a routine matter. So van Clynne decided to eliminate Dobb's and the vicinity. The cove in question must be either in Tory hands or sparsely settled country, which would most likely place it above Tarrytown; while there were many Tories still on the old Phillipse ground thereabouts, the patriots were strong enough to alert American troops and might be expected to take some action against a force of rangers.
One by one, van Clynne eliminated potential landings. While all of this mental process was severe work — several beakers of ale would have been of great assistance — he at last concluded that there were two likely candidates, both a few miles north of Tarrytown, and both formerly used by certain Dutch merchants to avoid the complications of British taxes. Van Clynne was just trying to decide which to try first when a shout came from the barn.
"We've captured an entire wagonload of salt, General," one of the soldiers declared. "There's enough here to keep the countryside in beef for a year."
-Chapter Thirty-three-
Wherein, Claus van Clynne proceeds toward the river, as does his nemesis, Major Dr. Keen.
So was Claus van Clynne reunited with his salt. This development greatly cheered him, as he interpreted it as a sign that Providence would reward him for his efforts. Indeed, he went so far as to believe that his luck had improved several fold. Not only would he save the chain and get his land back, but the name van Clynne would be celebrated with the likes of Adams and Washington.
While van Clynne was engaged in these flights of optimism, the Connecticut troops he had appropriated to his command were busy scouring the grounds for additional supplies and items that might help them. They discovered a half-keg of explosive powder and a few fuses, and a large and lengthy rope. This was no ordinary string, as it stretched over thirty yards. It seemed to have been constructed of fine Asian hemp and was particularly elastic. Being the George Washington of ropes, the men insisted on taking it with them; you could never have enough string in an emergency.
Four horses had been left at the farm. The Dutchman now discovered himself at the head of a mounted column — three privates apiece on the horses, with the rest of the men crowded atop the salt wagon, pulled by its ox and a horse. Several large white canvas sheets had been tied over the contents of the cart, for the sky looked threatening, and the Dutchman did not want to lose his salt a second time.
While overall the arrangement might seem a bit motley, it promised better progress than on foot. The soldiers clung to their various stations with good cheer, happy to be freed of the boredom of their quarantine. The easy victory at Stoneman's fired their optimism and bravery; they sang as they fell in behind their leader, (hereditary) Captain-General, triple-cluster, Claus van Clynne.
No general, hereditary or otherwise, was ever prouder of his men. The only thing the Dutchman lacked was a proper insignia of rank, and as he proceeded he tried to decide if their route would take them near any place where he might find a sword or epaulette.
While these thoughts may seem a diversion from his true task, in fact they helped spur van Clynne along. For had he been left to concentrate solely on the next stage of his mission, the good Dutchman might have severely faltered.
The reader will recall that Achilles’ mother Thetis, wishing to make him invulnerable, dipped him in the River Styx, with the result that his entire body became invulnerable, except for that small part of his heel which was not immersed. A somewhat different result had occurred when, as a small child, Claus had been dunked in a barrel filled with water and kept there near to drowning.
While he had overcome his severe aversion to the sea in order to accomplish his last mission in New York, he was far from cured of this affliction and wished strongly to avoid anything to do with water. Had he contemplated the possibility of missing the Tories at the cove, and drawn the next logical conclusion — that they must be met on the river, aboard the Richmond — van Clynne's haughty tone and fearless direction surely would have faltered. Indeed, he began to hiccup uncontrollably as the column drew in sight of the Hudson.
Aside from two or three lost seagulls, the shoreline of the first cove was empty, and showed no sign of having been visited by the Tory party.
"They must be at von Beefhoffen's," the Dutchman said hopefully. "Quickly, men — I know a shortcut that will get us there within a quarter hour."
As van Clynne and his followers were hurrying down the valley, another traveler was proceeding in somewhat the same direction.
Major Dr. Harland Keen carried Rose on his horse to the charred remains of the cottage where he had tortured van Clynne. His carriage was still out front. Except for the fact that it had been ransacked by van Clynne in a futile search for his coins, the vehicle was in fine shape, its many concoctions and paraphernalia intact.
The same could not be said for his dead driver, whose battered body still lay before the ruins. The fire had burned a portion of his face away; even the hardened doctor felt some tingle, some shadow of grief as he dragged the dead man into the woods. A pair of ravens sat in the high trees nearby, undoubtedly angry that their morning meal was being stolen.
Percival's brief but valuable service had earned him a proper burial, but Keen did not have time to supply it. Instead, he threw two blankets retrieved from the ruins over him, vowing that the proper dignities would be accorded at some point in the near future, if not by Keen, then by forces he would direct hither.
After dressing his own wound and procuring a fresh jacket from the coach, Keen took Rose down from the horse. Her eyes remained tightly closed, her mouth agape, her reddish brown curls hanging in a tangle to the ground, as if she were Guinevere under some spell of Merlin's. Placing her on the carriage seat, he put fresh iron cuffs on her wrists. Rose slept the entire time, so heavily drugged that what should have been an expression of alarm and concern on her face was instead a vague smile.
Keen, tempted by the thin folds of the dress bunched up to reveal her naked leg, considered taking at least a portion of his revenge immediately. He forestalled himself, realizing revenge was best extracted at leisure, and after giving her a rough pat and fixing her clothes as if worried about modesty, ran to the woods and retrieved van Clynne's coins from their hiding place.
As he placed the pouches beneath the coach's rear seat, he caught a reflection of himself in the eyepiece of a small spyglass he kept there. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes — his eyes had that
wild character so many of his critics had used in London as proof that he was mad. Truly, he told himself, they had confused genius with madness, high intellect with insanity — but nonetheless he paused to fix his hair, then took some paint to daub his cheeks and soften his brow. Finally, he retrieved a thin green vial from his store of medicines in the back; bracing himself, he uncorked it and drained the contents, forcing the liquid down against the natural reaction of his throat and gullet.
He only barely prevented himself from retching. Keen clamped his teeth together tightly and fought against the reaction; his fingers swung tight on the carriage wheel, holding on for support as tremors ravished his body. One hundred and seventy-six seconds of hell, and it was over; he felt the effects of the drug immediately.
The ill-tasting potion was his greatest discovery, made from a long list of expensive and difficult to obtain herbs and vapors. The slightly modified Egyptian formula promised immortality. While he doubted it could live up to that claim, Keen knew that each time he survived the bitter taste and reactions, he emerged refreshed and invigorated, and looked as if he were in his mid-twenties, despite his white hair.
He picked up his cane and leaned inside the coach door to tap the supine girl on her leg.
"Perhaps, my dear, I will give you a taste of this elixir. Eternal life would suit you — after we make a few other amendments to your constitution."
Keen laughed aloud and climbed up into the open driver's seat. He did not have a map, nor did he know the area. But the river surely lay to the west, and if he went in that direction he eventually would find a place where he could hire a boat and have himself rowed out.
