The Golden Flask

Chapter Twenty-two

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The tailor whose shop Claus van Clynne sought was located not far from the tanning yards. It was a good distance from the Sons of Liberty hideout, and the Dutch squire would have readily accepted a ride, had one been proffered. It was not, nor was van Clynne a man who would readily condescend to hire a hack. He therefore contented himself with walking.

Despite his airs and general habits, the Dutchman could mount a considerable pace when motivated, and there was no motivation higher in his mind than the rightful return of his property. Having received a full briefing of the mission from Jake, van Clynne realized that this golden flask was for him a golden opportunity; Washington would react with joyful gratitude when the Dutchman rode into camp tomorrow with the news he was about to discover. There was little doubt but that the commander-in-chief would dispatch a company of men to immediately enforce van Clynne's claims on the purloined estate.

The squire's suit had been severely punished during his recent travails, and so he had a ready job with which to occupy the man and divert his attention. In addition, some months before van Clynne had arranged to supply the tailor with a good load of buttons at a considerable profit; he planned to broach the subject now in case a similar opportunity might present itself.

It should be noted that, while his hate of all things English remained strong and healthy, van Clynne's love of profit was equally vigorous. If he would not sacrifice the former for the latter, he would certainly endeavor to shave or stretch the bounds of both to avoid conflict.

The Dutchman's course ambled across the foot of Golden Hill in view of the harbor, though his personal gaze consisted steadfastly of dry land. He had well

filled his month's quotient for wetness these past few days. Though perhaps not as active as before the war, the port still did a lusty business, and the usual merchant vessels were greatly supplemented by military ships and freelancers operating under what polite society referred to as letters of marque, and more simple folk called pirates. The body of water between Manhattan and Long Island was dotted with masts; if it was not quite the forest some commentators have compared it to, it was still a bit more than open meadow.

The red bricks of the tailor shop soon crowded into the Dutchman's landlocked view, jutting toward the street in a peculiarly lopsided fashion. Quinton van Tassel had been speaking of repairing these for the many years van Clynne had known him. One thing or another had prevented him from letting the contract, but he never failed to mention his resolve to fix the bricks when he spoke with a customer, and today was no exception. Never mind that the two men had not seen each other for several months; the wall and the failing foundation beneath it were the first topic broached.

"The work must be done," opined Quinton without explanation as van Clynne entered the shop, "but fifty guilders is the lowest estimate, and too dear at half that."

"I quite agree," said van Clynne. "The worst part is, there is not a good Dutch mason left in the precinct to do the work.”

"Aye, nor do they make bricks properly anymore," said Quinton. "The clay is defective."

"As is the water, a key ingredient. To say nothing of the trowels."

"Aye, the trowels. A sorry state." The tailor took a step back and surveyed van Clynne's suit. "A fine outfit, but in need of a patch and tuck," he declared. "And some pressing."

"No time for pressing," said van Clynne. "As for the repairs: how much?"

"Three guilders' worth."

"Outrageous! I could have an entire suit for half."

"Indeed. The cloth alone would come to six."

"I bought the suit for less than three guilders."

"Your father might have. It dates from then."

"For two guilders I'd expect a fine French weave, and see it pressed."

"You find me in a generous mood," said the tailor, extending his arm.

"I would need the work done on account," mentioned van Clynne after handing over the coat. "As I have recently been separated from my resources."

The tailor's face changed several shades as he promptly flung the coat back to van Clynne.

"I do not believe I heard you properly. Did the word 'account' pass your lips?"

"Indeed," lamented van Clynne. "But considering the affair of the buttons …"

"An arrangement to which I was forced only by severe want."

"As I am now."

The two men jabbed at each other for a good five minutes. In the end, Quinton agreed to accept four guilders for the work in two months' time, or five in three, along with a goodly supply of cloth at a reduced rate, when this could be arranged by mutual consent. He took up some thread and needle and promptly began the close stitch to repair the tear which ran along one pocket. In truth, his skills justified his fee, as he could put upwards of twenty-five stitches per inch. His stitches always looked more decoration than patch.

Van Clynne's efforts to elicit information about General Howe, offered as small bits of conversation as the man worked, were not nearly as efficient. In fact, they ended abruptly when the squire asked if the tailor had seen the general of late.

"Do not mention that damned bastard," exclaimed Quinton, dabbing the air with his needle. "He owes me twenty pounds since Christmas! Do you know the material I purchased for him? He looked at it and waved his hand, saying he did not like it now that he saw it. Now that he saw it! Did not like it! I have a near acre of chartreuse cloth. What shall I do with it?"

"A tent, perhaps?"

Further comments indicated that Howe had not been at the shop since midwinter. Van Clynne sank into his chair and began thinking how he might shave a half-guilder off his debt and sample some of Quintan's fine beer besides when he happened to glance out the window. A white-painted carriage with elaborate molding and inlay was just pulling up in front, heading a procession of mounted redcoat dragoons and a second carriage.

The squire staggered to his feet, his face white and his strength suddenly sapped.

"What's wrong, Claus?"

"I, er, seem to have something caught in my throat," said the squire. "Would you have any water?"

"Not in the shop."

"Well then, let me use your back door."

"My back door?"

"And I'll take my coat. The repairs look quite excellent."

"But what about the rip at the sleeve?"

"What is a small tear among friends?"

Van Clynne's sudden interest in leaving was due entirely to the similarity of the carriage outside with one owned by Major Dr. Harland Keen, a man known to van Clynne as a rather dubious doctor and member of the British secret department. At one memorable juncture, Keen had subjected him to a full-body bloodletting, covering nearly every inch of his skin with leeches. The Dutchman liked a sanguinary experience as much as the next man, but this had been a bit extreme.

Van Clynne had taken Jake's word that Keen had drowned when he went over the falls. But who then was the man descending from the coach, his white hair pressed back, his coattails flaring with typical British audacity?

"I have a great need of your back door," said van Clynne, coughing as loudly as he could. "Quickly!"

"Don't choke to death. Come."

Van Clynne just managed to whisk through the door into the back room as the bell attached to the front door clanged as it opened. The tailor hesitated, but van Clynne pushed forward, confident that he would find the way on his own.

He had only just crossed from the back into the side alley when he realized he had left his gray-toned black beaver hat behind.

As a general rule, Claus van Clynne was not overly sentimental. He was, however, especially fond of his hat, which had accompanied him through considerable travail and was fairly unique in its appearance and construction.

Which meant it must surely be recognized by the all-too-perceptive Keen.

Easing up the side alley, just out of view of the mounted escort that remained in the street, van Clynne heard his recent host fill the room with honey-coated praise of his Loyalist and British guests.

"My good Earl Buckmaster," he heard Quinton say, "your suit, sir, is ready as promised. You see that I have taken less than a full day. It was an honor to prepare it for you. I think no tailor in this city so honored. And you will note the handsome stitching.”

To relate more would surely sicken the reader nearly as much as it did van Clynne. It developed that the tailor was familiar with Keen, whom he presented with a shirt ordered several fortnights before, "and preserved, sir, against your return to our shop."

"Yes, well, hurry with it. We have several more stops, and my sister must see to a dress," said Bauer. He turned and addressed his brother-in-law and Keen. "Even with my man holding our seats, we must arrive at the theater before General Clinton. He creates such a god-awful scene. With luck, the little fop Alain will have finished eating before we get to the engineering office. His table manners are enough to turn the stomach upside down."

Van Clynne was starting to think the hat might escape notice — and be recovered — when he heard the doctor's distinct voice through the window. It was close enough to make his heart thump like the broken arm of a windmill smacking against the ground.

"This hat. Whose is it?"

A simple question, surely. But those are always the most dangerous.

"The h-hat," stuttered Quinton. "Well, some customer must have left it. Honestly, I am not sure. Would you like it? I can let you have it for a low price — no, let me give it to you. Yes, take it as a present."

Silence followed. Van Clynne imagined Keen taking up the beaver and examining it.

"I recently was acquainted with a fellow who had a hat very similar," said the doctor, the restraint in his voice obvious even outside. "Had I not seen him burn in a building, I would swear this was his."

"There are many hats like this," said the tailor nervously. "It is a common style."

"The owner was a Dutchman," said Keen. He was no longer bothering to control his venom; van Clynne felt his own body fairly warmed by it. "And do not lie to me or your tongue will be tread on by half the British soldiers quartered at King's College.”

"Now that you mention it," answered the tailor, his voice trembling. "It does seem familiar."

The squire did not tarry to hear himself betrayed. He swept from the alley, bowed quickly at the mounted guard, and walked with as much balance as he could muster southward. He was nearly a block away when Keen's temper rose in a mighty fit; van Clynne could hear the sound of crashing tables and glass as he turned the corner and began running with all his might.

Van Clynne arrived at the infirmary just as Alison was trying to persuade Culper that she could serve the Cause as one of his agents in town instead of "visiting" a relative of his in Westchester, as he suggested. The girl had taken a flintlock pistol from the armory in the medicine closet. Seated at the large pine table that held the middle of the second floor wardroom, she was demonstrating her knowledge of its working parts by stripping it with the aid of a very large and pointed knife.

"Blindfold me, if you wish," she told the spymaster, waving the knife as if it were a harmless twig. "I will do it again. I can do it behind my back."

"It's a very useful skill," allowed the patriot leader. "I'm sure we will find great use for it. But first, we will have to make some arrangements for you."

"I don't want to be sent behind the lines."

"Quickly, there is no time to waste," blustered van Clynne, bursting up the unguarded stairwell so fast he nearly broke three spokes on the oaken baluster. "Where is Jake?"

"He's gone to the engineer's office," said Culper. "What business is it of yours?"

"A great enemy of ours is loose in the city," said van Clynne. "Quickly, he must be warned."

"Who is this enemy? What are you talking about?"

"Keen, Doctor Quack Keen, a man given to the most obnoxious poisons and a disgrace to his profession. He is heading for this Alain fellow, this engineering lordship. If Keen finds Jake there he will cover his body with leeches and set him on fire, and then prepare a proper torture."

"Jake told my men Keen was dead."

"Believe me, sir, he is very much alive. And I distinctly heard him mention Lord Alain."

"I've already sent the last men I can spare on other jobs."

"I'll go!" shouted Alison, starting for the stairs.

Culper grabbed her by the shoulder. "You're not going anywhere."

"You said I could serve the Cause. Here is my chance."

"I intend on warning Jake myself," said van Clynne. "I will enter the house under other pretense and sneak into the office to warn him away. I require only swift transportation, and a map of the place, if possible."

"There are two floors," said Culper hastily, necessity forcing him to put aside his doubts about the Dutchman. "Jake was to sneak upstairs into the offices while Alain was downstairs eating."

"I will warn him."

"How?" asked Alison. "You won't be able to climb up the side of the building."

"I will go in the front door, child, on some simple pretext," said van Clynne. There were no hatchets handy, and so he had to settle for the pistol Alison had just assembled. "There is no need for me to burglarize the place."

"Then you need an assistant to sneak upstairs," she said, volunteering. "I can easily slip away on some pretext."

The Dutchman threw her a doubtful look.

"Please," she said, taking up his hand. "Let me prove myself. I am very brave."

"I cannot dawdle."

"Let's go then," she said, running to the door.

"I will find Daltoons and have him organize reinforcements," said Culper, as van Clynne followed her down the stairs with a series of oaths.

"A girl and a Dutchman," the spymaster added as they disappeared through the door. "What will Washington send me next?"