The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  Jake could hear her father sighing beneath his breath; evidently these arguments had been made before.

  Finally, she capped her retorts by declaring that if she couldn't join the line and march, then certainly she would become a spy such as her new friend, who was obviously not subject to the deprivations he was boasting so strongly of.

  "I wonder, have you ever met Abigail Adams?" Jake asked, huffing a moment as he muscled his horse over a hedge.

  Alison cleared the obstruction without the slightest exertion, and answered that she had not.

  "You would like her. She is a Boston lady with ideas as bold as yours and wit twice as sharp."

  "Then we shall have a pleasant time shooting redcoats together," retorted the girl.

  The trio passed over a large creek and found a wide road. They traveled along it briefly, then crossed back into a cultivated cornfield and found an old path through a fallow field. The moon, missing only the slightest sliver, illuminated their way so completely they left the torches the innkeeper had prepared unlit.

  The keeper had stuck an old, rusty sword in his saddle scabbard. Alison had been allowed to wield the blunderbuss. She rode with it across her saddle, half-cocked. Her father had made her take the precaution of securing the lock mechanism with a twig that prevented accidental firing; he claimed that it was faulty and given to slipping. Twig or no twig, Jake made sure to stay out of the line of fire.

  Jake's ribs had long since given up complaining about the jostling they were taking, settling for a long and constant groan nagging at the back of his chest. The horse Eagleheart had sold him was a strong beast, powerfully winded, but far from the smoothest platform to ride on. Jake soon began to believe the horse understood English: while she would fight the hard pulls of his arms and legs, she moved quickly to the right and left when directed to do so by voice only. And when he said "whoa," the horse stopped short before he could pull the reins.

  "Aye, trouble ahead," said the keeper, who had spotted the figures by the bridgehead the same moment Jake had. "Don't think they'd be on our side."

  "You'd best go back," said Jake. "Thank you for your help. I can find the river from here; it won't be far."

  "We can't leave him, father," said Alison.

  As Jake was starting to assure her he would be fine, one of the sentries shouted at them. His stiff English accent made it all too clear whose side he was on.

  "Let's go," said Jake, turning his horse to lead the retreat northwards. But the beast had taken no more than two steps when shots rang out. From the corner of his eye, Jake saw Alison's mount fall.

  "Keep going!" he shouted to her father. He sailed around, pulling his pistol and sword out as he jumped down. He fired as he ran to the girl.

  The men on the bridge were part of a detachment of His Majesty's marines, who had come ashore and moved a mile inland to prove the general principle that they could go anywhere they wanted. The figures on horseback were the first rebels — the first people — they'd spotted all evening, and the British advanced from the bridge with the enthusiasm of a gambler who has waited for the cocks to appear all night.

  Jake's shot caused them to pause briefly and reload for a fresh volley. Fortunately, it was not concentrated nor well aimed, and Jake was able to duck it by flinging himself into the dirt.

  The girl had taken cover behind her fallen horse. As Jake crawled toward her, he saw several other figures heading for the bridge, their shadows thrown forward by a signal fire.

  The vanguard meanwhile made sure their bayonets were fixed and commenced a charge. They covered the ground quickly enough to make the god Hermes jealous. When the keeper saw them advancing on his daughter, all instinct of prudence and caution flew from his head. He took his sword and began flailing it like the Grim Reaper as he charged past Jake and Alison. He caught one of the marines straight across the neck, slicing the man's head clean off. The head flew through the field like a pumpkin kicked from the vine, while its late body staggered forward a few grotesque steps before collapsing.

  As the keeper regrouped, he felt a sharp prick in his side. Thinking it no more than a splinter, he steadied his horse in front of Jake and Alison and told them to run while he held off the advancing knot of marines.

  The Britons' shouts of attack were drowned out by the sound of the blunderbuss, which exploded with the deep crackle of a light cannon. Alison had handled her gun as well as any hard veteran of the Connecticut line, waiting until the last possible moment and bowling over the tight clump of lobstercoats charging against her father. Four or five figures collapsed in a great tumble of hot death, their thirst for blood quenched forever by their own.

  Only one redcoat from the vanguard escaped unscathed. He had already turned his attention toward the girl, and now charged bayonet-first, aiming to avenge his fellows. Jake managed to knock him off balance by diving at him with the sword, striking his bayonet with a sharp crash.

  The Briton rolled to the ground but quickly recovered, wielding his Brown Bess in time to ward off a second blow, so expertly that the short sword flew from Jake's hand.

  A quick slash and the silvery blade of the bayonet nicked through the patriot's hunting shirt, catching his ribs and tickling the recently healed wounds. Jake fell to the ground with the pain, and the marine kicked him in the side before heaving the gun back for a fresh thrust.

  The marine shouted as he prepared to make his murderous stab. His high note of glee broke into a shocked riff of surprise and pain. Alison had exchanged the discharged blunderbuss for a knife she kept secreted at her waist and sprung on the man like a badger defending her young.

  The wound she inflicted was no more than superficial, but its timing was critical. Jake flew to his feet and grabbed the man by the neck, pulling him with such force that the redcoat lost his will to fight as well as his weapon. As Jake pulled his arm around the man's neck, Alison picked up the marine's bayonet-tipped musket and skewered him. He fell to earth with a dying gasp.

  War is never a pretty sight, especially at close range. Both Jake and the girl were splashed full with blood. But Alison stomached it as easily as Jake, and had he the leisure, he might have commented on her bravery.

  He did not. A new volley sounded over their heads as the reinforcements from beyond the bridge charged into the field to renew the assault. Jake led Alison toward the spot where he had left his mare; the horse stood calmly by, gently nickering that her owner had best get a move on.

  Alison's father, in the meantime, had been dashing on horseback to and fro, his sword flashing as he made sure the fallen redcoats would rise no more. Fresh out of opponents, he followed to where Jake was pushing Alison aboard the horse.

  By the time he arrived, he was gripping his own mount's neck. He waved them forward, telling them to hurry and escape before the reinforcements caught up.

  "Father!" Alison shouted. "What's happened?"

  "I'm all right, all right," mumbled Brown. In fact, he was anything but. He fell over from his horse, landing in a heap as his bloody sword dropped nearby.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wherein, Melancholy shows her tearful face, and Jake confronts a development that will have diverse consequences for our tale.

  “Father! Father!"

  Alison jumped from the horse and ran to the stricken figure. Jake followed, scooping up his dented sword on the way.

  Brown rolled out on his back, stretching up to look square at the moon. The golden orb hung above like a benign party lantern. An owl, startled by the carnage before him, crossed before it, his path a compass toward blessed Avalon.

  "Papa, Papa."

  "It's fine, my dear. I see your mother."

  "No!"

  The redcoats were charging across the field toward them, shouting. Oblivious, Alison kneeled down and held her father's head in her arms.

  "Papa, Papa," she told him in a shaking voice. "I need you, Papa."

  "Don't worry, child. You have our friend here." Brown reached up his hand to
Jake, who took it gently. Already the grip was cold and weak. "Take care of her."

  "I will, sir," said Jake, his eyes locking on the dying man's.

  "I'm coming, Mary."

  "Father!"

  * * *

  A haphazard volley of shot fired on the run missed Jake and Alison, but caught Jake's mare. The spy yanked Alison to her feet and pulled her with him toward a row of trees at the edge of the field. The girl stumbled and fell; Jake ducked back, took her under his arm, and began running again, holding her like a log plucked for the fire.

  Only a macabre coincidence kept him from being speared through the back by the swiftest of their pursuers. Just as the redcoat reached out to stab him, the soldier tripped over the discarded head of his comrade, the same man Brown had earlier decapitated. The marine fell forward, and discovering what he had fallen over, began retching violently.

  The two patriots reached the tree line barely ahead of a second lobstercoat. Jake tossed Alison roughly into a bush, then ducked as the marine charged; he was able to upend the man and grab a large tree limb as another soldier reached the woods. A swift slash disabled this attacker, and Jake turned his attention back to the first, still sprawled on the ground. A blow from his boot dispatched him from the active duty rolls; Jake helped himself to the man's bayoneted weapon and went to the bush where he had thrown Alison.

  She wasn't there. He pushed through, stickers grabbing at his clothes and face. Jake had just yanked a particularly nasty branch from his cheek when his injured ribs were creased by a thin but still hurtful tree limb.

  "Jesus!"

  "I'm sorry," Alison exclaimed. "I didn't know it was you."

  "Come on, before the others find us." Jake pushed her forward. The woods were just thin enough for them to run through, and the top cover filtered the moon's light, sheltering them with a veil of darkness. After they had gone a hundred feet or so, Jake pulled Alison to a stop, whispered that they should be quiet, and thus changed their tactic from rapid retreat to organized withdrawal.

  The marines had lit torches and were scouring the field and the edge of the woods. The fight, however, had been knocked from them. Jake and Alison moved stealthily to the east, and within a half hour could no longer hear the English shouts, nor see their lights.

  Another half hour of walking brought them to a road. Jake motioned with his hand that they should stop and rest; they were both so tired they flopped down right into the dust.

  "I am sorry about your father," Jake told her. "I am truly sorry."

  The girl did not say anything, but began softly weeping to herself. Jake knelt and held her in his arms. Back at the tavern, her body had felt considerably harder, more muscular, and though there was no mistaking her sex, he did not doubt her boasts about being stronger than many boys. Now, she felt as weak and soft as a tender kitten, stranded after its mother has been snatched away.

  "I must go," said Jake. "I'm sorry for you, but my mission is critical. It will be light in a few hours, and I must find a way across the river. Hide here until dawn. The soldiers have given up their pursuit and will soon return to their boats. I'll continue south and find my way across with the light."

  "We are barely a mile from the Hudson," said Alison, springing to her feet. "Come on."

  "Wait. You can't come with me."

  "You need me to show you the way. You can't go south here. And you will never get down the cliffs by yourself."

  "Wait!"

  Jake's protest was useless. The girl was already running full speed down the road in the direction of the river. Cursing beneath his breath, he ran to catch up. He soon found himself sliding off the road down a ravine Alison seemed to know as well as the furrows of her garden. His feet finally found a solid path, and once more he had to run to catch up with her.

  * * *

  Those who have sailed up the Hudson from the bay will well remember the massive rock ledge that seems to leap from the Hudson's waves straight up toward heaven. This part of Jersey appears to stand upon a solid platform, raised like the bank of the Nile by Moses against some foreign horde. Indeed, these natural defenses helped secure the patriots during the dark days of the British rush to take Manhattan.

  But the fortress rocks are not as impenetrable as they seem from the water, and there are many points where they fade back from the river. Countless crevices and paths wind their way down, ancient ways first explored by the Indians who made their homes here. Alison led Jake down one now, slipping and dodging through the mazelike natural wall as if she were a raindrop descending to earth.

  Here Jake's height and bulky shoulders proved something of a disadvantage. Normally sure-footed, with the balance of a squirrel, he found himself continually sliding one way or the other. It did not help that the route, though direct, was long as well as treacherous; he grew more and more tired as he went. At length, the lieutenant colonel began to wonder when he would reach the bottom, and even doubted the wisdom of his choice to try Manhattan from the Jersey shore.

  "Here we are," said Alison finally, poking her way past some saplings that had forced themselves up in the crocks of the river stones. "God, look at the ships upon the river. They must belong to the redcoats we fought."

  They did indeed. Three schooners escorted by a fifth-rate stood off the shore, while a dozen whaleboats scurried back and forth, taking men from the Jersey side to the ships. Fires burned on the ground above, and lanterns and torches glimmered in the boats, covering the proceedings with a golden glow.

  "I don't suppose they've done me the courtesy of leaving a boat nearby," said Jake. Though his voice was sardonic, he nonetheless glanced up and down the shore.

  "We can take that log and float across on it," suggested Alison, sprinting across the narrow ledge of shore.

  "We can't do anything, miss," said Jake. "You have to go back to your inn."

  "Why? What luck will I have there?"

  "I'm sure you could run a good business, if you put your mind to it. You are a good cook."

  "The inn will be taken from me in a day, and you know it," said the girl. "Even if I were a boy, it would be so."

  "Some neighbor will help you, I'm sure," said Jake.

  "Here, this log will do nicely. Come now. You promised father you'd look after me."

  Before he could grab her, Alison threw her weight against a large, broken tree trunk sitting at the waves' edge. Jake was surprised to see that she was strong enough to get it into the water by herself.

  But if he had once been bemused by her determination, he had a considerably different opinion now. He could not traipse through the city of New York with a child at his elbow. She would be an unimaginable liability.

  Or would she? Jake was known, but surely this girl was not. A brave young woman might serve the Cause in countless ways; many were doing so already.

  The question was moot. Alison was already several yards from shore. Cursing, Jake slipped off his boots and took a few ginger steps on the rocks before diving into the river.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wherein, Van Clynne’s progress is briefly examined, as is Jake’s swimming prowess.

  Claus van Clynne at that moment was contemplating somewhat similar waves, if a vastly different situation. His captors, having recovered from their wounds, found it difficult to contain their animosity toward him, especially as he was chained and could not retaliate. The poor Dutchman therefore suffered sundry blows before Egans, worried about the bounty he would receive for returning a rebel spy for interrogation, ordered he be left alone.

  "I don't know why you think I'm a spy," complained the squire.

  "Your forged papers are proof," said Egans.

  "They are not forged, sir. I am purely a man of business."

  "A fancy name for it. Personally, I don't care; you'll bring me twenty crowns whether you're a cousin of the king or George Washington himself."

  "Twenty, is that all?" asked van Clynne. "I've got more than that in my purse."

  "You did ind
eed," answered Egans, "in each purse. I have never seen such a collection of notes in my life."

  The Dutchman's grumbles about thieves not being trusted were ignored. The open boat continued southward, her two small sails, set atop each other, puffed full with the wind. The moon gave her more than enough light to sail by. There were no American river patrols to stop her and the only complication lay several miles downstream, where the chain at Peekskill stopped all river traffic.

  Van Clynne's head rested against the hard oaken rails of the vessel's side. He was consoled by the fact that his hat had been returned; not only was it a longtime companion, but no self-respecting Dutchman considered himself properly dressed without one.

  Perhaps the return of his headgear was a positive omen. He knew from recent experience that the river barrier was impenetrable, and that these British miscreants would therefore have to make landfall in patriot territory. As van Clynne realized he had good hopes of meeting friends once ashore — there was not a man or woman of Dutch descent in the valley whom he did not know — his outlook on the adventure began to brighten. Surely this difficulty would prove but another arrow in the quiver of accomplishments he would present when he asked General Washington for consideration in the matter of his land. The general, and afterwards the Congress, would consider the great trials van Clynne had overcome and see justice served. And who could doubt that the Dutchman, as resourceful a man as ever to have trod these shores, would find some stratagem to ease his escape once embarked on dry land, where the air was clearer and the beer free for the taking?