'Without doubt, though she's the most rambunctious girl I've ever met. But give her her due: she just helped me lie my way off Clayton Bauer's estate.'
'Bauer? He captured you?'
'No. I had the bad luck to wash up on his shore. Alison passed herself off as a boy there, and talked Bauer's sister-in-law into helping us.'
At last Culper was impressed. 'How old is she?'
'I believe fifteen, perhaps a year more.'
'I don't know that we can keep her here. Things are far too dangerous now. The entire city is turned against us.'
'General Washington was afraid' you might be dead.'
'Not yet. But many of our people have been forced into hiding — or jail.'
'The general needs to know Howe's plans,' said Jake. 'He has intercepted a message that claims he's attacking Boston.'
'Very possible,' said Culper. 'His whole staff has disappeared from Manhattan. They're not on Staten Island either. Apparently everyone Howe values has been placed aboard ship and is sitting just over the horizon, whether waiting for the winds to change or some portent from heaven, it is impossible to say. Boston may be his target.'
'Why would he go north? Why risk another defeat there?'
'If it were Philadelphia, why not just continue across the Jerseys?' answered Culper. 'We have heard every city on the continent as a destination. I have sent a number of our men to try and discover Howe's plans, with nothing to show for it. My best hope was Robert Anthony, who infiltrated General Clinton's headquarters. Clinton has been left behind, though whether Howe trusts him with his plans seems to vary from week to week.'
'Where is Anthony?'
'Sitting in one of the city jails, waiting to be taken to the prison ships or hanged, whatever they decide.'
'We must rescue him and see what he has found.' Jake said.
'I'm glad you feel that way,' said Culper, a bit of his more usual spirit reviving in the twinkle of his eyes. 'We have an operation planned this very afternoon. Tell me, how is your German these days?'
Chapter Eighteen
While Jake was enjoying his brief breakfast at Clayton Bauer's mansion, Claus van Clynne was in need of much stronger relief. Having been transported downriver to a small landing north of Peekskill, he was bundled and taken south in the back of a hay cart. The cart skirted the American patrols and defenses in the Highlands, which centered around the immense river chain and its neighboring forts on the river. South of King's Ferry, the small group of disguised British sailors and the renegade Egans took a road that led to the shore. Had he not been gagged, the squire might have remarked that he knew this particular lane well, as he had ridden down it during his adventures as the adopted general of a Connecticut brigade but a month and a half before. He might also have protested, with great severity, when Egans took up his hat and placed it on his own head, deciding to treat it as a trophy of war.
But then there was much van Clynne might have said at any stage of his journey. He could have waxed eloquent about the indignities of being lifted like a bag of year-old potatoes from the back of the cart and dumped unceremoniously into a longboat. He might have essayed at length about the untidy and haphazard rowing that took him to the river sloop waiting in the shadows offshore. He undoubtedly would have complained of the fickleness of the starlight as he stared at the sky for three hours while the sloop raced furiously south. Nor should anyone suspect that he would have stifled his complaints at the bidding of the marines who stood guard, nor Egans himself, who brooded at the front of the vessel.
More Indian than white, the Oneida was suspicious of his British paymasters, and his many dealings with them had made him less, rather than more, inclined to trust them. But he nonetheless had made himself their agent, and an effective one at that. His motivations were a mixture of revenge against the people who had killed his adopted father, a misguided notion that adventure against the whites was the equivalent of glory in battle, and a determination to use the wealth he received to increase his own position and standing among his adopted people. Indeed, the man who was called Snowsnake longed above all else for acceptance and honor, not merely from his immediate family but from Iroquois in general. The lines of power in his clan and nation ran through the maternal side, and Egans with some reason felt he had never been properly appreciated by his adopted aunts. Returning with the trophies British silver could provide was one way of raising their esteem.
His adopted father's death had left a great hole within his breast, which he felt could only be closed by over- awed respect. He would trade half the fingers on his hands for the position a man such as Johnson — also white — commanded among the confederacy.
For his part, Claus van Clynne believed Egans more misguided than evil. In the Dutchman's opinion, his alignment with the British was due solely to the misidentification of his adopted father's killer. The Dutchman placed a great trust in blood instincts, as well as his own abilities of persuasion, and felt that if the gag around his mouth were removed, he would soon have Egans leading the charge against the English. A word here, a hint there, and Egans would be among the hottest Revolutionists.
Alas, his theory was never put to the test, for the gag was not removed; not when the sloop pulled into Loyalist Spuyten Duyvil to discharge some other passengers, nor when it slipped along the shore to find the wharfs further south in Manhattan at early morn. The rag was still firmly around his mouth as van Clynne, with considerable straining from the crew, was loaded into a wheelbarrow and dragged ashore, where he was hoisted into a wagon.
If they chafed at taking directions from a man they might regard as a traitor to their race, the crew nonetheless followed Egans's orders and took some care as the trussed prisoner was lifted from the back and carried — again with a surfeit of groans — up the steps to the British administration building across from the jail.
Even in wartime, there' are forms to be completed and papers signed. Egans waited stoically while the British went through their procedures for interning the prisoner. Van Clynne's money and his passes had been transferred to a satchel Egans kept at his side. He judged it unnecessary to produce them for the clerk, especially as they might be of use in his future endeavors.
It was a good thing, too, for otherwise the process would have taken three times as long, between the cataloging and accounting.
'An examination will have to be arranged,' said the clerk at the desk, pointing at van Clynne after the forms were filled. 'According to the calendar, it will not be before next week. After that, he will provide nice ballast at Wallabout Bay.'
Egans did not join in the laughter. The mud flats of Wallabout Bay were the home of a series of derelict hulks used as prison ships. In his mind, there was no glory in keeping prisoners in such torturous conditions. Better to kill a man outright, so that his spirit might be used by the victorious warrior.
Needless to say, van Clynne had his own ideas. In fact, he tried to share them with the clerk.
'I cannot hear you through your gag,' the man told him.
Van Clynne's gesticulations that it be removed were insufficient to convince him. The clerk was, however, required by the regulations to ascertain from the prisoner his name and role in the rebellion. Custom also dictated a few other inquiries, such as the nature of his religion. At length, therefore, the clerk nodded at the sergeant-at- arms, who removed the spittle-drenched gag.
'I was just about to wonder what had happened to the custom of law in this country,' thundered van Clynne the moment his lips were freed. 'To be tied like a common hog — '
'We were confused by your grunts,' said the clerk dryly. 'What is your name?'
'I am a personal friend of Sir William Howe. I demand to be taken to him at once!'
'The general will be with you shortly,' said the clerk. 'He is currently on his way to tea with Mr. Washington.
