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.