The barber shook his head. He had been endeavoring to follow van Clynne's learned discussion on beer through several light ales, four lagers, and a very serious porter. The Dutchman had chosen this inn not merely because it lay in the opposite direction of the fort, but because it made a specialty of brewing several various styles of beer. It thus fulfilled his purposes remarkably well.
The poor barber had begun to show signs of inebriation with his third tankard, and now betrayed distinct symptoms of total drunkenness, finding not only that everything presented to him was pleasing, but endeavoring to be most pleasing in return. His new friend, in turn, was not only agreeable but generous: Van Clynne was willing not only to pay for the drinks, but had even agreed to twice the normal sum for the planned bloodletting. Plus, he had ordered dinner — a very fatted fowl, complete with fixings, still being prepared.
The Dutchman, judging that he had cooked his gander long enough, now pulled the fryer from the pan. "And so, sir, onto the topic of wigs."
"Wigs?"
"You have fitted Sir William, have you not?"
"Oh yes. Sir William. Has me cut his nose hairs. They grow like a jungle."
"I suppose he has ordered a tye wig?"
"Tye wigs, no."
"Are they not popular in Boston?"
"Boston? I would not think so."
"Didn't Sir William enquire as to the popularity of wigs where he was going?"
"Isn't go'n Boston," said the barber, shaking his head. "He's going to Phil, Philadelphia. And you know what they wear there?"
Van Clynne did not bother to listen to the reply, instead slapping two fresh notes on the counter. As he waved to the proprietor, the wig-maker abruptly fell over on the floor in a drunken stupor.
To say that the Dutchman was in a cheerful mood when he opened the door and stepped into the now darkened street would be to understate the obvious. To say his spirits reversed would miss the mark again — for the Dutchman suddenly found a large arm coiling around his neck.
It belonged to his former jailer, Christof Egans.
Chapter Thirty-five
Just the man I was looking for,” declared van Clynne, barely managing to keep his balance as he was pulled from the doorway and pushed against the wall.
"You will shut your mouth for me, Dutchman," answered Egans. "I have spent considerable energy tracking you down, and waited here nearly a full hour."
"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.