The Golden Flask (37 page)

"What are you up to, Claus?"

While the sum in van Clynne's hand was significant,
it would not have been enough under any circumstance
for the keeper to betray a trust. Van Clynne recognized this, and so he dropped a hint concerning the wishes of
General Washington being involved. This only made
Fraunces more suspicious.

"What have you to do with His Excellency?"

"I am on a mission for him."

"He wishes to see the girl?"

"She is but an attending player in a much grander
scheme," said the Dutchman. "I assure you, no harm will come to her."

Fraunces frowned and turned his eyes to the bills.
"Considering that I know your politics well, I suppose it would do no harm. The family took her north of Delancy's farm, past the encampments, to make sure she did not fall victim to Howe's depredations again. You would think one mistress would be enough."

"You do not get to be a gentleman by limiting your
assignations," noted van Clynne with some distraction.

It was not nearly enough distraction to prevent him
from whisking away his fist — and the notes—as Fraunces grabbed for them.

"I would be very obliged if you could find me a horse, on temporary loan. Some hatchets, too."

"What will you ask for next, a hat as well?"

"Tut, tut, Samuel, you are becoming quite excited,"
said van Clynne. "I am prepared to pay the lease in
advance."

"In that case, I would be willing to lend you my wife's handsome black pony, barely in its third year,
along with a fine cart that will match your exalted so
cial standing," said Fraunces without noticeable irony.
"At ten shillings an hour, then, I believe we could reach an arrangement."

"I will not be robbed in broad daylight, no matter who controls the city."

The hemming and hawing that followed was lengthy
and resulted in a considerable price reduction. As a
faithful reproduction would fill near thirty pages, suf
fice to say that van Clynne was found within the hour
heading north at the bench of a two-wheeled, oak-paneled phaeton pulled by a short though not un-vigorous pony. His armament now included a pair of
axes, and he sported a black beaver hat that had been
thrown in on good faith to seal the deal. The hatchets
were a bit dull and the hat a size too big even for the
Dutchman's prodigious skull, but at least it provided
the Dutchman with something to doff when he was
confronted by an English officer mounted on a white
horse just south of Delancy's farm.

"Good morrow, major," called van Clynne cheerfully. "And what can I do for you?"

"You can call me colonel, for one," said the man icily. "You will state your business and reason for being here."

Van Clynne grumbled to himself. It was difficult to keep up with the British army's habit of continually promoting its officers despite their incompetence. In the Dutch forces, this man would never have advanced above the rank of captain, obviously being far too nosey for his own good.

"Sir Colonel, I meant no offense. As for my mission, it is routine in the extreme. I am after some vegetables."

"You do not look like a farmer to me."

"Of course not, sir. I am a man of business. In fact, General Howe himself has asked me to look after this vegetable factor. It appears the soldiers are in great need of vegetative energy for their coming campaign."

"If you are working for Sir William, honor me with a letter from him."

"I will not, sir," said the Dutchman haughtily.

His new hat slipped to one side, ruining the effect. Deciding to change tactics," he grabbed it from his head and held it in his hands, hoping to strike a contrite pose. Though he looked the model of a penitent, the officer did not acknowledge the likeness.

"Stand down and present yourself for arrest. You are very much like the description of one of the prisoners said to have escaped yesterday from the city jail."

The colonel pulled his sword from the scabbard with a great deal of pompous flash. It was a most ornate device, with hand-crafted silver embellishments about the handle and considerable scrolling up and down the blade.

"You did not let me finish," said the Dutchman quickly. "I am under strict orders not to communicate my mission with anyone."

"Piffle."

"Well, I suppose I must make an exception, given your rank," said van Clynne, reaching beneath his hat toward his coat, then letting his fingers take a detour to the floor, where they found his hatchet. In the next
instant, the Briton flew backwards as blood burst like a
geyser from his skull, the ax having found its mark.

Van Clynne started to rise from the bench to retrieve
the hatchet, but was interrupted by a shout from
nearby in the woods. A half-dozen British soldiers ap
peared from their bivouac as van Clynne grabbed for his reins. The little pony Fraunces had lent him
strained for everything he was worth as the soldiers let
their muskets get some exercise.

The bullets did a nice job engraving their marks in the rear of the wagon. The Dutchman was, nonethe
less, unscathed, as was his hat, which remarkably re
mained on his head despite the pace. But as he began
congratulating his fortune and thinking if some way might be found to make the hat shrink a size, van Clynne realized one of the soldiers had appropriated the colonel's horse and was chasing him up the road.

"Come now, little one," the Dutchman told the
pony. "Let us see if we cannot reach yonder bend be
fore this galloping horseman. We may effect an am
bush if we do. I have often thought a small pony more
worthwhile in a pinch than a dozen large stallions."

The pony's ears bloated with the flattery as it
strained its legs and pushed its shoulders forward in a
manner that would have done fabled Pegasus proud. Alas, the animal was not used to such exertion, and quickly began to tire. When they were still several
dozen yards before the turn, van Clynne realized they
would not beat the redcoat there.

The soldier had taken the colonel's sword as well as
his horse. He began waving it above his head, momen
tum building as he leaned over his horse menacingly. Van Clynne reached below the seat and retrieved his
pistol, endeavoring to pull back the lock into the firing
position while all the while urging his little pony for
ward. The space between the horseman and the cart
fell rapidly; van Clynne managed to point the gun and
fire just as the swordsman took a swipe at his head.
The blade missed. Alas, the same was true of van Clynne's bullet. The pony, exhausted, gave up his attempt at a gallop and fell into a strained trot, his body
heaving with exhaustion. The redcoat pulled back on
his reins, trying to gain a good angle for attack. Van
Clynne threw down his pistol and reached for his re
maining hatchet.

He nearly lost it as the pony jerked to the side to
avoid the soldier's swipe. Van Clynne just managed to
thrust the handle up as the redcoat slashed violently
toward his neck. Sword and ax crashed together with a
clang so loud anyone in the neighborhood would have
thought he was being called to church.

Three times the weapons came together, and each
time the Dutchman shuddered with the blow. The redcoat was a strong man born in northern Scotland and raised on red oats; he had ridden much as a youngster
and by every right should have been at least a corporal,
if not sergeant, except for some troubles he'd had as a
young recruit.

But van Clynne was in no position to inquire after his personal history. He pulled back the hatchet, only
to see it fly from his grasp, propelled by a quicker-than-
expected blow. The redcoat, sensing that victory was
but a moment away, pulled back his sword and took a
deep breath, savoring his moment of glory.

"Well now," said van Clynne, doffing his hat as if in
salute, "I am glad to finally be on even terms with you."

"Even terms?" said the Scotsman with a tongue so thick his words sounded more like
E turn,
"And how do ye figure that 'un, son?"

"Allow me to introduce myself," said van Clynne,
taking the opportunity to slip down from the carriage
on the side opposite the soldier. "Claus van Clynne,
Esquire. You have undoubtedly heard of me."

"Whether I heard of ye or not, it dan't matter. Ye
slain the colonel, and I'll be making mince pie of ye in
return." The redcoat pushed his horse forward and took another slash, nipping the oversized beaver hat but not its owner. Van Clynne threw himself on the ground and rolled beneath the wheels of the cart, using it for protection. No matter which way the redcoat attacked, van Clynne flew to the other side. Granted, he suffered a few close nicks and scratches, and the ground was not very soft or smooth, but the soldier could not get close enough to strike a serious blow without dismounting.

"Come out, ye damn coward. Out, or I will kill your wee pony."

"A true Scotsman would not harm a pony born on the heath," claimed van Clynne.

The soldier knitted his brow. He had never heard of a pony imported to America from the heath, nor was he altogether certain what distinguishing marks, if any, a Scots pony would bear. Nonetheless, he held all equines in high esteem and felt it beneath him to attack this poor animal, just because its owner was a treacherous, murdering rebel.

Besides, the pony would fetch a nice price back at the city.

"All right then," said the redcoat, jumping from his horse. "But you yourself will get no mercy."

Van Clynne just made it out from under the cart as the redcoat charged. He slipped onto the other side as the sword crashed so heavily against the wood that three inches of it were splintered.

"Stand and fight like a man!" declared the Scotsman.

"Oh gladly, sir," answered van Clynne. "But the odds are little lopsided, given that you have a sword and I have only my wits to protect me."

"Ye dan't object when ye had the gun and axes."

"I am only saying that I will put aside my wit, if you put aside your sword."

This rather generous offer was answered by a vigorous flail of the sword. But as van Clynne circled the cart and the terms of the standoff became clear, the redcoat took a new assessment of the situation. Clearly, he could defeat the rotund Dutchman if they fought hand to hand — even without the dirk he had secreted in his belt.

"All right, laddie," he said, holding the sword at his side. "I will fight you fair, like a man."

He dropped the sword in the dust.

"Oh, you want to play at fisticuffs," said van Clynne, edging to his right. "I should warn you, sir: I am Dutch."

"So?"

Van Clynne's answer was a feint toward the sword. The Scotsman grabbed his knife as he performed a spectacular front-roll to the ground in front of the saber. He landed on his feet in a fighting position, quite prepared to take on an entire regiment of rebels, if need be.

He needn't. For the Dutchman had taken the opportunity to bolt not for the sword, but the soldier's nearby horse.