The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  The message was signed by General Howe.

  "B is Boston, obviously," said Jake. "But can it be?"

  "Perhaps," said Washington. "We bloodied Howe's nose in the Jerseys but he was still quite strong. At first I believed he was aiming for Philadelphia, but it became clear his true strategy was to draw us into a fight on poor grounds. When that didn't work, he took his men back to Perth and Staten Island. Now he's loaded them aboard ship and disappeared." There was an impish twinkle at the corner of Washington's eye as he added, "Not to return to England, I'm afraid."

  "Where was the message found?"

  "The message came into our possession yesterday morning. A man stumbled into a patrol of General McDougall's soldiers in the Highlands. Clumsy, for a Tory spy."

  Jake nodded. Not two months before, he had trailed a British messenger south from Canada to New York City. The last thing the man would have done was stumble into an American patrol and get captured.

  But the paper in his hand certainly seemed genuine. And the container it had come in was not something to be given up lightly.

  "Have you asked the Culpers for their opinion?" Jake asked. Culper was the code name for the leaders of the patriot spy ring in New York City. Their information on British intentions had proved extremely reliable in the past, and Jake had made use of both Culpers — Junior and Senior — in several of his operations. As contingencies continue to demand discretion, we will use only the name Culper in referring to the man at the head of the patriot spy ring, wherever we shall meet him in our tale.

  "Another problem," said the commander-in-chief. "We haven't had a message out of New York City for more than a week."

  "Nothing?"

  "I fear our men have been captured or worse. This is the longest I've gone without a message. I've even sent two men in for word. They haven't returned."

  The general turned his attention briefly to the daphne at his feet. The beautiful plant and its berries contained a deadly poison, easily extracted.

  "You want me to go to the city and find out if this captured message is genuine."

  Washington nodded. "We have sentinels on the coast looking for Howe's ships. Our best information is that they wait just over the horizon. But I can't afford to sit still until Sir William decides he's had enough of his mistress Mrs. Loring and goes on."

  "If I were to guess," said Jake, "it would be Philadelphia. Boston is not a logical attack."

  "Agreed. But if I were attacking Philadelphia with his army, I would simply march across southern Jersey. He could try the Hudson, to join up with Burgoyne after this news of Ticonderoga. After all our efforts — after all your efforts particularly — it would be a great blow. Meanwhile, the South is wide open to him, arid it would cause us considerable difficulty if he were to attack there. But Boston?"

  "It is Howe we're speaking of," said Jake lightly. "Anything is possible."

  Washington laughed. "It would be an imaginative stroke, though we can't rule it out on those grounds alone. The despair if we lost the city after regaining it would be tremendous, and we couldn't hope he would neglect the defenses a second time."

  The general had a certain mood that came over him when he contemplated a strategic situation. His head tilted down slightly, and his eyes seemed to focus on something inside his mind. Meanwhile, his arms deposited themselves behind his back.

  Jake, walking at his side, studied the supposed message from Howe. There seemed no doubt that he had written it—but in truth or as a deception?

  "If I am to protect Boston, we must march by the middle of next week," said Washington finally. "It is the last possible moment, and I would be depending on the local troops to hold Howe, if he lands, until I could arrive and counterattack. It is a desperate strategy, but it is the best I can do until his destination is found. At least from here I can go in whatever way is necessary."

  Jake nodded. The consequences of losing any major city would be great, but losing Boston a second time might crush the Revolution completely and would certainly end all hope of foreign aid. Jake knew the commander-in-chief would never say that, however; he would never bring himself to even hint that the war might ultimately be lost.

  The spy slipped the letter back inside the flask and handed it to his commander.

  "I'll leave for New York immediately," said Jake. He had no idea, as yet, how he might find out what Howe was up to, but clearly there was no time to lose worrying up a plan.

  "If our friends in the city are still alive," said the general, "they may already know the answer."

  Jake nodded, realizing that the general was implying that he feared the worst. "It will be an easy trip then, in and out."

  "If not, your imagination will be put to good use in creating a solution."

  He felt Washington's strength as the general’s strong arm patted him on his back. The Virginian came off stiffly in certain formal settings, but easily relaxed among the small coterie of men who knew him well. He could be a warm and doting uncle, as Jake well knew. And once he took a shine to you, mountains could erode to anthills before his faith wavered.

  "Four days is all I have, Jake, and even that is cutting the hare's whisker close. If I don't hear from you and the British fleet is still unsighted, I must march for Boston." Washington began striding back towards his aides. "Get some new clothes. Hamilton will give you letters of credit. You'll have need of a fresh horse as well."

  Jake thought of mentioning his friend van Clynne and his petitions, but realized this was not the time for it. He was already trotting ahead, looking for his horse. "I will be back as quickly as possible, sir. And we will have a few rounds of throwing shot."

  "I won't stand you or the rest of my family an advantage this time," the general called out. He always referred to his staff members as family, and indeed he treated them as such. "I have heard you learned much from the natives during your recent visit with them.”

  Chapter Seven

  Wherein, Jake meets a weaver but not his daughter.

  While Hamilton led him south of Suffern's Tavern to a small village to see to a disguise, Jake worked his brain around a plan to enter New York.

  The spy had last trod the city streets a month and a half before. His coming and going had created such a stir in the Westchester environs that he felt it would not be wise to enter from that direction again. Likewise, taking the river south, which would be the quickest route, was too dangerous. Jake had almost been hanged on the deck of the HMS Richmond, which Washington's men said was patrolling off Dobbs Ferry; its master bore him a serious grudge and would not be easily fooled by any disguise. And the men on at least one other ship — the galley HMS Dependence — would like to see him displayed high on their yardarm, or perhaps launched in pieces from the massive cannon they carried at their bow. Prudence dictated that his best course was by land south through New Jersey; there were any of fifty places where he might sneak into the river, take or rent a boat, and steal across to the city.

  A few papers forged in Benjamin Franklin's son's name would come in handy if he ran into problems. Though a stout patriot himself, Franklin's son William was royal governor of New Jersey. He had been turned out the previous year and arrested, but his signature still impressed British authorities and Tories. It was also readily available to the Americans, and Washington's staff often amused themselves by duplicating it.

  As they came to the village, Hamilton bade his friend farewell.

  "I assume we will see you in a few days," said the aide. "And we'll be singing your praises again."

  "Have some strong ale ready," suggested Jake.

  "With pleasure."

  Jake's first stop was an inn, where he had a quick breakfast — for such it was, even though the clock was past midday — of apple pie and fresh pheasant. The fowl was well prepared and left him in good spirits as he walked down the street to a weaver named Brian Daley, reported by Hamilton to be an especially hot friend of the Cause. The scouting proved accurate, though a bit mo
re information might have prevented the misunderstanding that followed Jake's mentioning the colonel by name.

  "Colonel Hamilton sent you, did he?" asked the man, setting aside the bolt he was working and rising from his loom.

  Jake nodded in the affirmative, turned to take note of a fine piece of cloth, and suddenly found himself threatened by a sharp and rather nasty poker, its business end dusted with hot ashes.

  "Stay away from my daughter, do you hear?" said the man. "All you macaronis in your fancy suits — if you attempt to sweet-talk her the way that West Indies bastard did, I'll have you skinned alive."

  Jake managed to nudge the pointer from his face and delicately assured the man that his interest was in clothes, not daughters.

  "It will help our cause a great deal," the spy added. "And you will be paid properly by General Washington's men, as these letters show."

  The warrant allowing funds to be drawn — initialed by General Washington himself — helped clear up matters, and the weaver took him into the back room, where material was piled in haphazard fashion.

  "I don't have time for a suit to be made," said Jake.

  "I wasn't proposing to delay you," said the man, pushing aside several blankets to get to a store of knee breeches prepared for other clients. He looked back at Jake. "You're a tall one, though. It won't be easy to find something suitable. Although . . . Kristen, fetch me the trousers I set aside for Master Sullivan."

  "Trousers? You're going to make me into a sailor? I am bound for New York, and must fit in there."

  The weaver was unmoved by this confidence, much less the complaint. "You weren't aiming for any high society balls, were you?" he asked gruffly.

  Indeed, he might be, thought Jake. The British in New York were famous for their parties, and it was quite easy to pick up important command gossip at their celebrations. But he had no time to argue. The pants soon made their entrance in the hands of the weaver's daughter Kristen, who entered from the stairs. Hamilton's interest in her was well justified; the girl's smooth, unblemished face was as round as a ripe tulip, and even in plain working clothes and apron, she added light to the room upon entering. Jake endeavored to keep his mind on his business. Excusing himself, he went behind a small screen and changed. The white trousers were a little tight in the thigh, but serviceable.

  "How do they look?" Jake asked, stepping from behind the screen.

  Kristen had barely time to blush before her father ordered her out of the room.

  "Back to work with you," he yelled at her, chasing her up the stairs. "And you, sir —"

  "I'll keep my pants on, I assure you. Have you a waistcoat and jacket?"

  "I have a hunting shirt, though it has seen better days," said the weaver. "It should be about your size."

  "That would be fine," said Jake. The shirt proved somewhat large at the stomach, but Jake donned it gladly. His clothes were more than a bit mismatched, even for these desperate times, but virtue often comes from necessity, and it did so here. The costume would make it easy for Jake to pass himself off as a poor militia deserter; the woods and swamps of north Jersey were full of them, and none would be wearing the latest fashions.

  As the weaver adjusted Jake's coat, he suddenly fell back in pain.

  "The damn gout has my shoulder." The man's face was white and drawn.

  Jake eased the man around and pulled up his shirt, looking at his back. His nimble fingers, so used to grappling with enemy soldiers, found a knot below the weaver's shoulder blade. With gentle but steady pressure he poked it down, and the man's color returned.

  "Are you a doctor, sir?" asked Daley, with obvious relief.

  "Of sorts," said Jake. "Is there an apothecary in town?"

  "A liar and a thief, as are the entire breed."

  Jake smiled. "I want you to obtain a cure from him called the Gibbs Family Remedy. It contains an extract from the Caribbean sea whip. A teaspoon when this flares up, and you will feel a new man."

  The weaver looked at him suspiciously.

  "If he tries to charge you more than a dollar for the bottle, tell him you know he paid but ten pence."

  Jake's father had discovered the properties of the fish from an aboriginal doctor and sold it at close to cost, determined that it would be his lasting contribution to the science of cures.

  The weaver was so pleased that he produced a pair of boots and a large beaver hat with a hawk's feather, adding them to the bill at half-price. Jake's next stop was at the stable owned by a certain Michael Eagleheart, a farmer and smithy who had helped find horses for several of Washington's officers. Eagleheart, a bluff fellow with a quick hand and ready laugh, allowed as how Jake had come just in time; the day before he had taken possession of a mount ridden only by an old woman to church on Sundays.

  To say that Jake was dubious of the tale is to say a donkey has four legs. Nonetheless, the claim was backed up in the flesh, as a three-year-old filly in fine mettle was soon found standing atop fresh shoes and shouldering a gentle disposition. Her price, at fifty pounds, was half the going rate, and Jake had her saddled, boarded, and galloping for the road south within a few minutes, the farmer having thrown in a small sword to seal the bargain.

  Chapter Eight

  Wherein, Squire van Clynne has several experiences on the river, some unpleasant, and others more so.

  While Jake rushes through the rough land of southern Orange County into the hills and barrens of northern Jersey, we will rejoin his friend and late companion, Claus van Clynne, who has been amusing himself by trying to escape the villainous white Indian, Egans.

  Kneeling as his canoe flowed from the riverbank, van Clynne picked up a paddle and attempted to accelerate his progress downstream. The Dutchman had lost his weapons and purses, but not his considerable store of passes and pin money, and thus was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that, if he could merely overcome this tiresome interlude, he might yet complete his voyage to General Washington successfully — assuming, of course, he could discover where the general was.

  These optimistic thoughts were not the only goad to his progress. Egans followed behind him on the shore, sending bullets so close that his hatless hair fluttered with the passing breeze. The Oneida was one of those men who learns greatly from his mistakes. When he reloaded and fired again, he was able to correct for his earlier aiming inadequacies, and was rewarded with a direct hit on van Clynne's canoe. The musket ball smashed against the hull with such ferocity that the Dutchman lost his balance and nearly fell over. The bullet sailed through the side into the floor of the canoe and thence into the depths, where it descended with an ominous hiss.

  The squire was too busy holding the craft upright at first to realize the import of the noise. But he soon discovered a geyser rising in front of him and noticed at the same time a severe list developing in his vessel, the small hole magnifying steadily.

  The Hudson is perhaps the mightiest of our native rivers. Before the war, it was a veritable highway of commerce, as choked with traffic as the streets of New York City or Philadelphia. Even now, no stretch of it is ever completely empty, and as van Clynne began to scream for rescue, there were three or four vessels close enough to hear his call.

  Could they reach him in time, though? As his canoe swamped, the Dutchman paddled madly for the nearest craft, a single-masted gondola steered by a large tiller at the rear. Its two sails were filled with the wind, and as it tacked to head toward the floundering canoe, the squire began to feel the icy lap of the waves on his thighs. He pushed his oar violently through the water, his concentration remarkable, his progress less so. As admirable a vessel as the birch canoe may be, it was not designed to operate with a punctured hull.

  Van Clynne could not swim, and as the water reached for his chest he feared that he had breathed his final breath of dry air. With heavy heart and a last burst of energy he gave his oar one last brutal push, determined to meet his maker as a brave Dutchman, fighting adversity to the last.

  It will be
to his credit to note that his usual habit of complaint was not suspended in the moment he interpreted as his last. Indeed, by now his cursing had reached epic proportions, so that, beginning with Egans and ending with the Englishman who had discovered the North River, not a single living being could be truthfully said to have escaped his verbal wrath. His words were not stilled until the water splashed full in his face. He dove forward fitfully, writhing in what he hoped approximated the manner of a fish.

  During the Dutchman's struggle, the gondola had managed to slip against the wind, and a sudden trick of the current sent it streaking toward the floundering canoe. A sailor in the bow leaned over and caught van Clynne's coat just before the Dutchman disappeared below the waves. The weight was so great that the poor man fell in with him.

  The rest of the small crew quickly hove to. Within a minute, both men had been hauled from the depths and pulled aboard. Van Clynne had temporarily lost consciousness; he was brought around by some vigorous pumping of his chest and a dose of stiff rum.

  "That is the most infernal excuse for liquor I have ever tasted," coughed the Dutchman, sitting upright on the deck. He reached up and grabbed hold of a rope ladder that led to the mast above. "Please, don't attempt to poison me further. If you are trying to kill me, send me back into the river. If you want to restore my health, fetch me a good keg of ale."

  "We've no ale aboard," said the man in charge of the boat, a thick-chested fellow whose words were punctuated with whistles, owing to the large gaps in his front teeth.