The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

"You have fitted Sir William, have you not?"

  "Oh yes. Sir William. Has me cut his nose hairs. They grow like a jungle."

  "I suppose he has ordered a tye wig?"

  "Tye wigs, no."

  "Are they not popular in Boston?"

  "Boston? I would not think so."

  "Didn't Sir William enquire as to the popularity of wigs where he was going?"

  "Isn't go'n Boston," said the barber, shaking his head. "He's going to Phil, Philadelphia. And you know what they wear there?"

  Van Clynne did not bother to listen to the reply, instead slapping two fresh notes on the counter. As he waved to the proprietor, the wig-maker abruptly fell over on the floor in a drunken stupor.

  To say that the Dutchman was in a cheerful mood when he opened the door and stepped into the now darkened street would be to understate the obvious. To say his spirits reversed would miss the mark again — for the Dutchman suddenly found a large arm coiling around his neck.

  It belonged to his former jailer, Christof Egans.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Wherein, Egans’ genealogical roots are briefly dug up, and concerns sprout regarding Jake’s state.

  Just the man I was looking for,” declared van Clynne, barely managing to keep his balance as he was pulled from the doorway and pushed against the wall.

  "You will shut your mouth for me, Dutchman," answered Egans. "I have spent considerable energy tracking you down, and waited here nearly a full hour."

  "You should have come in," said van Clynne apologetically, noting the pistol in Egans's hand. "Surely I owe you a drink for delivering me to New York."

  "Silence! You are worth as much to me dead as alive now." Egans loosened his grip and spat in disgust — a reaction, it must be admitted, to the somewhat sour odor the beer had imparted to van Clynne's breath. "I hate the damn Dutch."

  "I do not see why," said van Clynne, smoothing his beard with as much dignity as the circumstances permitted. "Considering that you are Dutch yourself."

  "You are a miserable liar!" screamed Egans, pushing the gun at van Clynne's face.

  "Just so, sir, just so," tutted the Dutchman, casting an eye up and down the empty street before continuing. "But search your memory well after you shoot me. Remember your dear birth mother. When her face comes to mind, you will see it bore the strong, sturdy lines of an Amsterdam native. A fine beer-maker, I might add; no one could beat her hops."

  "My stepfather was killed by a Dutchman, van Gergen."

  "Your stepfather was a noble warrior and a great chief to his people," said van Clynne. "But he was killed by Von Gorgon. Von, not van. The vowel makes all the difference in the world. He was a German. They are a notoriously disagreeable people."

  "I do not believe you."

  "Naturally," said van Clynne. He reached into his pocket, smiling as Egans aimed his gun. "Allow me to show you a map."

  He produced the small sheaf of documents he had taken from the engineering office and began leafing through them. In due course he came to the map of the quadrant in question and unfolded it for his captor. Von Gorgon's name was clearly marked.

  As was Egans's, in a note indicating the German had usurped the property that had once belonged to "good Mr. Egans, his wife Gelda and child, miserably martyred by the native peoples."

  Egans stepped back in confusion. Now it must be admitted that this last note was in a hand remarkably like van Clynne's, and that he had been examining this particular page in great detail upon his return to the Sons' headquarters the previous evening. Even so, it was not the map nor the argument that convinced the adopted Indian, but van Clynne's details of his mother's face, which conjured a dark but accurate memory in his breast.

  "Come, sir, let us step off the street where we can talk," suggested van Clynne, gingerly extending his hand and lowering Egans's pistol. "I have not had supper. A good sturgeon steak, I believe, would revive me properly. And you appear in need of several strong ales."

  Some time later, seated in a tavern located in the dock area and waiting for the well-buttered fish to be served, van Clynne unwound the tale of Egans's ancestors. John Egans had married Gelda Guldenwinckle of the Amsterdam Guldenwinckles, a housewife of the old school. Particularly adept at raising tulips, she was said by some gossipy neighbors to quite spoil her only child, young Christof.

  At this point in the narrative, a tear formed in the ordinarily stoic Egans's eye, and the squire hastened to proceed. It took nearly three hours and four times as many cups of strong ale to relate the entire story of Egans's capture at the age of two by a small band of Mohawk, who in due course turned the child over to the Oneida. Van Clynne skipped over the womenfolk's role in the proceeding; this revealed his Western prejudice, as a native would have instead properly emphasized it. Nonetheless, his praise of Egans's stepfather was genuine and found a receptive ear.

  Egans already knew much of the story well, but he had never heard it put so eloquently or fetchingly. For the first time in his life, he had something of an appreciation for his white parents as well as his red. It would not be truthful to say that the former had replaced the latter in his esteem, but the changeling now looked upon the world with completely changed, if somewhat beery, eyes.

  Such was the power of van Clynne's tongue that, well before the end of dinner — marked by some creamy Gouda — Egans had not only given the Dutchman back his paper money and passes, but his political allegiance had shifted one hundred and eighty degrees. His hatred for the Dutch had been transformed into a complete loathing of the Germans — and thus by strong logic their allies, the British. The fact that the English had cheated him on countless occasions, and never shown him a quarter of the deference van Clynne made so obvious in his speech, clearly helped this conversion, though in the squire's opinion the shift was merely a result of Dutch blood winning out.

  "I will murder every damn mercenary I see," declared Egans, slamming his fist on the table so hard that his tankard, thankfully empty, fell to the floor.

  "Quiet now. We will find a more appropriate venue for your rage," said van Clynne, smiling nervously at their neighbors, including a pair of alarmed Hessians, before hurrying to pay the bill.

  Lieutenant Daltoons paced through the large, empty room at the top of the infirmary. He had run out of fresh curses to use on himself for letting Alison slip away, and as the old ones were by now well-worn, he kept his vigil in silence. He assumed — he prayed — that she had found Jake. He further assumed — he further prayed — that Jake's failure to return as promised was due to some minor complication.

  He had done more than merely pray. The undercover officer had spent much of the day searching the city, together with some of Culper's other men, but without result. Nor had Culper succeeded in discovering Howe's target, despite his best efforts.

  The spy ring itself remained in mortal danger. The British had reacted to yesterday's jail break with great indignation, to say nothing of increased patrols and a tripling of the normal guard at every facility. Nearly every soldier who remained in the city had been set to work harassing suspected patriot sympathizers, and

  there was word that the authorities were planning to conduct a house-to-house search for the escapees.

  Culper had taken the precaution of sending men known to be wanted into hiding and emptying the places the Sons of Liberty had used with great regularity. This infirmary was one of them, but as it was the place Jake was to return to, someone must wait here. And Daltoons had appointed himself that someone.

  The Connecticut native had served Culper and the other members of the Sons of Liberty spy ring in a variety of capacities. He had never been more concerned than now, however. The lieutenant was not so much worried about Jake, whom he regarded as something of a mentor, but the spirited Miss Alison, whose beauty he had no trouble spotting beneath her rough disguise. She was a very remarkable girl, he thought to himself. More than remarkable. Were the circumstances different.

  The reader may well fill in t
hat last thought, as Daltoons had no time to do so himself. A loud wail rose at the far end of the block and sent the lieutenant to the window. He had not heard such a horrible sound since the landlord had packed five bags full of cats and kittens and tossed them into the harbor.

  As his ears struggled from the strain, he realized the wail was actually a maudlin Dutch song of thanksgiving:

  We gather together

  To ask the Lord's blessing.

  He chastens and hastens

  His will to make known.

  The wicked oppressing

  Now cease to be distressing.

  Sing praises to His name

  For He forgets not His own.

  Except that the words sounded more like:

  We gather together

  To ask good Laura's blessing.

  She hastens to unbutton

  That her bosom be known.

  With lavish caressing

  We complete the undressing.

  Sing praises to her

  Whose lips are our own.

  "I assume this singing is some strategy of yours, meant to scare off the English," Daltoons said, meeting the two purveyors of this song at the back door with a sharp halberd as they concluded the verse. He had to retreat a step, so thick was the stench of beer from them.

  "Just so, sir, just so," declared van Clynne, putting his finger to the point of the weapon. "We have pretended to be drunken revelers to put off the patrols. We are not, of course, though I daresay such accomplished tones have not been heard on these streets in many years."

  "Thank God."

  "Allow me to introduce my friend and fellow kinsman, Mr. Egans, a worthy Dutchman of the finest stock, and a fine tenor, all told.

  Daltoons's head tilted forward incredulously as he examined the man before him. He did have white features, and they might perhaps be Dutch, but they were sheathed in garb that was so obviously Indian as to chase any other nationality far away.

  The man greeted the young lieutenant's inspection of his tattoos and scalp lock with a prodigious and very beery burp.

  "Inside, quickly, both of you," ordered Daltoons. "Drunken fools."

  At this, van Clynne's dander stood up.

  "We are neither drunk nor fools, sir," declared the squire, who was in fact a far distance from being inebriated, no matter how off-key his singing had been.

  "Speak for yourself," said Egans. "I am drunker than a cat in an herb garden."

  And with that, he fell forward into Daltoons's arms.

  "Being Dutch, I naturally assumed he could hold his beer," said van Clynne after he and the lieutenant had delivered the man to a bed upstairs. "But perhaps the strain of the night has been too much on his humors."

  "I don't know if we should trust him."

  "You can trust him," said van Clynne. "And he will be a valuable agent to you. He is, after all, Dutch."

  "You have admitted yourself he was raised by the Iroquois and served the British."

  "The latter was due to a profound misunderstanding, which I have rectified," declared van Clynne. "As for the former, the federation is a powerful one, but varied in its nature. Many of its nations are indeed on our side. The Oneida are very much inclined toward us."

  This was not so much a lie as a slight shading of the notion of neutrality.

  "We'll see what Culper has to say about it," said Daltoons finally. "In the meantime, Jake is still missing."

  "Tut, tut, he will arrive as appointed," said the Dutchman, walking toward the chair where he had spent the previous night. Having done a full day of work, he decided he would reward himself with a good nap. "And undoubtedly he will insist on carrying on with his plan, though I have already solved the problem. Be sure to wake me on the morrow."

  "Wake yourself," said Daltoons. "I have details to see to. There are barely three hours till dawn. We will have to kidnap Bauer ourselves if Jake does not show up. I half hope he will not come easily."

  "Always with the fisticuffs," complained van Clynne, drifting off. "You youngsters must learn the great Dutch art of finesse."

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Wherein, Jake and Alison reach the ferry — nearly.

  For a man who knew he was likely to die in twelve short hours, Jake walked toward the Brooklyn shoreline with an easy step indeed. Granted, the knowledge that he would rise soon after being hit by the bullet added to his confidence, but he might nonetheless be taken as proof of the old proverb construing peace on those who face their demise mightily. The smile on his face was due to the thoughts of how he would fool Bauer when he was revived; there is little so amusing as making a complete ass of your enemy with the aid of a child's pretend game.

  "It's colder than last night," said Alison, turning around just as they reached the road that led down to the ferry. "Why are the nights so cold when the days are hot?"

  "Ssshh," said Jake, whose mood suddenly turned as heavy as the bag he was carrying. "Those are Loyalist rangers."

  "How do you know? They have no uniforms."

  "It's not much of a guess. Who else would be armed here? Pretend you are helping tie this bag."

  Alison did as she was told. The road they were on led down into the cluster of buildings near the ferry landing, which was still a few turns away. If there were rangers here, it was a good bet there would be many more guards at the ferry itself.

  Why? Yesterday's escapees would be leaving New York, not trying to sneak back into it. Was something else going on, or was the patrol merely the result of an overanxious subaltern, bored with his normal assignment?

  "We need to do a little reconnaissance," Jake told Alison as he pulled her to one side to allow a man leading two sheep to pass by. "Do you think you could walk around the quay?"

  "If you mean spying, I have been waiting all day for some chance at adventure."

  He took hold of her arm. "This is deadly serious, Alison. They'll kill us if they find out who we are."

  "I'm not a child."

  The strong glance from her eyes shone with something he had not detected there before, a look that did not retreat. It was more than bravery. Jake wondered if, in changing her dress, Alison had made the transformation from girl to woman.

  "We will stop, as if for supper," he told her. "While I talk up the customers in these taverns, you go down to the ferry and assess the guard. Try to discover why there are so many, but do not make yourself conspicuous."

  "Do you think they are after us?"

  "Probably not," said Jake. "They would have no reason to look here. Still, it's best not to take chances — even if they would be looking for a young ruffian, not a pretty young woman."

  Her answer was a slight but definite blush on her cheek.

  "The danger is not that they will recognize you," Jake warned, "but that they will try to take advantage of you. Stay as far from the guards as practical; ask the women and children what is going on."

  "It's you who should be careful," said Alison.

  "Well, now I know you've grown up, if you're starting to worry about me. Meet me in the Peacock there."

  Jake pointed at the tavern down a small side street. "If anything happens to me — "

  "I'll go straight to Lieutenant Daltoons." Jake had intended on telling her to go back to the farm, but her reply was so confident — and exactly what an agent should do, in her position — that he let it pass. "Take no more than a half hour."

  "I will be back before you can sneeze," she promised.

  By now, the reader must be tiring of the description of every tavern and ordinary we stop at along the way. Truly, these are all of a common class, the same as any of us meet upon our daily travels. But it can only be emphasized that each has its peculiarities. The Peacock, for example, is a most curious mix of the modern and the ancient. The floor is packed dirt; one has the impression upon entering that cows recently trod there. The front room, however, is large and mounted by a balcony dressed in polished oak. At the center of the ceiling — so far overhead it
must rival several European opera houses for its height — is a grand chandelier, with glass baubles pyramiding down in a style reminiscent of the finest French palace. Yet the tables below are rough-hewn from common pine, hardly squared and as level as the average mountain path. The wicker announcing the bar is wrought from common black iron — and not wrought very well, if the truth be told. On the other hand, the keeper pours his ale in magnificently tooled pewter tankards that would divert even van Clynne in a moment of thirst.

  If there was an explanation for the contrasts, Jake did not seek it. When he entered the Peacock following a fruitless tour of several smaller and plainer establishments, he asked for a beer and sifted into the small crowd milling at the end of the room, ears open. Amid the usual talk of weather and crops, there were a few comments about the removal of the main elements of the British army from Staten Island, which these firm Tories interpreted as a positive development: the damn rebels were finally going to get theirs.

  "There still seem many troops around these parts," Jake suggested to his neighbors as he sipped at his ale. "It looks like a half-hearted offensive, if you ask me."

  "Half-arsed, you mean," said the man next to him, whose belly pushed the buttons of his brown waistcoat nearly perpendicular. "Howe is as competent a general as I am a farmer."

  "You're a better blacksmith than he is, too," laughed a neighbor. "Though not by much."

  "I heard there was a prison break in New York, and they've doubled the guard," suggested Jake.

  The others scoffed.

  "They're always looking for someone," said a customer.

  "They are trying to organize the Loyalist militia, so the civilian authorities look for a pretext to panic," explained the blacksmith. He had a ruddy face and short, naturally curled hair; there was ever so slight a hint of Sweden in his voice, as if he had come over as a child. "A man enters looking to settle a debt, and the guard is doubled and the shutters thrown. Haven't you enlisted?"