'I will forestall a proper discussion of your ineffective potions until we meet under more leisurely circumstances,' declared van Clynne as he pulled open the door. 'Lord Peter, your ale was most satisfactory. You must introduce me to the brewer.'
Clayton, Lady Patricia, and her husband had recovered from Jake's insults, and were just knocking at the front door. The Dutchman bowled them over as completely as the front pins in a skittle game. He reached the street as Keen emerged from the house, pistol in hand.
Van Clynne had unholstered his own gun, and waved it back toward Keen as he headed around the corner of the building. The guards who had accompanied Clayton Bauer and his relatives hesitated at first, unsure precisely what side they should take in the conflict. Finally, their commander brought his horse forward, arranging his men in a protective cordon around Bauer and the others. This had the effect of leaving van Clynne and Keen temporarily to themselves, an arrangement neither cared to change.
'You won't escape me this time,' said Keen, advancing to the alley. 'I had not thought to find you here, but it is most convenient.'
Van Clynne just managed to duck behind the large barrel Jake had used earlier as Keen fired from the street. In truth, the wood of the barrel would not have provided much of a stop for the well-muscled bullet. Pig fat, on the other hand, did quite nicely: One of New York's many fine pigs, running loose in the street and angry that its favorite resting place had been usurped, chose that moment to take a run at van Clynne — and thus met a premature end.
Now it was Keen who retreated as van Clynne rose and cocked his pistol. The doctor ran back toward his coach, intending to grab another weapon. The Dutchman called out, but failed to fire; the doctor feinted to one side then dove to the other. Once more the squire took aim, but paused. Keen took advantage of the interlude to dive behind the coach. Van Clynne once again missed his chance to fire.
Actually, his failure to shoot was due to a problem with the pistol. So often in tales such as these, weapons go off right on schedule. But pistols fail much more often in real life than in literature, and this one was no exception, responding to van Clynne's vigorous pulls and curses with the nonchalance of a deaf elephant.
Sensing the problem, Keen opened the door of his coach and hastily climbed inside. Retrieving a wide- barreled blunderbuss from its compartment beneath the seat, he crept close to the door, listening for a moment to the Dutchman's loud complaints.
'You are quite correct,' said Keen, kicking the panel open. 'They ceased making proper pistols years ago.' Keen steadied his gun, not wanting to take any chance of missing again. Though of ample girth and now less than twenty feet away, the Dutchman had shown a remarkable propensity to dodge bullets and Death himself. 'Fortunately, they have not forgotten how to make weapons such as these.'
'Just so,' said van Clynne. 'Just so.'
Keen mistook the squire's comment and confidential nod as being directed toward himself, a typical show of empty rebel braggadocio. In actual fact, it was meant for the figure who had secreted herself on the coachman's bench atop the vehicle, taking the horses' reins in hand. For we had not seen so much of Alison's bravery to think she would leave a fellow soldier in need, had we?
The carriage lurched forward as Keen pulled the trigger, and the jolt — together with the squire's expedient flop to the ground — resulted in all fifteen balls sailing far wide of the mark. The horses decided the loud report had been meant for them, and began thundering down the street.
The dragoon captain now decided to spend some of his resources, dispatching two men to chase down the vehicle while the others kept up their guard on Bauer and the house. In truth, the redcoats' most difficult job at the moment was keeping straight faces. Keen's earlier curses had not inclined them toward helping him, and the Dutchman's antics were more than a little comical. From the safety of their horses they thought the dispute purely personal and not worth their intervention.
Keen cursed to high heaven as he rolled in the interior of the carriage, dust and smoke clouding his eyes and the door flapping back and forth in a great succession of crashes against his face. Several times he struggled upwards, intending to climb out and control the horses, only to be smacked down harder than before.
When she noticed the redcoats starting to pursue, Alison jumped from the bench and tumbled into the dirt, where she was plucked by van Clynne as he beat a hasty retreat back to the Sons of Liberty's sanctuary.
'You have your father's sense of timing,' said the Dutchman as he led her up an obscure but convenient alleyway. 'Another two seconds and my chest would have been weighed down with lead. Really, why does your race dally so when time is of the essence?'
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jake was met halfway t o the infirmary hideout by a loose group of boys and young men sent by Culper as reinforcements. He was not surprised that they had not met van Clynne or Alison; both were independent sorts and undoubtedly were proceeding by their own lights and circuitous routes back. At the hospital, however, he did worry, and had hunted up Daltoons in preparation of mounting a rescue mission when the landless Dutch squire and the disguised girl appeared at the door, arguing about who had saved whom.
'Where have you been?' demanded Jake.
'We have been salvaging your operation,' declared van Clynne. 'As usual. I tarried long enough to make the entire episode seem a simple robbery, appropriating some cutlery along the way. Your friend Dr. Keen tried to upend me. Which raises another matter: I thought you had disposed of him.'
'He has more lives than a cat.'
'Indeed. Perhaps we should recruit several dogs to attack him. Now, on to more important matters: is there any ale in the house?'
Jake shook his head and turned his attention to Alison, telling her with great severity that she had disobeyed his direct orders by not heading straight back to the infirmary. The ledger book was more important than all of their lives together, he told her, as its accounts might well tell General Washington where the British were heading. That, in turn, might save the entire Revolution.
'It gives no more clue to Howe's intentions than the wind,' said van Clynne as he pulled it from his belt. 'I took the liberty of examining it on the way. It will show you quite clearly that the British have spies spread throughout the continent and pay them equally. But beyond that, nothing. Now, where is the ale stored? Must I attend to every phase of the operation myself?'
The Dutchman disappeared down the steps. His opinions on other things might be severely prejudiced, but he was an unbiased expert when it came to account books. The places were clear, but Boston was as well-represented as Philadelphia, which appeared as many times as Newark, which sprung up as often as Jamestown, itself mentioned nearly as much as Albany. The agents were listed by number only, as might be expected; the Americans employed a similar system.
The maps Jake had stolen were of even less value, being copies not of places in America but the lost continent of Atlantis.
After a brief and uncharacteristic burst of temper, Jake admitted to himself his plan had failed miserably. And while Culper had already gone to the coffeehouse to work on the problem from there, there was scant hope of quick results. The British were sure to increase their security because of the prison break, and might even guess what the Americans were aiming at. Any information gleaned could easily be part of a plan to throw off the patriots.
Not only had Jake failed to discover the British design, but he had announced to Keen that he was still alive — a development that would complicate his progress and have dire consequences for all who helped him.
Never in all his operations could he remember failing so dismally. And the stakes were incredibly high; Washington himself was counting on him.
The spy heard the general's voice in his head, setting notions into order:
the general ordered.
