by Jim DeFelice
"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.
Chapter Thirty-four
Wherein, the difference between fear and surprise is essayed, as are wig styles.
“ 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 Cl
ynne. "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?"