'I have urgent business further south,' he noted, bowing and then reaching to pull himself back onto his horse. 'Perhaps in a few days we can meet in some local inn.'
'I think you will come with me now,' said Egans, pushing aside his coat to reveal a secreted pistol.
'I should think it cold without a shirt beneath your coat. There is a fine tailor not too far from here. Perhaps if we took that road, I might be able to shave a few pence from the price.'
'I think not,' said Egans. 'We are almost at the river now.'
'Does your uncle know that you have allied yourself with the English?' asked van Clynne, steadying his horse as it climbed down the obscure, rock-strewn path. They were far from the main roads, approaching a wooded bluff overlooking the Hudson. The water was so close the Dutchman could catch glimpses of the gently rocking waves through the trees. 'I would think he would have something to say about it.'
'I have not seen my uncle in many years, fat man.'
'I would think, sir, that personal insults will not forward our relationship in the least. But let me mention that your uncle still grieves your family's loss.'
'No other man has lost two fathers,' said Egans suddenly, turning on van Clynne. 'And now I suggest that you keep silent, or I will fill your mouth with lead.'
'As you wish, sir,' said van Clynne. 'Though, I would think you much wiser to align yourself with the patriotic cause, as it is one that argues for freedom and should be most compatible with the native lifestyle. These English — '
'Enough! It was a Dutchman who killed my second father. Do not tempt me to take revenge.'
With great effort and a strong glance at the pistol lodged against his nose, van Clynne stopped his tongue. Egans's red father had in fact been killed by a German — the story was well known in the inns near the family's old homestead-but his friend was not in a mood to be corrected.
Egans was a wily fellow, and he made sure to stay several yards behind van Clynne. He had also taken the precaution of removing the squire's pistol from his saddlebag, as well as confiscating his four purses. The pistol was of little account, as it hadn't been loaded, but the purses had a certain sentimental value — the Dutchman nearly cried over the bills they contained. True, he had taken the precaution of leaving nearly all his coins with Sarah Thomas's father for safe keeping before attending the ball, and had a good supply of New York pounds and a few British notes besides hidden in his heel. But this he considered emergency money, and of dubious authenticity besides.
What van Clynne really wished for was a tomahawk. He was well known as one of the best ax chuckers in the province; were one in his hand right now, Egans would be wearing his hair much differently.
'Stop,' said the white Oneida as van Clynne's horse reached a high point in the trail. The trees immediately to the east had been cleared, giving them a good view of the Hudson below. The river was a bright expanse of blue, gleaming with the sparkle of the midday sun. Only a few boats were about.
With Egans's attention turned toward the water, Escape was flapping her wings and heading for greener pastures. But the Dutchman needed a weapon to gain tactical advantage, and only one thing presented itself — his large and well-treasured silvery-gray beaver hat. Desperately, van Clynne flung it, startling Egans as he turned, and causing him to misfire his gun. In the same motion, van Clynne kicked his horse sharply. The animal leapt forward, but stumbled after only three steps, sending the Dutchman in a heap into the hillside brush. The considerable slope of the terrain added momentum to van Clynne's tumble, and the Dutchman was soon rolling down the hill with the force of an avalanche, throwing all manner of debris and dust in his wake. He was just barely able to steer himself by shoving his arms in front of him, managing to avoid several large rocks but crashing over a number of smaller ones.
Egans started through the brambles at the top of the bluff, then realized he would have to find an easier passage. He jumped atop his horse and rode down the path, toward an abandoned step-back trail leading to the river bank.
With a great groan, van Clynne bounced against a stone wall that stood a few yards from the edge of the water. He could hear the struggles of Egans's horse just to the south and knew he would not get very far on the ground in that direction before the Indian arrived. The way north was blocked by a large patch of overgrown blackberry sticker bushes; escape in that direction was likewise improbable.
Indeed, the only path open was the river a few yards away. Not only did its waters beckon with a disarming calmness, but a canoe had been placed on the bank to make his exit child's play.
Except that Van Clynne was deathly afraid of water. Given the choice, he would have walked barefoot through a field of burning corn before being berthed in the captain's quarters of a fine sailing ship.
The sound of Egans's horse crashing through the woods vanquished his fear. Or rather, it gave the Dutchman courage enough to close his eyes as he dove into the canoe, his weight helping to move it out onto the water as the current caught hold and pushed it toward midstream.
Chapter Six
Jake and his guide passed through a fertile farmland of southern Ulster and northern Orange counties without encountering any other difficulties. For the most part, the people here were strong patriots who had already suffered much for the war. A good number had been deployed as militia in the Highlands a few months before. The long rail fences and haphazard stone walls that marked the boundaries of their lands teemed with tall grass and summer flowers; truly Nature had blessed the area with an abundant flow of life.
Had we the leisure, we might dally in one of these meadows or walk among the furrowed corn. The stone houses of the Huguenots that made up New Paltz might be of special interest, not merely for the architecture but the stories these stones might tell of harrowing winters and violent struggles in the old wilderness. But Jake and Colonel Hamilton did not linger here, taking without comment their fresh horses from the waiting militiaman, a tall fellow named Schenck, who had stood a lonely vigil by his yard's gate all night. They thundered onward, sucking hard bread crusts between their teeth, the fresh animals soon wheezing with the difficult pace.
There was much the two men might have said to each other. Hamilton was especially interested in Miss Schuyler, whom he'd already heard rumors of another of Washington’s aides, Tench Tilgham, but their haste precluded idle chatter. Immediately south of the village, Hamilton left the main road, heading over a series of obscure paths that would have made van Clynne proud. The Shawangunk Mountains stood at their right shoulders, watching their progress through the foothills. Newburgh and New Windsor sat off to the left, closer to the river. Red-tailed hawks, surveying the fields for a midmorning snack, circled warily overhead, anxious lest the hurrying travelers suddenly covet their feathers.
It was just about noon when the two men neared the vicinity where the rendezvous with the commander-in- chief had been arranged. The tangled area is known as the Clove. With the Highland mountains guarding the approach from the river, the land dives down into a lush valley, overgrown with all manner of Nature's bounty.
Jake and Colonel Hamilton pushed down a path narrowed on both sides by massive bolts of daisies, laurel, and other wildflowers, their sweet scents filling their lungs. Hamilton suddenly veered to the right, crossing into what seemed at first a field made entirely of blackberries. But the bushes gave way to a meadow intersected by a firm path; Jake let his horse follow Hamilton's lead as they dipped down a gradual incline.
Ahead, the two riders spotted a tall, regal man on horseback, gray hair flying beneath his hat as he paced with his mount on the hilltop. Some trick of the light washed out all else before, them, and for a moment it seemed as if horse and rider were walking on air.
Jake spurred his horse at the sight; many months had passed since he had seen General Washington. Crossing a stream that lay between them, a shout went up. The general's guard appeared from both sides and intercepted the men. Recognizing Hamilton, they joined in escort, and the commander-in-chief found himself besieged by an eager body of young men whose emotions stirred even his fabled constitution.
There are those who have made General Washington into a latter-day Caesar, only wiser and bolder. Another contingent, smaller but nearly as vociferous, crayons him a tyrant and fool. Those closest to him can speak equally of his steady faith and ready temper. Let us agree that he is neither demigod nor demon, but if the compass should
