'The poison will work so long as it can penetrate the flesh. I have had to weaken the gunpowder mixture in your small horn there, to guarantee the balls will not explode in the barrel when the charge ignites.' 'So there won't be much power in the bullets?'
'I would not vouch for their flying more than twenty paces with any real velocity,' said Bebeef. 'It would be best if they had an unobstructed path to the flesh when they struck. Even a thick coat might save the victim.'
The thought of facing a bare-chested Bauer was almost too much for Jake to stand.
'The bullets will pass through a light shirt and still do their duty,' said Bebeef hopefully, noting Jake's frown. 'The liquid is red, so it will look like a very handsome wound. Aim for the chest.'
'I intend to.'
'Here is all I have left,' said Bebeef, holding up a small tube whose glass ends had been melted shut. 'The material that bonds the ingredients is very gummy, and will adhere to metal. If you rub a sword blade with it, the effect will be the same.'
'But it's red. Anyone will spot it in an instant.'
'It's a good thing you didn't choose swords then,' said Bebeef. 'It must pass through the skin, so you have to wound the victim lightly.'
Jake took the vial and placed it in his vest pocket.
'Touch the wound with pure water to counteract the poison. Do not use city water by any means.'
'I wouldn't even wash a horse with city water.'
'You only need a drop. The effects will wear off in an hour without the antidote,' Bebeef said. 'The breathing and heart do not completely stop, but slow so much at first that it is difficult to tell. Gradually, they improve. After a few minutes, even a country barber could tell the victim is alive. I would advise you to shoot first, no matter the code.'
'But professor, I have to stand on my honor.'
Bebeef could not tell whether Jake was kidding or not. 'I have been wracking my brain for a truth serum,' the professor added. 'There are several formulas in my books, but they are along the lines of love potions and very undependable.'
As Major Dr. Keen had tried some such potions on van Clynne with poor results, Jake shrugged. He had already concocted a ruse to fool Bauer once he was revived.
With luck, Culper would have solved the problem by the time he returned to the city. Then Bauer's information would be superfluous. In any case, the Tory bastard would be a fitting trophy to present General Washington with.
'I have also prepared a small supply of sleeping powder,' said Bebeef, walking to the collection of trays standing below the triangular window. 'I know it is one of your favorite concoctions.'
'It's very useful for putting out guards without noise.'
'And stunning cats, according to your father.'
'I have not launched an attack on a cat in many years!' Jake laughed.
'Take care, my young friend,' said Bebeef as Jake started to leave. He reached up with his bandaged hands. 'Do not discount Keen.'
'I have not. But he is a man like the rest of us.'
The professor's reluctant nod revealed that he might not completely share that opinion.
Timothy's eyes were wide circles, glittering as if he had seen the goddess Diana on the hunt. Jake could barely suppress a broad smile.
'Come,' he told Alison. 'If we are going to brave the ferry, we'd best do it when there is a crowd.'
'I have been waiting for you,' she replied, turning with a sudden swirl. She started out the door so quickly Jake had to trot to catch her as she swished past the blooming money plant at the edge of the walk.
'I will need a new cover story,' she told him curtly as he fell in alongside. 'I will henceforth be your wife.'
My cousin will suffice.'
'A kissing cousin?'
Jake's scowl had little effect on her. She walked merrily with a breezy pace, the change of clothes having somehow increased her speed. He shook his head, thinking that he recognized both the signs and cause of a peculiar case of love sickness.
'Young Timothy is a handsome lad,' he suggested after they had gone a few more yards.
'He is a little runt.'
'A runt?'
'He is a full inch shorter than me.'
'He'll grow in time.'
'I could whip him with one hand tied behind my back.'
'I'm glad to see that wearing a dress has not softened your spirits,' said Jake.
'Do you like it?' she asked, swirling.
'It's very nice. As is the scarf.'
'Grace helped outfit me. She is a remarkable woman.'
'Indeed,' said Jake. 'I would think anyone who ended with her as a mother-in-law would be very lucky.'
Alison gave him an odd look, as if she did not quite catch his meaning.
'Young Timothy will inherit his father's land,' hinted Jake. 'As well as his uncle's business. I would think he will be wealthy one day.'
'Once a pipkin, always a pipkin,' said Alison, turning up her nose and increasing her pace after calling her would-be lover an insignificant pot.
Jake had heard girls make light of beaus before; they liked to pretend they were sure of themselves. In such cases, it was useless to argue with them, as they would only pretend more firmly.
'You're walking quite fast,' he told her.
'I can stop and wait for you, if I'm too quick.'
'No, no, this is fine. At least I won't have to carry you all the way back to New York.'
'I don't think I would give you the pleasure,' she said, turning her nose up and increasing her pace.
Chapter Thirty-one
While Jake embarked on his trip to see Bebeef, Claus van Clynne undertook his own mission, starting with a pursuit entirely characteristic of the Dutchman — a twelve-hour nap. The Dutchman's eyes did not open until long after the local birds had gone about their business of catching the early worms. Indeed, there were few worms of any variety, early or late, to be found when van Clynne stretched his arms with a cranky growl and began rubbing his eyes vigorously. He soon discovered himself alone in the hideout. Daltoons had launched a full search for Alison upon finding her missing.
'Just as well,' said the Dutchman to himself. 'I am most efficient when unhampered by assistants. Or children. A spot of breakfast and I shall be back in order. Assuming I find anything worthy of the name in this town. Really, the quality of food has gone considerably downhill since the demise of the governor.'
He being Stuyvesant, of course.
Van Clynne's hunger could not be satisfied at the Sons' hideout, which offered a cruel version of porridge in the kitchen downstairs. The squire did not complain about this; he considered that the few legitimately sick inmates in the small corner ward were aligned with the British side, and ought therefore to be tortured. Instead, he wiped a bit of water around his beard, borrowed a pistol from the armory, and went off to find himself a true breakfast.
Specifically, he wanted sausage. Now, one would think that, in a city with pigs constantly running underfoot, sausage would be an easy commodity. Not so. For there is a specific art to making sausage — a Dutch art, as van Clynne would have gladly explained had anyone asked.
