by Jim DeFelice
Van Clynne recognized the strong bent in her eyes and knew it was as useless to argue with her as to rant against the lingering thunder.
Not that he wouldn't try either.
"Well, then," said the Dutchman, "you must sneak into the coach and attempt to retrieve my coins, if that's where they are. You can already consider them part of our joyful estate. As the wedding proverb says, 'What's yours is yours and what's mine is yours,' or something along those lines."
The squire was in fact endeavoring to send her from harm's way, as he supposed the coach would be far from the line of fire. Jane nodded at his advice that she must postpone her advance until he had given her a clear signal—a Mohawk war whoop. He demonstrated once to make sure she knew the sound.
"That's not a Mohawk call," she objected. "It's Huron."
Van Clynne frowned and made a note to instruct her on her future duties as faithful wife when he found himself at greater leisure.
Had Keen not already detected the Dutchman's presence thanks to an elaborate system of strings placed further north on the highway, the war whoop would have fully alerted him. In any event, he was well prepared when van Clynne rode slowly down the road to the ruined cottage, glanced around the environs, and then entered the small building. The fire had taken away three-quarters of the roof and a good portion of the rear wall, but otherwise it was reasonably intact, if sooty.
Fully expecting a trap, the Dutchman examined the shadows carefully. Then he set a candle on the stump of a stool before the fireplace and lit its wick with a bit of flint. The rain had ceased, and the stars were making an effort to contribute some illumination, but even so the ruins were dark. Still, there was more than enough light to reveal van Clynne's purses on a charred table in the center of the room.
The Dutchman's joy at discovering that they contained all of his coins was interrupted by Keen's voice behind him.
"And so, Mr. Clynne, we meet again."
"The van is an important part of my name," snapped the Dutchman, tucking the money inside his coat as he turned around. Even the dim candle before the hearth had enough light to reflect off the polished barrel of the weapon Keen held — an ancient though apparently operative matchlock musket, whose smoldering fuse hung at its side. "You should not like being called Dr. 'En, I suppose."
"A man holding a gun on me can call me anything he pleases."
"That is an interesting weapon," conceded van Clynne. "I took it for a museum piece."
"Not at all. It is very old, but still exceedingly efficient."
"Of Dutch design, I suppose."
"Hardly."
"And the girl?" asked van Clynne, taking a short step to his right as he looked for cover. "What have you done with her?"
"She was having difficulty sleeping, so I prescribed some powders. They seem to have worked very well; I left her snoring on the bench of my coach."
Van Clynne took another step. His lighting of the candle had been a signal to his men that he was inside; they were to proceed forthwith to the attack, advancing with weapons drawn and bayonets sharpened. The Dutchman had only to pass a few light words with his quarry and the engagement would be his. In truth, rarely had victory come to him so easily.
"I see you have not yet replaced your hat," said the Dutchman. "But you have at least improved the color of your coat."
"I like to believe I can learn from my mistakes."
Van Clynne frowned to himself and wondered where his men were. This was the problem with using soldiers who were not Dutch — they might be filled with energy, but had no sense of timing or discipline. "Considering that you are a medical doctor, sir," he stalled, "perhaps you would consult with me on certain difficulties I have been having with my digestion. You worked wonders with your leeches."
"I don't intend on making that mistake again," said Keen, moving his left hand to the fuse.
Van Clynne threw himself toward the candle, dousing the light and yelling for his men to launch their assault. But he was not answered by the glorious sounds of a charging company of bloodthirsty Continentals. Nor did Keen fire in his direction. Instead, the night became day and van Clynne found himself not only illuminated but surrounded by a ring of bright phosphorous laid in a deep trail with several full pots at strategic spots in the ruins. The surrounding walls, which had been covered with a thin pitch, caught fire, becoming thick torches in the night.
At the same time, a dozen barrels placed in the woods ignited with a purplish powder that rendered anyone within twenty feet completely helpless — and so was van Clynne's army temporarily annihilated.
"You didn't think I would shoot at you in the dark, did you?" asked Keen. The doctor had concealed a small bomblet in his hand, and lit it off the gun's fuse before dropping it into a pile of the phosphorus. "I'm afraid I found it expedient to remove the brigade you brought here; I wouldn't want them interfering with our interview."
Van Clynne pulled himself up indignantly. "This is but a stage trick," he said. "What will we have next, dancing clowns?"
"If you wish," said Keen, pointing the gun at van Clynne's feet. "Dance."
"I will not, sir. I would rather die."
The bullet that ricocheted directly at van Clynne's feet did not change his opinion, but the second one did. The Dutchman hopped up immediately, and was still in the air when the third bullet whizzed by his toes.
The reader, not to mention the squire, will naturally wonder how Keen was able to accomplish this, when he was holding only one gun. The ingenious doctor had used his study of the writings of Marco Polo and certain Chinese scholars to construct a musket with multiple tubes, whose lock end contained not one but three different firing mechanisms. Small balls and their charges were wedged into cylinders directly above the stock and ignited by the end of the fuse when it was touched against them.
Keen did not bother explaining the gun's genesis or operation to van Clynne. Out of bullets, he merely put down the gun and reached into his pocket for another weapon, this one considerably more familiar to the Dutchman — Jake's Segallas. Van Clynne was not idle during this small interlude, reaching for a tomahawk and unleashing it in the doctor's direction. As he did so, it vanished into a wall of flames that suddenly shot up in front of him.
"I had some ambitions on being a stage designer when I was young," said Keen as the flare-up subsided. "I'm afraid I still have a tendency to indulge myself in theatrical bombast."
"I was indeed impressed by that trick, sir. I begin to feel humbled in your presence."
"If you believe in God, prepare your soul to meet him," said Keen, pointing the gun.
"I recognize your weapon, sir; it belongs to a friend of mine who will go to great lengths to get it back."
"Indeed."
"Its bullets, if I may say, are rather small." Claus took a cautious step forward. "They will sting, but they will not kill me."
"They do indeed sting," said Keen, whose own buttocks attested to their effect. "But I have taken the opportunity to add a treatment to them that will make them do considerably more than that. You have heard of the scorpion?"
"A delightful creature," said van Clynne. "Are you planning on following his example and cut your head off, now that I have you surrounded?"
"On your knees, pig."
"Jane — no!" shouted van Clynne.
His exclamation was completely in earnest, for Jane had managed to elude the ring of smoke and flames and slipped into the cottage to rescue her true love. Keen, however, interpreted the remark as a juvenile diversionary tactic, and so was nearly caught off guard when sweet Jane lunged at him with a large and heavy tree branch.
Nearly was not good enough, unfortunately. Keen leaped aside and tripped the girl, then swung and ducked van Clynne's second hatchet.
"Tie him up," the doctor ordered Jane, pointing his gun. "And be quick about it."
"I would sooner die," she replied.
"Then I will kill you both," promised Keen.
"Please, Jane, if
you value our love, do as he says. I will gladly forfeit my life for yours."
What bravery from the mouth of a Dutchman! What sentiments of love!
And surely the sentiment was heartfelt and genuine — though it should be noted for scientific accuracy that van Clynne had spotted a familiar shadow approaching through the darkness behind Keen. Sweet Jane bent her head, and with a tear in her eye took the rope the doctor tossed her.
"Tut, tut, my dear. We shall be together for all eternity," said van Clynne bravely. "This is but a momentary nuisance."
"Prepare to meet your maker," said Keen, in a voice at once so evil and dramatic that Shakespeare would have taken him for Burbage.
"It is you who should prepare yourself," said Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs, kicking away the short piece of smoldering wall that had covered his approach. "I would think the odds much higher of my rifle bullet finding you than your bullets hitting my friend."
So many events were crammed into the next second and a half that it would take several days — indeed, an entire trip from Westchester to Albany — to unravel them properly.
Jake had enlisted a company of American dragoons to assist him; mustered upwind on the hill leading to the roadway, they suddenly flashed their weapons and charged toward the ruins.
Van Clynne grabbed sweet Jane in his arms and dove with her to the ground.
Jake shot square at Keen, and swore later he hit him in the side.
Keen fired, but not at van Clynne or at Jake, nor at any of the soldiers for that matter. Instead he hit a specially prepared barrel, which exploded instantly, sending a dark powder into the air that doused the flickering phosphorous and blocked the stars and dim moon overhead.
Shouts, gunfire, screams — all mixed in the confused air. Jake grabbed a body he thought was the doctor's. Immediately a sweet odor filled his nose, somehow defeating the cotton he had placed there as a precaution against such tricks. He felt his grip inexplicably weaken. The mounted soldiers fell upon each other in the darkness. Horses wailed, a woman wept; by the time fires were lit and the smoke cleared, Keen and his carriage were gone.
-Chapter Forty-eight-
Wherein, the story is temporarily concluded, loose ends tied, and further adventures promised.
Jake found Rose on the ground near where the carriage had been, Keen obviously calculating that his escape would be easier if he did not carry her along. The patriot took her into his arms and brought her to the cottage while the dragoons recovered themselves and set out after the doctor. Even as they mounted their horses, Jake knew the odds were greatly against them — but he also sensed that eventually he would meet Keen again.
While the patriot spy searched through the remains of Keen's drug jars for something that might bring her around, Rose came to on her own, slowly opening one eye and then the other as the effects of Keen's potion wore off. But rather than leaping up, she closed both eyes and waited for her hero to return with a small bottle of smelling salts.
He lifted her head gently into his lap, smoothed her curls back, then waved the blue glass beneath her nose. Despite her resolve to enjoy this sweet pillow as long as possible, she immediately began coughing.
"There we go," said Jake, lifting her up and standing beside her. "Are you all right?"
His question was answered by a swift and strong hug.
"Thank God you rescued me," she said, underlining her gratitude with a series of kisses.
"You're welcome," said Jake, returning the favor. He indulged himself a while longer — surely there are rewards no man can ignore.
Van Clynne's harrumphs eventually interrupted him. "I played a role in your rescue as well," he pointed out with great dignity.
Rose, after a nod from sweet Jane, gave the Dutchman a polite buss on the chin, then turned back to Jake, looping her arm in his.
"Robert will be happy to hear you're safe," said Jane. Her voice was not quite pointed, but there was no mistaking her meaning.
"Robert," said Rose, clinging to Jake.
"Yes, Robert," said the patriot, who nonetheless let her cling a little longer before gently freeing his arm. "He's quite lucky to be marrying a brave young woman like you."
"But — "
The patriot spy could not resist silencing her protest with a deep — and, dare we suggest, wistful? — kiss.
Several hours later, the patriot spy and his Dutch companion were once more on the road, the sun urging toward dawn and van Clynne deep into his favorite habit of complaint.
"And so, had his show included some such surprise as flying arrows entering my head, you would have let it continue for your amusement."
"Now, now, Claus, I had to wait until the dragoons were in position. You seemed to have things well under control."
"I should have liked to hear your opinion, were the roles reversed."
"They were on the Richmond. I had a rope around my neck the entire time you were aboard. You claimed I was never in any danger."
"It was an English rope, sir, and they are notoriously inferior. I have seen a man hanged for three hours before finally giving up the ghost."
"There's a consolation."
"I, on the other hand, faced down the most despicable criminal in all of Christendom," said the Dutchman, still working to shape the narrative of his adventures — and much more importantly, the writ to have his property returned. "I did so single-handedly and without fear."
"No fear at all?"
"Sir, the Dutch are different than other races. We are not constitutionally given to fear. Something in our blood prevents it." The Dutchman's horse — the gelding had been retrieved from the inn where van Clynne had first met Keen — gave a whinny, whether in wonderment or agreement, who could say?
"I thought Keen and his leeches took all your blood," said Jake.
"He endeavored to, sir, but he had not counted on the Dutch physique. It is a finely tuned, resourceful engine. The Romans found this out when they tried to take us over in the days before Christ."
"Your country was occupied for a thousand years."
Van Clynne suddenly stopped his horse dead on the roadway. His face turned white, and his manner sickly.
"Claus?"
"I have completely forgotten! I have the pox!"
"The pox?"
The Dutchman slumped on his horse like a dead man. "My soldiers were infected with it. I must have caught it. I ignored the danger of my disease to fight for my country, and now surely I have caught my death."
"What soldiers were infected?"
"Private Martin and the others. I found them in isolation. Poor sweet Jane will be left a widow, before she has even married! If I didn't infect her at the cottage with my kisses!"
"If the soldiers were inoculated, they're not infectious. The germs are too weak. You haven't caught anything."
The Dutchman gave his companion a wary look.
"I know my business," said Jake, shaking his horse's reins. "I did not spend every day at school whoring."
"I was merely testing your knowledge," said van Clynne, resuming his former posture and urging his mount forward. "There are so many quacks in the world today, one can never be sure of another's credentials. Henceforth, I shall refer to you as Dr. Gibbs."
Jake smiled. Under oath, he would have admitted that the Dutchman had done a fine job these past few days, and played an important role in defeating the Tory plot against the chain. And yet van Clynne's tongue had the effect of a powerful telescopic glass, magnifying his own importance so gravely out of proportion that it was comical.
Almost.
"It was a shame you had to lose your salt. General Putnam's men would have welcomed it."
"I did not lose it all, sir; just a small portion was needed to cover the tops of the barrels. The rest will find a welcome market with the general's quartermaster. Mistress Jane is even now engaged in seeing that small transaction to its proper conclusion."
"I suppose you'll make a profit."
"My investm
ent will be recovered, that is all. Of course, the loss of my paper currency during our difficulties has put a strain on my situation. Fortunately, a proper claim has already been made to General Putnam, who accepted it quite readily."
"As a condition for you to leave off telling your story, no doubt."
Van Clynne smiled to himself, as Jake's guess was correct. Old Put's document could be redeemed at Kingston or Albany with any of several merchants he knew, and would more than compensate for his losses. And as he was once more equipped with his many purses, to say he was well pleased with himself would be to understate the case as surely as the Dutchman overstated his role in any victory.
Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs, battered, bruised, wrapped with many cloths and bandages, was nonetheless also in a light mood. What he had once seen as a brief diversion to while away an hour or so — a game or two of chess — had turned into a three-day adventure, during which he had thwarted not only a group of Tory rangers but the British navy, her marines, and a member of the Secret Department as well. Such sweet victories for the Cause — all the better to have been topped off with some sweet kisses from the remarkable young Rose.
The girl had been left with General Putnam, who promised to dispatch one of his men and arrange a reunion with her husband-to-be. Undoubtedly, the bounty he promised for her efforts would provide an extravagant wedding feast, even with the war. The general had even broadly hinted he would preside at the match — Old Put never lost an opportunity to join a celebration.
The Connecticut men who had proved so useful to the operation had been sent back to their barracks for more rest by Putnam. The commander promised to remember them with a choice assignment as well as leave. Jake feared that might not add up to much for the doughty soldiers, who'd shown their muster against some of Britain's toughest fighters, but that was the lot of the common foot soldier — always doing the dirty work, and never receiving much of the reward.
And Captain John Busch? Perhaps his fortitude and torment when alive had earned him a passage to bliss. Jake hoped this was so, for never had he found so worthy a man, let alone a Tory. Had circumstances been different — but one could just as well wish for two suns to rise instead of one.