The reader should not think that Squire van Clynne has been idle during this interlude; in fact, the good and portly Dutchman has been doing yeoman service in the name of the Cause, rising well before dawn with the vim and vigor of a man determined to serve his country, though if the full truth be told, he did not rise in a very good mood. Indeed, the Dutchman had even more vinegar about him than normal and was twice as irascible, grumping and growling through his morning toilet.
Had we the time, we might linger over the description of this morning preparation, for the Dutchman is fastidious to a fault, customarily rubbing not merely his eyes but his cheeks and nose with the frosty water that stands fresh by the innkeeper's kitchen door. He combs his beard five times through every dawn with his whalebone comb, and even takes this instrument once gently through the hair atop his head. He then spends another minute or more maneuvering his large and revered hat over his crown, until it finds its most striking position. Last but not least, he runs his hands over his many pockets, belts, and buckles, making sure his weapons, money, and passes are at the ready.
This morning these customary ministrations were accompanied by a litany of complaints directed at the injustice of his assignment, and the lengths he has gone to in the name of the Cause. It must be remembered that the Dutchman, whatever his other interests, is first and foremost a hearty patriot and a sworn enemy of all that is British, with the exception of their ale. His hatred has been bred into his genes, and in some respects, he regards the Revolution as personal vindication of his attitude.
Thus, it is natural that his ego would suffer a great blow at being left behind while Jake proceeded on the adventure to rout the Tories; he feels that he has been treated, if not quite as a cowardly poltroon, at least as a hanger-on. Considering his role — or at least, his view of his role — in delivering the fake message to Howe, this new job is a considerable disappointment. To be given the task of riding unadventurously to Albany to meet with Schuyler — a Dutchman who prefers Madeira to beer and relied on a British model in constructing his home well, Samson had not been taken down so far when his locks were shorn.
There are, naturally, more material concerns: the squire was counting on an introduction from Jake to General Putnam to smooth the way for future business dealings, which would be of benefit not merely to himself but to his country. Far beyond that, he realizes that his best hopes for regaining his family property rest almost entirely on Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs and his influence with His Excellency General George Washington. If Gibbs were to forget him — or worse, if he were to somehow become incapacitated — van Clynne would have to return to his past regime of endless legal battles and sob-filled entreaties.
The Dutchman put aside his cares at his predicament to bid farewell to his beloved. He promised he would return; he told her she was the tulip of his garden; she was the yeast of his bread. Jane gave the only response possible in the circumstance — she happily continued to snore, as his shakes had not succeeded in waking her. The Dutchman left her sleeping with her aunt, bid the rest of the dark house goodbye, and started north on the road to Pine's Bridge. He had the two dead Tories' horses hitched behind his own gelding, intending to deliver them to the nearest American post, or to Schuyler himself, depending on which promised the most advantage.
He also planned to do everything in his power to find Jake and smash the nest of vipers himself, without violating the letter of his commander's instructions to head for Albany. After all, the road network here was extremely tangled; it could take days to leave Westchester, if the proper route were found.
The lack of light did not impede his progress as much as the lack of food in his stomach; he had not gone a half mile when a gnawing sound presented itself, growing louder with each step his horse took. Within two miles, he started to look for an inn.
The first to present itself featured a sign with a man with his wife on the back, yielding the inn's nom de drink, loaded with mischief. This was obviously a very new establishment, as van Clynne had not met it before. His curiosity aroused, he tied his horse to the front post and walked up the short run of red brick to the front door. A fresh coat of green paint had been applied to the thick, battle-scarred wood, confirming — in van Clynne's mind, at least — that the inn was new, though the house itself was a nondescript brick affair that could have been erected at any point during the past fifty years.
"The wife will be down shortly," said the sleepy-eyed proprietor, greeting him in the foyer. Glad for the business, he hustled van Clynne to a seat in the small front room to the right. "We'll have some coffee for you directly. I'm sorry I can't offer you tea — it's too dear in these parts to afford, nearly as much as salt."
The Dutchman fell to commiserating with the man, who although of German stock was not altogether unpleasant. He had seen no one answering Jake's description, and van Clynne thought it best not to ask too many questions; the man's accent was thick enough to indicate his arrival in America was recent, making his loyalties suspect.
The coffee was strong, and van Clynne soon found it worked wonders for his disposition. But it was not until he overheard the innkeeper's conversation with two men at the door that the Dutchman's mood truly lifted.
They were a peculiar pair to be up this early. Their white shirts were so yellowed they might not have been washed in two winters, and their black trousers — a modern invention van Clynne did not agree with — were as crumpled as a discarded page of Rivington's lying Tory newspaper. Neither man had shaved successfully for a fortnight, though their faces bore the evidence of several close attempts. An expert limner could not have painted a more convincing portrait of two thieves down on their luck.
But the Dutchman was no mere portrait artist. He was an accomplished student of human nature and, as he had told Jake ad infinitum, a good man of business. He immediately realized the men were not mere robbers but privateers strayed far from their ship. More accurately, they must be members of a recent crew who had traveled inland to sell off their share of the loot at a better profit than what they could make in port. As such, they were prime recruits of the good dame Opportunity's army, and she had decided to knock on Claus van Clynne's door with a vengeance.
"Any bushel you can find will fetch nine dollars at least," one of the men told the keeper. To judge from his companion's remarks, the man's name was Shorty, though in truth he stood much taller than average.
"They're paying ten at Newburgh," said the second man, who was nicknamed Fats. He was of far less than average weight — obviously the pair came from a part of the country where bodies or nicknames were deformed. "Two dollars would be robbery," responded the innkeeper. "Salt was thirty cents not two years ago." "The problem is the money. You can't count its worth," said Shorty. "I have Spanish dollars, as solid as any."
"Fifty reals per bushel," suggested Fats.
"Two bushels for five duros, and not a real more."
"Can't be done. That's not even thirty shillings," complained Shorty.
"It's forty if it's a penny."
"Excuse me," said van Clynne, stirring from his chair to enter the conversation. "Perhaps if you used Dutch equivalents as a standard, your calculations would be easier."
"What business is it of yours?" demanded the innkeeper.
Van Clynne gave him an indulgent smile. "I have overcome such difficulties many times. Perhaps if I offered my services as a negotiator."
"Just another profiteer looking to cut himself in," said Shorty.
"No, no, I am an honest philosopher, a follower of the good Adam Smith," said van Clynne. "As men of business, I assume you have read his work?"
"There was an Adam Brown with us on the Raven," offered Fats. "He was a mate."
"An amazing coincidence," remarked van Clynne. "Perhaps they are brothers."
"You owe me two pence for your coffee," said the keeper. "You may pay in legal tender and take your leave."
"Tut, tut, my good man," said van Clynne. "I wouldn't think of using English money in a good Revolutionary household such as this." He turned to Shorty, obviously the brains of the operation, such as they were. "I gather you are from Connecticut?" "So?" "I always like to know where my partners come from," answered van Clynne. "Partners?" "Obviously you don't want my services as a mediator, so I will have to get involved in this transaction directly." "I think you'd best stay out of this business," countered the keeper.
"Business is my business," said van Clynne, extending his hand in a grand gesture of friendship. "Claus van Clynne, at your service."
"Shorty Stevens."
"Fats Williams."
"I have a suggestion that will make us all very happy," said the Dutchman. He held out his coffee cup for a refill. The innkeeper was clearly not pleased, but went and got his kettle.
"We're waiting, Mr. Clynne," said Shorty.
"It's van Clynne, actually," returned the Dutchman mildly. "But no harm done — call me anything you like. You are men of the sea, I take it."
"How'd you know?"
"A lucky guess. It happens that I am going north," said van Clynne, "and for a small fee, will gladly stop by Newburgh. There I can sell your salt on consignment. We're sure to double or triple our profit, as salt is in great demand there." "Why should we cut you in?" said Fats. "Gentlemen, surely you understand the theory of mercantile trade." "Oh, we understand all right," said Shorty. "The question is, how much will you pay for our salt?" "I've already set a price," interrupted the innkeeper. "Five Spanish dollars for two bushels."
"It's possible that a sale might make more sense," said van Clynne. "But I think it would be robbery to pay less than three Spanish dollars, or duros, per bushel. Now, if we converted that to crowns — “
"I thought you didn't have British money," said the keeper.
"I said I wouldn't think of insulting a patriot innkeeper with it," corrected van Clynne. "These men, being citizens of the sea, will find some simpleton to burden with it in a foreign port, I'm sure."
"There are plenty of simpletons in foreign ports," answered Shorty. "But none here. I think four dollars per bushel a very fair price.”
The innkeeper objected strenuously, and began resorting to the argument any good thief makes when he sees his profit washing away — moral persuasion. He had a business arrangement with these men, he had stood by them when no one else did, he had sheltered them from the British authorities in Connecticut, etc. His efforts were unavailing until he agreed to pay four duros per bushel. "Well, sir, can you meet that price?" Shorty asked van Clynne. "Regretfully, no," answered the Dutchman. "I am sorry, but there are travel expenses to be considered." "Then we have an arrangement," said Shorty, shaking the keeper's hand.
If the man smiled at the seamen, he frowned at van Clynne. But Shorty gave the Dutchman a wink, and then bought him another coffee — even consenting to pay for the two van Clynne had already had.
"Three," said the innkeeper.
"Three then," said Shorty.
The keeper's mood gradually lightened; he would still make a sizeable profit selling the salt in the neighborhood. The seamen were also in a jolly way, spending a portion of their profits on a large breakfast. Even van Clynne remained happy — for he knew the transaction had not quite been concluded.
The squire stayed talking for a few minutes more before excusing himself. He went outside and gathered his horses, which had been tended to by the keeper's teenage son. Van Clynne took great interest in the lad's description of the animals' care, inspected each part of his mare's saddle and equipage, and otherwise delayed so that he was barely on the roadway when the two seamen came tumbling from the cottage after him, yelling for the "Good Mr. Clynne" to halt and walk with them a bit.
"What a coincidence that we're going the same way," he ventured.
"Yes, indeed," said Shorty. "And of further coincidence is some notion that just fell into our heads upon seeing you — we have a few more bushels of salt to spare."
"Indeed," replied the Dutchman. "How fortunate."
"Old Harold can never take more than three or four bushels of anything we sell," said Fats. "He's afraid his past will catch up with him if he's accused of profiteering. He was run out of Connecticut, you know."
"A timid soul does not make a profit, eh, Mr. Clynne?" winked Shorty.
"The 'van' is an important part of my name," answered the Dutchman, whose tone now was so abruptly different from before that both seamen looked about to see if they had fallen in with the wrong fellow. "What business are you in?"
"Why salt, of course!" said Fats.
"And other things," allowed Shorty. "But just salt, right now. We'll sell you a wagon load, eighteen bushels full, at three duros per bushel. And we have a sack of sugar cones for the same price."
"I have no need for the sugar," said van Clynne. "As for the salt, three dollars a bushel in Spanish currency is much too much. I could arrange for the equivalent of, say, three New York dollars for two bushels." "You were just arguing that three was too little for one!" "I did that solely on the condition of helping you. Think of it as a commission for this new deal." "What!"
"If you gentlemen are not interested in disposing of your wares, I must take my leave. I have urgent business further north with a friend of mine. He's quite at sea without me — no offense."
"All of the Dutch are thieves," said Fats, who received a slap across the chest from his partner for his candor.
"He meant nothing by it, sir," said Shorty. "I have some Dutch blood in me myself."
"I could tell. If we were dealing in Connecticut warrants, perhaps I could give you better terms," suggested van Clynne.
"That would be inconvenient."
"Come now. I would wager you will be traveling that way very shortly."
The negotiations proceeded for ten more minutes, as the two sides maneuvered for the final few pence advantage. Van Clynne was willing to go higher with the Connecticut money since he found it grossly devalued in New York. Still, he got his salt for less than half what the innkeeper had just paid, a bargain that would bring a sizeable profit in a few hours when he met Putnam's quartermaster in Peekskill.
Not a dereliction of duty, surely — Peekskill is clearly en route to Albany. And a man with salt in such starved country needs no special introduction beyond a sample of his spice.
When at last the deal was struck, the men sealed it by spitting in their hands — a bit of unhygienic fuss the Dutchman ordinarily shied from. Considering the profit he was about to make, however, some sacrifices were warranted.
But such are the contingencies of business during wartime that one finds not even a good wad of spittle will set an agreement in iron. For there proved to be an important codicil to this arrangement — evidence that Shorty did indeed have some Dutch blood in him.
Van Clynne had assumed that the salt was in a storehouse or hidden somewhere along the highway, where he might direct Putnam's men once the second leg of the transaction was concluded. He could therefore proceed without the bother of bringing more than a pocketful of the substance with him. But the commodity was actually in a wagon, and the wagon was precariously parked in the middle of a streambed, positioned in such a way that water came nearly halfway up the wheels. "We'll just toss it out and be on our way," said Shorty cheerfully. "Sure you don't want any sugar?" "How much for the wagon?" grumbled van Clynne. "I don't know that it's for sale," ventured Shorty.
But of course, everything has its price, and van Clynne was soon able to work a reasonable transaction: he traded the two Tory horses for the wagon and its ox, with the sugar thrown in to sweeten the deal. Hitching his own mare to the back, he proceeded north, grumbling loudly about the seamen's sharp dealing until they were out of earshot.