'You should have come in,' said van Clynne apologetically, noting the pistol in Egans's hand. 'Surely I owe you a drink for delivering me to New York.'
'Silence! You are worth as much to me dead as alive now.' Egans loosened his grip and spat in disgust — a reaction, it must be admitted, to the somewhat sour odor the beer had imparted to van Clynne's breath. 'I hate the damn Dutch.'
'I do not see why,' said van Clynne, smoothing his beard with as much dignity as the circumstances permitted. 'Considering that you are Dutch yourself.'
'You are a miserable liar!' screamed Egans, pushing the gun at van Clynne's face.
'Just so, sir, just so,' tutted the Dutchman, casting an eye up and down the empty street before continuing. 'But search your memory well after you shoot me. Remember your dear birth mother. When her face comes to mind, you will see it bore the strong, sturdy lines of an Amsterdam native. A fine beer-maker, I might add; no one could beat her hops.'
'My stepfather was killed by a Dutchman, van Gergen.'
'Your stepfather was a noble warrior and a great chief to his people,' said van Clynne. 'But he was killed by Von Gorgon. Von, not van. The vowel makes all the difference in the world. He was a German. They are a notoriously disagreeable people.'
'I do not believe you.'
'Naturally,' said van Clynne. He reached into his pocket, smiling as Egans aimed his gun. 'Allow me to show you a map.'
He produced the small sheaf of documents he had taken from the engineering office and began leafing through them. In due course he came to the map of the quadrant in question and unfolded it for his captor. Von Gorgon's name was clearly marked.
As was Egans's, in a note indicating the German had usurped the property that had once belonged to 'good Mr. Egans, his wife Gelda and child, miserably martyred by the native peoples.'
Egans stepped back in confusion. Now it must be admitted that this last note was in a hand remarkably like van Clynne's, and that he had been examining this particular page in great detail upon his return to the Sons' headquarters the previous evening. Even so, it was not the map nor the argument that convinced the adopted Indian, but van Clynne's details of his mother's face, which conjured a dark but accurate memory in his breast.
'Come, sir, let us step off the street where we can talk,' suggested van Clynne, gingerly extending his hand and lowering Egans's pistol. 'I have not had supper. A good sturgeon steak, I believe, would revive me properly. And you appear in need of several strong ales.'
Some time later, seated in a tavern located in the dock area and waiting for the well-buttered fish to be served, van Clynne unwound the tale of Egans's ancestors. John Egans had married Gelda Guldenwinckle of the Amsterdam Guldenwinckles, a housewife of the old school. Particularly adept at raising tulips, she was said by some gossipy neighbors to quite spoil her only child, young Christof.
At this point in the narrative, a tear formed in the ordinarily stoic Egans's eye, and the squire hastened to proceed. It took nearly three hours and four times as many cups of strong ale to relate the entire story of Egans's capture at the age of two by a small band of Mohawk, who in due course turned the child over to the Oneida. Van Clynne skipped over the womenfolk's role in the proceeding; this revealed his Western prejudice, as a native would have instead properly emphasized it. Nonetheless, his praise of Egans's stepfather was genuine and found a receptive ear.
Egans already knew much of the story well, but he had never heard it put so eloquently or fetchingly. For the first time in his life, he had something of an appreciation for his white parents as well as his red. It would not be truthful to say that the former had replaced the latter in his esteem, but the changeling now looked upon the world with completely changed, if somewhat beery, eyes.
Such was the power of van Clynne's tongue that, well before the end of dinner — marked by some creamy Gouda — Egans had not only given the Dutchman back his paper money and passes, but his political allegiance had shifted one hundred and eighty degrees. His hatred for the Dutch had been transformed into a complete loathing of the Germans — and thus by strong logic their allies, the British. The fact that the English had cheated him on countless occasions, and never shown him a quarter of the deference van Clynne made so obvious in his speech, clearly helped this conversion, though in the squire's opinion the shift was merely a result of Dutch blood winning out.
'I will murder every damn mercenary I see,' declared Egans, slamming his fist on the table so hard that his tankard, thankfully empty, fell to the floor.
'Quiet now. We will find a more appropriate venue for your rage,' said van Clynne, smiling nervously at their neighbors, including a pair of alarmed Hessians, before hurrying to pay the bill.
Lieutenant Daltoons paced through the large, empty room at the top of the infirmary. He had run out of fresh curses to use on himself for letting Alison slip away, and as the old ones were by now well-worn, he kept his vigil in silence. He assumed — he prayed — that she had found Jake. He further assumed — he further prayed — that Jake's failure to return as promised was due to some minor complication.
He had done more than merely pray. The undercover officer had spent much of the day searching the city, together with some of Culper's other men, but without result. Nor had Culper succeeded in discovering Howe's target, despite his best efforts.
The spy ring itself remained in mortal danger. The British had reacted to yesterday's jail break with great indignation, to say nothing of increased patrols and a tripling of the normal guard at every facility. Nearly every soldier who remained in the city had been set to work harassing suspected patriot sympathizers, and
there was word that the authorities were planning to conduct a house-to-house search for the escapees.
Culper had taken the precaution of sending men known to be wanted into hiding and emptying the places the Sons of Liberty had used with great regularity. This infirmary was one of them, but as it was the place Jake was to return to, someone must wait here. And Daltoons had appointed himself that someone.
The Connecticut native had served Culper and the other members of the Sons of Liberty spy ring in a variety of capacities. He had never been more concerned than now, however. The lieutenant was not so much worried about Jake, whom he regarded as something of a mentor, but the spirited Miss Alison, whose beauty he had no trouble spotting beneath her rough disguise. She was a very remarkable girl, he thought to himself. More than remarkable. Were the circumstances different.
The reader may well fill in that last thought, as Daltoons had no time to do so himself. A loud wail rose at the far end of the block and sent the lieutenant to the window. He had not heard such a horrible sound since the landlord had packed five bags full of cats and kittens and tossed them into the harbor.
As his ears struggled from the strain, he realized the wail was actually a maudlin Dutch song of thanksgiving:
Except that the words sounded more like:
