Chapter Thirty-seven
Was the prodigal greeted with such shouts of joy as van Clynne received from Keen? Did Columbus respond with greater happiness as the king and queen of Spain met him at the dock?
Without question. Nor did van Clynne seem willing to put a single metaphor to the test. His body drooped, his arms hung down as he leaned back, practically draping over the nearest salt keg.
Jake's fury simmered. He did not know that van Clynne and the doctor were previously acquainted, and could conjure no explanation for the Dutchman's sudden and obvious — though as yet unstated — capitulation. Nor could he see, from his vantage, that van Clynne's pipe was not quite dangling aimlessly. For the good Dutchman had indeed come aboard with a plan that involved more than mere bluff — he'd fashioned a bomb inside the salt barrel where he was sitting, and was endeavoring to light it.
"Well, is not this my old acquaintance Squire van Clynne?" said Keen. "What a coincidence!"
"Yes, yes," said the Dutchman, fumbling to light the fuse without being detected. Why was nothing ever where it was supposed to be?
"You're looking quite pale, my friend. I hope you've recovered from my blood treatment."
"Superbly," said van Clynne. Worried that Keen would see what he was doing, he turned his head up to attend to him — and silently cursed as the pipe slipped from his hand.
"What are these barrels?" asked the doctor, pointing the eagle-handle of his walking stick. He had not replaced his hat, but otherwise looked as fine and fresh as the day he strode off the ship into the New World.
"I found my salt."
"Ah, very good, very good," said Keen. To this point, the British agent had ignored all the others, playing his moment of triumph for all the drama he could squeeze from it. In truth, the doctor had a thespian streak that would have impressed even Mr. Jonson.
"You are Gidoin, I assume," said Keen when he finally turned to the captain. The doctor knocked his stick once on the deck for emphasis, and then consulted one of his watches, as if concerned about the time.
If Gidoin had taken an immediate dislike to van Clynne, his feelings toward Keen were even worse. "My name is Captain John Lewis Gidoin, master of this ship," he replied tightly. "And whom have I had the pleasure to meet?"
Keen reached into his vest and retrieved his ruby-hilted knife — and with a sharp flick of his wrist, sent it sailing to the deck between the captain's feet. "You will do precisely as I order you to."
Gidoin froze. While he did not know all that the blade implied, he realized from conversations with his father, a former admiral, that it was a signifier for the Secret Department attached directly to the king, and that its bearers were not to be jostled with. In the least.
Reacting to the knife, two of Gidoin's marines took a menacing step toward Keen. The captain immediately commanded them to stop — though the withering glare from the doctor might have accomplished the same on its own.
"What do you want?"
"The Dutchman and the other man are my prisoners," said Keen. "I require a proper boat. I had to induce a few of the rabble to get myself out here, and I fear they may be unreliable."
Gidoin looked over at van Clynne, who had gone to his hands and knees in order to retrieve the pipe — and use it to light the fuse. He was just about to grab it when one of the marines, acting at McRae's nod, took hold of his coat and hauled him to his feet.
"Unhand me," blustered van Clynne. "Captain — arrest that man," he shouted, pointing at Keen. "He claims to be a British operative, but he is only a thief. He stole my money, under the pretense that I was a traitor."
"It was no pretense," said Keen, walking to Jake and ignoring van Clynne's continued protests. "General Bacon took an interest in you," he told the trussed spy. "He mentioned something about a dinner appointment he hoped you would keep. I wonder if that meant he wanted you returned alive?" Jake's eyes displayed no emotion, save fierce hate. "Alas, it's too much bother," said Keen. "Hang him quickly." Finally, something the sailors agreed with. They hopped like children at a May Fair to comply.
The reader will realize that the disguised Private Martin has quite gotten lost in the recent chain of events, so rapidly progressing. For he has followed the foot-soldier's motto: "When in doubt, keep your head down."
Or more specifically, duck behind the salt barrels and pray that no one sees you.
There is no underestimating the ingenuity of a Connecticut man, nor can his initiative under fire be truly assayed until the moment in question. Martin saw the pipe on the deck boards and realized that General van Clynne was no longer in a position to light the fuse. He therefore came to the fore, crawling on his hands and knees while the sailors took up Jake's rope and the rest of the ship's company turned to watch the entertainment proceed.
"I think you should reconsider," van Clynne said, producing his own ruby-topped knife for the bewildered master of the Richmond. "I, too, am a member of the Secret Department, and Mr. Gibbs is my prisoner. General Bacon will be very angry when I tell him what you've done."
"You will not live to tell him," answered Keen curtly. "Pull him up!"
Jake felt the pressure on his neck and decided to make one last, desperate try at freedom, coiling his legs beneath him and gasping for a breath. As the sailors prepared to give the first pull, he bolted upright, tensing his shoulder muscles and leaning against the rope, so that his neck became a swivel. It was an awful, wrenching motion, but it allowed him to kick his boots against the mast and swing back into the sailors, sending them into a tumble. The rest of the ship's company erupted with laughter.
Lieutenant McRae began shouting at the men; Gidoin cursed; a marine grabbed Jake from the deck where he had fallen and yanked him upright.
Van Clynne, his guards distracted by Jake, took a sniff at the air and made a perfect dive into the oak boards, landing at Gidoin's boots. All eyes turned toward him. "What the hell are you doing?" thundered the ship's captain. At that moment, the disguised salt keg exploded with a loud and very spicy bang.
Not even Homer could describe the scene that followed with proper accuracy. Martin, aware that the fuse was very short, had taken his chance to dive overboard the moment van Clynne fell. The explosion threw splinters and salt in a large circle, small cakes of the mineral acting much the same as pieces of shot. Keen was bowled over by a barrel lid, and knocked unconscious to the deck. Gidoin escaped serious injury, but was blown against a spar and also knocked unconscious. And Jake — ?
Jake would have been struck through the heart by several pounds worth of exploding salt were it not for the marine who had manhandled him. The unfortunate redcoat acted as a human shield; in an instant, the back of his coat turned a much darker shade of red.
Now was Claus van Clynne's greatest moment. He had chosen his trajectory not merely to escape the impact of the explosion, but to be in a position to grasp the red-handled knife Keen had thrown down earlier. Rocks were still flying through the air as he rolled to his feet with his blade in his right hand and Keen's in his left. He reached Jake and sliced through the hanging rope with a bold stroke of his right hand, while plunging his left into a marine's belly. Van Clynne then hauled Jake's body upon his shoulder and courageously proceeded to the side of the ship, where he cursed King George III in a loud and bold voice, ignoring the pistols and cutlasses of the crew. Flashing his small dagger, he took a manrope between his teeth and slid gently to the boat where Martin was already waiting, making good their escape.
At least, that was the story the Dutchman would tell upon reaching shore. From Jake's point of view, the action proceeded in somewhat different fashion: