The Golden Flask

Chapter Thirty-three

The renegade Eagans had spent much of the time since his arrival in New York being abused by the British establishment.

Not only was he denied prompt payment for his prisoner, but the lieutenant on Bacon's staff assigned to debrief him treated him with undisguised contempt. The man, Bacon's only officer left in the city, steadfastly refused to grant Egans his bounty or even his rightful pay until the entire business was complete. Given the lieutenant's intricate style of questioning, that might not happen for several weeks.

Egans was a stoic, and could weather many difficult trials without complaint, but he had a hard time stomaching insults. Nor did he feel it the best use of his time to be kept hanging around the city answering questions about how many horses were sheltered in obscure stables north of the chain at Peekskill.

When, at the end of his third interview the lieutenant still declined to approve the reward, Egans stormed from his office and headed straight to the jail where he had deposited his prisoner. If he could not have his money from the British, he decided, he would have it from the Dutchman, whose broad hints had included the possibility of a ransom.

Arid after that, some piece of satisfaction might be retrieved from killing him.

"Your prisoner escaped yesterday," sneered the clerk who met him at the desk. "Along with a group of other rebels. Undoubtedly he was the ringleader. Perhaps we shall hang you for bringing him."

Egans instinctively reached for his pistol. As quickly as lightning flashes between clouds, three grenadiers grabbed him and flung him to the ground. His struggle ended when a muzzle appeared an inch from his nose.

"Do not harm him," said the clerk. "As pleasant as it would be, there are too many forms to fill out."

Egans was grudgingly allowed to his feet.

"Return with the fat Dutchman or your master, General Bacon, will have a full report. In triplicate."

The renegade was too smart to say that he considered no one his master. He met the British clerk's stare blankly, holding his eyes in a defiant gaze. Neither man blinked.

"Do you want the whole man or just his scalp?" asked Egans finally.

"His scalp will do nicely. The rest of him takes up too much room."

Van Clynne hurried past the British huts at Delancy's without stopping, despite a growing desire for something to quench his thirst. There was, at best, only a token force left guarding the small wood cabins built against the gentle hills and on the flats, but having just escaped British hospitality the Dutchman's mouth would have to be literally on fire before he would condescend to dally with any more redcoats or their German brethren. The colonel's horse proved a decent beast, not partial to either side, and van Clynne soon found the farm near Harlem where the Pinkertons had retreated to.

This was a Dutch family hard on its luck, or so van Clynne theorized, for otherwise he could not supply a reason for their staying in the occupied city. The tailor's example notwithstanding, by van Clynne's lights every Dutchman hated the British. If the truth be told, his estimation of Dutch patriotism was somewhat off the mark, but his assessment of the Pinkerton's financial status was correct. The family's attitude toward the British had hardened considerably since their daughter's interlude with Howe, though having voiced pro-English sentiments in the past they could not now risk the reception they might find further north.

They still had their pride, however, as the family patriarch made clear after ushering his old friend van Clynne inside.

"Imagine, hinting that we might be bought off by supplying some small infantry unit with grain," complained Veder Pinkerton. "Grain!"

"Truly an insult," agreed van Clynne. This was the typical British blunder: the Pinkertons had been corn dealers for three generations at least, and they considered anything that did not grow on ears as belonging to an inferior class. "I wonder if I might talk to Melanie."

"What do you want to talk to her about?"

"Oh — just idle chatter."

Veder looked at him suspiciously. "You want to talk about Howe?"

"Of course not," said van Clynne. "Naturally not."

"I will kill anyone who mentions his name to her. I can tell that her heart is still turned in his direction, despite all our arguments."

"A dastardly villain," said the Dutchman, who despite the warning was not about to retreat. "I think that when a man is at a certain age," he suggested quietly after a temporary pause, "there are certain contingencies in life one should prepare for."

Veder jolted upright in his chair. In the arcane etiquette of Dutch matrimonials, the squire's sentence amounted to a formal declaration of intent to informally decide on provisionally electing to eventually commence courtship — the all-important first step toward wedded bliss.

Whatever his faults, Claus van Clynne was not a man without means, and if his crusade to have his property returned were ever fruitful, he would easily rate among the richest men in the state. True, Veder realized, his clothes had long since gone out of fashion, and he had come to the house with a hat at least one size too large, but eccentricity can be overlooked in a rich son-in-law.

Veder ran from the room to fetch the girl. Van Clynne settled in the chair — a wingback whose high pillows kept his head well-cradled — and contemplated his next move. His present position was every bit as dangerous as the one he had just left on the road. More so, as he had already and quite honestly declared his intention to decide to intend to wed a comely lass in lower Westchester. Sweet Jane was busy preparing her wedding trousseau, which undoubtedly included several fierce weapons to enforce her claims.

Miss Pinkerton was not without her own charms. Standing a few inches below five feet, she had sharply curled red hair which flowed in grand tresses around her head, a veritable sculpture that set off her nicely rounded cheeks and helped impart a rosy glow to her face. Her yellow dress stood over a strongly curved corset, which plucked up the tops of her snowy white breasts like two large, European mountains.

During a previous mission to New York, van Clynne and Jake had foiled General Howe's proposed hunting expedition in that territory, and Melanie recognized the squire immediately. She greeted him with a warm and protracted kiss on the cheek just above his beard, her body pressing forward in a crush of silk and other things.

Momentarily flustered, van Clynne called for a cup of beer.

"We've no beer in this house," Veder reminded him. "But you are welcome to share my squeezings."

Made from corn, the liquid had an oily taste and was nearly one hundred percent pure alcohol. Van Clynne demurred.

"How is your friend Jake?" Melanie asked.

"Oh well, very well," he coughed. "And you? How is life on the farm?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "The corn grows."

Van Clynne, now back in control of himself, nodded as if this was the most interesting thing anyone had ever said to him. He shot a glance at Veder, hoping that he might hint at a strategic absence, which would allow him to get to the real reason he had come.

Unfortunately, custom strictly dictated a chaperone at this stage of the pre-pre-courtship ritual, and Veder was not about to blow his chances by committing an etiquette faux pas. Van Clynne frowned, then turned back to Melanie.

"So, do you hunt?" he asked the girl. The purposely awkward question had been prescribed by a codicil to the Hague Resolutions of 1643, directing the order of initial engagement conversations.

She shook her head.

"I suppose you spend your time mending," he suggested.

"Mending?"

"Socks and things."

"Why would I do that?"

"Melanie, dear, I'm sure you're getting tired," said Veder, pushing forward. The officially allotted time for a first meeting had nearly expired.

"I believe I will have those squeezings now," said van Clynne.

"Oh yes, the squeezings." Veder looked at van Clynne's face and concluded that he had completely fallen under his daughter's spell. He was obviously trying to move things along faster than anticipated, and the corn farmer was all for it. "Melanie, talk to Claus about the weather and I, I will just run into the next room."

"While you were with General Howe," van Clynne asked in a soft, hurried voice as soon as her father left, "who was his wig-maker?"

"His wig-maker?"

"Quickly, child, before your father returns. Did he mention a barber?"

"I believe it was George on Stone Street. Or was it Stone on George Street? One of those, definitely."

Van Clynne had no time to quiz her further, as her father announced his pending return with a merry song he hummed to himself. The tune sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.

"So, dear, you understand my intentions?" Van Clynne made his voice so faint she could not hear the last word, though her hopeful heart supplied it.

"Did you say, 'intentions'?"

Now his voice grew loud enough for even the corn outside to hear. "You will not have me?"

"But Claus — "

Van Clynne lifted himself from the chair as Veder, his tune banished from his mouth, ran forward.

"Claus, Melanie — "

"Claus, what did you mean? Intentions?"

"It is nothing, nothing. My poor heart cannot take the strain."

"Wait!" Veder appeared considerably more heartbroken than van Clynne. "Claus, you've rushed things. This is merely the first meeting. Your emotions have gotten the better of you. Slow down, my friend. All will work out, given time."

But the squire continued to the door. "Children cannot be expected to follow the Dutch order of things," he lamented, "if they are improperly raised."

"Are you insinuating that my Melanie was not raised properly!"

"Insinuating is not the word I would use, sir," said van Clynne, opening the door.

"Out and good riddance! Out!"

Van Clynne turned in the threshold, the very picture of brave but downtrodden dignity. "I am leaving, sir; there is no need to insult me further. My heart already has been quite riven. I despair. Who knows what I will do next? I may walk along the river. I may, perchance, enlist in the British army."

Veder, his emotions twisting in several directions at once, settled to the floor and began sucking on the bottle of squeezings as soon as van Clynne departed, his brief dream of riches flown out the door with the squire's russet coat. Melanie remained in a state of severe confusion and finally salved her bruised intellect by pressing a few of her curls that had fallen out of place as a result of the interview.

Claus van Clynne possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of Dutch families in the province of New York — or New Amsterdam, as he occasionally referred to it. He was not equally informed about occupants whose genealogical roots had taken hold in other soils, however, and so he was not sure which, Stone or George, might be the proper wig-maker.

As George Street lay closer, however, he decided to visit Mr. Stone first, via a road less convenient but completely removed from the one he had taken north. He also left his stolen horse behind, reasoning that it might be recognized from its fine equipment. These contingencies greatly increased the time it took him to carry out his mission, but van Clynne had always held that it was better to arrive at a place late and intact, rather than late in the most permanent sense.

The day had already progressed quite far without his having stopped for dinner; he felt obliged to hail a baker he knew in the northern precincts and see about some mince pie the man was always trying to sell. This transaction took considerable negotiation, not least of all because the baker warned that soldiers were proceeding through the city looking for the prisoners who had escaped from jail yesterday. He relayed their description of the ringleader: "a portly Dutch gentleman in old-style russet dress, with a scraggly beard, large Quaker-style beaver hat, talkative disposition, and a severe willingness to complain and argue at every turn."

"Fortunately, they've got the description all wrong," sniffed van Clynne. "The Quakers know nothing about proper hats."

Nonetheless, he took the hint and proceeded even more circumspectly. In sum, when the Dutchman finally arrived on George Street, it was late afternoon. There proved to be no wig shop there, or at least none he could find. Concerned about the hour, lie walked quickly toward the southern tip of the island, aiming for Stone Street and Mr. George.

The fact that Stone Street lay exactly opposite one of the gates of the British fort, and was customarily filled with soldiers and British officers of every description, did give him some concern. Not fear — he was Dutch, after all — but further complications this close to achieving his goal would be bothersome. So he stopped at a small shop along the way and procured a large black cape that fit very nicely over his coat. In an alley nearby he confiscated a large and empty wooden box, complete with a snug-fitting cover. He hoisted it to his shoulder and held it close to the side of his face, pushing his hat far down on his head to help obscure his profile.

As well as his own vision.

And so when he felt his cloak rudely grabbed not a half block on, he jumped nearly two feet straight up in complete surprise.