What is your name?'
'It was not two months ago when I dined with Sir William aboard his brother's ship and debated the merits of Madeira versus ale,' answered the Dutchman. (He happened to be speaking the truth, though the clerk should be forgiven for not thinking it possible.) 'Take me to him immediately.'
'This gentleman will show you there,' said the Englishman, nodding at the sergeant-at-arms. 'For the record, do you refuse to give me your name?'
'I refuse to answer any of your questions,' said van Clynne indignantly. 'I refuse to be a party to this injustice, and stand on my rights.'
'You would do better to stand on your feet,' said the clerk, making a notation in his book. 'Take him away.'
'My hat, I demand my hat!'
'You do not require a hat in jail,' answered the clerk.
'I stand upon my rights,' blustered van Clynne. 'A man cannot be deprived of his hat under British law.'
The clerk's brow knotted. He realized the Dutchman might indeed be correct, and in any case, there were considerable forms to fill out regarding its loss. The crisis was averted by Egans, who stepped forward and jammed the beaver on van Clynne's head. 'Here it is,' he said. 'Wear it in good health.'
'I demand restitution,' said van Clynne. 'I was without its services for several hours and am entitled to just compensation.'
But the possibilities of delay, if not argument, had been exhausted. Van Clynne was taken, with great consternation, across the street to the jail.
With his prisoner gone, Egans asked the clerk where his reward was.
'Which reward would that be?'
'I am promised twenty crowns for each rebel spy I bring to the city,' said Egans.
'I know nothing of that,' said the clerk. He turned to his other work. 'That is not my department.'
'I will not leave without my money.'
The clerk did not bother answering. Instead, he gave a minuscule motion with his hand, and the two guards who had been standing by the side door promptly came to take hold of Egans. The Oneida shook his arms out so fiercely they hesitated.
'I will have my money.'
'Consult General Bacon's staff,' said the clerk.
'Give me a receipt for my prisoner.'
'That I will gladly do,' said the clerk. 'Once you complete the proper forms.'
Chapter Nineteen
Just at the close of the afternoon dinner time, a procession of wagons piled high with bricks made their way down from Broadway toward one of the recently opened British jails, an auxiliary edifice converted from a warehouse and now generally used for holding suspected rebels and spies. The lead wagon, it developed, had a faulty axle pin, which gave way just as the vehicle passed the entrance to the jail. The load of bricks suddenly tumbled out, upsetting the horses behind, who in turn upset their own wagons. Within a short minute, the entire roadway was piled nearly waist-high with fresh clay bricks. Thick dust filled the air.
The resulting confusion caused considerable consternation inside the jail. The warden, his face two shades redder than most of the bricks, emerged and began shouting curses at the wagon drivers. His rants impressed the teamsters so much that they ran for their lives, abandoning the cargo. The warden, his curses rising in a crescendo, had no option but to direct a party of his men to assist in the cleanup.
It was at this point that two inspectors general from the Prussian Council on Foreign Actions, Brunswick Division, arrived for an unannounced inspection. Personal representatives of the Duke of Brunswick himself, the graybeards were accoutered as royal officers. Silver aiguillettes and tassels waved from their blue silk coats like pennants from a ship, and their bright sashes were wider than several local alleyways. The long swords at their sides practically dragged against the ground. These worthies were required by His Highness to ascertain that all prisoners of the allied nation were detained 'according to practices in keeping with a civilized Christian nation.' Otherwise, the terms of service as overseen by British commissioner and plenipotentiary Colonel William Faucitt would desist immediately, and all Brunswick troops would be immediately ordered back to Europe, at British expense.
'All zee troops,' repeated the taller inspector, whose bushy eyebrows seemed like dyed caterpillars. 'Ve vould not vant dis to happen, no?'
The inspectors were accompanied by copious paperwork and a small knot of regimental privates dressed in blue coats with red lining and turnbacks — to say nothing of very becoming yellow buttons. The Germans' English was sufficient only to annoy the jail superintendent, who understood from the papers that the men were minor dukes, just well-connected enough to cause him considerable trouble if they emerged from their inspection in ill- humor.
And that wouldn't be hard. Already they were complaining loudly to each other in a profoundly incomprehensible German. And taking notes.
'Is dis zee vay ve treat prisoners?' demanded the duke with the caterpillar eyebrows. 'Vit dis dust everywhere in zee street?'
The superintendent apologized, ordered every available man outside to help with the bricks, and then ushered the Germans to his office inside the steel gate. He had just reached down to retrieve a bottle of Port wine to smooth their communication problems when he felt a cold sensation on his neck.
More specifically, it was a pistol barrel, sharply levered against the soft edge of flesh above the shoulders. It would be the last thing he felt for several hours.
'Ought to just kill him,' said the duke with the thick eyebrows, who in reality was Jake Gibbs.
'They'll hear the gunshot outside,' said the other duke — Culper himself. 'Besides, he'll be in enough trouble once we're done. Killing him would be a mercy.'
The two men quickly trussed the superintendent and abandoned their long scabbards, which contained only sword handles rather than the actual weapons. Littering the passage with broken German and pure gibberish — neither Culper nor Jake knew any German beyond a few odd curses and requests for food — they led their men through the prison proper, walking quickly down the central gathering area to the steps leading to the cell blocks. The guard at the steps snapped to attention and then practically snapped in half, as Jake returned his salute with a sharp kick to the stomach. The man was knocked over the head by one of the privates; another of the Brunswickers hurriedly exchanged coats and took his place.
Jake crept down the steps, pistol in hand, followed closely by Culper. The stairs took an L-bend and then proceeded down four short steps to the landing. A heavy metal door, the only one in the hastily converted prison, stood at the bottom.
Behind it was another guard, who patrolled the long corridor between the door and the dungeon cells. Jake returned the gun to his belt, fixed his jacket, and resumed the posture of a German inspector.
'Ve are zee prince's men,' he told the man through the small, barred opening in the door.
'Talk English.'
'I am. Ve are zee prince's representatives, to inspect zee prison.'
'So?'
'So open zee door.'
'I open this door only for my captain,' responded the guard, 'or the superintendent.'
'You will open it now,' said Jake, exchanging the lousy accent for the more efficient pistol, 'or I will shoot you.'
But the redcoat was not to be taken so easily. He ducked to the side, out of Jake's range.
Jake waved one of the Brunswickers forward. The man's canteen contained a small explosive charge; it was
