and held it in his hands, hoping to strike a contrite pose. Though he looked the model of a penitent, the officer did not acknowledge the likeness.
'Stand down and present yourself for arrest. You are very much like the description of one of the prisoners said to have escaped yesterday from the city jail.'
The colonel pulled his sword from the scabbard with a great deal of pompous flash. It was a most ornate device, with hand-crafted silver embellishments about the handle and considerable scrolling up and down the blade.
'You did not let me finish,' said the Dutchman quickly. 'I am under strict orders not to communicate my mission with anyone.'
'Piffle.'
'Well, I suppose I must make an exception, given your rank,' said van Clynne, reaching beneath his hat toward his coat, then letting his fingers take a detour to the floor, where they found his hatchet. In the next instant, the Briton flew backwards as blood burst like a geyser from his skull, the ax having found its mark.
Van Clynne started to rise from the bench to retrieve the hatchet, but was interrupted by a shout from nearby in the woods. A half-dozen British soldiers appeared from their bivouac as van Clynne grabbed for his reins. The little pony Fraunces had lent him strained for everything he was worth as the soldiers let their muskets get some exercise.
The bullets did a nice job engraving their marks in the rear of the wagon. The Dutchman was, nonetheless, unscathed, as was his hat, which remarkably remained on his head despite the pace. But as he began congratulating his fortune and thinking if some way might be found to make the hat shrink a size, van Clynne realized one of the soldiers had appropriated the colonel's horse and was chasing him up the road.
'Come now, little one,' the Dutchman told the pony. 'Let us see if we cannot reach yonder bend before this galloping horseman. We may effect an ambush if we do. I have often thought a small pony more worthwhile in a pinch than a dozen large stallions.'
The pony's ears bloated with the flattery as it strained its legs and pushed its shoulders forward in a manner that would have done fabled Pegasus proud. Alas, the animal was not used to such exertion, and quickly began to tire. When they were still several dozen yards before the turn, van Clynne realized they would not beat the redcoat there.
The soldier had taken the colonel's sword as well as his horse. He began waving it above his head, momentum building as he leaned over his horse menacingly. Van Clynne reached below the seat and retrieved his pistol, endeavoring to pull back the lock into the firing position while all the while urging his little pony forward. The space between the horseman and the cart fell rapidly; van Clynne managed to point the gun and fire just as the swordsman took a swipe at his head. The blade missed. Alas, the same was true of van Clynne's bullet. The pony, exhausted, gave up his attempt at a gallop and fell into a strained trot, his body heaving with exhaustion. The redcoat pulled back on his reins, trying to gain a good angle for attack. Van Clynne threw down his pistol and reached for his remaining hatchet.
He nearly lost it as the pony jerked to the side to avoid the soldier's swipe. Van Clynne just managed to thrust the handle up as the redcoat slashed violently toward his neck. Sword and ax crashed together with a clang so loud anyone in the neighborhood would have thought he was being called to church.
Three times the weapons came together, and each time the Dutchman shuddered with the blow. The redcoat was a strong man born in northern Scotland and raised on red oats; he had ridden much as a youngster and by every right should have been at least a corporal, if not sergeant, except for some troubles he'd had as a young recruit.
But van Clynne was in no position to inquire after his personal history. He pulled back the hatchet, only to see it fly from his grasp, propelled by a quicker-than-expected blow. The redcoat, sensing that victory was but a moment away, pulled back his sword and took a deep breath, savoring his moment of glory.
'Well now,' said van Clynne, doffing his hat as if in salute, 'I am glad to finally be on even terms with you.'
'Even terms?' said the Scotsman with a tongue so thick his words sounded more like
'And how do ye figure that 'un, son?'
'Allow me to introduce myself,' said van Clynne, taking the opportunity to slip down from the carriage on the side opposite the soldier. 'Claus van Clynne, Esquire. You have undoubtedly heard of me.'
'Whether I heard of ye or not, it dan't matter. Ye slain the colonel, and I'll be making mince pie of ye in return.' The redcoat pushed his horse forward and took another slash, nipping the oversized beaver hat but not its owner. Van Clynne threw himself on the ground and rolled beneath the wheels of the cart, using it for protection. No matter which way the redcoat attacked, van Clynne flew to the other side. Granted, he suffered a few close nicks and scratches, and the ground was not very soft or smooth, but the soldier could not get close enough to strike a serious blow without dismounting.
'Come out, ye damn coward. Out, or I will kill your wee pony.'
'A true Scotsman would not harm a pony born on the heath,' claimed van Clynne.
The soldier knitted his brow. He had never heard of a pony imported to America from the heath, nor was he altogether certain what distinguishing marks, if any, a Scots pony would bear. Nonetheless, he held all equines in high esteem and felt it beneath him to attack this poor animal, just because its owner was a treacherous, murdering rebel.
Besides, the pony would fetch a nice price back at the city.
'All right then,' said the redcoat, jumping from his horse. 'But you yourself will get no mercy.'
Van Clynne just made it out from under the cart as the redcoat charged. He slipped onto the other side as the sword crashed so heavily against the wood that three inches of it were splintered.
'Stand and fight like a man!' declared the Scotsman.
'Oh gladly, sir,' answered van Clynne. 'But the odds are little lopsided, given that you have a sword and I have only my wits to protect me.'
'Ye dan't object when ye had the gun and axes.'
'I am only saying that I will put aside my wit, if you put aside your sword.'
This rather generous offer was answered by a vigorous flail of the sword. But as van Clynne circled the cart and the terms of the standoff became clear, the redcoat took a new assessment of the situation. Clearly, he could defeat the rotund Dutchman if they fought hand to hand — even without the dirk he had secreted in his belt.
'All right, laddie,' he said, holding the sword at his side. 'I will fight you fair, like a man.'
He dropped the sword in the dust.
'Oh, you want to play at fisticuffs,' said van Clynne, edging to his right. 'I should warn you, sir: I am Dutch.'
'So?'
Van Clynne's answer was a feint toward the sword. The Scotsman grabbed his knife as he performed a spectacular front-roll to the ground in front of the saber. He landed on his feet in a fighting position, quite prepared to take on an entire regiment of rebels, if need be.
He needn't. For the Dutchman had taken the opportunity to bolt not for the sword, but the soldier's nearby horse.
'As you were not prepared to completely abandon your weapons, I did not forsake mine,' shouted van Clynne as he leaped aboard and thundered away.
Chapter Thirty-two
The battering at the engineer’s office left Major Dr. Keen in the foulest mood of his life. It was one thing to discover that Jake Gibbs had fooled him; Gibbs was surely the Americans' finest agent, a man trusted by Washington with only the most delicate missions. He had been schooled in England and came from a wealthy if not
