Chapter Thirty-three
So was Claus van Clynne reunited with his salt. This development greatly cheered him, as he interpreted it as a sign that Providence would reward him for his efforts. Indeed, he went so far as to believe that his luck had improved several fold. Not only would he save the chain and get his land back, but the name van Clynne would be celebrated with the likes of Adams and Washington.
While van Clynne was engaged in these flights of optimism, the Connecticut troops he had appropriated to his command were busy scouring the grounds for additional supplies and items that might help them. They discovered a half-keg of explosive powder and a few fuses, and a large and lengthy rope. This was no ordinary string, as it stretched over thirty yards. It seemed to have been constructed of fine Asian hemp and was particularly elastic. Being the George Washington of ropes, the men insisted on taking it with them; you could never have enough string in an emergency.
Four horses had been left at the farm. The Dutchman now discovered himself at the head of a mounted column — three privates apiece on the horses, with the rest of the men crowded atop the salt wagon, pulled by its ox and a horse. Several large white canvas sheets had been tied over the contents of the cart, for the sky looked threatening, and the Dutchman did not want to lose his salt a second time.
While overall the arrangement might seem a bit motley, it promised better progress than on foot. The soldiers clung to their various stations with good cheer, happy to be freed of the boredom of their quarantine. The easy victory at Stoneman's fired their optimism and bravery; they sang as they fell in behind their leader, (hereditary) Captain-General, triple-cluster, Claus van Clynne.
No general, hereditary or otherwise, was ever prouder of his men. The only thing the Dutchman lacked was a proper insignia of rank, and as he proceeded he tried to decide if their route would take them near any place where he might find a sword or epaulette.
While these thoughts may seem a diversion from his true task, in fact they helped spur van Clynne along. For had he been left to concentrate solely on the next stage of his mission, the good Dutchman might have severely faltered.
The reader will recall that Achilles’ mother Thetis, wishing to make him invulnerable, dipped him in the River Styx, with the result that his entire body became invulnerable, except for that small part of his heel which was not immersed. A somewhat different result had occurred when, as a small child, Claus had been dunked in a barrel filled with water and kept there near to drowning.
While he had overcome his severe aversion to the sea in order to accomplish his last mission in New York, he was far from cured of this affliction and wished strongly to avoid anything to do with water. Had he contemplated the possibility of missing the Tories at the cove, and drawn the next logical conclusion — that they must be met on the river, aboard the Richmond — van Clynne's haughty tone and fearless direction surely would have faltered. Indeed, he began to hiccup uncontrollably as the column drew in sight of the Hudson.
Aside from two or three lost seagulls, the shoreline of the first cove was empty, and showed no sign of having been visited by the Tory party.
"They must be at von Beefhoffen's," the Dutchman said hopefully. "Quickly, men — I know a shortcut that will get us there within a quarter hour."
As van Clynne and his followers were hurrying down the valley, another traveler was proceeding in somewhat the same direction.
Major Dr. Harland Keen carried Rose on his horse to the charred remains of the cottage where he had tortured van Clynne. His carriage was still out front. Except for the fact that it had been ransacked by van Clynne in a futile search for his coins, the vehicle was in fine shape, its many concoctions and paraphernalia intact.
The same could not be said for his dead driver, whose battered body still lay before the ruins. The fire had burned a portion of his face away; even the hardened doctor felt some tingle, some shadow of grief as he dragged the dead man into the woods. A pair of ravens sat in the high trees nearby, undoubtedly angry that their morning meal was being stolen.
Percival's brief but valuable service had earned him a proper burial, but Keen did not have time to supply it. Instead, he threw two blankets retrieved from the ruins over him, vowing that the proper dignities would be accorded at some point in the near future, if not by Keen, then by forces he would direct hither.
After dressing his own wound and procuring a fresh jacket from the coach, Keen took Rose down from the horse. Her eyes remained tightly closed, her mouth agape, her reddish brown curls hanging in a tangle to the ground, as if she were Guinevere under some spell of Merlin's. Placing her on the carriage seat, he put fresh iron cuffs on her wrists. Rose slept the entire time, so heavily drugged that what should have been an expression of alarm and concern on her face was instead a vague smile.
Keen, tempted by the thin folds of the dress bunched up to reveal her naked leg, considered taking at least a portion of his revenge immediately. He forestalled himself, realizing revenge was best extracted at leisure, and after giving her a rough pat and fixing her clothes as if worried about modesty, ran to the woods and retrieved van Clynne's coins from their hiding place.
As he placed the pouches beneath the coach's rear seat, he caught a reflection of himself in the eyepiece of a small spyglass he kept there. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes — his eyes had that wild character so many of his critics had used in London as proof that he was mad. Truly, he told himself, they had confused genius with madness, high intellect with insanity — but nonetheless he paused to fix his hair, then took some paint to daub his cheeks and soften his brow. Finally, he retrieved a thin green vial from his store of medicines in the back; bracing himself, he uncorked it and drained the contents, forcing the liquid down against the natural reaction of his throat and gullet.
He only barely prevented himself from retching. Keen clamped his teeth together tightly and fought against the reaction; his fingers swung tight on the carriage wheel, holding on for support as tremors ravished his body. One hundred and seventy-six seconds of hell, and it was over; he felt the effects of the drug immediately.
The ill-tasting potion was his greatest discovery, made from a long list of expensive and difficult to obtain herbs and vapors. The slightly modified Egyptian formula promised immortality. While he doubted it could live up to that claim, Keen knew that each time he survived the bitter taste and reactions, he emerged refreshed and invigorated, and looked as if he were in his mid-twenties, despite his white hair.
He picked up his cane and leaned inside the coach door to tap the supine girl on her leg.
"Perhaps, my dear, I will give you a taste of this elixir. Eternal life would suit you — after we make a few other amendments to your constitution."
Keen laughed aloud and climbed up into the open driver's seat. He did not have a map, nor did he know the area. But the river surely lay to the west, and if he went in that direction he eventually would find a place where he could hire a boat and have himself rowed out.
Despite the thick clouds obscuring its path, the sun had already reached its meridian point in the sky when "General" van Clynne dispatched an advance party of his troops to scout the defenses of the second cove. As he waited with his main force, the Dutchman found his thoughts beginning to wander. He thought of his favorite gelding, left at the Mischief Inn; he thought of his companion Jake Gibbs, undoubtedly still disguised among the ranger troop.