“ Business was that bad, was it?”
“ The wood that grows north of here is damnable, completely rotted by insects. The bugs nest in the very seed as they sprout. Yet they expect twice what the finest boards will fetch in Poughkeepsie. Damnation take them all, is what I say. I plan to change professions as soon as I return home.”
“ You found no wood to buy?”
“ I didn’t say that.”
“ Arranged for no furs?”
“ What is your point, sir?
“I was just wondering what you would do if you left off being a businessman.”
“ I’ll become an innkeeper,” said van Clynne quickly and with so much dignity that Jake began to laugh. “And what’s wrong with that?”
“ Every innkeeper I know is a jolly fellow.”
“ And?”
“ You are a trifle disagreeable today.”
“ I’m in my best mood in weeks.”
“ You do drag the leg of the fox with your complaints,” chided Jake. “In your mouth, the entire world has declined.”
“ I am a speaker of truth, sir, it that’s what you mean by a complaint, then it’s not my fault the world has fallen down. Look at this road, for instance. There was a time when it would have been twice as wide, and if it bothered to have potholes, then it would have had potholes deep enough to hide Brazil in, not these shallow annoyances.”
“ Those were the days,” said Jake, “when potholes were potholes.”
Van Clynne grumbled at being made fun of, saying he would resolve to be quiet if that was the only way he might win respect. But it was against his nature to remain silent; before they had gone a few hundred yards he once more took up his commentary, remarking on the carriage’s inadequate spring design.
After the silence of the past few days, Jake found himself almost enjoying the never-ending patter, more so because twisting on the horse to receive it gave him ready cover to observe his British friend.
The messenger was not an athletic-looking fellow, being of slight build. If anything, he looked a little pasty in the fresh air. But Jake realized appearances must be deceiving, since it took some stamina and not a small amount of courage to travel back and forth between New York City and Canada.
More important than his physical disposition, the messenger kept a pair of pistols at the front of his saddle. No doubt loaded and half cocked, they ruled out direct confrontation, at least for the moment. Jake realized too that he could not count on his fellow travelers for assistance. Save van Clynne, he had no idea who any of them were or what their allegiance might be. And even van Clynne had proved that he was not above helping a Tory for the right price.
Nonetheless, Jake was confident an opportunity to overcome Herstraw would soon present itself, and said nothing as the party proceeded. Several hours passed before they took a fork in the road with a sign for Pittsford, and Jake once more became conscious of his need to return quickly to Schuyler with the invasion plans. But his concerns were quieted by the appearance of a small boy flying the wooden sign of a bull’s head — the inn Herstraw had bragged of to Burgoyne.
“ The wife knows her ale here,” van Clynne confided. “You will see. Her husband’s an old countryman from England, but she was taught by a German.”
“ Old countryman” was a way of saying that the man was an immigrant, far more likely than native-born to side with the tyrant. That and his distant relationship with Herstraw, as the messenger had mentioned in Canada, were more than enough to explain his allegiance — and put Jake on his guard.
Jake slipped his hand to his belt before getting off his horse. The elk-handled blade Leal had given him was ready — all he needed was an opportunity to slip up behind the man and escape.
But escape must be guaranteed. No one else knew the information he’d traveled from Montreal with.
Perhaps, as insurance, he should tell someone else.
“ Are you going to stand there in the middle of the path all afternoon?” asked van Clynne, shaking the dust from his coat.
“ Claus, let me ask you something. You’re a patriot, are you not?”
“ Just because I have not raised a fuss as you rode my horse, do not think that I am your friend.”
“ But you have often done things for the American cause. And you know General Schuyler. He’s a Dutchman.”
“ What are you getting at?”
“ Where did you get such a carriage?” said Jake loudly, giving up his try at recruiting van Clynne when he realized Herstraw was walking directly toward them.
“ You have much to learn about the art of conversation,” said van Clynne. “You can’t flit from one topic to another and expect coherence.”
“ It is a fine carriage.”
“ I have a buyer for it in Rhinebeck, who has always told me to keep an eye out. Unless you’d like to meet his prices. It would be just the thing to top off your hunting dress.”
“ I think not,” said Jake as Herstraw passed into the building. “Tell me, do you know who that man is?”
The Dutchman shrugged. “These are all farmers burned out by Indians,” he said. “There has been some trouble north, and they have relatives farther south.”
“ They’re all patriots like you, then?”
“ I gave you fair warning, sir. Do not press your luck. Here boy, let me see to that,” said the Dutchman, walking off after his carriage.
The ale was as good as van Clynne had predicted. Perhaps some of the taste came from the heritage of the tankard it was delivered in. The wooden vessel consisted of staves held together at the bottom by a copper ring. The tope was tied with a flat reed, and the handle had an animal’s head carved on it, though the cup was so old and worn it was impossible to tell what sort of animal was intended.
To Jake it didn’t matter; his attention was focused entirely on Herstraw, seated across the room. The messenger had taken the precaution of hauling his holsters in with his saddlebag, as if overly fastidious about his possessions. A gun was not more than eight inches from his fingers at any moment while he ate.
When the keeper asked if he would have some lunch, Jake nodded absentmindedly. He soon realized he was shoveling food into his mouth with abandon, hardly aware of the birch trencher plate it came on. The stew, made of venison, corn and carrots, was a sizable feast for one who’d had so little to eat over the past few days.
Jake sopped up the stew’s juices with a large crust of yeast bread, the first soft load he’d had in more than a week. The bread and his pocketknife were his only utensils, but he cleared the old-fashioned plate within a few minutes and asked for seconds.
Van Clynne’s description of the party seemed accurate, in the main. This was to be but a short diversion before they came back to the highway south, proceeding through Fort Edward south to Rhinebeck, which lay roughly parallel to Kingston on the other side of the river. Several of these people had relatives there. Their politics were not paraded, but they seemed at least sympathetic to the American cause, as would be expected from their destination. And they did not act as if they knew Herstraw as more than a fellow met on the road.
Could he count on them to help with an arrest? Van Clynne didn’t trust him, Jake knew, and they would probably take their cue from him.
The American agent left his second plate of stew half finished as he contemplated a desperate plan — stay close to Herstraw as he left the inn, then knife him from behind outside. Jump on a waiting horse and ride straight for the fort.
But that would be pushing his luck recklessly. They were now within the American lines and near several forts besides: it would be only a few miles before some militia group or army patrol would cross their path. He could then unmask himself, arrest Herstraw, and command escort to Schuyler. It would not cause much of a delay to wait until them.
Jake, constitutionally opposed to delay but seeing little other choice, worked his way around the room to a chair across from Herstraw to size up his quarry. In the meantime, another member of the party pulled over his own seat and began talking to the disguised British messenger.