“ Why don’t you appeal to the local magistrates?”
Van Clynne made a frightful spitting sound. “Half of them are descended from the thieves who robbed my family. But a letter from your friend, General Washington — “
“ I didn’t call the general my friend. He is my commander. Our commander.”
“ If I’m truly as vital to your plan as you said,” smiled van Clynne, “you’ll be happy to help. Indeed, I would be most valuable to the patriot Cause. I flatter myself when I say I am a man of many talents.”
“ You flatter yourself, indeed.”
The Dutchman launched into a few minutes of extended hyperbole concerning his great love of Freedom and the like. Jake finally cut him off.
“ I will put in a word for you, but I can’t make any promises.”
“ Deal,” said the Dutchman, sticking out his hand and shaking. “Our friend has traveled on to Fishkill to stay with some acquaintances, then leaves in the morning bound for White Plains via the pass in the mountains south of the village. I know a quick way to the town. As I’ve concluded my sale of the coach, I’m free to take you there first thing in the morning.”
“ We’re leaving now,” said Jake.
“ Now? It’s past ten. And it’s dark.”
“ It usually is at this hour.”
“ We can’t travel at night. The highways are filled with all sorts of robbers and Indians.”
“ We’ll go by water, then.”
“ Actually, I think the rumors of danger on the roads are quite overblown,” said van Clynne.
Chapter Nineteen
If there is a town in upper New York that had done its yeoman’s duty in the War of Independence, it is tiny Fishkill. After the British took Long Island and New York City in 1776, they followed those conquests with a battle for White Plains farther north. This was a bloody and dangerous fight for the patriot Cause, all the more so because it followed such serious losses. But victory turned the tide of the war. General Howe — the same general with whom Jake is presently preoccupied — had to retreat to New York City to consolidate his gains and lick his wounds as the fall began slowly turning to winter.
The Americans likewise had wounds to lick, and a great many of them were healed in Fishkill, a small village some forty or so miles north of where the battle had taken place. The entire hamlet became a hospital, with sundry buildings, tents, and even the roadway used as operating theaters and recovery rooms. The air reeked with the smell of hard-won Freedom and Liberty, the cries of suffering echoing between the hills and across the creek that marked the town.
The same campaign that caused the fall of New York and the blood at White Plains sent the state congress fleeing northward, briefly landing at White Plains and then, on August 29, 1776, to Fishkill. The village gave not one, but two of its churches to the congress, beginning with Trinity on the east side of the Post Road. This was no so great a sacrifice as might be expected, for Trinity here as elsewhere meant “English,” which in turn meant “Tory,” and any sympathizer in the neighborhood by now had either fled or gotten very good at holding his breath.
It did not take long for the politicians to be driven down the street by a second invading horde — a flock of birds entered through the glassless windows and took up residence, punctuating the proceedings with loud cries and other comments on the quality of debate. The congress adjourned westward down the road to the Dutch Reformed Church, which not only had the benefit of glass, but also happened to be across from one of the finest pubs in the state.
The village lasted as state capital for only a short while, the representatives soon hearing of better quarters and even better taverns farther north at Poughkeepsie and then Kingston; nonetheless, its contributions to the Cause will be long remembered.
Alas, upon their arrival in the center of town several hours before dawn, Jake was in no position to celebrate the village’s history. Despite his eagerness to help, van Clynne’s knowledge of Herstraw’s whereabouts had not proven as precise as promised. It was not that the Dutchman couldn’t locate the house where the messenger was staying. On the contrary; he located the house in three different places, and could offer no method of telling which might be the genuine article. Jake’s plan to sneak inside and switch messages while the man slept was thus dealt a temporary setback. And as it would soon be light anyway, he decided his only course was to wait until a better opportunity presented itself.
They could at least be reasonably sure the messenger would take the pass south through the Highlands over the Post Road. The only other way to White Plains was to first travel northeast to Wiccopee, a highly unlikely route for anyone to take. Or so Jake, who with every passing minute became more and more aware of Schuyler’s deadline and the possibility that Albany would be lost, consoled himself.
The Episcopal graveyard had a good vantage of the highway, and Jake suggested they take turns napping there until morning. Van Clynne stated in the most absolute terms that he would sooner step foot in a British counting house. His fear of cemeteries was nearly as great as his phobia of water. He cited superstition after superstition against it, and implied he would stand straight up in the middle of the road all night rather than sleep in a graveyard.
“ Then you take the first watch,” said Jake, tying his horse to a stake and taking his blanket among the stones. “Wake me in an hour, or if he passes.”
For Jake, a cemetery was not a place of horror but one of succor; if it was haunted, undoubtedly the spirits would be friendly towards such a righteous cause as Freedom. So what was to worry?
“ Plenty to worry about,” grumbled van Clynne, sitting against a tree at the very edge of the yard. “There are many people I wouldn’t like to meet dead, I’ll tell you. It’s only the fear of death while they’re alive that keeps them in line. Remove that, and there’s no telling what they might be capable of.”
“ People treat you the way you treat them,” said Jake. “If you didn’t try and swindle everyone during life — “
“ I am not a swindler, sir. I am a businessman.”
“ My family has been in business itself for many years, and I’ve never seen anyone as contentious as you.”
“ What do you sell?” asked van Clynne, interested as much in having someone keep him company in this dreary place as in finding out Jake’s history.
“ The story I told of my family’s business going north was true. My father started with his brother importing drugs to American. That is still our main business, though more in spirit than dollars.”
“ Ha! And you call me a swindler. It’s no wonder you have such a cheery view of the world,” said van Clynne. “You’re born to be an optimist, promising that things will get better if only you drink a cure.”
“ I need no more than a hour’s nap. Wake me then, and you can have the rest of the night.”
“ I can’t sleep in a graveyard.”
“ Fine. Wake me at dawn.”
Van Clynne continued his complaints as Jake drifted off. The Dutchman grumbled about the price he had obtained for his fancy carriage, which he now saw was at least five crowns too low. He grumbled about the weather, despite it being as fine as any spring in the past twenty years. He even grumbled about the fact that the gravestones were not laid in perfect lines. He grumbled so much that he soon fell into a contented snore.
Contented but loud. It woke Jake directly.
The patriot spy was both annoyed and amused to see the Dutchman curled between two headstones, his arm lopped over one as if consoling a lover. Fortunately, Jake’s half-hour snooze had been enough to restore his alertness, and he decided he’d watch the road himself the rest of the night. There’d be time enough to sleep when the job was done.
He had sat at his gravestone for about a quarter hour when he saw a strange sight emerge from the pre-
