might well recognize the horses, and pointed questions might not be easily turned away as this late attack.
Frowning as deeply as ever, van Clynne mounted his horse and waited impatiently as Jake said a short prayer commending the men to their fate. As he was sure they were going straight to hell, it was more in the way of thanksgiving than mourning.
Back on the road, the Dutchman’s tongue soon loosened. He began by complaining about the weather, which had turned very warm; he moved on to remarks about the thickness of the mosquitoes. In truth, the bugs were not thick at all, since it was only May, but logic had no bearing on van Clynne’s arguments, and if Jake had pointed this out, the Dutchman would instantly have found a dozen arguments to sustain his point. Jake kept his mouth shut, and presently, by some segue he couldn’t track, van Clynne was giving him a lengthy dissertation on the state of Indian affairs.
“ The fellow was an Iroquois from the Onondagas. A loner, but it is a bad sign nonetheless.”
“ He’s not a Mohawk?”
Van Clynne launched into the differences between the Maquas or Mohawks, who controlled the fur trade, and their Iroquois brothers to the west. The Mohawks called themselves “Ganiengehaga” meaning “the flint people” and referring to one of their stock trading items.
“ Have the Iroquois joined the British?” Jake asked, hoping his companion might yield some tidbits useful for Schuyler’s defense. If he was to be harangued all the way to Canada, he might as well try and make some use of it.”
“ Some yes, some no. There is a great debate among them even now. Schuyler has kept the tribes near him neutral so far, but there’s blood between the Iroquois and the British, and with these people, blood will tell,” said the Dutchman.
“ What do you mean, blood?”
“ Blood. One of their chiefs is related to the damn English. What’s worse, one of the English took an Iroquois for a bride. You know what that means?”
Jake shook his head.
“ These people are ruled by their women. It’s disgraceful. I am a great admirer of the Iroquois, except in this. They can’t make a move without their squaws. Let me give you a piece of advice that will stand you in good stead for the rest of your days — any woman who rules you will ruin you. Why do you think the Indians are so given to drink?”
Jake gave a noncommittal grunt.
“ Now in my day, a woman knew her place. Ensign Niessen at Wildwyck — there was a man who understood women. Had only to raise his eyebrow and his supper was fetched. And the woman was a good brewer besides. Aye, an excellent wife. Not like today.”
The name Wildwyck, as van Clynne eventually explained, was the true Dutch name for Kingston, changed from the even more appropriate Esopus by the admirable governor Peter Stuyvesant, who, though not without his faults, would tower over mankind like the Alps over Europe if he were alive today. As for Ensign Niessen, the man had lived a good century ago, something Jake knew because the house he stayed at near Kingston just a few days before had been built by Niessen’s son, already a full generation gone.
Though he spoke of him as a cousin, van Clynne couldn’t have known the ensign himself. His round face, obscured by a thick beard, was of indeterminate age, but Jake reckoned he wasn’t past fifty. There was a certain youthfulness in his voice, too, despite its constant pessimistic tone; it was quite possible that the Dutchman was only in his early forties, or perhaps even his thirties. This was much older than Jake, of course, but not nearly ancient; Dr. Franklin and many other leaders of the Revolution had marked considerably more years off the calendar. But van Clynne seemed to have acquired old age in his youth, cultivating it rather than running from it as most men do. His clothes were old-fashioned, cut fuller and looser than Jake’s even taking his girth into account. His belt was cinched with a massive buckle, ornately decorated in silver. Large buckles held his shoes tight to his feet, and despite the dust of travel, it was obvious that they had been blackened this morning, a bit of fussiness one ordinarily wouldn’t have associated with a country traveler. His stockings were a red russet — another obsolete mark, and an unusually colorful gesture for the otherwise cloudy Dutchman.
His breeches and coat were a dull brown. The sleeves were open peculiarly in a fashion worn almost exclusively in the Hudson Valley. Van Clynne’s hat was a fine beaver, well-proportioned for his head. Though the style was still popular, this particular hat looked ancient. It wasn’t that it was battered or worn; on the contrary. But the pelts themselves seemed somehow to have come from old beavers, with vague streaks of gray showing through in the light. The brim at the front was turned up slightly, affording a good line of sight to the burgher.
“ I’m not a burgher,” van Clynne said sharply.
“ I meant no offense.”
“ Next you’ll be calling me a patron.” The word spit from his mouth.
“ I just meant to ask where you came from,” said Jake contritely.
“ I haven’t asked you similar questions, have I? We have a business relationship, you and I: best to keep it that way.”
“ Fair enough.”
“ I retain the title Esquire from the British, since they are in possession of our country,” said van Clynne. “Especially since they are in possession of my piece of it.”
“ The English took your land?”
To Jake’s surprise, van Clynne didn’t answer, changing the subject instead.
“ It was a nice pistol.”
“ Which?”
The pistol you took from our friend. British, yes?”
“ I think so,” said Jake.
“ The flintlock is an intriguing invention. It was perfected by a Dutchman, you know.”
“ You’re pulling my leg, right? The Dutch haven’t invented anything in two hundred years.”
Van Clynne shot him a nasty glance and continued with his dissertation. “The only great weapon, though, is a blunderbuss. The wheel lock — do you know how many families have been saved by its invention? Ask the river Indians what they think of it.”
“ Bit of a pain to twist the spring when you’re under attack, isn’t it?” said Jake.
Jake had no need for a course on ballistics and was not inclined to listened to van Clynne’s discussion of the merits of smooth and rifled barrels. But his interest was piqued when suddenly the Dutchman began giving him an amazingly detailed description of a breech-loaded rifle.
Such a gun had been perfected only a few years before in England. Jake had seen one while he was there in school, and had not failed to be impressed by it. In fact he harbored hopes of conducting a special mission to England to retrieve one as a model for manufacture in the near future.
The gun’s key feature was a screw-threaded, ten-point plug in its breech at the top of the barrel. This allowed the ball or bullet to be placed there directly, rather than having to be rammed down the rifled barrel. Powder was wedged in behind it — you didn’t have to worry about measuring, since only the right amount fit. Back comes the plug, lock cocked, and -
“ Boom,” said van Clynne.
“ Boom,” echoed Jake. “Tell me, squire, where did you get such a weapon?”
“ Who said that I had one?”
“ You talk as if you do.”
“ No, no,” said van Clynne. “It is just an idea of mine. A fancy.”
Jake doubted that strenuously, but kept his opinion to himself. Instead, he opened a line of inquiry into another area that had lately interested him.
“ Where did you learn to throw a hatchet like that?”
“ I will answer that question,” replied van Clynne, “if you’ll tell me where you got that potion that stood our friend up like a skittle pin.”
“ I told you, I’m searching for cures,” said Jake. He’d hoped the drug had escaped his companion’s notice, but van Clynne was proving a wily type. “This was just a little concoction I came across in my travels.”
“ And would you have any more of it, by chance?”
“ Afraid not,” replied Jake, who would have answered the same even if he had. “It isn’t easy to obtain.”
