And another thing — the people responded to the simplest question with bewilderment.
"He is Dutch, with a beard, russet-colored clothes, and a large, round, silver-flecked hat," repeated the doctor.
"No, sir, I have not seen any such man," said the girl. She had a wholesome tint in her cheeks, and her hips were well-rounded beneath the very simple and worn flaxen dress. It occurred to Keen that she was just the sort of morsel whose parts were worth more than the whole.
"Do you know of him?"
"No, sir."
"Come closer, girl; I'm not going to bite." Keen tapped her bottom gently with his gold-topped walking stick. In London, such a young woman would recognize the opportunity and jump into his lap; here in the backwoods the girl froze.
"I'll thank you to keep your stick off my wife," said the flushed proprietor, appearing in the doorway from the back room. Just past thirty years old, he was a large man and the threshold small; his head brushed against the lintel, and his stubby arms, set against his hips indignantly, crowded the side panels.
"Well, my good man, I would not have marked you for a cradle robber," said Keen, who gave her another playful tap before returning his cane to his side. "How old are you, girl? Fifteen?"
"Get into the back, Elizabeth," said the keeper as he took a step forward.
The man's wife cowered, slipping against the small fireplace and knocking one of the iron pots to the ground. Its top careened madly on the wide-planked floor. She grabbed it, dropped it again because it was hot, and then ran into the other room. "I've no desire to harm you," Keen told the man as he picked up his tea. "But I would not be adverse to it." "Out of that chair, you English snake. Pay for your breakfast and leave my house." "Do I understand that you are declaring yourself a rebel?"
The man stood over Keen with barely controlled anger. The doctor had given up wearing a wig when he came to America; otherwise the strands of it would now be curling from the heat of the insulted husband's fury.
"Out! And take your fool with you," said the keeper, gesturing toward Percival, whose large frame had just appeared above the top half of the open Dutch door at the ordinary's entrance.
"I shall not leave until I have finished my tea," said Keen, raising the fine porcelain cup.
The keeper swung the back of his hand against it, dashing what until now had been one of his most valuable possessions against the wall. In the next instant, he found his arm grabbed at the wrist, clamped as in a powerful vice.
He had not expected such physical strength in the gentleman at the table, who not only appeared to be a jack-a-dandy but was at least fifty. The keeper had earned much of his living before the war as a stone mason, but here found himself steadily and slowly sinking to his knees.
"Do you like flowers?" Keen asked. "Lilies, specifically."
"Let go of my arm, you bastard," said the man, whose voice betrayed considerably more fear than his words did.
The doctor smiled, and flicked his left hand to reveal a small handkerchief up his sleeve. He put the cloth to the man's nose, as if to wipe it.
The scent was pleasant. Keen suddenly released the man, who by reflex grabbed the handkerchief to his mouth.
The doctor watched with satisfaction as the puzzled expression on the keeper's face changed, the poison beginning to work. In a moment his eyes grew large and he began to gag. Keen stood as the man fell back, his chest heaving wildly.
"The pity is, that was my last bit of Convallaria," Keen said as he stood. "I shall have to rely on other potions for the duration of my trip. But I suppose one must make do in the wild. Here — " Keen dug into a small pocket in his vest and retrieved a crown. "This should more than pay for my breakfast. I'd stay and chat with your wife, but duty calls. Besides, I wouldn't want to intrude on your wedded bliss. You can keep the handkerchief."
By now the unfortunate man had collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving in a spasmodic fit. Keen's words were well beyond him; he would spend at least another half hour in convulsions, and then steadily waste away. By evening, his young wife would be a widow.
Keen picked his hat off the wall post where he had left it and placed it on his head. The beaver was put up as a tricorner, folded in three places in a style quite common in the colonies; he fancied it made him look almost like a native. Steadying it on his head, he tapped his cane at the door and called to the girl who must still be hiding in the back room.
"If you see the Dutchman, tell him that Major Dr. Keen is looking for him. He'll come to recognize the handiwork, I daresay."
Chapter Eleven
There was nothing like the prospect of a quick and reasonable profit to motivate Claus van Clynne, and as his contemplated salt sale would not only benefit the American Cause but establish the basis for many more transactions, the squire goaded his newly purchased ox with whip and song. The latter was a ditty of his own creation, roughly to the tune of an old Dutch love song, built around the refrain:
Nothing moves a fighting man like a bellyful of salt,
Except of course a kettle full of heavenly fermented malt.
For obvious reasons the reader will be spared further description.
The Dutchman saw but ignored the clouds starting to gather on the horizon; though still miles from the encampments, he would have his wares unloaded and sold well before rain arrived. At moments like this, his patriotism knew no bounds, and he had entirely forgotten his anger at being treated as a mere subaltern by Jake. A less troubled disposition could not be found for many miles.
He was thus taken largely by surprise when the woods around him erupted with Indian war whoops.
Van Clynne's travels prior to the war had made the Dutchman something of an expert on the various sounds emitted by northeastern natives; none of these fell into any recognizable category. His puzzlement was cured directly, when the figures emerging from the brush proved not to be Indians at all, but base imposters — Tory thieves.
"Halt!" shouted the leader, whom we already know as Captain Busch.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded van Clynne. "And what is all this nonsensical shouting?"
"I arrest you in the name of George the Third," declared Busch. "Smith, get down from your horse and truss him."
Smith, of course, was our Jake Gibbs, who was dressed so oddly that van Clynne scarcely had a chance to recognize him as he swung from his saddle.
But recognize him he did. Jake saw the look in his face, and realized the puff of breath the Dutchman took was preparatory to an exclamation. He therefore thought it expedient to wield his carbine-butt-end first-in a preemptive strike. He smashed van Clynne in the stomach, knocking the air out of him and sending him backwards into his cargo.
"Don't curse King George, even under your breath, you damned rebel pig!" Jake shouted.
Van Clynne gagged in confused response. Jake slapped him across the face with his open hand. It was an authentically fierce blow, and the Dutchman only barely held on to his wits. "Play along," hissed Jake as he reached an arm down to van Clynne. "You don't know me." "Sir!" "Out of the cart, weasel, before I strike you again. I'd show a dog more mercy."
The Tories were an amused audience as van Clynne was unceremoniously kicked toward the dust. While some part of him realized he must play along with this charade, a greater part expressed indignation at having to take even an ersatz Tory's orders. And so when Jake commanded him again to get on his knees and profess his allegiance to the king, the Dutchman declined.