jabbering. Your friend would do well to stay out of our way,” he added. “Or perhaps we will find some use for him.”
“ You can be sure that I will make a full report of this to General Howe,” said van Clynne.
“ Never mind that. What did you do to my men?”
“ Your men,’ replied the squire with consternation equal to the sergeants, “can’t hold their liquor. They took me to a tavern and proceeded to make a spectacle of themselves. I had come to expect more from the British Army. It had been said, in fact, that the men of your regiment were considerably more accomplished at whoring than the army as a whole.” Van Clynne touched the point of the sergeant’s sword gingerly, then pushed it away. “The next time you post an honor guard, I would expect the chosen men to be of a higher caliber. If they want to guard me, then they had better keep up with me in all departments.”
The sergeant’s face, which has started so haughty and self-assured, began to melt into a slippery mass of confusion. With van Clynne in control, Jake’s presence was only an unnecessary complication; he was best off slipping away.
Except that the bullet had flown from his hand before van Clynne could grab it. Now where was it?”
On hands and knees, Jake scoured the ground in search of the ball as van Clynne continued to harangued the sergeant. The Dutchman had a special quality about him when he really got going. Here was a man who might sell London Bridge back to the king.
Ah, but could he sell it to Miss Pinkelton, who must be the redheaded girl at the very far end of the block? What other young woman would be dressed so smartly this early in the day, and walking here besides? The sergeant — and the nearby whaleboat — had obviously been waiting for her, not van Clynne.
Jake saw the girl with one eye; with the other he spotted the bullet in the dust. He scooped it up and jumped to his feet.
“ Now that I see you are in good hands,” he told van Clynne, “I’ll be taking my leave. General Bacon is expecting me.” He reached into his pocket and took out a blank paper; as he handed it to van Clynne he passed the bullet along with it. “You’ll give General Howe my note?”
“ Oh, yes,” said van Clynne.
“ Let me see that,” said the sergeant, grabbing at the paper.
The bullet rolled from van Clynne’s palm down his jacket sleeve well before he let go of the paper. The sergeant opened the scrap furiously — only to discover it was blank.
“ Naturally,” said Jake. “You don’t think I’m going to risk something like that falling into rebel hands. They’re all around us, even here.”
There was a definite magic ink craze in the colonies, the sergeant concluded; next he would find one used for a shopping list. But there was nothing to do but give it to van Clynne.
“ Row him out to the general. I’m sure he’ll find him a comfortable companion.”
“ I’m not leaving this spot without an apology,” said van Clynne. “My friend was knocked down and I was treated most rudely. I deserve and apology, and possibly restitution.”
“ Don’t push your luck,” said the sergeant.
Though van Clynne’s sense of dignity had little need for prodding, he continued to protest as part of a delaying tactic initiated by certain frantic hand signals and gestures Jake made before he ran off down the street.
The secret agent, careful to block Miss Pinkleton’s view of the confrontation, doffed his hat with a sweeping gesture as she approached. Red curls flowed from beneath her bonnet, and her light purple dress flared in a satiny glow from her hips. She might be sixteen. Certainly she had not wielded her fan often, as he could tell from the awkward way she unfolded it and tried to flutter it before her face.
“ Miss Melanie Pinkleton?”
“ Yes,” she replied in a bashful voice.
“ Allow me to introduce myself,” said Jake as he straightened. “I am Jake Gibbs, on special assignment to General Howe.
“ Oh,” said the young woman. “Pleased to meet you.”
Jake stood closer, speaking in confidential tones. He was more than a foot taller than she was; her body was so slight he could easily have tucked her under and arm and carried her away.
But these operations required a certain delicacy, with Howe’s guards only a half block away.
“ The general has asked me to speak with you confidentially.”
“ I’m on my way to see him now.”
“ Here, quickly, come this way with me,” Jake said, tugging her arm in the direction of a side street.
“ I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“ Please,” said Jake, smiling with all of his might. “You would not wish to present a scene on ship, would you?”
A look came over her face, the dark threatening cloud that spoils a perfect summer afternoon. “It’s her, isn’t it?” Mrs. Loring.”
Jake nodded solemnly. Miss Melanie Pinkelton suddenly appeared close to tears.
“ He told me he was going to break it off with her,” she said, her voice breaking.
“ Come with me, Melanie,” said Jake, gently wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Let us talk for a bit in private. I know a fine tavern nearby, run by a friend of mine, a certain Paul Smith.”
“ He’s a rebel.”
“ Well,” said Jake, “we wouldn’t want to hold that against him, would we?”
Undoubtedly, a philosopher of the four humors basic to human life would be able to explain van Clynne’s fear of the ocean as an imbalance relating to the overabundance of liquid in his person; like naturally repels like, and thus he seeks to avoid it at all cost. Van Clynne’s own theory related to a childhood memory — he had been dropped into a large barrel of water as a child and held down for several minutes, and ever since worried about being drowned.
The squire is a man of business and not science, and thus will be forgiven for mistaking the origin of his fear. The relevance here, however, is that once in the rowboat, he could think of nothing but that event, and as a result, his knees began shaking so badly the sergeant charged with rowing him to Howe demanded to know what the problem was.
“ Yer gonna shake us right into the water, laddie. Get a grip on your knees.”
Van Clynne nodded weakly and pulled them together with his hands.
“ First time out in a boat?”
Van Clynne shook his head. With even this gentle motion his stomach threatened evasive maneuvers.
“ First time with a Scotsman, I daresay,” ventured the sergeant. “Yer in good hands, laddie — never lost one yet.”
Van Clynne gave him a brief, weak smile, his eyes still locked on the floorboards. The wood, though wet, allowed him at least a vague fantasy that he was on the solid ground of an old tavern.
“ Have ya seen a bonnet as smart as this one?” offered the Scotsman, trying to divert van Clynne’s attention. He was referring to his headgear, one of the most distinctive marks of his unit, the 42 ^ Royal Highland Regiment of Foot; aka the Black Watch. A round, overgrown beanie with a plaid band and a large, fuzzy crown that shot up above the wearer’s head, it looked as if an exotic, blue-skinned animal had encamped on his head.
The oarsman’s idea of stealing the Dutchman’s attention from the sea was a good one, and might have worked especially well in this case, given van Clynne’s strong feelings on the subject of hats. Unfortunately, his question had the effect of drawing van Clynne’s eyes to his head — and the vast blue ocean behind it.
In no more than a second, the squire’s view changed from sea green ocean to dark, blank space. Van Clynne had fainted.
“ In short, miss, the general is a rogue.” Jake pushed her coffee cup aside — for some reason, Paul Smith’s inn was always out of tea — and leaned across the table to take her hands. “You affections are wasted on him.”
“ But he is so handsome and…” Her voice trailed off.
