"Fired into your face it will be quite fatal," answered Rose. "And at this range, neither shot will miss."
Keen smiled, but kept his hands half raised. "Where did you get such an interesting gun? I don't believe I've seen its like in any of the colonies."
Rose ignored him. "Are you van Clynne?"
"The one and the same," said the Dutchman, hurrying to undo his legs and get himself up from the floor. He, too, had recognized the gun, and expected that its rightful owner was outside seeing to some minor detail of the operation. "Your arrival was most precipitous. Please excuse my dress; I was occupied in medical matters. Where is my friend, Colonel Gibbs?" "He's busy," answered Rose. "What a shame he couldn't join us," ventured Keen, trying a half step forward. "Stand back," Rose warned him as van Clynne whisked up his outer clothes. "If you charge me I'll fire."
The doctor smiled and retreated meekly. Rose was not so naive as to interpret this as a sign of surrender, and endeavored to keep her eyes on him — especially as van Clynne's naked and leech-bitten extremities were hardly pleasant. But Keen needed only the slightest moment to launch his attack, and when Rose turned an eye to check on the Dutchman's progress, he flew into action.
As the British have made such a habit of doing, he greatly underestimated the strength of the American force before him. Though he knocked a candle over into a pile of shavings as a distraction, Rose was quick enough to fire two shots from the four-barreled pistol as she dodged his grasp. The first bullet missed, but the second struck Keen hard in the buttocks.
The assassin yelped with the pain. Rose grabbed the barrels, ignoring the heat to flip them around and prepare the second round of fire. Van Clynne in the meantime grabbed the poker from the floor, wielding it before him like a bayonet.
Temporarily outnumbered, and believing that the Dutchman's assistant must be approaching with reinforcements — surely he wouldn't have relied solely on this reed of a girl — Keen decided to beat a temporary retreat. He dove through a nearby window before Rose had the gun ready to fire again.
Van Clynne continued his charge across the room, sweeping up the ruby-hilted knife and a pistol the British villain had taken from him. He could not fit through the window, however, and by the time he picked his way across the debris at the front of the cottage all he saw of his tormentor was a shadow disappearing into the woods. He fired anyway, and while he would later swear he hit the figure, his subsequent search discovered no evidence of this. Further pursuit was discontinued when he looked back through the trees and discovered tall red flames rising from the cottage — where all of his paper money lay.
A Dutchman in unstoppered mourning is a pitiful thing to behold. His cheeks sag, his clothes droop, his beard — ordinarily the light red color of leaves tinged by the first blush of autumn — blackens. Even his brow is dark with the color of grief.
Or at least with soot, as Claus van Clynne had run back to the cottage and succeeded in beating back the flames with the aid of a large blanket, though not before they had ravaged the pile of currency Keen had placed on the bench. All that remained was a single, charred quarter of a New Jersey warrant, which van Clynne picked up gingerly from the floor. As he studied it, tears began to form in his eyes; at that moment a light breeze fluttered through the half ruined cottage and caught the brittle remains, dashing them to pieces.
It was the nadir of Claus van Clynne's earthly existence. He stood before the world landless and penniless, bereft of all possessions.
But do we not exaggerate? After all, the Dutchman is known to have stores of money throughout the province, and considerable credit besides. True, he has a considerable pile of bills owed to lawyers and others, all connected with his thus far unsuccessful attempts to win back his family property. But the assets of the van Clynne clan have never been measured in mere financial terms. Forget the rings around his fingers, or the silver buttons- disguised by cheap gold paint-on his vest and coat: the true worth of Claus van Clynne can never be measured by his money, but by the fertile workings of his Dutch brain. For who else in the entire province could turn such a catastrophic loss so quickly into a potential for further gain?
At least that is how he consoled himself when he hoisted himself aboard one of the carriage horses and trotted behind the determined young Rose, who had resumed her mission to General Putnam.
"I would say that your arrival was timely, indeed, but I would not go so far as to say that it was essential to my well-being. In fact, I would posit that had you not arrived when you did, I would right now be concluding my interrogation of my captor on several points of interest."
"And what would those be?"
"With all due respect, young miss, I do not think matters of high intelligence should be blabbed about on the common roadways where anyone can hear. It is but a few minutes to dawn, and I expect the entire countryside is already awake around us."
Van Clynne shifted uncomfortably on the horse. He did not like riding without a saddle and the beast seemed to like it even less, shaking its head and hesitating even though the pace was an easy one.
"You were covered with leeches when I arrived. You would have bled to death."
"Hardly. As a matter of fact, the bleeding was quite a tonic," said van Clynne. "I have been feeling too sanguine of late."
"You said you were feeling ill a minute ago."
"A good portion of my fortune has vanished in those flames," said van Clynne. "But there is no need to sulk. I intend on pressing my claims before General Putnam for full reimbursement, as the money was destroyed by enemy forces while I was engaged on a lawful mission for His Excellency General Washington — "
"Piffle."
"A lawful mission and I am entitled to full recovery, as designated by congressional act and amply illustrated by precedents dating to the Romans. I shall call on you to testify; it is the least you can do, given your role in my personal disaster."
"I saved your life! You are an ingrate!"
"I am not ungrateful for your exertions," said the Dutchman. "I am merely pointing out that they did not come without a price. As you are young, and therefore open to impressions, I have endeavored to give you the full picture of the situation, so that you may hereafter improve yourself. It is called learning, and a child such as yourself should be thankful for it. Now, if you were Dutch — "
"Dutch?"
"A Dutch girl has a certain education from the womb. I do not mean to criticize your parentage, since it is not a manner of choice for the most part. And I have had stout ale brewed by an Irish housewife that ranks with the best of them," added van Clynne. That was near the highest compliment he could pay, though of course Rose did not know it. "But on the whole, on the average that is, the Dutch — do not take this wrongly, but a Dutch girl in your place would not have let my notes lie burning on the bench, for example."
Rose pulled her horse short and turned to confront her new companion. "I will take this abuse no longer," she warned.
"Abuse?" Van Clynne was not used to being addressed in such a tone by anyone, let alone a waif of a girl. Still, he was in a most generous mood — the bloodletting had removed many of the heavier humors from his body. "Dear, I am afraid you misunderstand me. I am not criticizing you, but praising you."
"Colonel Gibbs said you would complain about everything from your horse to the weather. But he did not say I should stand still for personal attacks. Remember I am armed, sir, with his own pistol." "Have you heard me utter one word of complaint the entire time we have been together?" "Hardly," she said satirically. "I rest my case," said the Dutchman, prodding his horse to continue.
Van Clynne could not stay quiet, of course, but he turned his discourse to more neutral topics, settling on the state of the roads. He explained they had grown considerably more dusty since the British took stewardship of the area from the Dutch, and indeed were now in such an advanced state of ruin the wilden would hardly consider them cleared sufficiently for a planting of corn.