Free The Iron Chain by Jim DeFelice Page B

Within two miles, he started to look for an inn.
    The first to present itself featured a sign with a man with his wife on the back, yielding the inn's nom de drink, loaded with mischief. This was obviously a very new establishment, as van Clynne had not met it before. His curiosity aroused, he tied his horse to the front post and walked up the short run of red brick to the front door. A fresh coat of green paint had been applied to the thick, battle-scarred wood, confirming — in van Clynne's mind, at least — that the inn was new, though the house itself was a nondescript brick affair that could have been erected at any point during the past fifty years.
    "The wife will be down shortly," said the sleepy-eyed proprietor, greeting him in the foyer. Glad for the business, he hustled van Clynne to a seat in the small front room to the right. "We'll have some coffee for you directly. I'm sorry I can't offer you tea — it's too dear in these parts to afford, nearly as much as salt."
    The Dutchman fell to commiserating with the man, who although of German stock was not altogether unpleasant. He had seen no one answering Jake's description, and van Clynne thought it best not to ask too many questions; the man's accent was thick enough to indicate his arrival in America was recent, making his loyalties suspect.
    The coffee was strong, and van Clynne soon found it worked wonders for his disposition. But it was not until he overheard the innkeeper's conversation with two men at the door that the Dutchman's mood truly lifted.
    They were a peculiar pair to be up this early. Their white shirts were so yellowed they might not have been washed in two winters, and their black trousers — a modern invention van Clynne did not agree with — were as crumpled as a discarded page of Rivington's lying Tory newspaper. Neither man had shaved successfully for a fortnight, though their faces bore the evidence of several close attempts. An expert limner could not have painted a more convincing portrait of two thieves down on their luck.
    But the Dutchman was no mere portrait artist. He was an accomplished student of human nature and, as he had told Jake ad infinitum, a good man of business. He immediately realized the men were not mere robbers but privateers strayed far from their ship. More accurately, they must be members of a recent crew who had traveled inland to sell off their share of the loot at a better profit than what they could make in port. As such, they were prime recruits of the good dame Opportunity's army, and she had decided to knock on Claus van Clynne's door with a vengeance.
    "Any bushel you can find will fetch nine dollars at least," one of the men told the keeper. To judge from his companion's remarks, the man's name was Shorty, though in truth he stood much taller than average.
    "They're paying ten at Newburgh," said the second man, who was nicknamed Fats. He was of far less than average weight — obviously the pair came from a part of the country where bodies or nicknames were deformed.
    "Two dollars would be robbery," responded the innkeeper. "Salt was thirty cents not two years ago."
    "The problem is the money. You can't count its worth," said Shorty.
    "I have Spanish dollars, as solid as any."
    "Fifty reals per bushel," suggested Fats.
    "Two bushels for five duros, and not a real more."
    "Can't be done. That's not even thirty shillings," complained Shorty.
    "It's forty if it's a penny."
    "Excuse me," said van Clynne, stirring from his chair to enter the conversation. "Perhaps if you used Dutch equivalents as a standard, your calculations would be easier."
    "What business is it of yours?" demanded the innkeeper.
    Van Clynne gave him an indulgent smile. "I have overcome such difficulties many times. Perhaps if I offered my services as a negotiator."
    "Just another profiteer looking to cut himself in," said Shorty.
    "No, no, I am an honest philosopher, a follower of the good Adam Smith," said van Clynne. "As men of