Claus van Clynne, Esquire, had by now had a sufficient breakfast to find himself in a relatively forgiving and generous mood. This spirit extended itself toward the upstart young woman whom he had rescued earlier from Dr. Keen's clutches — for so the story formed itself in his mind, now that he had time to arrange it for proper dramatic effect — and most certainly would include any enthusiastic patriot who found it within his heart to extend him credit in the name of the Cause.
"No matter what your politics, you'll pay me for the meal you've just had," said the innkeeper where he had breakfasted. "I don't give an owl's hoot for your feelings toward me, one way or another."
"Come, come, my good Jan. How long have we been acquainted?"
"An hour too long, by my reckoning," spat the keeper. "Claus van Clynne, I've never known you to travel without three bags of silver coins tied to your waist, and twice that number hanging from your neck."
"You may search me, sir, if you do not take my word," said van Clynne, sweeping his hands out in a great gesture. "Though the day a Dutchman does not trust a fellow Dutchman — well, that is a sad day for us all, is it not?"
"I'd trust him as far as I could throw him," said Jan's wife from the doorway. Missy Lina had always been a disagreeable woman, as far as van Clynne was concerned.
"I hope you are not seeking to search me as well," he told her. "There are certain proprieties, even among friends."
"Come, Claus, stop this nonsense and pay up," said Jan, holding out his palm.
"I tell you, I have been robbed. First of my salt, then of some paltry coins — mostly clipped, fortunately — and finally of all my warrants and true currency. I am as penniless as the day I was born. My wealth perished in a fire several miles from here."
"What about the notes you keep in the heel of your shoe?"
Jan turned and looked at his wife in amazement. Van Clynne blustered again that all his purses had been stolen.
"I'm amazed that my integrity is called into question," he said. "I am penniless and you will find no coin in my possession. I am searching for my friend Jake Gibbs; surely you can wait until I find him or he comes here himself, for he will be glad to pay you from the sum he owes me. He has blond hair, stands just over six foot and is often seen in a contemptuous three-cornered hat. Despite his poor taste in headgear, he is a personal confidante of His Most Excellent Excellency, General George Washington, and therefore should be dealt with accordingly."
"Stop trying to change the subject," said Jan's wife. "Pay us with the money in your shoe, smelly as it may be."
"Surely you do not expect me to part with notes that were given to me by my dear, departed grandfather."
"Your grandfather passed on before they were printing bills on paper," said Missy. "Besides, he took every guilder he had to the grave."
With a vigorous complaint, van Clynne reached down and amid much huffing and puffing pulled his leg across his lap. He stopped suddenly and asked if there was no longer such a thing as modesty abroad in the country.
"Pay up or we shall teach you about modesty," warned Missy, who in the end condescended to turn her back while van Clynne took off his shoe and worked a trick screw on the heel. The continental note-his last emergency money, he swore — was more than enough to compensate for his meal.
The Tory rangers, meanwhile, were making steady progress toward the river. Sergeant Lewis rode at their head, next to a private deputized as ensign and carrying their trifling green pennant on a long halberd. A British chronicler might well find pleasure in describing the image of their green coats passing in thunderous parade down the road, their bear-fur bonnets proclaiming doughty resolve and righteousness before man and king.
We, of course, shall have none of it, turning our attention instead to Jake. Decked out in a fresh new ranger coat — a bit short in the sleeves, but otherwise serviceable — and armed with a musketoon and light sword, he rode at the rear, urging the last stragglers onward. The troop moved off the main road near Pine's Bridge to follow an obscure Indian path in the forest.
Jake realized their route had been chosen to lessen the odds of a chance meeting with American patrols. He also suspected that Busch himself had set it out for the sergeant, as he was much more familiar with the area than Lewis.
Would he follow it then if he arrived at Stoneman's after his troop had left?
Surely an easy question to answer, and Jake looked for some method of precluding that possibility. Now that Busch was out of the way, he wanted him to stay there; the British forces would be formidable enough without the captain to help them. With luck, Old Put had already captured him and was preparing a nice surprise at the chain, thanks to Rose's warning — but Jake knew better than to count on luck.
Could he count on the caltrops he'd taken from the barn's arsenal, however? Multi-spiked iron snowdrops or nails, caltrops are often used by cavalry units to slow pursuit. Properly deployed, they put an iron bramble in the path of mounted troops, whose horses must step smartly if they are not to be stung and lamed.
Jake did not have enough to blanket the path. Instead, he scattered them clandestinely, dropping them randomly when the other rangers were not watching. He hoped that a traveler in a hurry — as Busch would be — wouldn't notice the iron prickles until it was too late.
"What the hell are you doing, Smith!"
Stunned, Jake looked up into the face of the sergeant, who had stopped at the intersection of an old Indian path and waited for his men to pass him. "I was just dropping these in case we were followed," Jake explained, tossing his last handful. "Stop wasting time. No one is following us. Now, down this path and look smart — I don't like stragglers." "Yes, sir," said Jake, kicking his horse. Lewis was wrong, and in fact the group was being hotly pursued — by Captain Busch. The Tory urged his horse onward, succeeding in getting it to gallop — only to be deposited in a heap when the stallion stung its foot on one of Jake's caltrops not a quarter of a mile from the place where Lewis was bawling out his rear guard.
Cursing, Busch gathered his wits as he dusted the dirt from his clothes. He examined the horse and found the poor animal sufficiently injured that it could no longer be ridden.
Had the circumstances been different, he might have shown the poor animal more compassion. Indeed, he was a great lover of horses, and realizing that the animal's wounds would soon heal, he did not shoot him. But neither did he take the horse with him as he struck out through the woods toward a small inn where he believed he could secure — or steal, if necessary — another.
The tavern was owned by a Dutchman known to be sympathetic to the rebels, though his wife seemed a better judge of character. Not that it would matter much if they tried to stop him — Busch made sure both pistols were loaded as he ran the half mile to the house.
Chapter Thirty-one
Refreshed from breakfast, Squire van Clynne set out with new vigor, though his pace was even slower than before. The chafing of his posterior against the horse's back was so severe that he would have gladly reopened his heel for the purchase of a saddle, if only one were to be had. The country here, rolling hills and forest, had not been adequately developed, in van Clynne's opinion. It was given over entirely to apple farms, and even these appeared to have been abandoned for a considerable length of time. Thus the conveniences of modern life — like saddle shops-were not at hand.
Nonetheless, he made steady progress, prodded by the knowledge that General Putnam was empowered to issue a certificate that would compensate not only his financial losses but his efforts to the Cause as well. Indeed, an even greater plan took shape in the Dutchman's mind as he rode. He would ask — nay, he would demand — that the general appoint him to the lead of a squadron of men, bold soldiers whom he would take against these Tory scoundrels, foiling their attack on the Great Hudson River Chain and, not incidentally, recovering his salt.