The Golden Flask

Chapter Thirty-four

“ Declare yourself,” said the redcoat tugging van Clynne’s cloak. “What is your business here?”

"My business?"

Van Clynne turned uneasily and lifted the brim of his hat slightly, seeking his bearings. He saw that, in his haste, he had inadvertently walked down an alley exiting across from one of the fort's sentry posts. The guard had been increased for security's sake following the prison break, and van Clynne had nearly run down one of the redcoats, or more properly, the man's brightly polished bayonet.

"My business, sir, is business," van Clynne said boldly. He held the crate closer to his face as he gestured with his free hand.

"Are you delivering food for the fort?"

"Yes, that was exactly what I was doing," said van Clynne.

Thus we see the great difference between being taken by surprise and being overcome by fear: the former is quickly recovered, while the latter is only arrested by a vigorous run.

"I have a load of fresh vegetables for the fort here on my shoulder," continued van Clynne. "Fine vegetables. Here, let us examine them," he said, swinging the crate to the pavement. "You will want to search among the carrots, I presume. They are nasty things, always in need of a good examination. You never know when one will turn rebel."

"Enough, fool. Pick up your box and pass into the fort while the gate is open."

The soldier pointed his gun in the direction he wanted van Clynne to take, straight into the heart of the British camp.

"Well, I will not do so under those circumstances," he said, searching for a way to retreat.

"What is wrong here, private?"

"This arse wants me to search his carrots," the sentry told his superior, an officious but exceedingly young officer of His Majesty's Guard, who walked with such a stiff gait that van Clynne concluded a carpenter had forced a rusted hinge into his buttocks.

"What carrots?"

"What he's carrying in the box, sir. I already told him he could pass, but he insists on an inspection."

The officer frowned. Van Clynne, with some words about his honor and integrity being beyond question, reached to his crate — then showed great horror when he flipped off the lid to find it empty.

"I have been robbed," he shouted. "My wares have been stolen. Organize a search, call out the guard. Colonel, I demand an entire company of men to see to the thieves."

"Out of my sight, you fool," said the officer, hiding his flattery at the impromptu promotion with a sharp kick to van Clynne's rear.

The Dutchman complied, heading up Stone Street with considerable haste. Along the way, he spotted the wig-maker's shop. But he dared not duck inside while the sentry stood at the end of the block in full view. Indeed, he waited out of sight at the end of the block for nearly an hour until he spied the man being relieved. Thus it was nearly supper time before he was able to enter the shop.

"Here for a bloodletting?" asked the proprietor, who like many of his brethren was a barber.

"No, I was more interested in wigs," said the Dutchman. He settled into the large chair that sat at the center of the shop while he surveyed his surroundings and concocted a plan.

"Wigs?" The barber was a pudgy sort with a nose that, to van Clynne, betrayed a great interest in drink. Whether the conclusion was warranted or not, it suggested a course of action — provided he could overcome the man's initial suspicions.

"Wigs," agreed the squire.

"You don't look like a man who wears one. Though you could use a smaller hat."

"That is the reason for the room beneath my crown," declared the Dutchman. "I have come in search of the finest wig-maker in the city. You

are

Mr. George, I presume."

"Yes, indeed."

"Wig-maker to Sir William?"

The man patted his left palm with a barber's fleam retrieved from the center table. Ordinarily used for letting blood, the sharp instrument was an intimidating weapon under any circumstance.

"What business is that of yours?"

"No business," said van Clynne. "Merely that he recommended you to me, that is all. For a wig."

"As I said, you do not seem the type to wear a wig. The habit has largely gone out of style, except among the highest class of British officers. And even then — "

"Well that is where you are wrong, sir," said van Clynne. "Quite wrong. Indeed, I believe a club wig would look quite handsome on me."

"A club wig? On a Dutchman?" The barber laughed. He loosened his white apron and removed it, revealing a fashionably striped set of breeches and waistcoat. "No one has worn those in many years."

Van Clynne feigned confusion. "Sir William told me he had just ordered a dozen."

"He's pulling your leg. He's quite a prankster, Sir William. People don't realize he has a sense of humor. I tell you, no one knows a man like his barber. Let a little blood, and a bond forms."

"Indeed. Are you thirsty?"

"Thirsty?"

"I came in for a wig, but now I find myself in a mood for a good bleed," lied van Clynne. "But in order to do so, I need a little, preparation, shall we say?"

"A bit of Dutch courage, eh?" said the barber, reaching back to a drawer on the counter near his side window. "Rum'll knock you up in a second. Medicinal, of course."

"Actually, I was in mind of a strong beer or two. Perhaps you will accompany me. I will stand for it, naturally."

The barber looked at him doubtfully. "It is getting late in the day. I was thinking of going upstairs for supper before too long. The wife is waiting."

"She would begrudge you a beer with a customer?"

"If the truth be told — "

"What is happening in our city?" complained van Clynne, rising from the chair. "These rebels have put foolish notions into everyone's heads. Women no longer know their proper place. I tell you, sir, during Governor Stuyvesant's day, none of this would have happened."

"Now, now, relax, man. She is a good woman. Too given to church sermons, that is all. Trying to keep me on the righteous path."

"Well," said van Clynne haughtily, "from the way Sir William was bragging about you, I thought you would accept my invitation to a drink quite readily. But I shall have to tell him he was wrong."

"Just a minute now," said the barber, taking his arm. "Do you really require a letting?"

"I have been feeling most melancholy of late," said van Clynne. "Given to heavy moods. I also require a wig. I would naturally want the most expensive, in keeping with my station."

"That being?"

“ Purveyor of purveyment. Contracting contracts. And the like," said Van Clynne.

"No horses' hair for you then, I daresay."

"Beneath contempt."

"Well, I cannot avoid my duty to my fellow man," said the barber, who also would not avoid the possibility of a handsome profit and free drinks. "After all, I have taken an oath."

The oath happened to be in relation to his wife's cooking — perhaps they could have a bite to eat as well.

"Which tavern did you have in mind?" he asked.

"You understand, sir, that the style was originally called an entire, as it contained hints of every brewing method known to man.” Van Clynne continued. “Top fermenting — yes, that is the proper place for a porter to begin, at the height of the liquid, where the flavor noodles can take their proper perspective on the proceedings. You understand the theory of flavor noodles, do you not?"

The barber shook his head. He had been endeavoring to follow van Clynne's learned discussion on beer through several light ales, four lagers, and a very serious porter. The Dutchman had chosen this inn not merely because it lay in the opposite direction of the fort, but because it made a specialty of brewing several various styles of beer. It thus fulfilled his purposes remarkably well.

The poor barber had begun to show signs of inebriation with his third tankard, and now betrayed distinct symptoms of total drunkenness, finding not only that everything presented to him was pleasing, but endeavoring to be most pleasing in return. His new friend, in turn, was not only agreeable but generous: Van Clynne was willing not only to pay for the drinks, but had even agreed to twice the normal sum for the planned bloodletting. Plus, he had ordered dinner — a very fatted fowl, complete with fixings, still being prepared.

The Dutchman, judging that he had cooked his gander long enough, now pulled the fryer from the pan. "And so, sir, onto the topic of wigs."

"Wigs?"

"You have fitted Sir William, have you not?"

"Oh yes. Sir William. Has me cut his nose hairs. They grow like a jungle."

"I suppose he has ordered a tye wig?"

"Tye wigs, no."

"Are they not popular in Boston?"

"Boston? I would not think so."

"Didn't Sir William enquire as to the popularity of wigs where he was going?"

"Isn't go'n Boston," said the barber, shaking his head. "He's going to Phil, Philadelphia. And you know what they wear there?"

Van Clynne did not bother to listen to the reply, instead slapping two fresh notes on the counter. As he waved to the proprietor, the wig-maker abruptly fell over on the floor in a drunken stupor.

To say that the Dutchman was in a cheerful mood when he opened the door and stepped into the now darkened street would be to understate the obvious. To say his spirits reversed would miss the mark again — for the Dutchman suddenly found a large arm coiling around his neck.

It belonged to his former jailer, Christof Egans.