by Jim DeFelice
Nonetheless, some of Miss Tennison’s habits might be said to be over-fastidious. It is not merely the insistence that her finely prepared clothes be worn a certain way, or that the biscuits she serves be taken from the dish in a specific order. The old spinster also demands that her guests begin their visit by speaking to her cat, who must be addressed as Master Prickle. His health should be asked after, then his plans for the day. Anyone who does not follow this elaborate protocol is likely to be ushered from the house without pause.
Daltoons, already in a sour mood, bowed when Miss Tennison let him in. He then introduced, or attempted to introduce, Alison as a friend in need of a new dress.
“No, no, my dear young Mark, you have not greeted Master Prickle yet,” insisted the spinster, pointing to the cat.
“A little light on cream, is she?” whispered Alison as Daltoons completed his mandatory ceremony. The cat did not bother waking from his nap to acknowledge the inquiries.
“Excuse me, dear,” asked Miss Tennison. “Did you want cream?”
“If you please,” answered Alison, rolling her eyes for Daltoons.
The old woman nodded approvingly. “Master Prickle was mentioning the same thing to me, a moment before you arrived.”
“We have need of a dress for Alison,” said Daltoons. “She needs a new disguise.”
“I have a dress that would flatter you,” said Miss Tennison. “My fitting room is right in the next room, behind the curtain.”
Alison took her arm and walked with her a few steps towards the door. “Master Prickle advised me to proceed in breeches and a shirt, as if I were a boy. He says it is a safer disguise in a city full of soldiers.”
“Yes, yes,” nodded Miss Tennison thoughtfully. “I am sure he is right. Yes. He is quite clever.”
“He is indeed,” said Daltoons sarcastically behind her.
“You’re not following us, are you?” Alison asked.
“Why not?” If you want to dress as a boy, then I don’t see why I can’t.”
She pulled the curtain across his face.
* * *
After their escape, Jake and van Clynne made their way to an infirmary near Delancy’s Square, where Culper had planned a rendezvous. The bottom portion of the hospital was filled with actual cases, including a few British soldiers who could not be properly accommodated at the camp facilities, and in all likelihood would never recover. The top was completely take over by the Sons of Liberty, who feted their rescued fellows with a hearty porridge and a few tasty pints. Van Clynne took one step from the stairs and immediately fell in with this group, anxious to quench his deep thirst.
Jake, meanwhile, sought out Culper, who as closeted with Robert Anthony, his rescued spy. Culper’s office was an old storeroom, lined by long, shallow shelves. On one side various pans and jars sat waiting for use; on the other were blankets and bed linens. Culper had taken a piece of rough pine to use as a desk, and propped it against the shelf with the help of an old, narrow barrel that seemed to have been used to make cheese at one time. Perhaps that accounted for the smell of the room, whose paint blistered and hung in large flakes from the woodwork.
“Robert, this is our friend, Mr. Gibbs,” said Culper as Jake entered. “He is seeking Howe’s destination.”
“You look nothing like your description,” said Robert Anthony, shaking the agent’s hand.
“I have been trying a new diet of late,” said Jake. “What do you know of Howe’s plans?”
“I was suspected before I could search General Clinton’s office,” said the spy dejectedly. “And there was no talk about Howe at all – except to call him an ass.”
“No word of his destination?”
“None,” Anthony said, “though perhaps they were merely being careful. The guard had been tripled. I believe I was suspected from the moment I joined his staff.”
“Yes,” said Culper. “I fear we have a traitor somewhere among us.”
“No hint at all?” asked Jake.
“I heard nearly every city mentioned, but only in passing. Which if any is Howe’s target, I could not say. I heard of a letter being drawn to the citizens of Boston,” Anthony added, “but whether it is significant or not, who is to say?”
Jake nodded. Howe’s knot remained untied. Had the British general concocted an elaborate charade for them, or was he truly attacking Boston?
Washington had told Jake to use his imagination, to create a solution. It was the sort of thing the general was always expecting, but in this case, Jake’s Muse seemed to have taken herself off to another part of the continent.
Neither Anthony nor any of the other prisoners could be trusted. The same man who had informed on Anthony, -- and perhaps it had been Anthony himself – might now be among them.
Such doubt is the currency of a spy, who in constantly fooling others must always fear being fooled himself. Jake stood politely for a few minutes as Culper continued to ask Anthony questions about Clinton and his arrest, then excused himself to get something to eat.
* * *
As he might have predicted, he found Claus van Clynne holding court in the great room with several key members of the spy ring, commenting at length upon the quality of the small beer they had liberated from a Tory brewer.
“The hops are inferior, that is the problem,” explained the squire in an authoritatively scientific voice. “These are ordinary hopes. A true beer hop is a work of art, created over long generations by careful husbandry. It is a specific sort of creature, prepared by a knowledgeable craftsman.”
“A Dutchman, no doubt,” suggested Jake, who was well used to these arguments. The others were held in too rapt an attention to comment – and besides, they were busily investigating the quality of the liquid for themselves.
“It is not necessary to be Dutch to nurture a proper hop,” allowed van Clynne. “But it helps.”
“Dare I ask you how you came to be in New York?”
“I have already told you: I sensed you would require my assistance. Alas, in providing cover for you journey, I ran into a rather misguided fellow, whom I had to pretend to be beaten by in order to speed my arrival in New York.”
“Pretend, eh?”
“You, sir, should be well acquainted with the ways of us secret agents, especially those of the Dutch stripe. We are continually pretending to e beaten, so that we may rise again. It is but one of our many tricks. And while we are on the subject, I wonder if you could assist me in preparing a write for my misplaced notes. The sum is trifling, indeed, as far as Congress will be concerned, but there is a certain, shall we say, nostalgic value for me, especially as I am still bereft of my land.”
“Exactly how much money did you lose?”
“It is difficult to calculate a final sum,” said the Dutchman. “But using British currency as a reference, I believe it would approximate fifty-seven pounds, two shilling, sixpence.”
Jake smiled. “You’re talking the loss rather calmly.”
“I am a calm man, reasonable to the core. I realize my losses will be made good.”
“How much of the money was counterfeit?”
Donatello could not have painted a better picture of indignation. “I trade in only genuine currency. Four of my purses were stolen. Fortunately, my metal had been secreted away prior to the confiscation, or I would be beyond revival.”
“You lost only paper money?”
“One takes certain precautions in difficult times,” fussed van Clynne. “And money is money, let us not forget.”
“Come, Claus, you seem to have an unquenchable supply of notes. What about the ones in your shoe? Or the lining of your vest?”
“Do you think me an alchemist, sire, who can conjure money from thin air?”
“No,” said Jake. He left off the argument for two reasons: one, experience had shown it was useless to argue with the Dutchman when his mind was set, and two, Culper had dismissed Anthony and was signaling him from across the room. “Excuse me,” he said.
“Claus, go on investigating your beer.”
“We are an inseparable team,” said the Dutchman, pulling his beard. “A machine that works as a set of wheels turning together. If it were not for me, how would you have escaped from the jail.”
“I suspect I would have run after the others.”
“Balderdash, sir, pure balderdash.”
Van Clynne continued to bluster so much that Jake tacitly conceded. Culper, however, had taken a dislike to the squire and demanded to know who precisely he thought he was and what he was doing.
A mistake, surely.
“Sir, I will have you know that my family’s disdain for the British exceeds that of any other clan on the entire continent. Compared to Claus van Clynne, Patrick Henry is a poodle of flattery, a veritable fawn toward George and his German forbears.”
“I’ll not have a member of Congress insulted,” thundered Culper.
At length, Jake was able to calm the situation by making van Clynne promise to keep his mouth shut in return for being allowed to stay. Neither the Dutchman nor Culper entirely agreed with this arrangement, but as Jake impressed on them that time was of the essence, they eventually placed their mutual enmity on the shelf with the blankets.
Or perhaps with the pots, as it rattled in Culper’s mouth as he told Jake the prospects for finding Howe’s direction were limited. All the members of the spy ring who had been liberated from prison must undergo a severe vetting before they could be trusted again.
“The evidence does point toward Boston,” conceded Culper. “Such as it is.”
“We need much more for the general,” Jake said. “If he marches north, Philadelphia will be without protection. And if Howe were to show up off the Carolinas, the entire South would be lost to him.”
“I have had the various city suppliers interviewed,” said Culper. “But we have not gained anything.”
“My friend Mr. Clayton Bauer would know,” said Jake. “I should have gotten the information from him this morning.”
“Bauer might know,” said Culper, “if he has set up a network for Howe there. But he always has his guard with him. You did well to escape alive.”
“His sister might help us,” said Jake.
“How?”
“If I might offer a suggestion,” started van Clynne.
“You may not,” snapped Jake before turning to Culper. “She lost her son at Princeton. I doubt she would agree to tell us willingly, but she would do much to get information about him. We might be able to cobble together a deception.”
“Too risky. Would Bauer be loose-lipped enough to tell his siter the greatest secret of the British army? If he even knows it? And then how would you use her to get to him? It’s too complicated, Jake. There must be another way.”
In any event, the mansion was a well guarded as any British headquarters; even if Jake would welcome a chance at gently persuading Lady Patricia to change her allegiance, there would be a host of men nearby to argue for loyalty. He ought to be able to puzzle out a plan to convince her – yet none would materialize in his brain, and it was much too dangerous to just knock on the door and count on his wits to carry him to an answer.
“There has to be someone in the city, not under constant guard, who would know where Howe is going,” Culper said. “Someone who has been overlooked.”
“If I – “
“Not now, Claus,” said Jake.
With severe effort, the Dutchman clamped his mouth shut. He had given his solemn word not to speak, but this was almost more torture than he could bear.
At least the furrows on his companion’s brow showed that he was working on a solution. With any luck, he would reach the conclusion van Clynne had already drawn without too much more delay. After all, it was only logical, and should be plain to all, even those not blessed with a Dutch intellect.
“I would think the engineering staff would know,” suggested Jake to Culper.
“Surely. But they have gone with Howe.”
“Not the entire staff. I heard them speaking of a memer who is a relative at Bauer’s.”
Culper gave a snort of contempt. “If you are referring to the dissolute Lord Peter Alain, he wouldn’t know Philadelphia from the local swamp. He was only shipped her to keep him from the London gutter.”
“He’s not an engineer himself?”
“He’s barely in his teens. He has some skill at drawing, it is said, but no sense to back it. His father placed him here so he would be near his older brother, who was on Howe’s staff. The brother was another man entirely, but he died of smallpox some months ago. Or so they say.” Culper smiled. “We spent a bit of time trying to convert him. He would have been our best prize.”
“Nonetheless, there may be papers that will give Howe away. Certainly he’s had maps done.”
“I don’t know, Jake. Breaking into the engineer’s office won’t be easy.”
“Much easier than a prison, I daresay. You have a map of the building?”
“I think we do.”
“Personally, I think the whole plan is unnecessary,” said van Clynne, no longer able to keep his peace. “I would take another approach entirely.”
Before Jake could stop him, Culper asked, with some heat, what that might be.
“Well, sire. Now that you request my opinion, I will air it. General Howe is a man given to fine clothes, is he not?”
“What the hell is your point?” Culper roared.
“He has a tailor in the north ward, I believe, and undoubtedly consulted him before leaving. He would have the man prepare the latest fashions.”
“Burning hell.”
Van Clynne ignored Culper’s comment and addressed Jake directly. “All we need to do is ask the tailor what style of suits he made up. And as the tailor happens to be a fellowe countryman with whom I have done some business – “
“I thought all Dutchmen hated the British.”
“Alas, the man proves the rule by his exception. I believe he was dropped on the head as a small child, which may have played a mitigating role.”
“Thank you, but I believe we will proceed according to Jake’s outline,” said Culper gruffly. “Why don’t you have some more beer? You look like you could use it.”
“My associate always does things in the most strenuous way possible,” tutted van Clynne, oblivious to the sarcastic tone. “It is effective in the long run, but much sweat is involved. Granted, you are dealing with a lord here, so he will be easy to fool. But still, an hour’s stroll to the tailor’s, and I will have the solution.”
“Go then,” said Culper.
“I may, sir. I may.”
“Claus – “
“First, however, I will accept your suggestion and see to my beer,” declared van Clynne, opening the door.
“You’ll pay for what you drink!” thundered Culper as he left. “Honestly, Jake, how do you stand him?”
“He has done me much service in the past,” said Jake. “His methods are unorthodox, but he has a knack for succeeding.”
“I would think his success only the wildest coincidence.”
Jake shrugged. He had learned long ago that there was no logical way to account for the Dutchman’s ability to wrest victory from the most unlikely circumstances.
While the two men discussed other possibilities for discovering Howe’s destination, van Clynne returned to the table to continue his study of hops. Alas, the men who had been eating there had dispersed, and taken most of the beer with them: the squire had to content himself with a half-filled tankard of the now slightly stale liquid.
No container is ever half-filled to a man such as van Clynne. He began to comment at length about the shallow nature of this pewter vessel, exposing the shortcuts modern craftsmen were taking with their work. His concentration was finally broken by the arrival of Alison, dressed in a fine suit of boys clothes. She ran up the stairs and asked loudly w
here her father was.
“Who would your father be?” said van Clynne.
“The most noble soldier and spy in the entire Continental Army,” she said, her voice puffing up with a pomposity that would put any parliament speaker to shame. “Working under the personal command of George Washington himself. He is worth five legions of troops, and his skills can save an entire army. He is resourceful and brave, and the British drop in fear at the mention of his name.”
“You describe me perfectly,” said van Clynne. “But I cannot claim to have sired you. Why are you dressed as a boy, when you are clearly girl? Why is your hair fixed that way?”
“How do you know I am a girl?” she said indignantly.
“The Dutch can tell such things.”
“Alison,” said Jake, emerging from the office. “I’d almost forgotten about you. Culper is going to try and find you a job at the coffeehouse. In the meantime, you can spend the night here. Why are you still wearing breeches? I thought Daltoons was going to find you a dress?”
The lieutenant, just emerging at the stairs, shrugged and mumbled words to the effect that she had a mind of her own. Like any well-trained officer of the continental corps, he had long ago learned to choose his battles wisely.
“I don’t want to work in a coffeehouse,” said Alison. “Not while there is a war to be won.”
“Listen to me, young lady.” Jake caught her arm and held it tightly. “The first thing you must know about the army is that when a superior gives you an order, you follow it.”
“I have heard this speech,’ remarked van Clynne into his cup. “A mission has but one chief.”
“A mission has but one chief,” continued Jake. “And I am it. You are a followers, and a follower follows orders.”
“But, Father – “
“I am not a father!”
“Is that a blanket denial?” asked van Clynne. “Or a specific point?”
