The Golden Flask (40 page)

Nonetheless, he took the hint and proceeded even more circumspectly. In sum, when the Dutchman finally arrived on George Street, it was late afternoon. There proved to be no wig shop there, or at least none he could find. Concerned about the hour, lie walked quickly toward the southern tip of the island, aiming for Stone Street and Mr. George.

The fact that Stone Street lay exactly opposite one of the gates of the British fort, and was customarily filled with soldiers and British officers of every description, did give him some concern. Not fear — he was Dutch, after all — but further complications this close to achieving his goal would be bothersome. So he stopped at a small shop along the way and procured a large black cape that fit very nicely over his coat. In an alley nearby he confiscated a large and empty wooden box, complete with a snug-fitting cover. He hoisted it to his shoulder and held it close to the side of his face, pushing his hat far down on his head to help obscure his profile.

As well as his own vision.

And so when he felt his cloak rudely grabbed not a half block on, he jumped nearly two feet straight up in complete surprise.

Chapter Thirty-four

Wherein, the difference between fear and surprise is essayed, as are wig styles.

“
D
eclare yourself,” said the
redcoat tugging van Clynne’s cloak. “What is your business here?”

"My business?"

Van Clynne turned uneasily and lifted the brim of his
hat slightly, seeking his bearings. He saw that, in his
haste, he had inadvertently walked down an alley exit
ing across from one of the fort's sentry posts. The
guard had been increased for security's sake following the prison break, and van Clynne had nearly run down
one of the redcoats, or more properly, the man's brightly polished bayonet.

"My business, sir, is business," van Clynne said
boldly. He held the crate closer to his face as he ges
tured with his free hand.

"Are you delivering food for the fort?"

"Yes, that was exactly what I was doing," said van
Clynne.

Thus we see the great difference between being
taken by surprise and being overcome by fear: the for
mer is quickly recovered, while the latter is only arrested by a vigorous run.

"I have a load of fresh vegetables for the fort here
on my shoulder," continued van Clynne. "Fine vegetables. Here, let us examine them," he said, swinging the
crate to the pavement. "You will want to search among
the carrots, I presume. They are nasty things, always in
need of a good examination. You never know when one will turn rebel."

"Enough, fool. Pick up your box and pass into the fort while the gate is open."

The soldier pointed his gun in the direction he wanted van Clynne to take, straight into the heart of the British camp.

"Well, I will not do so under those circumstances," he said, searching for a way to retreat.

"What is wrong here, private?"

"This arse wants me to search his carrots," the sentry told his superior, an officious but exceedingly young officer of His Majesty's Guard, who walked with such a stiff gait that van Clynne concluded a carpenter had forced a rusted hinge into his buttocks.

"What carrots?"

"What he's carrying in the box, sir. I already told him he could pass, but he insists on an inspection."

The officer frowned. Van Clynne, with some words about his honor and integrity being beyond question, reached to his crate — then showed great horror when he flipped off the lid to find it empty.

"I have been robbed," he shouted. "My wares have been stolen. Organize a search, call out the guard. Colonel, I demand an entire company of men to see to the thieves."

"Out of my sight, you fool," said the officer, hiding his flattery at the impromptu promotion with a sharp kick to van Clynne's rear.

The Dutchman complied, heading up Stone Street with considerable haste. Along the way, he spotted the wig-maker's shop. But he dared not duck inside while the sentry stood at the end of the block in full view. Indeed, he waited out of sight at the end of the block for nearly an hour until he spied the man being relieved. Thus it was nearly supper time before he was able to enter the shop.

"Here for a bloodletting?" asked the proprietor, who like many of his brethren was a barber.

"No, I was more interested in wigs," said the Dutch
man. He settled into the large chair that sat at the
center of the shop while he surveyed his surroundings
and concocted a plan.

"Wigs?" The barber was a pudgy sort with a nose
that, to van Clynne, betrayed a great interest in drink.
Whether the conclusion was warranted or not, it sug
gested a course of action — provided he could overcome the man's initial suspicions.

"Wigs," agreed the squire.

"You don't look like a man who wears one. Though
you could use a smaller hat."

"That is the reason for the room beneath my crown," declared the Dutchman. "I have come in
search of the finest wig-maker in the city. You
are
Mr.
George, I presume."

"Yes, indeed."

"Wig-maker to Sir William?"

The man patted his left palm with a barber's fleam retrieved from the center table. Ordinarily used for let
ting blood, the sharp instrument was an intimidating
weapon under any circumstance.

"What business is that of yours?"

"No business," said van Clynne. "Merely that he rec
ommended you to me, that is all. For a wig."

"As I said, you do not seem the type to wear a wig. The habit has largely gone out of style, except among
the highest class of British officers. And even then — "

"Well that is where you are wrong, sir," said van Clynne. "Quite wrong. Indeed, I believe a club wig would look quite handsome on me."

"A club wig? On a Dutchman?" The barber laughed.
He loosened his white apron and removed it, revealing
a fashionably striped set of breeches and waistcoat. "No one has worn those in many years."

Van Clynne feigned confusion. "Sir William told me
he had just ordered a dozen."

"He's pulling your leg. He's quite a prankster, Sir
William. People don't realize he has a sense of humor. I tell you, no one knows a man like his barber. Let a little blood, and a bond forms."

"Indeed. Are you thirsty?"

"Thirsty?"

"I came in for a wig, but now I find myself in a mood
for a good bleed," lied van Clynne. "But in order to do
so, I need a little, preparation, shall we say?"

"A bit of Dutch courage, eh?" said the barber,
reaching back to a drawer on the counter near his side window. "Rum'll knock you up in a second. Medicinal,
of course."

"Actually, I was in mind of a strong beer or two.
Perhaps you will accompany me. I will stand for it, nat
urally."

The barber looked at him doubtfully. "It is getting late in the day. I was thinking of going upstairs for supper before too long. The wife is waiting."

"She would begrudge you a beer with a customer?"

"If the truth be told — "

"What is happening in our city?" complained van
Clynne, rising from the chair. "These rebels have put
foolish notions into everyone's heads. Women no
longer know their proper place. I tell you, sir, during
Governor Stuyvesant's day, none of this would have
happened."

"Now, now, relax, man. She is a good woman. Too given to church sermons, that is all. Trying to keep me
on the righteous path."

"Well," said van Clynne haughtily, "from the way Sir William was bragging about you, I thought you would
accept my invitation to a drink quite readily. But I shall
have to tell him he was wrong."

"Just a minute now," said the barber, taking his arm.
"Do you really require a letting?"

"I have been feeling most melancholy of late," said
van Clynne. "Given to heavy moods. I also require a wig. I would naturally want the most expensive, in keeping with my station."

"That being?" “

“
Purveyor of purveyment. Contracting contracts. And the like," said Van Clynne.

"No horses' hair for you then, I daresay."

"Beneath contempt."

"Well, I cannot avoid my duty to my fellow man,"
said the barber, who also would not avoid the possibil
ity of a handsome profit and free drinks. "After all, I have taken an oath."

The oath happened to be in relation to his wife's
cooking — perhaps they could have a bite to eat as well.

"Which tavern did you have in mind?" he asked.

"Y
ou understand, sir, that the style was originally
called an entire, as it contained hints of every brewing
method known to man.” Van Clynne continued. “Top fermenting — yes, that is the proper place for a porter to begin, at the height of the liquid, where the flavor noodles can take their proper perspective on the proceedings. You understand the theory of flavor noodles, do you not?"

The barber shook his head. He had been endeavor
ing to follow van Clynne's learned discussion on beer
through several light ales, four lagers, and a very seri
ous porter. The Dutchman had chosen this inn not merely because it lay in the opposite direction of the
fort, but because it made a specialty of brewing several various styles of beer. It thus fulfilled his purposes re
markably well.

The poor barber had begun to show signs of inebria
tion with his third tankard, and now betrayed distinct
symptoms of total drunkenness, finding not only that everything presented to him was pleasing, but endeavoring to be most pleasing in return. His new friend, in
turn, was not only agreeable but generous: Van Clynne
was willing not only to pay for the drinks, but had even
agreed to twice the normal sum for the planned blood
letting. Plus, he had ordered dinner — a very fatted
fowl, complete with fixings, still being prepared.

The Dutchman, judging that he had cooked his gan
der long enough, now pulled the fryer from the pan. "And so, sir, onto the topic of wigs."

"Wigs?"

"You have fitted Sir William, have you not?"

"Oh yes. Sir William. Has me cut his nose hairs. They grow like a jungle."

"I suppose he has ordered a tye wig?"

"Tye wigs, no."