by Jim DeFelice
"I tell you, sir, that I will not play the role of devil in your pageant. Play acting, sir; it is beneath me." Van Clynne protested even as Daltoons's sergeant took his measurements and began cutting a piece of red cloth for his suit. "I don't know if we have enough to cover him with," complained the man, whose talents as a tailor were being put to considerable test.
"You told me not twenty minutes ago that it was your acting that convinced everyone I was dead."
"That is a different thing, sir; then I was playing myself. Now I am the devil."
"You're not pretending to be the devil, Claus, just a British doctor."
"In the service of the king. It is the same thing. No Dutchman in his proper mind would deign to take up such a role. Never, sir, never."
"If you can give me another way to find out where Howe is going, I will take it."
"I have already told you: he asked his wig-maker for wigs in the fashion of Philadelphia. What more do you need?"
"Remember which package is which. The salts are harmless; mix them in the water to make it seem as if it is a cure. The sleeping powder will only work if it is loose in the air. Be careful; it is very potent."
"I should prefer a good knock on the head to one of your powders," countered van Clynne. "Perhaps we can pretend he has been sent to Hell, and make him confess the plans to Lucifer himself."
"What if this doesn't work, Jake?" asked Daltoons.
"Then we'll pull his arms and legs apart until he talks."
"We should try that first," suggested Egans.
"People are too susceptible to suggestion under torture," said Jake. "We do it my way."
The back room of the Smith farmhouse had been transformed from a humble closet for potatoes and onions to a well-appointed bedroom. The curtains at the window would not bear close examination, but the fine furniture at bedside, the white dressing table and fine mirror, along with the books casually strewn about, had all come from an abandoned and half-burned mansion not far away. It would not be difficult to convince the groggy patient he had been transported back to New York. But van Clynne and Daltoons must do better — they must pretend that weeks, not hours, had passed since Bauer fell on the field of honor.
Van Clynne, chafing under the burden of his red uniform, set a satchel at the foot of the bed, dismissed the others, and signaled to the sentry at the door that he was ready to begin.
"English, indeed," he muttered beneath his breath, before applying the antidote.
But Jake had not chosen van Clynne to play the role of doctor merely because he was unknown to the Tory. In the seconds before Clayton Bauer revived, the Dutchman's body underwent a vast transition, rivaled only by the changes that came upon his voice. His accent, as his patient opened his eyes, perfectly mimicked that of a native Londoner. If the squire was not an actor by trade, he was an accomplished man of business — nearly the same thing.
"It is about time," he told the revived man. "I feared you would resist this cure as well. Six weeks I have been trying to revive you."
Bauer started to push himself up, but van Clynne restrained him easily.
"Gently, my good man. Your constitution is at a very delicate stage, though your wounds have healed."
"Who are you?"
"Doctor Henry van Castle," answered van Clynne.
"You are Dutch?"
"Flemish. Actually, I have lived in England since I was nine, until coming to this cursed land three months ago. It is a mistake I regret every day."
"Where am I?"
"You, sir, are in the home of a British officer who rescued you from certain death. No other man in the colonies could have ministered to you as I have, day after day, night after night, for twelve, er, six long weeks. At great personal risk, I might add. To aid a dueling victim is a crime that can be punished by hanging, you know."
Bauer made a face. "Since when? Where are my sister and her husband?"
"His lordship is with General Howe," said van Clynne loudly, as this was a cue to Daltoons, waiting outside the door. "Or so I am told. We are making preparations to abandon New York, and I haven't a clue as to where anyone is at the moment, not even my wife. Frankly, I will be only too glad to leave this diseased vale; the very air we breathe swarms with pestilence."
There was a knock at the door. Van Clynne admitted Daltoons, who had given himself a promotion to major to enhance the illusion that time had passed during Clayton's sleep.
"Thank God!" declared Daltoons as he saw Clayton propped on his pillow, eyes wide open. "I had despaired of your reviving."
"Where am I?"
"In the city. We are safe for the moment," answered Daltoons. "But we will have to move shortly. The rebels have taken King's Bridge and.are marching south as we speak. An entire army of them has appeared. If we cannot hold them at the woods near Harlem, the city will be abandoned." He lowered his voice. "In truth, the order to evacuate non-essentials has already been passed. But do not say so in front of the doctor, or the others."
"What? The rebels on Manhattan?"
Daltoons nodded solemnly. He endeavored to play his role as well as van Clynne.
"What has happened to that idiot Howe?"
Daltoons's only answer was a scoff of contempt.
The plan was that Bauer would supply the answer himself, with a statement such as, "What happened when he reached Boston?" or "Cannot he be ordered from Philadelphia?" But the star of this stage play had not studied his lines in advance as the others had.
"Where are my sister and her husband?"
"They believe you dead," said Daltoons. "They have gone to General Howe, to seek his help recovering your body. Rumor has it you were buried in the Jerseys."
"Buried?"
"Circumstances did not permit our enlightening them. They left to seek Howe shortly after you were shot, before this business. You seemed dead, at first."
Van Clynne sniffed. "I should have been consulted immediately. I have had cases like this before. Such cures are child's play for a scientist such as myself."
"Bacon is after you for killing his man. He seems to sense that you are still alive. I hesitated approaching General Howe, as I feared Bacon would find out. I myself do not have much influence, though perhaps if you sent word yourself, that would be a different matter."
Bauer, still obviously disoriented, struggled to prop himself on his elbows. "My mansion. ."
Daltoons shook his head. "General Bacon has it watched night and day."
"Why are you hiding me?"
"As a matter of honor, nothing more. I hope your second would have done the same for my friend." Daltoons straightened. "Some men still have a sense of honor."
Bauer did not respond. Daltoons, trying not to show his disappointment, pushed on with the script. "There are not many troops left in the city. I doubt we'll be able to defend it."
"What the hell has Howe done, the incompetent windbag?" complained Bauer. "What of Clinton?"
"Summoned by Howe the very day you were killed. Or shot, rather."
"Should we send a message to his brother-in-law?" van Clynne asked Daltoons. "There is, after all, the question of my fee."
"I am sure you'll be paid," said Daltoons. "Do you want us to send to them?"
Before Bauer could reply, there was a sharp volley of gunfire outside.
"Damn," said Daltoons. "The rebel sympathizers have launched many raids from within our borders, emboldened by their nearby army. I assure you, I will protect you as I have these past six weeks. It is a matter of honor. Doctor, take care of him. I will have a squad of men to escort you to the boat when there is no hope of defense. Do not hesitate when they arrive."
Daltoons exited. Van Clynne rolled up his sleeves and mixed the salt in a glass of water, as if preparing a treatment.
"What is this?" Clayton demanded as the glass was offered to him.
"An emetic," said the pseudo-physician. "Your spleen must be vacated."
"Thank you, I think not."
The Dutc
hman shrugged. "As you wish." He placed the glass on the bureau. "Should I send a message to your brother-in-law his lordship?"
Clayton hesitated before answering.
"Yes."
"Well? How shall I find them?"
"Send after Howe."
"The general or the admiral?"
"The general, you idiot."
"Excuse me, sir, but I think that you would show a bit more respect for the man who saved your life."
Bauer scowled. "If the general has taken Boston as he planned, then I assume they are there. Though they may just as well be back in England."
"Here, let me make you comfortable."
And with that, the Dutchman flicked some sleeping powder into Bauer's nose, sending him back off to slumber.
Chapter Forty-one
Wherein, the coffee is putrid, and a new plan is hatched to verify the results of the old.
Jake drummed his fingers on the pine farm table. The others — van Clynne, Daltoons, Eagans, Alison and two other Liertymen — sat at various stations around the stone-walled kitchen, waiting for his decision. Daltoons thought Bauer must have told them the truth, which meant Boston was the target. Van Clynne was convinced of just the opposite, contending that the Tory had somehow seen through their charade.
Jake wasn’t sure. Their little play had gone off fairly well; he'd sat with his ear to the wall and heard every bit of it. But the ill logic of attacking Boston continued to bother him. And something about Bauer's replies seemed as fake to his ears as the others' lines.
"I have to have some other verification," said Jake finally. "Bauer may have seen through our charade."
"What other proof can we get you?" asked Daltoons. "Not even Culper has broken through their silence."
Jake rose and went to the small fireplace on the side of the room. He had to reach General Washington tomorrow morning with the information or the march for Boston would begin. Already he envisioned the soldiers gathering their things, advance parties readying the road.
Jake pushed away a bunch of dried onions hanging from the kitchen rafters as he walked to the side of the room. He turned there and walked back, trying to fertilize his thoughts with exercise. Alison had taken it upon herself to make breakfast, though given the meager cupboard this was more an act of conjuring than cooking. Three eggs, small enough to embarrass a hen or perhaps embolden a sparrow, were fried with the help of some pork grease in the iron pan at the fire's fore; these were multiplied in a sense with the help of a few stale crusts that the mice had not deemed worthy of attacking. The only things plentiful were onions, and Alison had populated her omelet with two dozen of them, a fact the others noted grimly as they picked through the scrapings.
Except for Daltoons, who gobbled it down as anxiously as if it were honey. "Just like my mother's cooking," he told the girl, who smiled at first but then resumed the businesslike pose copied from Jake.
Alison poked open the kettle and judged that the coffee was not quite done. The men did not seem upset; indeed, as they had watched the ingredients being prepared, they were not in a mood to hurry the concoction along. About a dozen beans, retrieved from the bottom of a grinder, were supplemented with a chicory weed, some grass and a handful of dried blueberries.
Or at least, they seemed to be dried blueberries. It was difficult to tell, as they appeared to have been dried several lifetimes before.
"If I return to Washington with the wrong information, it will be worse than not arriving at all," said Jake finally. "I'm just not convinced."
"It is a shame that you had no truth potion," said Daltoons. "Stuff some of that up his nose and we'd have the answer in a lick."
"Doctor Keen tried such a medicine on me during one of our meetings," said the Dutchman. He had responded to the news that his nemesis had died a second time with a contemptuous grunt. He had little doubt Keen would rise again. "It rendered me dizzy, but was insufficient to loose my tongue. Of course, our friend inside is not Dutch, but I would think no drug foolproof."
"My people have an excellent method for extracting information," said Egans. "Set him over a fire and put the question to him."
"I agree," said Daltoons.
Jake frowned. "Too many people admit fantasies under torture. We could never trust what he said, especially now."
"Too bad we can't just release him and see what he does," suggested Daltoons, rising to see if the coffee might be ready. "He'd be bound to make a report to someone."
"Why can't we do that?" asked Jake. "That's a great idea, Mark."
"I think, sir, the effects of the bullet's drug are lingering in your brain," said van Clynne. "Or else the fumes of the concoction our little friend is preparing. Release him and let him report to Howe?"
Jake stepped toward Egans, staring into the white man's tattooed face. The paint he had been wearing during their first meeting had faded, but a hard mask still obscured his emotions. "Have you met Bauer before?"
"Never."
The man whose eyes were locked with his had tried to murder him a few days before. Jake searched behind those green disks for some sign that he could trust him. But there are rarely obvious flags of a man's deeper intentions. The white Indian could easily be part of a ruse by Howe to throw the Americans off his track, just as his letter might be. Perhaps Black Clay Bacon himself had done Jake one better, arranging the show like an Italian puppet master.
Even Keen's death might have been faked.
"You will be a messenger for Howe," Jake told Egans. "Sent from Burgoyne. Claus can arrange for the necessary papers."
"I have them in my pocket," said the Dutchman, patting his jacket.
"We will deliver Bauer to his doorstep and revive him," said Jake. "Egans will arrive at nearly the next moment, exhausted from his flight south. He will be in the house when Bauer talks to his brother."
"How does this help?" asked Egans. "Am I to ask where Howe is?"
"No. You say nothing at all, only listen. Clayton will see that New York is not under attack. He will tell his sister what happened; he'll have to explain that he is alive. He will either be angry that he gave away the secret, or he will gloat that he fooled us. You will be in the room nearby; all you have to do is listen."
"He may not say where the attack truly is," said Daltoons.
"He will. He's too full of himself to keep his mouth shut in victory," said Jake.
"My opinion is firmly set on Philadelphia," van Clynne protested after the others had gone to see to the plan's contingencies. "The wig-maker's intelligence is impeccable, and I have never known one to lie."
"If I didn't think you might be right," said Jake, "I wouldn't be going back to Manhattan." He poured some of the strong liquid Alison had made into a cup for the Dutchman, then turned to the shelf to find one for himself.
"You're going back yourself? But Egans and Daltoons have just left."
"They have to find Culper's men at the rendezvous first. I'll still beat them."
One thing the Dutchman was good at: adding two and two and jumping to the proper conclusion. "You don't trust Egans, do you?"
"Why should I?"
"I would trust him as I trust my mother."
"You told me once you would never trust your mother." Jake sat at the table-and began sipping the coffee concoction. Its taste was roughly akin to the squeezings of a tortured boot, following an uphill trudge through a berry bramble. "We cannot afford to trust him."
"You must rely on blood, sir. When a Dutchman gives his word, it is as good as gold."
"I have seen gold hammered into many shapes," said Jake. "Including a flask that very fortuitously fell into our hands — exactly as it would if a charade were being played. Doesn't his running across us both on our way south bother you? Especially given Keen's appearance?"
"A coincidence, surely. I converted him to the truth."
"If he has come over to us, then both he and I will have the plan. In any event, the true destination will come pouring out, no matter
how complicated Howe's ruse."
"You are walking into the lion's den," said van Clynne. "If I did not know better, I might think you interested in stealing another taste of the lady's lips."
"I'll be safe enough," answered Jake, who could not conceal a slight smile.
Van Clynne sipped the coffee for the first time. "This is worse than the vinegar they served me in prison."
"I don't know. I've had worse."
"I had forgotten the extent of your torture by the Mohawk," said van Clynne. "I intend to complain to Culper of this at my earliest convenience. There are standards to be kept if one is to undertake a secret mission. The least they could have done was have Smith leave some of his beer in the house."
"You better keep your voice down; you'll hurt Alison's feelings. She's the only one left in the house."
"Her feelings are incapable of being trampled, that much is clear," said the Dutchman. "She has the spirit of a herd of wild horses, and more energy than ten boys loosed from school for the summer."
"Speaking of Alison. ." Van Clynne immediately increased his guttural garrumphs, pulling at his beard as if to amplify the effect. "I do not think, sir, that I should be charged with minding her. It is a task without reward."
"Now how do you know what I'm thinking?"
"Your embarrassed smile quite gives you away when you are preparing to hand over an odious mission." Van Clynne sighed deeply. "The Dutch are as fond of children as any race, but I am afraid you will find me an exception to the general rule. Children and I do not mix; we are like the proverbial cruets of water and beer."
"She's clearly not a child any more, Claus. She seemed to grow five years in the past few days."
"Do not let the dress sway you, sir," warned van Clynne. "Many a man has been wiled into submission by the strategic swish of a skirt."
"Granted. But I know you won't be."
Van Clynne signaled his frustration by twirling his beard around his finger. "She is at a difficult age," he warned. "Fresh on the door of adulthood."