The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

  "I am Christof Egans, a messenger from General Burgoyne. I was ordered by the general to extend greetings to his honor Mr. Bauer before proceeding to General Clinton's headquarters."

  The redcoat guard, standing at the top of the path from the beach, endeavored to keep his eyes off the strange markings on the man's face and chest. Nonetheless, his contempt for the visitor was undisguised.

  "You're a white man?"

  "I am an Oneida warrior. My Indian name is

  Gawasowaneh;

  in your tongue, it means Big Snowsnake. Do you wish my entire history, or will you do your duty and take me to your master?"

  "Mr. Bauer is not here."

  "I will wait, then," said Egans.

  "You'll be waiting till Judgment Day. He's dead. Killed in a duel. Brother came back this morning."

  "Take me to the brother, then," said Egans.

  The English sentry had heard rumors of changelings and race traitors but had never seen one, much less found one in the employ of his government. Still, all manner of arrangements were made during wartime. When he searched Egans he found him unarmed. His papers were in order. And so the private turned him over to his corporal, standing on the shallow step before the front door, and retreated to his post — only to find another guard in his place. As he protested the unexpected relief, he was knocked over the head from behind.

  Egans, meanwhile, repeated his previous interview with the private for the corporal, with roughly the same stoic expression. Contrary to van Clynne's concerns, Egans had no difficulty pretending to be something he was not. The white Oneida soon found himself padding softly behind the corporal as he was shown inside to the parlor.

  "I will attempt to find Lord William for you," said the corporal. Like the rest of his men, he came from the English Highlands, but his accent had been suppressed by years of contact with his betters. He had also learned a great deal more manners than his privates. "I must say that he is deeply grieved today. Your audience may be strained."

  "I am only here on orders," replied Egans. "As soon as they are fulfilled, I will be happy to leave."

  "Aye, I reckoned that." The corporal gave him a crooked half-smile and turned on his heel to find Bauer's lone servant, George.

  Egans stood as erect as a statue in the well-appointed room. No rag rugs covered these wide floorboards; Persian and Flemish craftsmen had slaved for many years so Clayton Bauer's guests could walk from one room to the next without getting splinters in their feet. At Egans's side stood a massive clock, taller and wider than he, and filled with a mechanism as finely and precisely tuned as the Oneida's own heart. Its deep click filled his ears.

  The reader should not think that the past few days hadn't taken their toll on the adopted Indian's faculties. The physical difficulties, to one so inured to a hard life of fighting, were of little concern. Egans had endured hand-to-hand warfare with bitter rivals; that was a considerably greater trial, in his opinion, than any fight with whites, no matter how extended. But the revelations of his parentage, and more importantly, the identity of his adopted father's killer, had struck the core of his being. His hate had been so strongly held that it guided his most important decisions since coming of age. It was one thing to shift alliances — Egans had been taught the ways of justice and honor, and knew firmly what he must do — but it was another thing to face the grave error his life had been victim to. It was a shortcoming he was responsible for; he must somehow find a way not simply to amend it but to expiate its consequences. Many men had been wrongly sent to their deaths because of his mistake.

  Jake need not have worried about his new loyalty. Rather greater was the possibility that Egans might suddenly do something very rash because of it. His calm, stoic exterior, hardened by his years with his Iroquois family, hid the raging emotions of a volatile white child, not yet tamed by civilization's conventions. Sooner or later, the painted skin would fail to contain the tormented soul bubbling below.

  "Who are you, sir, and why do you come to my brother's house?" said Lord William Buckmaster as he entered the room.

  "I am called Egans, a messenger for General Burgoyne. The general bade me directly to pay my respects, before I attended General Clinton. I have come to fulfill my duty."

  He addressed Lord William in a flat voice, and seemed to take no notice of the man's finery, the well-arranged powdered wig and black silk suit. Lord William had daubed his cheeks with rouge, but the lines of his grief were obvious enough as Egans held his eyes.

  Buckmaster dismissed the corporal, telling him to go and check on his men. When he was gone, Lord William addressed Egans with a level voice, endeavoring to take no notice of his odd appearance. He assumed such things were commonplace in this strange and violent land.

  "My brother-in-law is dead," said Buckmaster. "I am waiting now on the arrival of his body."

  Egans nodded.

  "Would you care for a drink?"

  "No."

  Egans waited silently as Lord William called for George to bring him a strong whiskey.

  "Sir," said the servant, "I believe that some addiional soldiers are arriving outside. And I have heard noises in the north wing — "

  "Just get me the damn whiskey. Now!"

  The outburst represented Lord William's surrender. He sank into the blue velvet chair behind him, lucky that it was there to break his fall.

  Egans stood motionless, observing, feeling only contempt for the weakling before him.

  The same spell that had arrested Jake stopped Lady Patricia as well. Jake broke it first, moving quietly and quickly behind her to shut the door. Then he touched her shoulder with his left hand — his right still held his knife — not knowing whether she would cry out in alarm or fall into his arms. She did neither, turning instead. A thousand emotions mixed in her face. "You killed my brother." There was a moment that seemed a century then, as if Jake might be somehow able to commit her soul to his memory, as if in the silence some essential part of each might mix. For van Clynne had judged his friend well; Jake had become enamored of the woman whose lips he first kissed for convenience only. Whether for her nobility in suffering, her strong yet charitable way, or the inviting curve of her body — it was impossible to say. As the first moment grew to the next, the spy banished any weakness the attraction would bring. Yet some emotion remained; some regret tempered his strength. "Your brother is alive." Jake took her hand as she started back in shock. "I am not an agent for Bacon, but Washington." "Washington?" He let her slip back to the bed, sitting on the edge and catching her hands to her mouth. He saw her next move before she attempted it, grabbing her mouth quickly as she rose to set the alarm. "Let me go, you bastard." The words choked out between his fingers, not loud enough for anyone outside the room to hear. "You killed my son. You and your treacherous friends, you lying bastard!"

  Lord William rubbed his face, as if he could pull the shattered shards of his soul back together. He looked up and offered his guest a wan smile of apology.

  "Excuse me," he said. "My son disappeared — we have to assume he died — in the war, and now my brother. His wounds were more of the self-inflicted nature. Pride, really."

  There was a shout at the front hall, and Lord William jumped to his feet, running to the door — where he found his brother-in-law, groggy but quite obviously alive, hanging on the shoulder of a sailor.

  "If you yell out, your husband inside will die," Jake warned her. He moved his hand down and gripped his arm around her neck, trying not to choke her though keeping her secure. He had the knife in his right hand, but there was as much chance of him using it against her as there was of the sun rising a second time that day. "Your brother will be killed as well, this time for real."

  "I don't believe you," she said, yet she made no effort to call out or get away as Jake leaned down to slide the knife into his boot. Her long dressing gown was half buttoned, an inch of pink skin exposed between her breasts. Jake, still holding her around the neck, reached to the nearby table and p
ulled off the cloth, fashioning it as a light clasp for her hands.

  "I did not kill your son," he said as he tied her hands. "And I did not make the promise to help find him lightly."

  "You are a liar and a devil."

  "You accepted my kisses readily enough."

  "Don't flatter yourself," she said.

  "I notice you're not trying to escape."

  "I'm not as foolish as you think. You would grab me in a second, wouldn't you? And slit my throat. Kill me now, then. Go ahead. Kill me as you have devastated the rest of my family."

  A sudden energy flooded into her body. Jake caught it just in time, clamping his hand over her mouth.

  "I'm not going to kill you," he said, a second before she bit his fingers.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Wherein, several weapons are produced, as are some slight complications.

  Daltoons checked his pocketwatch warily as he squatted by the stone pillar along the roadway. His men would have deposited Clayton Bauer at the front door and ought to have neutralized the guards by now.

  No matter whether in the city or not, operations on Manhattan were always fraught with danger. Daltoons, by now an experienced veteran of irregular warfare, habitually felt his palms sweating at some point during a mission. They had turned to raging torrents now, and he wiped them on his freshly bleached white breeches, anxious for his men to arrive and tell him everything was going as planned.

  His hope was in vain. Hasty footsteps down the path and labored breathing announced a messenger.

  "One of the sons of bitches got away," said the man. "He ran from the back when we secured the horses at the barn. You said not to shoot."

  "Shitten hell." Daltoons turned his eyes back to the road. There was a redcoat encampment less than a quarter mile away.

  "Pull everybody from around the building. March up to the crossroads with me," said the young lieutenant, loosening the worse curses in his arsenal as he began trotting up the hill, guns ready. "Shitten damn hell in a British dandy's rogering hatbox."

  "It was some manner of rebel plot," Clayton Bauer told his brother-in-law as he was helped to the couch. "They were trying to get information from me on Sir William's plans. At least I believe that is what they were doing. I told them he was going to Boston." He managed a wry smile as he sat down. "The idiot has probably changed his mind several times now, and reversed course from Philadelphia, so lord knows I may have told them the truth.” He noticed Egans. “Who the hell are you?"

  Bauer jumped upwards, still struggling with the effects of the drugs. Bebeef s sleeping powder had a nasty habit of leaving the joints knotted with pain for several hours after the primary effect had worn off.

  Egans did not react.

  "He's a messenger from Burgoyne," said Lord William.

  "Gentleman Johnny is using clowns?"

  "My name is Egans," the white Oneida said. "I was told to extend the general's personal regards before reporting to General Clinton."

  "What the hell would you be told that for?"

  "I am not in the habit of questioning my orders," said Egans. "If you wish me to leave, I shall."

  "No, I do not wish you to leave," said Clayton, who waved off his brother's attempts to pull him back to the couch. "I want you to explain who the hell you are, and what you are doing here. The last time I saw Burgoyne I promised to see him in hell for his slander. He would no more extend me greetings than he would address a horse in the street."

  Jake nearly screamed with the pain as Lady Patricia clamped her teeth on his fingers. He caught her as she tried to squirm away and pulled her back, hesitating to punch her but finally seeing no choice.

  Just as his fist found the side of her head, a dark brown figure rushed through the door and flew at his back, snarling and barking. The mastiff that had once guarded him on the beach now sent him flying forward on the bed; Jake reached for his Segallas in his belt but lost his balance and fell over as the animal slashed its teeth into his side.

  For nearly a full minute he fought the dog with his bare hands, wrestling desperately to keep its mouth from his throat. Finally he managed to fall to the side and roll to his stomach, his back and coat offering some protection from the angry beast's slashes.

  Jake found the handle of the knife and pulled it from his boot, but dropped the blade as the mastiff slashed at his arm. He rolled over the knife and had to fight to his knees, the dog pulling viciously at his clothes before the spy finally managed to grab the weapon again. A sharp plunge with the blade into the animal's stomach drained the fight from it; he finished the job quickly by slitting upwards, all the way to its throat.

  He rose to find a servant at the door holding a pistol on him.

  "I have told you who I am," Egans said coldly. "If there is ill blood between you and my superior, it is none of my concern. I will take my leave. I am already several days late."

  "Stop, Indian, or whatever you are," Bauer reached for the side of the couch. He didn't do so to steady himself. Ripping away the cloth, he retrieved a loaded pistol and pointed it at Egans.

  "George, what the hell is going on with that dog!" Bauer yelled before turning to the sailor who had helped bring him into the house. "Get the guards from outside and have him arrested," he ordered. "Move, man, before I have you thrown in chains as well."

  The sailor quickly headed for the door.

  "Drop the knife, I say."

  "Come now," Jake told the servant. "You're not going to shoot me for a brief indiscretion."

  "Drop it or you're as good as dead."

  Jake complied as the man steadied his aim. He was holding the pistol with more confidence than David displayed toward his slingshot.

  "What have you done to her ladyship?"

  "Just put her to sleep." Jake took a stagey glance toward the bed, but George was too smart to allow him an opening. He circled around to the other side, out of reach for a lunge.

  Jake's blow had sent her slumbering, but otherwise left her unharmed. The servant placed his hand briefly at Lady Patricia's mouth to make sure she was still breathing.

  There was barely six feet separating them. Still, it would take more than Jake's normal dose of good luck to keep from getting a gut's worth of trouble if he dove for the pistol. Nor did a plunge through the door into the house seem like a good option.

  The Segallas was still in his belt, tucked beneath his coat. He tried to ease his hands down where he might grab it, but the servant returned his attention to him.

  "Keep your hands up and walk through the door."

  "And what if I don't feel in the mood for a stroll?" asked Jake.

  "Then I will kill you here and not bother cluttering the courts."

  Egans's face betrayed no emotion. He knew the "sailor" would soon return with either some story or his weapon drawn, or both. He already had the information he had come for; all he need do now was wait.

  That he could do for a long time, as difficult as it was to stomach the stench of the cowardly Englishmen. If duty had not required his returning with the information Jake Gibbs and his friend the Dutchman sought, Egans would surely have attempted killing them all with his bare hands. In such a way, he decided, his mistakes would begin to be corrected, blood for blood.

  "You are not a native," said Bauer. "Why are you dressed that way?"

  Egans did not answer.

  "Speak, you race turncoat. Speak. That is an order." Bauer waved the gun in his face.

  "I was born white and adopted. I am an Oneida and a member of the bear clan. No one can steal that identity from me, for it has been sealed with blood."

  "White blood, I would bet," said Clayton. "Your soul has been poisoned by the pagans."

  Egans had many rejoinders, but offered none.

  "Really, Clayton," said Lord William. "I think you should let the soldiers handle this. You are weak from your ordeal."

  "He is undoubtedly another spy!"

  "He showed papers."

  "Easily forged.
I should kill him now."

  "I don't think that would be wise," said the sailor, returning from outside. A Southerner caught in the city when the British invaded, James Dewey had joined in several clandestine operations against the British during his sojourn. Baffled by his compatriots' disappearance from outside, he'd decided retreat was now in order, and had produced a gun from under his billowing shirt to effect it. "Put down your pistol."

  Bauer shook his head. "I believe we have a standoff."

  "Not in the least." Dewey had been told by Daltoons that Jake would be inside the house, and so endeavored to tip the balance by calling him out.

  "I'm here," announced Jake, answering his call as he appeared beneath the arch leading to the hallway. "But not alone."

  The servant stood behind him, pistol poking into his ribs.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Wherein, a lesson in ciphers is well-learned, but does not prevent dire consequences.

  Dewey had always prided himself on his ability at arithmetic, and fully realized that the patriot forces were currently one weapon short. Still, by his reckoning there was no immediate need to comply with Clayton Bauer’s demand that he put down his gun. He was confident that the men who were supposed to be posted outside would eventually reinforce him. “

  I can kill you as soon as you fire. And I will,” he told Bauer.

  "Brave words, rebel," said Bauer. "Bring him over there, George. Where's my sister?"

  "Oh my God," said Lord William. He took a tentative step for the door, but the sailor's voice caught him.

  "Move, and your brother will die."

  "She's all right, m'lord," said the servant. "I caught this one before he could harm her."