“ This beer — the brewer is not Dutch, I daresay,” grumbled van Clynne. “There was a time when every wife knew how to make ale, and every wife’s ale was nectar to the angels. Now — pfffff. Taste this. Taste it.”
“ You’ve finished your whole tankard already.”
“ Due to thirst only. I would not have another. No, no, under no circumstances, though my thirst does remain quite strong, sir, now that you mention it.”
“ I didn’t mention it. And I’m not going to buy you one.”
Van Clynne frowned, realizing there was more to this Mr. Gibbs than his silly hat or lame story foretold. Still, twenty crowns was twenty crowns, especially in British currency.
“ I suppose your friends will be waiting for us outside,” said Jake, draining his cup and rising to resume the journey. He was anxious to get moving.
“ I doubt it,” said van Clynne. “I know these fellows well. They’re cowards. Must be in the next county by now.”
But Jake proved to be the better judge of character. Pieter Gerk, armed with a fresh knife, accosted them halfway between the door and the paddock where the horses were tied. His sidekick Pohl was conspicuously absent.
Jake ducked just in time. Pohl missed and flew through the air spectacularly, though he was in no position to admire the trajectory. Jake reached up and knocked the man’s foot as he passed, altering his path enough to change what would have been a four-point landing into a one-point crash, that point being his head.
But Pohl was a robust man, with an extremely thick skull. Somewhat to Jake’s surprise, he managed not only to get up, but to punch him in the stomach when he approached. Jake fell back and pulled a small black pouch from under his belt where it had been secreted. As Pohl charged blindly toward him, he stepped aside and clamped his hand with the bag’s contents on Pohl’s nose.
This miscreant stood straight upright, temporarily paralyzed by scorpion powder. A flick of Jake’s wrist sent him in a heap to the dust.
In the meantime, van Clynne had stirred himself, knocking Gerk back against the tree and once again separating him from his knife. If the Dutchman was portly, he was spry for his size; his frame held a good deal of muscle along with the fat.
Jake grabbed the knife from the ground and surveyed the situation. He was sorry to have used the last of his paralyzing powder, but it would have lost its potency soon anyway.
“ I suppose we should give them their weapons back,” he suggested.
“ Give them back?”
“ Yes,” said Jake. “I wouldn’t want to be called a thief.” He bent the polished but poorly tempered steel into a curve with the flat of his palm. The display of arm strength had the intended effect on Gerk — his shudders made it clear he wouldn’t bother following, though Jake thought it prudent to toss the two halves of the pocket pistol and some shillings in the dirt for their troubles, just to show there were no hard feelings.”
“ Must be an English knife,” said van Clynne as they rode away. “They’re making the damn things so cheap these days.”
“ They certainly are,” said Jake.
Two hours later Jake began to question whether he had indeed chosen the right guide. He was by now well ahead of schedule, thanks to the remarkable shortcuts van Clynne was showing him. But this advantage in speed was coming at a heavy price — the Dutchman had a penchant for discourse.
Not discourse, precisely — complaint. His entire philosophy might be summarized thusly: The world had gone to hell in the past fifty years.
Actually, there were hints that the decline extended to the collapse of the tulip bulb market, but Jake didn’t care to interrupt the flow of words for an exact date. His companion was clearly a man who saw the tankard not only half empty, but one the verge of rusting through. Every portion of the world was in sorry shape — just now van Clynne was complaining that the fir trees were not nearly as green as they used to be.
His own thoughts wandering as a matter of self-preservation, Jake nearly missed the import of van Clynne’s sudden harrumph.
He looked up to see three men on horseback blocking their path. Adrenaline flushed into his body as he realized they were the same men — two whites and an Indian — whom he had unsuccessfully followed yesterday evening. Providence had delivered them to him.
It had also placed rifles in their hands, aimed sharply in his direction.
“ Good sirs,” said van Clynne lightly. “How can we be of assistance?”
“ You can start by handing over your worldly possessions,” said the pockmarked man — the same demon who had ordered the child’s death. His deerskin hunting shirt, fringed collar and cuffs showed signs of many hard scrapes.
His white companion was similarly dressed, though his clothes were considerably newer and not so sorely tried. He wore the look of a man who disdained these transactions.
The reader will remember that the previous day Jake had guessed that this man was a British officer. Today, Jake was at leisure to construct an entire narrative for the trio: The pockmarked man was a Tory loyalist and criminal, who thought the entire adventure was an excuse for robbery and murder. The second white was a British spy fresh from England, learning that the woods had their own cruel morality. The last of the group was an unattached Iroquois warrior, seeking glory but unsure of his course, let alone his companions.
While his eyes were glued to the trio, Jake’s hands were slipping unseen behind his coat to grasp the Styan handgun secreted at the back of his saddle. His two other pistols were in plain view at the front; loaded as always, they would be useful in their turn.
“ Now, now, gentlemen,” said van Clynne, his voice three times as cheery as it had been at any moment since he had left the tavern. “We have a letter from General Schuyler himself, a good Dutchman, guaranteeing us free passage.
Van Clynne, noting the smile and disdainful frown, hastened to add, “And his worship, Governor Carleton, likewise has granted us permission to travel. So sirs, I beg you — “
“ On your knees when you beg,” said the pockmarked man.
“ Claus van Clynne goes on his knees to no man!”
“ On your knees you swine.” The pockmarked man lifted his light cavalry musket toward van Clynne. His companions followed suit.
Frowning and grumbling heavily, van Clynne shifted on his horse, leaning over to comply.
“ You, too.” Pockmark gestured menacingly at Jake.
Jake nodded meekly, and leaned to the side of his horse as if dismounting. But as he did so, he swung the pistol up and got off a shot that added a fresh mark to the Tory’s face, this one brighter red than the others, tinged around the sides a dark black. It was the devil’s own sign, reserving the murderer for the special place in hell put aside for those who kill children.
As he dove to the ground, Jake pulled a fresh pistol from the saddle holster. He tumbled behind his horse, springing to his knees and pushing the gun forward as he pulled its trigger, throwing its bullet toward the disguised British officer.
In retrospect, Jake decided that it might have been better to miss, or merely wing the man, since he had already dropped his weapon in fright. The officer might have provided some information on British intentions and, at the very least, explained the details of his mission here. But there is no taking back vengeance once unleashed — the ball found its mark square in the man’s chest.
Jake had no time to second-guess himself at the moment, for he was now on the opposite side of his horse from his remaining gun. More critically, he was directly in the aim of the Iroquois brave.
In the next moment Jake heard a loud whizzing sound that he mistook for the approach of a bullet or maybe an angel, come to lead him to the river Styx.