by Jim DeFelice
"I am Major Dr. Harland Keen," he said over the man's groans. "Take me to your commander immediately."
The guard's reaction was to reach for his musket, moving in slow motion as if still dreaming. When his hand failed to discover it, he reached further; finally he rolled over as if flopping in bed. Keen was in no mood for this. He bent and grabbed the sentry's neck, hauling him up with a sharper grasp than a huntsman chastising a young pup.
"I will give you a choice: you will take me to your captain now, or I will take you to your Creator. Which do you prefer?"
"Th-the captain," stuttered the unfortunate soldier, who received one last kick from Keen's well-crafted shoe as he hurried into action.
His commander proved to be a hardened lifer who had been up and down the command ranks several times, advancing as high as major twice before descending to start again. He did not take kindly to being woken in his bed by his private, but his reaction was somewhat different when Keen plunged the end of his walking stick into his stomach.
"You will rise and find me fresh horses to pull my carriage, and an escort to King's Bridge," said the doctor. "You will do so quickly."
"Who the devil are you?"
"I am Major Dr. Harland Keen, of General Bacon's staff. And if you ask another question, I will answer with the sharp end of my stick, instead of the blunt knob I have in your stomach. Be thankful that I do not have any more explosive powder for its charge, or you would be examining the floorboards through the hole in your middle right now."
Similar rough treatment of fellow members of His Majesty's service brought the doctor to Manhattan toward four p.m. He learned one piece of good news along the way: Bacon, along with his aides, had gone out to the ships with Howe. Keen was thus afforded a brief opportunity to intercept Gibbs and dispose of him without his knowledge.
But finding the rebel spy in the city could easily prove as difficult as catching him on the road south of New Windsor. Keen was loath to call on the military establishment for direct assistance for several reasons, the most prominent being that General Bacon might inadvertently be informed. Besides, Gibbs wasn't likely to present himself to them for their inspection.
The first time they had tangled, Gibbs had infiltrated a Loyalist ranger group and foiled their plans to destroy the chain blocking the upper Hudson against the fleet. The next time, Gibbs had been meeting with Indians and assorted whites friendly to the king. Keen, who had never had a chance to properly question him on the matter, hypothesized that dealing with Loyalists must be his enemy's specialty. Perhaps in coming to the city of New York he was aiming a direct blow at the men responsible for Loyalist spying throughout the several colonies.
And so, starting with a few hints and prejudices, Keen worked out a sound plan, deciding to call on civilian officials in a position to interest Gibbs. At the very top of his list was Clayton Bauer, whose house being north of the city proper made the late afternoon stop particularly convenient. Keen prepared his face with a slight touch of rouge, lightening his heavy jowl before descending from his carriage and walking up the precisely laid path to the front door.
This solid piece of wood was meant to be most imposing. Carved completely from a chestnut tree several hundred years old and polished with the same care a gemstone would receive, it glowed a garish hue that clashed with the rustic hillside leading down to the river.
Keen curled his lip in contempt, thinking of how easy it was to make a fortune in America, but how difficult to display it properly.
His Colonial host met him in the front parlor with a less than enthusiastic gait, ushering him toward a settee with a perfunctory gesture.
"I hope you are well," said Bauer with a voice that suggested otherwise.
"And I assume that you have gotten over the Portuguese ailment."
The unsubtle reminder that Keen had cured Bauer's venereal disease a few months before was all the doctor needed to demonstrate his power over him. Bauer nodded, gave up his pitiful airs, and waved a hand to the servant, dismissing him.
"My sister and brother-in-law are here from England," said Bauer.
"How pleasant," answered Keen. "I have not seen Lord Buckmaster in quite some time. I believe I treated him for an ailment similar to yours some years before he married your sister."
Bauer's face immediately brightened. In his case, Keen's cure had gotten to the cause of the disease as well as the symptoms, taking care to remove a certain individual who could have complicated his life to a great degree. He wondered whether the same service had been performed for his brother-in-law. In any event, the doctor had just generously given him ammunition against his lordship, should he ever need any.
Though his manner remained brusque, Keen was in fact treading cautiously, careful not to give away the true nature of his situation. It would not do to let Bauer have any power over him.
"I was in the vicinity," said Keen. "I had hoped to meet a friend."
"A friend?"
Assured from the tone that he had left Bauer with the implication that he was seeking a fellow agent, Keen proceeded to describe Jake carefully — without using his name. "He is a fellow doctor, in a sense," he noted. "I had hoped to meet him when he came to the island. He has been away.”
"Where?"
Keen smiled. "He is quite a traveler, my friend."
"His name?"
"It is perhaps best not to say."
"When did he arrive?"
"I believe within the last day, though it is possible I am returning before him. He is the sort much given to delay. I am sure you know the type."
"Indeed. There was a man here this morning who washed up on shore. His name was Jake Stone or some other such thing, and he said nothing of you, nor of being a doctor."
"I would hope he would not."
"I think him a poor spy. He quickly gave himself away and even mentioned Bacon."
Keen smiled, not bothering to inform Bauer how completely he had been fooled. "I have had some association with General Sir Henry myself," said the doctor. "I would not think one of his men would give himself away."
"Bacon's intelligence people are not as smart as you believe. We are not enemies, General Bacon and I. Nor are our people. You are here, for example."
"Come now, surely you don't believe I am in his employ. I am assigned to the admiralty as a surgeon and doctor."
"Who rarely is aboard ship and is free to come and go as he pleases?"
Keen shrugged. "I wonder where my friend got to."
"Perhaps my sister Patricia could tell you more. She spent some time with him, seeing to his breakfast."
Keen stroked his chin thoughtfully, as if considering whether speaking to her was worth the effort. A few minutes later, he was listening as Lady Patricia recounted the entire meeting. Her continued reference to the man as being "unexceptional" told the doctor she felt otherwise.
"He was pleasant enough, but he seemed mainly interested in getting to the city. I encouraged him.”
Keen nodded. Lady Patricia had changed from her morning white to a high-waisted gown whose yellow was the bright shade of spring's first daffodils. Though near forty, her face had a radiant, youthful smile, and her charm and grace could easily beguile a much younger man.
To say nothing of Keen himself. Her husband was a weakling, easily managed out of the way.
But duty called. Gibbs would not wait for him.
Perhaps Gibbs would return for Bauer, however. Had he been sent to assassinate him, then warned off by the guards? Clearly he was after the Tory — Keen's best path might well be to shadow the man.
"His eyes perked up when I mentioned the theater," said Lady Patricia. "I thought he was going to say something about it, but my brother insisted on dominating the conversation."
"The theater. You have been?"
"We are going this evening," said Lady Patricia. "After some supper and a few errands. We should leave soon, if we are going to eat."
"The theater in New York is surprisingly
good," hinted Keen.
"So I have been telling my sister," said Bauer, his tone a harsh hint to Keen.
Which went unheeded.
"I go at every opportunity," said the doctor.
"Perhaps you would join us this evening," said Lady Patricia. Her tone was stiff. She did not truly want Keen to accompany them, but extended the invitation for form's sake. In England, it would be completely understood that she had meant the invitation for politeness only.
"I am in the mood for entertainment," said Keen. "Thank you, I accept your invitation."
"Lord Peter Alain is coming with us," said Bauer, hoping that would put Keen off.
On the contrary. The doctor saw quickly that the young fool might actually be useful. Keen had recently supplied him with certain medicines on account, and he would no doubt gladly make inquiries after Gibbs to discharge the debt. These would not attract the same attention as Keen's. Meanwhile, the doctor would stay close to Bauer in case an attempt was made at the theater.
To say nothing of being near Bauer's sister, reluctant though she might be. Keen rose, extending his arm. "M'lady, I am at your beck and call this evening."
"Come then, let me get my husband," said Lady Patricia, ruining the moment.
Chapter Twenty-two
Wherein, Claus van Clynne spies an old acquaintance
.
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 hi
m 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."