liberty.”
She stepped forward and rolled up her sleeves in determination, as if the job were in the bucket of water at her feet.
The bucket of water at her feet — she didn’t see it, and tumbled forward across the room. As quick as a bee darting into a ripe tulip, van Clynne caught her in midair. He held her for just a moment in a pose at once tender and exceedingly comical; Jake didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
What arguments could he suggest? What impediments to true love admit?
Hell, if the guards ran from fright, that would work, too.
“ Let’s go then,” he said. “Before they decide to hang our friend.”
Van Clynne was stationed in the old church ruins with two muskets borrowed from the innkeeper, Jake’s pistol and the Segallas. If the bomb failed to go off, he would raise enough of a ruckus to make it seem as if an entire regiment of Loyalist rangers were coming up the road. Van Clynne was not to hurt anyone, however — these were patriots, after all.
Jake, meanwhile, would sneak up on the soldier in the rear of the building, grabbing him from behind and administering a handful of sleeping powder when the bomb went off. Besides a reserve of the powder in his snuffbox, his only weapons were the knife tucked into his boot and the other strapped to his coat; he was counting on the youth’s inexperience to make him an easy target.
A patch of brambles covered the last thirty yards from the woods to the rear of the building. It was slow work getting through them and Jake was only two-thirds of the way when he heard a commotion from the front. Something had gone wrong — Jane was not supposed to arrive for at least five more minutes.
He dove through the brambles, but it was too late to grab the soldier. The Continental didn’t even hear Jake’s curses — he ran to the front of the building and was immediately cut down by gunfire.
This wasn’t van Clynne either — a squad of redcoats had seized control of the jail and nearby road. Having made short work of the guards, they brought up a wagon. Jake watched from behind the building as Herstraw was taken and placed in the back.
He ducked into the brambles and snuck back down the road as two British soldiers did a quick sweep behind the building. Finding nothing, they joined the others marching double-time down the road.
Who had alerted them? And wasn’t it odd that the wagon had come from the direction the patriots had taken earlier, the same direction they were not going in?
Jake, extremely good at geometry, did not like the way the angles added up on this rectangle. He slipped quietly back up the road, grabbing Jane as she was walking toward the building.
“ I heard the gunshots,” she said. “What’s going on?”
Signaling for her to keep quiet, he led her around to the ruins of the church, where they met van Clynne, who’d displayed the eminent good sense in remaining hidden throughout the brouhaha.
“ Now that you’re here, we can take these insolent — “
“ Ssssshhhhhh! Jake insisted. They crouched behind the stones of the foundation, waiting silently. In less than a minute a horse and rider rode up, went past the schoolhouse about a hundred yards, and then returned.
“ All clear!” called the man on horseback.
Jake had to put his hand out to keep van Clynne from rising. “He’s not talking to us.”
“ Who then?”
The question was answered by the bodies of the dead soldiers, rising from the dust as if Judgment Day had come.
“ Hurry now,” said the man on horseback to these newly created ghosts. He threw a bundle down from his mount, and the men quickly exchanged their blue coats for red.
Jake had to clamp his hand back over van Clynne’s mouth to stifle a curse. It was now clear how the Americans had known where to find the British messenger, and what identifier to look for — they weren’t Americans.
The man on the horse was the fellow who didn’t have the time to talk to me outside the inn,” said van Clynne when the men had gone.
“ He’s the baker in town,” added Jane. “He’s been stopping by the inn every night for the past three days. I must tell my uncle that he’s a traitor. They’ll tar and feather the damn bastard.”
“ Sweet Jane,” protested van Clynne, “such words should not touch your lips.”
“ You can’t move against him now, or they may realize we know about their operation,” Jake warned. “You’ll have to wait until he gives himself away somehow.”
“ We’ll watch the bastard,” said Jane. “And then we’ll crush him.”
“ Now, now, sweet Jane,” said van Clynne, patting her arm gently. “You should really control your emotions. Such words should never come from so beautiful a mouth as yours.”
“ The British killed my parents. I hate all Tories.”
“ Just so, just so. But a sweet thing like you — no hate should come from your lips. No vile words. Why just speaking those syllables has turned the air around you rancid.”
“ Damn,” said Jake, jumping up and grabbing the picnic basket. “That’s the fuse on the sleeping bomb!”
Chapter Twenty-two
Jake caught the smoldering cord just as the nascent flame reached for the fuse and its black powder charge. His fingers were singed, but otherwise he was uninjured.
Such could not be said of van Clynne or Jane. The pair bore no physical wounds, but the blows they had lately suffered were deeper than any inflicted by a 24-pounder. Cupid had loaded his muzzle with heart-shaped grapeshot, and scored bulls-eyes on both. The results were horrible to see — moon-shaped irises wide open in the starlight, slack jaws, and knees quivering and threatening to buckle. Such a bad case of love sickness had not been seen on the American continent since Pocahontas saved Captain Smith from being the guest of honor at a settler’s roast.
While unexpected, this development was not without potential benefits — Jake suggested that, van Clynne having kept his end of the bargain, he was no free to pursue other matters.
“ I wouldn’t dream of leaving you until our mission is accomplished,” protested the Dutchman as they returned to the inn for their horses. “You can’t overpower these redcoats by yourself.”
“ I don’t intend on overpowering them,” answered Jake, who wasn’t quite sure yet what he did intend, but was confident he would think of something.
“ I know every Dutch man and woman from here to the tip of Long Island. I’m related to half of them, and the other half are as good as relatives.”
“ You didn’t know Jane.”
“ On the contrary, it turns out I met her late mother’s father at a pig auction several years ago.”
Don’t touch it, Jake told himself. Don’t touch it.
“ Getting my land back has become even more important to me now,” added van Clynne, gently touching Jane’s arm. “I intend to settle down and raise a family of my own — if I can find the right woman.”
Jane’s glow lit the night.
“ Have anyone in mind?” Jake asked sarcastically.
“ Don’t pry, sir. Decency and good manners prevent me from broaching certain subjects until time runs its course. There is a particular Dutch way of doing things, and you will find it is much more in balance than your English or American way. The woman a Dutchman courts is a gentle, angelic thing, unblemished; he must work his way toward her slowly. The process is long but vastly rewarding.”
As van Clynne finished his impromptu ode to Dutch love, he squeezed Jane’s elbow. She responded by giving him a friendly if forceful swat on his rear. This took him by surprise, and he emitted a sound not unlike a cow’s
