In the event, he explained anyway, speaking loudly as he walked through the streets to a certain inn on Pearl Street owned by Samuel Fraunces. Though not strictly Dutch, Fraunces was a man steeped in the arts of hospitality, and his studies had led him to a formula for sausage construction that fairly rivaled that espoused by van Clynne's own mother. The fact that Fraunces was even now a firm and known member of the Whig party tended also to enhance the flavor.
His tavern was allowed to operate despite its owner's politics for a number of reasons, beginning with the quality of its ale. This morning the place was fairly empty, and van Clynne found himself greeted by the owner as he came through the portal to the main room.
'The sentries at King's Bridge are obviously sleeping,' declared Fraunces in his faint West Indies accent. 'They are allowing everyone into the city.'
'As it happens, Samuel, I did not come via King's Bridge,' said van Clynne. 'I arrived by boat, with a personal escort.'
Two young men sat near the corner window playing a card game; except for them, the room was empty.
'Your politics have not changed?' van Clynne asked the keeper in a soft voice.
'My politics are my own business.'
'In that case, you may note that my feelings are as they have always been,' declared van Clynne, pulling out a chair.
'I am sure Congress is glad of that,' answered the keeper sarcastically. 'And the king.'
'Are you in the habit of talking all day, or will you ask your guest what he wishes to be served?'
'I see no guest before me, only a Dutchman who owes me ten pounds.'
'Bah, ten pounds — a trifle.' Van Clynne slipped off his shoe. 'A double helping of sausages, if you please. Some fresh eggs, and if you can find any decent coffee in that cramped cellar of a kitchen, I will take that as well.'
'You will take nothing until you settle what you owe me. I will have my sailor friends here kick you out.' Fraunces gestured at the two young card players, neither one of whom made any sign to have heard. They were engaged in the arcane rite of cribbage. The Americans could have reinvaded New York and they would not have cared a whit, nor a Nobs.
But as the keeper set his fists on his hips, a smelly but genuine two-pound note drawn against Murdock amp; Company in Glasgow appeared in the Dutchman's fist. Fraunces grabbed the paper as it fluttered to the table, then retreated back to the kitchen, humming a song to himself. Coffee was issued, bread was found; within fifteen minutes a girl appeared carrying two plates of fine sausage and a large covered dish of eggs.
Fraunces nearly fainted when she returned to the back with another two-pound note.
A third appeared when the proprietor came to clear the dishes. By now he realized something serious must be afoot.
'I cannot take this money from you, Claus. Cannot, indeed.'
Van Clynne looked up in amazement. 'The Scottish bank is good for it, I assure you. And you will notice the elaborate engraving, protecting against counterfeits.'
'Either you are very ill, or expect some great favor in return.'
'Do I look sick?'
'Exactly the case. Exactly.' Fraunces started to back away.
Van Clynne took the bill he had proffered and folded it neatly in his fist, where by some sleight of hand he managed to make it produce a twin. This had the effect of arresting Fraunces's retreat.
When a third note materialized in his hand, the keeper found his feet moving forward involuntarily. He knew the inevitable outcome but was powerless to stop himself from snatching for the bills, which naturally disappeared as soon as his fingers were extended.
'I am looking for Miss Melanie Pinkerton,' said van Clynne, pushing away his empty plates. 'I believe you know the family.'
Fraunces frowned heavily. 'What would you want with her? She's too young for you.'
'I merely wish to speak to her.' The squire opened his hand, thumbing the bills as if counting them. 'She is no longer seeing General Howe, I trust.'
'Baff — the swine claims to have thrown her over. He came within an inch of ruining the girl. For that alone he should be hanged.'
'Agreed,' said van Clynne, fanning the bills. 'I wonder where I might find her.'
'What are you up to, Claus?'
While the sum in van Clynne's hand was significant, it would not have been enough under any circumstance for the keeper to betray a trust. Van Clynne recognized this, and so he dropped a hint concerning the wishes of General Washington being involved. This only made Fraunces more suspicious.
'What have you to do with His Excellency?'
'I am on a mission for him.'
'He wishes to see the girl?'
'She is but an attending player in a much grander scheme,' said the Dutchman. 'I assure you, no harm will come to her.'
Fraunces frowned and turned his eyes to the bills. 'Considering that I know your politics well, I suppose it would do no harm. The family took her north of Delancy's farm, past the encampments, to make sure she did not fall victim to Howe's depredations again. You would think one mistress would be enough.'
'You do not get to be a gentleman by limiting your assignations,' noted van Clynne with some distraction.
It was not nearly enough distraction to prevent him from whisking away his fist — and the notes-as Fraunces grabbed for them.
'I would be very obliged if you could find me a horse, on temporary loan. Some hatchets, too.'
'What will you ask for next, a hat as well?'
'Tut, tut, Samuel, you are becoming quite excited,' said van Clynne. 'I am prepared to pay the lease in advance.'
'In that case, I would be willing to lend you my wife's handsome black pony, barely in its third year, along with a fine cart that will match your exalted social standing,' said Fraunces without noticeable irony. 'At ten shillings an hour, then, I believe we could reach an arrangement.'
'I will not be robbed in broad daylight, no matter who controls the city.'
The hemming and hawing that followed was lengthy and resulted in a considerable price reduction. As a faithful reproduction would fill near thirty pages, suffice to say that van Clynne was found within the hour heading north at the bench of a two-wheeled, oak-paneled phaeton pulled by a short though not un-vigorous pony. His armament now included a pair of axes, and he sported a black beaver hat that had been thrown in on good faith to seal the deal. The hatchets were a bit dull and the hat a size too big even for the Dutchman's prodigious skull, but at least it provided the Dutchman with something to doff when he was confronted by an English officer mounted on a white horse just south of Delancy's farm.
'Good morrow, major,' called van Clynne cheerfully. 'And what can I do for you?'
'You can call me colonel, for one,' said the man icily. 'You will state your business and reason for being here.'
Van Clynne grumbled to himself. It was difficult to keep up with the British army's habit of continually promoting its officers despite their incompetence. In the Dutch forces, this man would never have advanced above the rank of captain, obviously being far too nosey for his own good.
'Sir Colonel, I meant no offense. As for my mission, it is routine in the extreme. I am after some vegetables.'
'You do not look like a farmer to me.'
'Of course not, sir. I am a man of business. In fact, General Howe himself has asked me to look after this vegetable factor. It appears the soldiers are in great need of vegetative energy for their coming campaign.'
'If you are working for Sir William, honor me with a letter from him.'
'I will not, sir,' said the Dutchman haughtily.
His new hat slipped to one side, ruining the effect. Deciding to change tactics,' he grabbed it from his head
