The Golden Flask (41 page)

"Are they not popular in Boston?"

"Boston? I would not think so."

"Didn't Sir William enquire as to the popularity of wigs where he was going?"

"Isn't go'n Boston," said the barber, shaking his head. "He's going to Phil, Philadelphia. And you know what they wear there?"

Van Clynne did not bother to listen to the reply, ins
tead slapping two fresh notes on the counter. As he waved to the proprietor, the wig-maker abruptly fell over on the floor in a drunken stupor.

To say that the Dutchman was in a cheerful mood when he opened the door and stepped into
the now darkened street would be to understate the obvious. To say his spirits reversed
would miss the
mark again — for the Dutchman suddenly found a large arm coiling around his neck.

It belonged to his former jailer, Christof Egans.

Chapter Thirty-five

Wherein, Egans’ genealogical roots are briefly dug up, and concerns sprout regarding Jake’s state.

J
ust the man I
was looking for,” declared van Clynne, barely managing to keep his balance as he was pulled from the doorway and pushed against the wall.

"You will shut your mouth for me, Dutchman," answered Egans. "I have spent considerable energy track
ing you down, and waited here nearly a full hour."

"You should have come in," said van Clynne apolo
getically, noting the pistol in Egans's hand. "Surely I owe you a drink for delivering me to New York."

"Silence! You are worth as much to me dead as alive now." Egans loosened his grip and spat in disgust — a
reaction, it must be admitted, to the somewhat sour odor the beer had imparted to van Clynne's breath. "I hate the damn Dutch."

"I do not see why," said van Clynne, smoothing his beard with as much dignity as the circumstances per
mitted. "Considering that you are Dutch yourself."

"You are a miserable liar!" screamed Egans, pushing
the gun at van Clynne's face.

"Just so, sir, just so," tutted the Dutchman, casting an eye up and down the empty street before continu
ing. "But search your memory well after you shoot me.
Remember your dear birth mother. When her face
comes to mind, you will see it bore the strong, sturdy
lines of an Amsterdam native. A fine beer-maker, I might add; no one could beat her hops."

"My stepfather was killed by a Dutchman, van Gergen."

"Your stepfather was a noble warrior and a great chief to his people," said van Clynne. "But he was
killed by Von Gorgon. Von, not van. The vowel makes all the difference in the world. He was a German. They
are a notoriously disagreeable people."

"I do not believe you."

"Naturally," said van Clynne. He reached into his
pocket, smiling as Egans aimed his gun. "Allow me to
show you a map."

He produced the small sheaf of documents he had
taken from the engineering office and began leafing
through them. In due course he came to the map of the
quadrant in question and unfolded it for his captor. Von Gorgon's name was clearly marked.

As was Egans's, in a note indicating the German had
usurped the property that had once belonged to "good
Mr. Egans, his wife Gelda and child, miserably martyred by the native peoples."

Egans stepped back in confusion. Now it must be
admitted that this last note was in a hand remarkably
like van Clynne's, and that he had been examining this
particular page in great detail upon his return to the Sons' headquarters the previous evening. Even so, it was not the map nor the argument that convinced the adopted Indian, but van Clynne's details of his mother's face, which conjured a dark but accurate memory in his breast.

"Come, sir, let us step off the street where we can talk," suggested van Clynne, gingerly extending his
hand and lowering Egans's pistol. "I have not had supper. A good sturgeon steak, I believe, would revive me
properly. And you appear in need of several strong ales."

Some time later, seated in a tavern located in the
dock area and waiting for the well-buttered fish to be
served, van Clynne unwound the tale of Egans's ances
tors. John Egans had married Gelda Guldenwinckle of the Amsterdam Guldenwinckles, a housewife of the
old school. Particularly adept at raising tulips, she was
said by some gossipy neighbors to quite spoil her only
child, young Christof.

At this point in the narrative, a tear formed in the
ordinarily stoic Egans's eye, and the squire hastened to
proceed. It took nearly three hours and four times as many cups of strong ale to relate the entire story of
Egans's capture at the age of two by a small band of
Mohawk, who in due course turned the child over to
the Oneida. Van Clynne skipped over the womenfolk's role in the proceeding; this revealed his Western preju
dice, as a native would have instead properly empha
sized it. Nonetheless, his praise of Egans's stepfather was genuine and found a receptive ear.

Egans already knew much of the story well, but he
had never heard it put so eloquently or fetchingly. For
the first time in his life, he had something of an appre
ciation for his white parents as well as his red. It would
not be truthful to say that the former had replaced the
latter in his esteem, but the changeling now looked
upon the world with completely changed, if somewhat
beery, eyes.

Such was the power of van Clynne's tongue that, well
before the end of dinner — marked by some creamy
Gouda — Egans had not only given the Dutchman back
his paper money and passes, but his political allegiance
had shifted one hundred and eighty degrees. His hatred for the Dutch had been transformed into a complete loathing of the Germans — and thus by strong
logic their allies, the British. The fact that the English
had cheated him on countless occasions, and never shown him a quarter of the deference van Clynne
made so obvious in his speech, clearly helped this con
version, though in the squire's opinion the shift was merely a result of Dutch blood winning out.

"I will murder every damn mercenary I see," declared Egans, slamming his fist on the table so hard that his tankard, thankfully empty, fell to the floor.

"Quiet now. We will find a more appropriate venue
for your rage," said van Clynne, smiling nervously at their neighbors, including a pair of alarmed Hessians,
before hurrying to pay the bill.

* * *

L
ieutenant Daltoons paced through the large, empty room at the top of the infirmary. He had run out of fresh curses to use on himself for letting Alison slip
away, and as the old ones were by now well-worn, he
kept his vigil in silence. He assumed — he prayed — that
she had found Jake. He further assumed —he further prayed — that Jake's failure to return as promised was due to some minor complication.

He had done more than merely pray. The under
cover officer had spent much of the day searching the
city, together with some of Culper's other men, but
without result. Nor had Culper succeeded in discover
ing Howe's target, despite his best efforts.

The spy ring itself remained in mortal danger. The British had reacted to yesterday's jail break with great indignation, to say nothing of increased patrols and a
tripling of the normal guard at every facility. Nearly
every soldier who remained in the city had been set to
work harassing suspected patriot sympathizers,
and
there was word that the authorities were planning to
conduct a house-to-house search for the escapees.

Culper had taken the precaution of sending men known to be wanted into hiding and emptying the
places the Sons of Liberty had used with great regular
ity. This infirmary was one of them, but as it was the
place Jake was to return to, someone must wait here. And Daltoons had appointed himself that someone.

The Connecticut native had served Culper and the other members of the Sons of Liberty spy ring in a variety of capacities. He had never been more con
cerned than now, however. The lieutenant was not so much worried about Jake, whom he regarded as some
thing of a mentor, but the spirited Miss Alison, whose
beauty he had no trouble spotting beneath her rough disguise. She was a very remarkable girl, he thought to himself. More than remarkable. Were the circumstances different . . .

The reader may well fill in that last thought, as Daltoons had no time to do so himself. A loud wail rose at the far end of the block and sent the lieutenant to the window. He had not heard such a horrible sound since the landlord had packed five bags full of cats and kittens and tossed them into the harbor.

As his ears struggled from the strain, he realized the wail was actually a maudlin Dutch song of thanksgiving:

We gather together

To ask the Lord's blessing.

He chastens and hastens

His will to make known.

The wicked oppressing

Now cease to be distressing.

Sing praises to His name

For He forgets not His own.

Except that the words sounded more like:

We gather together

To ask good Laura's blessing.

She hastens to unbutton

That her bosom be known.

With lavish caressing

We complete the undressing.

Sing praises to her

Whose lips are our own.

"I assume this singing is some strategy of yours, meant to scare off the English," Daltoons said, meeting the two purveyors of this song at the back door with a sharp halberd as they concluded the verse. He had to retreat a step, so thick was the stench of beer from them.

"Just so, sir, just so," declared van Clynne, putting
his finger to the point of the weapon. "We have pre
tended to be drunken revelers to put off the patrols.
We are not, of course, though I daresay such accom
plished tones have not been heard on these streets in many years."

"Thank God."

"Allow me to introduce my friend and fellow kins
man, Mr. Egans, a worthy Dutchman of the finest stock, and a fine tenor, all told.

Daltoons's head tilted forward incredulously as he examined the man before him. He did have white fea
tures, and they might perhaps be Dutch, but they were
sheathed in garb that was so obviously Indian as to chase any other nationality far away.