avenging angels, here to take the killer to hell.'
'John, if he was riding with Major Johnson-'
'Let's let our guest explain himself, Esmond, before we jump to any conclusions. The woods are filled with traitors.'
'Esmond, now there is a handsome name,' said van Clynne, holding his silvery gray hat to his chest. 'Is it Dutch, by any chance?' 'Not that I know.' 'A pity,' he said. 'Step away from your horse.'
Van Clynne took the rein in his hand. 'I merely want to make sure he stays with me. A fine animal, but not too trustworthy. A bit like a rebel, no?'
'And how do you know we're not rebels?' demanded John.
'Come, sir, I would think our loyalties are above question.' Van Clynne reached for one of the bags tied to his saddle. 'I have always sworn firm allegiance to the king. If you wish, I have some papers that will clear me of any suspicion. Though I would hardly think that necessary under the circumstances. Indeed, there was a time when a Dutchman's wink, let alone his word, was his guarantee — ' 'Shut up and show us your pass before I fill your mouth with my musket.' 'If he was with Major Johnson — ' 'Quiet, Esmond. What is your name, criminal?'
'Claus van Clynne, Esquire, at your service,' said the Dutchman, taking the bag in hand as he bowed and waved his hat in a grand gesture of introduction.
Van Clynne's tone had suddenly turned from sincere to sardonic, but the Tory on horseback had no time to respond — a bullet whizzed from the nearby woods and caught him on the side, pushing him forward on his horse.
The author of the shot was none other than Jake Gibbs. The Dutchman had caught sight of him creeping into position in the woods, and endeavored to attract the strangers' attention with his prattle while Jake prepared his assault. But even the most elaborate tactical plan carries with it a flaw, and here the shortcoming was quickly apparent — Jake was armed with only one pistol, and having fired that one, was defenseless as the dead man's partner turned and confronted him with his musket at close range.
The man was so intent on pulling back the lock to shoot that he hardly noticed van Clynne still fussing behind him with his hat and bag. As he settled his aim, the Dutchman dropped the leather sack and flung one of the items it had contained — an Iroquois tomahawk — head over handle. With the sharp flap of a hawk descending for the kill, it flew directly into the Tory's head, slicing it asunder.
Chapter Two
You see now, sir, that fashion can have its utilitarian side,' said van Clynne. 'My hat distracted them sufficiently for me to remove my weapon unobserved. You could not have done that with your customary tricorner.'
'The only distraction that mattered was my shooting them,' Jake said testily.
'Hmmph,' said van Clynne. 'I was ready to attack well before then, but waited for you out of courtesy. It would have been impolite to deprive you of a share of the glory.'
'Uh-huh.'
'I should remind you that there were two tomahawks in my bag. Frankly, I could not understand your delay in firing; I thought my tongue would rot with its praise of that villain King George.'
'I was waiting for you to torture them with an explanation of your economic theories, Claus. They would have run for their lives and I wouldn't have had to waste the powder.'
'Mark me, sir.' Van Clynne's round face grew bright red, his cheeks puffing above the thick yet somehow scraggly beard that grew beneath his mouth and chin. His nose pinched and pointed northward, and his thick brows furrowed above his eyes. This was a sign that he intended to speak with great seriousness, as was the velocity of his finger as it rent the air. In truth, the Dutchman would declare that he always spoke with great seriousness, but as he always spoke, some pronouncements were naturally more serious than others.
'The philosophy of Adam Smith will be revered for generations to come,' van Clynne declared. 'You, sir, should have sympathy with his theories, as they are most fitting for a democracy, and provide the basis for the overthrow of this heinous taxation system imposed by the mother country.'
'Revolutions are things of the heart, Claus, not the head. A man feels he must be free before he can explain it.'
The Dutchman sniffed at the rebuke and followed his usual tactic when checked, which was to change the subject. 'You fuss with those dead bodies so much I would think you an undertaker's son, rather than a druggist's.'
'If I had a shovel and we were across American lines or better armed, I'd bury them properly,' said Jake, standing back from the fence where he'd propped the three dead men. In truth, the tableau was a shade grotesque; if not for their gaping wounds and blood-stained clothes, the men might be sitting down to a roadside tea. He unrolled his sleeves and despite the lingering heat of the spring day pulled his coat back over his shoulders. 'We'll have to send the first patrol we meet to do so. Even a thief deserves to be properly buried.'
'We'd best continue on our way before we're in need of the same service,' warned van Clynne from his horse.
None of the dead men carried a shred of paper indicating who they might be or what they were about. Under other circumstances, Jake might have decided to spend some time finding out. He suspected that Johnson was a British or Tory agent, waiting for other traitors; capturing their accomplices would be a good day's work. But Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs, secret service agent assigned temporarily to the Northern Department of the Continental Army, had more pressing responsibilities. He was to return to Albany in six days and report to Major General Philip Schuyler, commander of the Northern Department of the Continental Army, that General Sir William Howe had no immediate plans to come north on the Hudson River.
The reason he had no such plans will be familiar to those who have followed Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs's previous exploits. Gibbs and van Clynne had just succeeded in foisting themselves off on Howe as messengers from General Johnny Burgoyne, telling him Burgoyne did not wish him to proceed north. While this was directly contrary to Burgoyne's grand plan for ending the war, the American agents had managed to completely convince Sir William. As the elaborate stratagem has been described in detail elsewhere, we will skip over it here, saying only that had Jake and van Clynne failed, General Schuyler would have abandoned Albany. Indeed, he would have had little recourse but to give over the entire Hudson Valley to the British, thereby splitting the states in two, and leaving New England and the Revolution to be strangled on the vine.
While the author has grown reflective, Jake and van Clynne have mounted their horses, taken the others in tow, and continued north on the road toward White Plains. Jake has retied his hair with a spare piece of black cloth found in one of his companion's copious pockets. There was mention of a rental fee amounting to two pence per day, with interest compounded on the fortnight; the reader has fortunately missed the lieutenant-colonel's somewhat scatological retort.
Jake soon had more considerable matters to ponder. He noticed that his mare's right foreleg was giving her difficulty; she had strained herself during her panicked flight. After switching to the gray-dappled stallion so lately owned by Johnson, the two patriots moved forward at a slower pace, hoping the mare could be saved.
Van Clynne in the meantime expressed various opinions, mostly in the form of complaints, about the state of the American economy, which had become subject to wild inflation and artificial shortages, cheating honest businessmen and providing opportunity only for scoundrels. Why the Dutchman fit into the first group when he so easily and consistently made profits the second would envy was not adequately addressed by his theories, though Jake would be the last to point this out — it would only encourage van Clynne to speak at greater length
Within fifteen minutes — at about the point where the squire was running down the beaver trade — they came upon a party of American pickets, who had set up a post on a wooden bridge over a tributary of the Bronx River. The men wore tattered hunting shirts; if these had been originally cut from leather, they had long since transmuted into a thinner and foreign cloth. Their breeches were not in much better shape, well worn and in a few cases patched; in others, simply torn. Their hose was nonexistent, and it would cause a grave injustice to the
