by Jim DeFelice
"Me neither," said Alison.
"My husband now, too, is missing," said Mrs. Hulter, her lips quivering. "There are rumors he is dead."
"Jake can help find him," said Alison.
Mrs. Hulter smiled weakly as she took control of herself. "He has tried. Come. Let us see about getting you something to eat, and some clothes."
"What happened to the clothes I was wearing?"
Her hostess wrinkled her nose. "Those things? They smelled of the river, and several farms' worth of animals."
"They were my disguise."
"Yes, they certainly disguised you," said Mrs. Hulter, in a tone that made it clear she was taking a proprietary interest in her young charge. "But you seem to be ready to burst the bounds of any such disguise. You have even excited some interest from my son."
"Really?"
"He's too young for you, dear; he's barely thirteen. But he had a look in his eyes when he told me about you."
"A look?"
"Men get an expression in their eyes, as if the sockets will collapse."
"Is that love?"
"Well, it is something like it."
"Can I trust you with a secret?"
"Of course."
"I love Jake."
The words rushed from her so suddenly they surprised her.
"Many women love him," said Mrs. Hulter gently. "But . . ."
"Do you think he loves me?"
Mrs. Hulter sighed deeply, trying to be diplomatic without lying to the girl. "He is too old for you, dear."
"He's not much older than I, only six or seven years."
"The war has aged him in ways it is difficult to explain." Mrs. Hulter tugged her arm gently. "Do you think he loves you?"
"He saved my life. And I saved his."
"That is one type of love," allowed the older woman. "Still, I think you are after something else, aren't you?"
"How can you tell if someone is in love with you?"
"A person's whole being changes. You will see, when the time comes."
"I will make him love me."
Mrs. Hulter laughed. "I would think that quite difficult. In any event, he is too much a gentleman to take you as a lover, being both older and having been trusted with your safety. But as your guardian or friend, he is a powerful ally to have."
Alison was not ready to settle for that, even if she might suspect it was the truth. Instead, she changed the subject. Slightly.
"I have seen that look you were talking about," said Alison. "If that is love. There is a lieutenant in New York. He tries to be mean to me, but I know he doesn't mean it. He's only seventeen, and already he is a lieutenant."
"Perhaps you should turn your sights on him," said Mrs. Hulter, rising from the bed. "Come, let's find you something to wear."
Alison pushed away the coverlet and followed her hostess to the next room. She was completely without clothes, yet felt no more shame than Eve before the Fall.
"This chemise is practically new." Mrs. Hulter withdrew a light linen shift bordered with fancy lace from the oaken wardrobe that dominated the small room. Alison stroked the lace, as if it were some precious metal she had never seen.
Mrs. Hulter next produced a jumper that had belonged to a niece. This lightly boned corset, not nearly as restricting as the elaborate metal affairs preferred by city ladies, nonetheless would be sufficient to leave little doubt as to Alison's sex — or beauty. Mrs. Hulter then brought out a light blue dress so expertly woven from homespun flax that it seemed like fine silk.
"I don't want to wear a dress. I want to serve our cause," said Alison, handing the chemise back.
"And so you will, no matter what you wear. This is a patriotic dress. It was woven in defiance of the king's ban on weaving. Women declared their independence first in this land. Men may boast, but it is women who take the risks and act first, protecting our homes and our rights. You will learn that as you grow older."
"I have already seen it," said Alison. She studied the dress a moment. "Do you think it will look attractive?"
"I think you would look as pretty as a butterfly in it."
Whether it was Mrs. Hulter's appeal to patriotism or her soft, reassuring manner, Alison finally submitted, allowing herself to be made up in a way she had scarce imagined possible. The bold patriot who had risked her life to save Jake and clamored continuously to help General Washington had not been banished; on the contrary, defiance shone all the brighter in her eye. Yet it had been magnified by a physical beauty that previously had been severely disguised.
"Your hair is our final problem," said Mrs. Hulter, stepping back. "It has a natural beauty to it, but it will be months before it grows long enough to curl. A wig would be too fussy — ah, I know just the thing."
She disappeared out the door and down the hallway. There was a small mirror on the bureau. Alison picked it up furtively, glancing at the image as if she might see something painful. She had worn dresses before, of course — her father absolutely insisted on them for church — but she had never felt like this.
Mrs. Hulter returned with a gauze-and-silk turban and a colored plume. Within a few minutes, Alison's face was set off by a colorful crown. The overall transition was so remarkable that Mrs. Hulter's son Timothy was knocked speechless, retreating to the wall as the two women descended the staircase.
"Well now, you certainly look beautiful," said Jake, meeting them downstairs in the house. He swept down as if introducing himself for the first time. "Jake Gibbs, on special service to General Washington. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss."
Alison turned red and found it impossible to speak, as if her wit had been left with her old clothes. It was difficult even to look at his eyes — though she strongly hoped to find the shadow there Mrs. Hulter had spoken of.
For his part, Jake wondered whether he should try and talk Mrs. Hulter into adopting Alison. But he decided the poor woman would have her hands full nursing her brother back to health and keeping her farm running besides. She had done yeoman's service merely getting Alison to wear a dress.
"We have to leave soon for New York," said Jake. "It will take us more than an hour to get to the ferry from here."
Mrs. Hulter insisted that they eat before they leave. It was now nearly four, and all she had given Jake for breakfast was a half-loaf of rye. They sat down to a large dinner of boiled salt pork with some freshly dug potatoes. The meal was not a rich one, though Jake judged it must be as expensive a luxury as the good woman could afford during these difficult times.
"Alison, you have become very quiet," said Jake.
"I'm just — thinking."
"I see. Well, you may think a while longer while I consult with Professor Bebeef once more," he said as he rose. "But then we will leave promptly."
As accomplished as he was in affairs of the heart, Jake in this instance had made a mistaken interpretation, believing that Alison was infatuated with young Timothy, not himself. He went across to Bebeefs rooms feeling rather smug.
"I have prepared the bullets," the professor told him, looking up from the jars and tubes that arrayed the long desk where he was working. "I have adapted some simple copper balls and soldered them whole. They are somewhat fragile; you must not handle them too much before they are loaded."
"They will stay in their case until the duel," said Jake. He picked up the small ball and shook it; it seemed solid, if light.
The matched pistols were very plain, with only the slightest piece of scrolling at the very end of their butts. Their heavy, straight lock mechanisms betrayed their French design. No self-important English gentleman would condescend to use either to dispatch his ailing horse with, let along uphold his honor.
"They're the best I have," Bebeef apologized. "I'm not much for dueling."
"They'll be good enough. My friend may sneer all he wants, but he is obliged to accept them."
"The poison will work so long as it can penetrate the flesh. I have had to weaken the gunpowder mixture in your s
mall horn there, to guarantee the balls will not explode in the barrel when the charge ignites." "So there won't be much power in the bullets?"
"I would not vouch for their flying more than twenty paces with any real velocity," said Bebeef. "It would be best if they had an unobstructed path to the flesh when they struck. Even a thick coat might save the victim."
The thought of facing a bare-chested Bauer was almost too much for Jake to stand.
"The bullets will pass through a light shirt and still do their duty," said Bebeef hopefully, noting Jake's frown. "The liquid is red, so it will look like a very handsome wound. Aim for the chest."
"I intend to."
"Here is all I have left," said Bebeef, holding up a small tube whose glass ends had been melted shut. "The material that bonds the ingredients is very gummy, and will adhere to metal. If you rub a sword blade with it, the effect will be the same."
"But it's red. Anyone will spot it in an instant."
"It's a good thing you didn't choose swords then," said Bebeef. "It must pass through the skin, so you have to wound the victim lightly."
Jake took the vial and placed it in his vest pocket.
"Touch the wound with pure water to counteract the poison. Do not use city water by any means."
"I wouldn't even wash a horse with city water."
"You only need a drop. The effects will wear off in an hour without the antidote," Bebeef said. "The breathing and heart do not completely stop, but slow so much at first that it is difficult to tell. Gradually, they improve. After a few minutes, even a country barber could tell the victim is alive. I would advise you to shoot first, no matter the code."
"But professor, I have to stand on my honor."
Bebeef could not tell whether Jake was kidding or not. "I have been wracking my brain for a truth serum," the professor added. "There are several formulas in my books, but they are along the lines of love potions and very undependable."
As Major Dr. Keen had tried some such potions on van Clynne with poor results, Jake shrugged. He had already concocted a ruse to fool Bauer once he was revived.
With luck, Culper would have solved the problem by the time he returned to the city. Then Bauer's information would be superfluous. In any case, the Tory bastard would be a fitting trophy to present General Washington with.
"I have also prepared a small supply of sleeping powder," said Bebeef, walking to the collection of trays standing below the triangular window. "I know it is one of your favorite concoctions."
"It's very useful for putting out guards without noise."
"And stunning cats, according to your father."
"I have not launched an attack on a cat in many years!" Jake laughed.
"Take care, my young friend," said Bebeef as Jake started to leave. He reached up with his bandaged hands. "Do not discount Keen."
"I have not. But he is a man like the rest of us."
The professor's reluctant nod revealed that he might not completely share that opinion.
* * *
Timothy's eyes were wide circles, glittering as if he had seen the goddess Diana on the hunt. Jake could barely suppress a broad smile.
"Come," he told Alison. "If we are going to brave the ferry, we'd best do it when there is a crowd."
"I have been waiting for you," she replied, turning with a sudden swirl. She started out the door so quickly Jake had to trot to catch her as she swished past the blooming money plant at the edge of the walk.
"I will need a new cover story," she told him curtly as he fell in alongside. "I will henceforth be your wife."
My cousin will suffice."
"A kissing cousin?"
Jake's scowl had little effect on her. She walked merrily with a breezy pace, the change of clothes having somehow increased her speed. He shook his head, thinking that he recognized both the signs and cause of a peculiar case of love sickness.
"Young Timothy is a handsome lad," he suggested after they had gone a few more yards.
"He is a little runt."
"A runt?"
"He is a full inch shorter than me."
"He'll grow in time."
"I could whip him with one hand tied behind my back."
"I'm glad to see that wearing a dress has not softened your spirits," said Jake.
"Do you like it?" she asked, swirling.
"It's very nice. As is the scarf."
"Grace helped outfit me. She is a remarkable woman."
"Indeed," said Jake. "I would think anyone who ended with her as a mother-in-law would be very lucky."
Alison gave him an odd look, as if she did not quite catch his meaning.
"Young Timothy will inherit his father's land," hinted Jake. "As well as his uncle's business. I would think he will be wealthy one day."
"Once a pipkin, always a pipkin," said Alison, turning up her nose and increasing her pace after calling her would-be lover an insignificant pot.
Jake had heard girls make light of beaus before; they liked to pretend they were sure of themselves. In such cases, it was useless to argue with them, as they would only pretend more firmly.
"You're walking quite fast," he told her.
"I can stop and wait for you, if I'm too quick."
"No, no, this is fine. At least I won't have to carry you all the way back to New York."
"I don't think I would give you the pleasure," she said, turning her nose up and increasing her pace.
Chapter Thirty-one
Wherein, Claus van Clynne offers to let go of his wits.
While Jake embarked on his trip to see Bebeef, Claus van Clynne undertook his own mission, starting with a pursuit entirely characteristic of the Dutchman — a twelve-hour nap. The Dutchman's eyes did not open until long after the local birds had gone about their business of catching the early worms. Indeed, there were few worms of any variety, early or late, to be found when van Clynne stretched his arms with a cranky growl and began rubbing his eyes vigorously. He soon discovered himself alone in the hideout. Daltoons had launched a full search for Alison upon finding her missing.
"Just as well," said the Dutchman to himself. "I am most efficient when unhampered by assistants. Or children. A spot of breakfast and I shall be back in order. Assuming I find anything worthy of the name in this town. Really, the quality of food has gone considerably downhill since the demise of the governor."
He being Stuyvesant, of course.
Van Clynne's hunger could not be satisfied at the Sons' hideout, which offered a cruel version of porridge in the kitchen downstairs. The squire did not complain about this; he considered that the few legitimately sick inmates in the small corner ward were aligned with the British side, and ought therefore to be tortured. Instead, he wiped a bit of water around his beard, borrowed a pistol from the armory, and went off to find himself a true breakfast.
Specifically, he wanted sausage. Now, one would think that, in a city with pigs constantly running underfoot, sausage would be an easy commodity. Not so. For there is a specific art to making sausage — a Dutch art, as van Clynne would have gladly explained had anyone asked.
In the event, he explained anyway, speaking loudly as he walked through the streets to a certain inn on Pearl Street owned by Samuel Fraunces. Though not strictly Dutch, Fraunces was a man steeped in the arts of hospitality, and his studies had led him to a formula for sausage construction that fairly rivaled that espoused by van Clynne's own mother. The fact that Fraunces was even now a firm and known member of the Whig party tended also to enhance the flavor.
His tavern was allowed to operate despite its owner's politics for a number of reasons, beginning with the quality of its ale. This morning the place was fairly empty, and van Clynne found himself greeted by the owner as he came through the portal to the main room.
"The sentries at King's Bridge are obviously sleeping," declared Fraunces in his faint West Indies accent. "They are allowing everyone into the city."
"As it happens, Samuel, I did not come via King'
s Bridge," said van Clynne. "I arrived by boat, with a personal escort."
Two young men sat near the corner window playing a card game; except for them, the room was empty.
"Your politics have not changed?" van Clynne asked the keeper in a soft voice.
"My politics are my own business."
"In that case, you may note that my feelings are as they have always been," declared van Clynne, pulling out a chair.
"I am sure Congress is glad of that," answered the keeper sarcastically. "And the king."
"Are you in the habit of talking all day, or will you ask your guest what he wishes to be served?"
"I see no guest before me, only a Dutchman who owes me ten pounds."
"Bah, ten pounds — a trifle." Van Clynne slipped off his shoe. "A double helping of sausages, if you please. Some fresh eggs, and if you can find any decent coffee in that cramped cellar of a kitchen, I will take that as well."
"You will take nothing until you settle what you owe me. I will have my sailor friends here kick you out." Fraunces gestured at the two young card players, neither one of whom made any sign to have heard. They were engaged in the arcane rite of cribbage. The Americans could have reinvaded New York and they would not have cared a whit, nor a Nobs.
But as the keeper set his fists on his hips, a smelly but genuine two-pound note drawn against Murdock & Company in Glasgow appeared in the Dutchman's fist. Fraunces grabbed the paper as it fluttered to the table, then retreated back to the kitchen, humming a song to himself. Coffee was issued, bread was found; within fifteen minutes a girl appeared carrying two plates of fine sausage and a large covered dish of eggs.
Fraunces nearly fainted when she returned to the back with another two-pound note.
A third appeared when the proprietor came to clear the dishes. By now he realized something serious must be afoot.
"I cannot take this money from you, Claus. Cannot, indeed."
Van Clynne looked up in amazement. "The Scottish bank is good for it, I assure you. And you will notice the elaborate engraving, protecting against counterfeits."