The reader should not think that Squire van Clynne has been idle during this interlude; in fact, the good and portly Dutchman has been doing yeoman service in the name of the Cause, rising well before dawn with the vim and vigor of a man determined to serve his country, though if the full truth be told, he did not rise in a very good mood. Indeed, the Dutchman had even more vinegar about him than normal and was twice as irascible, grumping and growling through his morning toilet.
Had we the time, we might linger over the description of this morning preparation, for the Dutchman is fastidious to a fault, customarily rubbing not merely his eyes but his cheeks and nose with the frosty water that stands fresh by the innkeeper's kitchen door. He combs his beard five times through every dawn with his whalebone comb, and even takes this instrument once gently through the hair atop his head. He then spends another minute or more maneuvering his large and revered hat over his crown, until it finds its most striking position. Last but not least, he runs his hands over his many pockets, belts, and buckles, making sure his weapons, money, and passes are at the ready.
This morning these customary ministrations were accompanied by a litany of complaints directed at the injustice of his assignment, and the lengths he has gone to in the name of the Cause. It must be remembered that the Dutchman, whatever his other interests, is first and foremost a hearty patriot and a sworn enemy of all that is British, with the exception of their ale. His hatred has been bred into his genes, and in some respects, he regards the Revolution as personal vindication of his attitude.
Thus, it is natural that his ego would suffer a great blow at being left behind while Jake proceeded on the adventure to rout the Tories; he feels that he has been treated, if not quite as a cowardly poltroon, at least as a hanger-on. Considering his role — or at least, his view of his role — in delivering the fake message to Howe, this new job is a considerable disappointment. To be given the task of riding unadventurously to Albany to meet with Schuyler — a Dutchman who prefers Madeira to beer and relied on a British model in constructing his home well, Samson had not been taken down so far when his locks were shorn.
There are, naturally, more material concerns: the squire was counting on an introduction from Jake to General Putnam to smooth the way for future business dealings, which would be of benefit not merely to himself but to his country. Far beyond that, he realizes that his best hopes for regaining his family property rest almost entirely on Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs and his influence with His Excellency General George Washington. If Gibbs were to forget him — or worse, if he were to somehow become incapacitated — van Clynne would have to return to his past regime of endless legal battles and sob-filled entreaties.
The Dutchman put aside his cares at his predicament to bid farewell to his beloved. He promised he would return; he told her she was the tulip of his garden; she was the yeast of his bread. Jane gave the only response possible in the circumstance — she happily continued to snore, as his shakes had not succeeded in waking her. The Dutchman left her sleeping with her aunt, bid the rest of the dark house goodbye, and started north on the road to Pine's Bridge. He had the two dead Tories' horses hitched behind his own gelding, intending to deliver them to the nearest American post, or to Schuyler himself, depending on which promised the most advantage.
He also planned to do everything in his power to find Jake and smash the nest of vipers himself, without violating the letter of his commander's instructions to head for Albany. After all, the road network here was extremely tangled; it could take days to leave Westchester, if the proper route were found.
The lack of light did not impede his progress as much as the lack of food in his stomach; he had not gone a half mile when a gnawing sound presented itself, growing louder with each step his horse took. Within two miles, he started to look for an inn.
The first to present itself featured a sign with a man with his wife on the back, yielding the inn's nom de drink, loaded with mischief. This was obviously a very new establishment, as van Clynne had not met it before. His curiosity aroused, he tied his horse to the front post and walked up the short run of red brick to the front door. A fresh coat of green paint had been applied to the thick, battle-scarred wood, confirming — in van Clynne's mind, at least — that the inn was new, though the house itself was a nondescript brick affair that could have been erected at any point during the past fifty years.
'The wife will be down shortly,' said the sleepy-eyed proprietor, greeting him in the foyer. Glad for the business, he hustled van Clynne to a seat in the small front room to the right. 'We'll have some coffee for you directly. I'm sorry I can't offer you tea — it's too dear in these parts to afford, nearly as much as salt.'
The Dutchman fell to commiserating with the man, who although of German stock was not altogether unpleasant. He had seen no one answering Jake's description, and van Clynne thought it best not to ask too many questions; the man's accent was thick enough to indicate his arrival in America was recent, making his loyalties suspect.
The coffee was strong, and van Clynne soon found it worked wonders for his disposition. But it was not until he overheard the innkeeper's conversation with two men at the door that the Dutchman's mood truly lifted.
They were a peculiar pair to be up this early. Their white shirts were so yellowed they might not have been washed in two winters, and their black trousers — a modern invention van Clynne did not agree with — were as crumpled as a discarded page of Rivington's lying Tory newspaper. Neither man had shaved successfully for a fortnight, though their faces bore the evidence of several close attempts. An expert limner could not have painted a more convincing portrait of two thieves down on their luck.
But the Dutchman was no mere portrait artist. He was an accomplished student of human nature and, as he had told Jake ad infinitum, a good man of business. He immediately realized the men were not mere robbers but privateers strayed far from their ship. More accurately, they must be members of a recent crew who had traveled inland to sell off their share of the loot at a better profit than what they could make in port. As such, they were prime recruits of the good dame Opportunity's army, and she had decided to knock on Claus van Clynne's door with a vengeance.
'Any bushel you can find will fetch nine dollars at least,' one of the men told the keeper. To judge from his companion's remarks, the man's name was Shorty, though in truth he stood much taller than average.
'They're paying ten at Newburgh,' said the second man, who was nicknamed Fats. He was of far less than average weight — obviously the pair came from a part of the country where bodies or nicknames were deformed. 'Two dollars would be robbery,' responded the innkeeper. 'Salt was thirty cents not two years ago.' 'The problem is the money. You can't count its worth,' said Shorty. 'I have Spanish dollars, as solid as any.'
'Fifty reals per bushel,' suggested Fats.
'Two bushels for five duros, and not a real more.'
'Can't be done. That's not even thirty shillings,' complained Shorty.
'It's forty if it's a penny.'
'Excuse me,' said van Clynne, stirring from his chair to enter the conversation. 'Perhaps if you used Dutch equivalents as a standard, your calculations would be easier.'
'What business is it of yours?' demanded the innkeeper.
Van Clynne gave him an indulgent smile. 'I have overcome such difficulties many times. Perhaps if I offered my services as a negotiator.'
'Just another profiteer looking to cut himself in,' said Shorty.
'No, no, I am an honest philosopher, a follower of the good Adam Smith,' said van Clynne. 'As men of business, I assume you have read his work?'
'There was an Adam Brown with us on the Raven,' offered Fats. 'He was a mate.'
'An amazing coincidence,' remarked van Clynne. 'Perhaps they are brothers.'
'You owe me two pence for your coffee,' said the keeper. 'You may pay in legal tender and take your leave.'
'Tut, tut, my good man,' said van Clynne. 'I wouldn't think of using English money in a good Revolutionary household such as this.' He turned to Shorty, obviously the brains of the operation, such as they were. 'I gather you are from Connecticut?' 'So?' 'I always like to know where my partners come from,' answered van Clynne. 'Partners?' 'Obviously you don't want my services as a mediator, so I will have to get involved in this transaction directly.' 'I think you'd best stay out of this business,' countered the keeper.
'Business is my business,' said van Clynne, extending his hand in a grand gesture of friendship. 'Claus van Clynne, at your service.'
