The Golden Flask (38 page)

"As you were not prepared to completely abandon your weapons, I did not forsake mine," shouted van Clynne as he leaped aboard and thundered away.

Chapter Thirty-two

T
he battering at the
engineer’s office left Major Dr. Kee
n
in the foulest mood of his life.
It was one thing to
discover that Jake Gibbs had fooled him; Gibbs was
surely the Americans' finest agent, a man trusted by
Washington with only the most delicate missions. He had been schooled in England and came from a
wealthy if not noble family. In some ways he reminded
Keen of himself as a young man.

But to find van Clynne alive and running through the
streets of New York as freely as a rat — the humiliation
was nearly too much to bear.

By the time Keen's horses finally stopped their pan
icked flight they were nearly trampling the rough wood of the docks. His eyes fairly closed by bruises, the doc
tor saw no alternative but to slink into some lair and lick his wounds. He did not want to rejoin Clayton
Bauer and his relatives under any circumstances, as he
would then be obliged to offer some sort of explana
tion for the tumult. Even the most convincing lie would
be a degrading embarrassment.

Rarely had the doctor found himself in such mental
disarray. He could not repair to his apartments on the city's west side for fear that someone — perhaps an agent of Bacon's — would seek him out there. Nor could he rule out the possibility that Gibbs had been sent to assassinate him, in a reversal of their previous
roles. And so Keen spent a miserable night shivering in
a shack owned by an acquaintance midway between
Rutger's land and Corlear's Hook. The wind and sea
ravaged his ears with their unrelenting drone as he pitched in the narrow cradle of his bed, wrapped in a
thin and threadbare cotton cloth. Not even his potions
could allow him a fitless sleep.

Still, the doctor had passed hard nights before, and
the morrow brought him some hope and new priorities.
He decided that he would no longer worry about Ba
con and the consequences of the premature message announcing the death of his two enemies. There was
nothing to be done about it one way or the other; he would have to accept whatever Fate delivered.

That decision gave him a certain amount of peace,
and allowed him to reach his next: he would find and
eliminate van Clynne before attending to Gibbs.

Van Clynne embodied nearly everything that Keen
loathed, and yet he had beaten Keen consistently, escaping every encounter. To kill him, to rip the man's
immense liver from his body and hold it above his
head, to strip his gallbladder with a serrated knife and
feed it to the rutting pigs . . . Keen nearly frothed
contemplating such joyful enterprises.

He knew that van Clynne had a great propensity for
drink and trusted that he would not be difficult to trace. The doctor began the day by making the rounds
of the taverns and inns in the vicinity, gradually widen
ing his net. All manner of owners and keepers knew his
prey; van Clynne seemed to owe each inhabitant of the
island at least five-shillings. But the Dutchman's comings and goings were not regular, and none of Keen's
interviews produced definite news.

Until, in mid-afternoon, he stopped at Fraunces Tav
ern.

"Owes you too, eh?" said the proprietor after Keen had one of the servers fetch him.

"He has owed me a great deal in the past," Keen told the aristocratic-looking man before him. He was aware that the middle-aged Fraunces shaded to the
Whig side but was nonetheless confident he could be
fooled. "In all honesty, it is I who owe him at present. I
have business in Europe, and want to settle up before
leaving."

Though the story seemed plausible and even admira
ble in theory, Keen could not have hit on a tale that
would have made Fraunces more suspicious. To his
knowledge, van Clynne never, ever loaned money; it
was a violation of the Dutchman's most sacred princi
ples. But Fraunces had considerable experience tend
ing bar, and nodded with a face that would have fooled
Saint Thomas himself.

"You are unlucky to have missed him," said the pro
prietor. "He was here before midday, and was speaking
of going to Brooklyn. I believe he was paying off a debt
among tavern owners there."

Keen did not bother to finish his Madeira before leaving.

"Add a shilling to van Clynne's bill," Fraunces told
his bookkeeper when he returned upstairs. "I have just
saved his life."

"Overvalued by half," remarked the man.

* * *

C
layton Bauer pulled back the pistol lock's hammer and steadied his aim, endeavoring to ignore his sister.

"Clayton," she insisted, "it is nearly mid-afternoon.
Your dinner has become cold."

The pistol shot rent the air, but the paper Bauer had placed on the tree as a target remained untouched.

"Damn."

"It's a fine ham," said Lady Patricia.

"Please, Patricia. Leave me alone. See to your hus
band, or take a carriage into town."

The dismissive tone angered her and Lady Patricia
felt the bile rise in her mouth. Still, she fought to con
trol herself, and when she spoke, her voice was nearly as conciliatory as before. "Clayton, you can't go through with this silliness. It is beneath your station."

"On the contrary, my dear. To ignore the insult is
beneath my station. It would finish me."

He bent down and picked up his ivory powder horn, refilling his pistol. Nearly half of his shots had failed to
find the target. He decided to retie the blue ribbon around his white shirt-sleeve; perhaps it would bring him luck, if not improve his aim.

"Clayton, he is a foolish young man. In England he
would be a commoner, if not worse."

"In England, I would be a commoner," he shot back.
"You do not understand, Patricia. You do not under
stand the country or our ways. You have no notion what this war is about."

"And I do not care to." She could not control her
anger any longer. "It is ridiculous. Let the colonists set
their own taxes and rule themselves. What is the diffi
culty? The result will be the same. We are bred from the same soil."

"The result will be chaos and poverty. The issue is
far beyond taxes. You do not understand the leveling of
the mob, my dear. I doubt even your husband does. Nor did young Thomas."

"Don't speak of my son in that tone."

A twinge of regret flushed through him — Bauer had
liked the young man a great deal — and he finished loading the pistol in silence.

"Are you going to practice all day?"

His answer was a shot that struck the paper square
in the middle. Nodding with approval, Bauer began
walking toward it to exult in his success. The high grass
before the house flayed back with his boots, barely
brushing his soft, smooth breeches. A redcoat sentry was posted a few yards to the north, along the stone wall that marked the former border of the property.
The war had allowed Bauer to expand his estate for an
extremely advantageous price. "Come and eat something. William is worried sick about you."

"Lord William worries about nothing, not even your honor," said Bauer. He turned toward his sister suddenly. "Tell me, Patricia: did you enjoy that kiss?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I know you did. Bacon chooses his agents because they attract women. That is how they gather most of their information, from weak women."

"You think all women are weak."

"Everyone is weak," said Bauer, starting back to his mark. "It is just a question of how they show it."

Chapter Thirty-three

Wherein, the villain Eagans is briefly rejoined, and Squire van Clynne goes courting.

T
he renegade Eagans had
spent much of the time since his arrival in New York being abused by the British establishment.

Not only was he denied prompt payment for his prisoner, but the lieutenant on Bacon's
staff assigned to debrief him treated him with undis
guised contempt. The man, Bacon's only officer left in
the city, steadfastly refused to grant Egans his bounty
or even his rightful pay until the entire business was
complete. Given the lieutenant's intricate style of ques
tioning, that might not happen for several weeks.

Egans was a stoic, and could weather many difficult
trials without complaint, but he had a hard time
stomaching insults. Nor did he feel it the best use of his
time to be kept hanging around the city answering
questions about how many horses were sheltered in ob
scure stables north of the chain at Peekskill.

When, at the end of his third interview the lieuten
ant still declined to approve the reward, Egans stormed from his office and headed straight to the jail where he
had deposited his prisoner. If he could not have his
money from the British, he decided, he would have it
from the Dutchman, whose broad hints had included the possibility of a ransom.

Arid after that, some piece of satisfaction might be
retrieved from killing him.

"Your prisoner escaped yesterday," sneered the
clerk who met him at the desk. "Along with a group of
other rebels. Undoubtedly he was the ringleader. Per
haps we shall hang you for bringing him."

Egans instinctively reached for his pistol. As quickly
as lightning flashes between clouds, three grenadiers
grabbed him and flung him to the ground. His struggle
ended when a muzzle appeared an inch from his nose.

"Do not harm him," said the clerk. "As pleasant as it
would be, there are too many forms to fill out."

Egans was grudgingly allowed to his feet.

"Return with the fat Dutchman or your master, Gen
eral Bacon, will have a full report. In triplicate."

The renegade was too smart to say that he consid
ered no one his master. He met the British clerk's stare
blankly, holding his eyes in a defiant gaze. Neither man
blinked.

"Do you want the whole man or just his scalp?" asked Egans finally.