word, though her hopeful heart supplied it.
'Did you say, 'intentions'?'
Now his voice grew loud enough for even the corn outside to hear. 'You will not have me?'
'But Claus — '
Van Clynne lifted himself from the chair as Veder, his tune banished from his mouth, ran forward.
'Claus, Melanie — '
'Claus, what did you mean? Intentions?'
'It is nothing, nothing. My poor heart cannot take the strain.'
'Wait!' Veder appeared considerably more heartbroken than van Clynne. 'Claus, you've rushed things. This is merely the first meeting. Your emotions have gotten the better of you. Slow down, my friend. All will work out, given time.'
But the squire continued to the door. 'Children cannot be expected to follow the Dutch order of things,' he lamented, 'if they are improperly raised.'
'Are you insinuating that my Melanie was not raised properly!'
'Insinuating is not the word I would use, sir,' said van Clynne, opening the door.
'Out and good riddance! Out!'
Van Clynne turned in the threshold, the very picture of brave but downtrodden dignity. 'I am leaving, sir; there is no need to insult me further. My heart already has been quite riven. I despair. Who knows what I will do next? I may walk along the river. I may, perchance, enlist in the British army.'
Veder, his emotions twisting in several directions at once, settled to the floor and began sucking on the bottle of squeezings as soon as van Clynne departed, his brief dream of riches flown out the door with the squire's russet coat. Melanie remained in a state of severe confusion and finally salved her bruised intellect by pressing a few of her curls that had fallen out of place as a result of the interview.
Claus van Clynne possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of Dutch families in the province of New York — or New Amsterdam, as he occasionally referred to it. He was not equally informed about occupants whose genealogical roots had taken hold in other soils, however, and so he was not sure which, Stone or George, might be the proper wig-maker.
As George Street lay closer, however, he decided to visit Mr. Stone first, via a road less convenient but completely removed from the one he had taken north. He also left his stolen horse behind, reasoning that it might be recognized from its fine equipment. These contingencies greatly increased the time it took him to carry out his mission, but van Clynne had always held that it was better to arrive at a place late and intact, rather than late in the most permanent sense.
The day had already progressed quite far without his having stopped for dinner; he felt obliged to hail a baker he knew in the northern precincts and see about some mince pie the man was always trying to sell. This transaction took considerable negotiation, not least of all because the baker warned that soldiers were proceeding through the city looking for the prisoners who had escaped from jail yesterday. He relayed their description of the ringleader: 'a portly Dutch gentleman in old-style russet dress, with a scraggly beard, large Quaker-style beaver hat, talkative disposition, and a severe willingness to complain and argue at every turn.'
'Fortunately, they've got the description all wrong,' sniffed van Clynne. 'The Quakers know nothing about proper hats.'
Nonetheless, he took the hint and proceeded even more circumspectly. In sum, when the Dutchman finally arrived on George Street, it was late afternoon. There proved to be no wig shop there, or at least none he could find. Concerned about the hour, lie walked quickly toward the southern tip of the island, aiming for Stone Street and Mr. George.
The fact that Stone Street lay exactly opposite one of the gates of the British fort, and was customarily filled with soldiers and British officers of every description, did give him some concern. Not fear — he was Dutch, after all — but further complications this close to achieving his goal would be bothersome. So he stopped at a small shop along the way and procured a large black cape that fit very nicely over his coat. In an alley nearby he confiscated a large and empty wooden box, complete with a snug-fitting cover. He hoisted it to his shoulder and held it close to the side of his face, pushing his hat far down on his head to help obscure his profile.
As well as his own vision.
And so when he felt his cloak rudely grabbed not a half block on, he jumped nearly two feet straight up in complete surprise.
Chapter Thirty-four
“ Declare yourself,” said the redcoat tugging van Clynne’s cloak. “What is your business here?”
'My business?'
Van Clynne turned uneasily and lifted the brim of his hat slightly, seeking his bearings. He saw that, in his haste, he had inadvertently walked down an alley exiting across from one of the fort's sentry posts. The guard had been increased for security's sake following the prison break, and van Clynne had nearly run down one of the redcoats, or more properly, the man's brightly polished bayonet.
'My business, sir, is business,' van Clynne said boldly. He held the crate closer to his face as he gestured with his free hand.
'Are you delivering food for the fort?'
'Yes, that was exactly what I was doing,' said van Clynne.
Thus we see the great difference between being taken by surprise and being overcome by fear: the former is quickly recovered, while the latter is only arrested by a vigorous run.
'I have a load of fresh vegetables for the fort here on my shoulder,' continued van Clynne. 'Fine vegetables. Here, let us examine them,' he said, swinging the crate to the pavement. 'You will want to search among the carrots, I presume. They are nasty things, always in need of a good examination. You never know when one will turn rebel.'
'Enough, fool. Pick up your box and pass into the fort while the gate is open.'
The soldier pointed his gun in the direction he wanted van Clynne to take, straight into the heart of the British camp.
'Well, I will not do so under those circumstances,' he said, searching for a way to retreat.
'What is wrong here, private?'
'This arse wants me to search his carrots,' the sentry told his superior, an officious but exceedingly young officer of His Majesty's Guard, who walked with such a stiff gait that van Clynne concluded a carpenter had forced a rusted hinge into his buttocks.
'What carrots?'
'What he's carrying in the box, sir. I already told him he could pass, but he insists on an inspection.'
The officer frowned. Van Clynne, with some words about his honor and integrity being beyond question, reached to his crate — then showed great horror when he flipped off the lid to find it empty.
'I have been robbed,' he shouted. 'My wares have been stolen. Organize a search, call out the guard. Colonel, I demand an entire company of men to see to the thieves.'
'Out of my sight, you fool,' said the officer, hiding his flattery at the impromptu promotion with a sharp kick to van Clynne's rear.
The Dutchman complied, heading up Stone Street with considerable haste. Along the way, he spotted the wig-maker's shop. But he dared not duck inside while the sentry stood at the end of the block in full view. Indeed, he waited out of sight at the end of the block for nearly an hour until he spied the man being relieved. Thus it was nearly supper time before he was able to enter the shop.
'Here for a bloodletting?' asked the proprietor, who like many of his brethren was a barber.
'No, I was more interested in wigs,' said the Dutchman. He settled into the large chair that sat at the center of the shop while he surveyed his surroundings and concocted a plan.
