The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  The clerk's brow knotted. He realized the Dutchman might indeed be correct, and in any case, there were considerable forms to fill out regarding its loss. The crisis was averted by Egans, who stepped forward and jammed the beaver on van Clynne's head. "Here it is," he said. "Wear it in good health."

  "I demand restitution," said van Clynne. "I was without its services for several hours and am entitled to just compensation."

  But the possibilities of delay, if not argument, had been exhausted. Van Clynne was taken, with great consternation, across the street to the jail.

  With his prisoner gone, Egans asked the clerk where his reward was.

  "Which reward would that be?"

  "I am promised twenty crowns for each rebel spy I bring to the city," said Egans.

  "I know nothing of that," said the clerk. He turned to his other work. "That is not my department."

  "I will not leave without my money."

  The clerk did not bother answering. Instead, he gave a minuscule motion with his hand, and the two guards who had been standing by the side door promptly came to take hold of Egans. The Oneida shook his arms out so fiercely they hesitated.

  "I will have my money."

  "Consult General Bacon's staff," said the clerk.

  "Give me a receipt for my prisoner."

  "That I will gladly do," said the clerk. "Once you complete the proper forms."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wherein, Jake hears a familiar sound.

  Just at the close of the afternoon dinner time, a procession of wagons piled high with bricks made their way down from Broadway toward one of the recently opened British jails, an auxiliary edifice converted from a warehouse and now generally used for holding suspected rebels and spies. The lead wagon, it developed, had a faulty axle pin, which gave way just as the vehicle passed the entrance to the jail. The load of bricks suddenly tumbled out, upsetting the horses behind, who in turn upset their own wagons. Within a short minute, the entire roadway was piled nearly waist-high with fresh clay bricks. Thick dust filled the air.

  The resulting confusion caused considerable consternation inside the jail. The warden, his face two shades redder than most of the bricks, emerged and began shouting curses at the wagon drivers. His rants impressed the teamsters so much that they ran for their lives, abandoning the cargo. The warden, his curses rising in a crescendo, had no option but to direct a party of his men to assist in the cleanup.

  It was at this point that two inspectors general from the Prussian Council on Foreign Actions, Brunswick Division, arrived for an unannounced inspection. Personal representatives of the Duke of Brunswick himself, the graybeards were accoutered as royal officers. Silver aiguillettes and tassels waved from their blue silk coats like pennants from a ship, and their bright sashes were wider than several local alleyways. The long swords at their sides practically dragged against the ground. These worthies were required by His Highness to ascertain that all prisoners of the allied nation were detained "according to practices in keeping with a civilized Christian nation." Otherwise, the terms of service as overseen by British commissioner and plenipotentiary Colonel William Faucitt would desist immediately, and all Brunswick troops would be immediately ordered back to Europe, at British expense.

  "All zee troops," repeated the taller inspector, whose bushy eyebrows seemed like dyed caterpillars. "Ve vould not vant dis to happen, no?"

  The inspectors were accompanied by copious paperwork and a small knot of regimental privates dressed in blue coats with red lining and turnbacks — to say nothing of very becoming yellow buttons. The Germans' English was sufficient only to annoy the jail superintendent, who understood from the papers that the men were minor dukes, just well-connected enough to cause him considerable trouble if they emerged from their inspection in ill-humor.

  And that wouldn't be hard. Already they were complaining loudly to each other in a profoundly incomprehensible German. And taking notes.

  "Is dis zee vay ve treat prisoners?" demanded the duke with the caterpillar eyebrows. "Vit dis dust everywhere in zee street?"

  The superintendent apologized, ordered every available man outside to help with the bricks, and then ushered the Germans to his office inside the steel gate. He had just reached down to retrieve a bottle of Port wine to smooth their communication problems when he felt a cold sensation on his neck.

  More specifically, it was a pistol barrel, sharply levered against the soft edge of flesh above the shoulders. It would be the last thing he felt for several hours.

  "Ought to just kill him," said the duke with the thick eyebrows, who in reality was Jake Gibbs.

  "They'll hear the gunshot outside," said the other duke — Culper himself. "Besides, he'll be in enough trouble once we're done. Killing him would be a mercy."

  The two men quickly trussed the superintendent and abandoned their long scabbards, which contained only sword handles rather than the actual weapons. Littering the passage with broken German and pure gibberish — neither Culper nor Jake knew any German beyond a few odd curses and requests for food — they led their men through the prison proper, walking quickly down the central gathering area to the steps leading to the cell blocks. The guard at the steps snapped to attention and then practically snapped in half, as Jake returned his salute with a sharp kick to the stomach. The man was knocked over the head by one of the privates; another of the Brunswickers hurriedly exchanged coats and took his place.

  Jake crept down the steps, pistol in hand, followed closely by Culper. The stairs took an L-bend and then proceeded down four short steps to the landing. A heavy metal door, the only one in the hastily converted prison, stood at the bottom.

  Behind it was another guard, who patrolled the long corridor between the door and the dungeon cells. Jake returned the gun to his belt, fixed his jacket, and resumed the posture of a German inspector.

  "Ve are zee prince's men," he told the man through the small, barred opening in the door.

  "Talk English."

  "I am. Ve are zee prince's representatives, to inspect zee prison."

  "So?"

  "So open zee door."

  "I open this door only for my captain," responded the guard, "or the superintendent."

  "You will open it now," said Jake, exchanging the lousy accent for the more efficient pistol, "or I will shoot you."

  But the redcoat was not to be taken so easily. He ducked to the side, out of Jake's range.

  Jake waved one of the Brunswickers forward. The man's canteen contained a small explosive charge; it was placed at the door and lit.

  "Last chance to give up," called Jake.

  The redcoat stayed at his post. Jake gave him another second to change his mind, then threw himself around the curve of the stairs.

  Even so, the force of the blast pushed him back against the limestone wall so sharply that water oozed from the rock onto his body. His fake eyebrows were blown off and his wig lost somewhere in the hallway.

  Jake jumped up and ran through the hole. Parts of the dead guard lay to one side, below a large splatter of red and brown. The cell keys were lying in a twisted hunk at the far end of the hallway. Fortunately, the raiders had brought their own keys — a set of long axes were now assembled from parts carried in the privates' knapsacks.

  Jake and Culper left three men to guard the approach while they raced down the long hallway to open the cells. Before they had gone halfway, however, Jake stopped short. A familiar sound, not precisely pleasing and yet comforting in an odd way, filled his ears.

  "There was a time when a prison was engineered to proper specifications, with impenetrable walls and solid foundations. Even the rats were proud to be kept there. Now, these are flimsy things. Wooden doors and walls, indeed! Why if this were a Dutch prison — "

  "Claus!" shouted Jake. "Claus van Clynne. Where the hell are you?"

  "Here," replied the Dutchman indignantly. "Where do you think I am?"

  Jake raced forward down the dimly lit passage. />
  The cell where his friend was kept was the first on his right.

  "Stand back!" he yelled, swinging the ax. It took three swings before the wood began to give way. But with the fourth the door splintered sufficiently for a good kick to complete the job.

  "What are you doing in New York?" Jake asked as the Dutchman shoved the door aside.

  "I realized that you would need me to rescue you when the situation became difficult," answered the Dutchman. "Look at this hinge — another hour and it would have fallen off on its own. You cannot depend on iron anymore."

  "How did you manage to keep your hat?"

  "A superior knowledge of British law always proves useful in these situations," van Clynne declared.

  The Dutchman followed as Jake trotted to the next cell and once more swung his ax. He opened two more cells before Culper began yelling at the far end of the hallway that the British were coming.

  "Everyone thinks he's Paul Revere these days," commented van Clynne beneath his breath.

  The warning was soon underlined by the sound of muskets firing in the stairway. A volley of pistols answered. As they fell back, two of the privates took off their coats and the third emptied his canteen on them. The canteen contained pitch, and when the jackets were lit they began filling the stairway with a dark, heavy smoke. It stopped the pursuit, but the fog also began creeping into the basement, adding to the natural dimness.

  "Here," Culper shouted to the liberated prisoners. "The cistern chamber is in the wall here. Hold your breath, dive into the water, and you'll reach a broader passage within three feet. Follow it quickly and wait for me." He took the back of his ax head and began knocking at the stones. "Jake, I don't know if your friend will fit through it."

  "If you are referring to me, sir, let me assure you that Claus van Clynne always uses the front door when leaving a building. I have no need of crude expedients."

  A bullet ricocheted down the corridor as the Dutchman finished speaking, sending him to the ground.

  "Be my guest," Culper told van Clynne. He pushed one of the prisoners through the hole. A loud plop announced that the small, unlit passage beyond was filled with water, as promised. Culper immediately began shooing men through, much like cattle through a gate, then dove in himself.

  "Come on, Claus, time to go," said Jake.

  "Your men may proceed me," said van Clynne, waving the last fake privates ahead.

  They were thankful on two accounts — firstly, the redcoats were beating through the smoke and flames and starting to advance down the cellblock, and secondly, to a man they thought van Clynne's large frame would act as a stopper in a bottle.

  Jake removed a small cartridge from his belt and tossed it down the hall. The resulting explosion produced far more noise than harm, but it sent the British into a temporary retreat.

  "Are you sure there isn't another way out?" van Clynne asked. "One without water?"

  "In you go." Jake pushed the Dutchman through.

  Van Clynne grabbed his hat and fell forward, receiving a mouthful of the dankest, most putrid liquid seen on earth since its invention. He flailed his arms, managed to crawl forward, and promptly stalled.

  "I'm stuck," he blubbered.

  "Like hell," said Jake, pushing from behind. The brick-lined passage rumbled with the disturbance, and suddenly the Dutchman was forcing his way forward like a mole on the scent of a garden patch.

  The cistern had been part of an old scheme to supply the area with water. The supply of such plans has always been several times greater than the actual flow produced, but in this case it was most fortuitous. It led, not to the great lake of water north of the shipyards, or even to an underground canal, but rather to a former rain collection point — directly across the street in the British adjunct's present office.

  Culper's arrival in the foyer there, though announced with a loud banging and bursting of the floorboards, went largely unnoticed. This was due to the fact that the building had been set on fire some minutes before by the same teamsters whom the jail superintendent had so severely abused. Culper, his escapees, and the fake Germans joined in the mad scramble to save the British documents from the flames, carrying armfuls with them as they ran down the front steps.

  Jake and van Clynne followed some distance behind. By now the guards understood what was going on in the prison and filled the streets with shouts and alarms. As van Clynne emerged from the building, one of the guards began screaming words to the effect — we shall leave off the slanders about van Clynne's race and waist-size — that the ringleader was getting away.

  A squad of soldiers rallied to his call as Jake and the Dutchman hopped through the brick-laden street and ran toward the end of the block. Jake pushed him to the right at the intersection.

  "The others were going to the left," grumbled van Clynne as Jake yanked him along.

  "Trust me. We have only to turn this next corner."

  "And what do you have there? A pile of mortar to go with these infernal bricks?"

  Actually, the surprise waiting for the soldiers was several times stickier than mortar and much sweeter. For a cart laden with barrels of dense molasses had been stationed there. Jake pulled a rope as he passed, and this in turn released a mechanism which sent a vast pool of the liquid flooding into the street.

  As Jake and van Clynne ran down a nearby alleyway, the soldiers found themselves slowed by a sticky swamp that ran to their thighs.

  "At least it won't be turned into rum," muttered the Dutchman as he ran. "How anyone can drink such rot when good ale beckons is beyond me."

  Chapter Twenty

  Wherein, Alison fights her own war and a new plan is engineered.

  While Jake and Culper were engaged in their afternoon’s entertainment, Daltoons and Alison enjoyed slight diversions of their own.

  Miss Tennison's house lay several long blocks from the coffeehouse, nearly on the outskirts of the city. Alison trudged along dejectedly, complaining at every step that she had much more important things to do. There was glory to be won, she said, hinting that, if left to her own devices, she would go straight to the British headquarters and blow it up.

  "If you did so, you would kill one or two of our best operatives," said Daltoons, his tone slightly indulgent. "And then the British would retaliate by rounding up many of our men. The life of a spy is quite complicated; you cannot go off half-cocked like a French pistol."

  "You're pretty young to be giving out advice," she shot back.

  "Older than you," said Daltoons. "And I've fought in several battles besides."

  "That's why they have you as an errand boy?"

  "Ask your friend Jake about the Herstraw business," said Daltoons, his cheeks beginning to shade. "See who helped him on that mission."

  "I have already saved his life two or three times," insisted Alison.

  Their path took them right past a redcoat stronghold, the tavern owned by the notorious back-stabbing Tory, William Hermann. Several of the patrons were standing at the doorway as Daltoons and Alison passed.

  “Hey, ya cowards, ya,” said a corporal. He reached his arm out towards Daltoons, who shrugged him aside and kept moving. “Yer the damned dogs we’re getting killed for.”

  “Go to hell,” said Alison as the drunk reached out toward her.

  His hand brushed across her chest before she could duck away. She responded with a bold and bright slap across his cheek.

  The redcoat fell back in amazement. “Hey now,” he called out, “there’s something unnatural about the lad.”

  His attempt to explore further ended in a high-pitched screech as Alison kneed him in the groin. The yelp had the effect of rallying his fellows, drunken as they were, and Alison found herself facing five or six large grenadiers recently returned from King’s Bridge, where they had had their noses bruised by a small but efficient American raiding party.

  “We’ll teach ya some manners, brat,” said one. “Come in here with us.”

  Alison curled he
r fists as one of the men reached out to grab her. In the next instant, she was yanked backwards by Daltoons.

  “We meant no harm,” he said. “The rebels have recently killed out father, and my sister is mad at the world. She is only dressed this way so we could avoid their guard in Westchester was we came toward the city. Please excuse us.”

  The redcoats might not have accepted his apology, save for the fact that the young lieutenant accented it with a fully cocked pistol. He pulled back his coat and revealed that he had not one but two more on reserve.

  Drawing a weapon on British soldiers on a city street was punishable in any number of ways, but the soldiers could not seem to cite the proper regulation prohibiting the offense. Daltoons hooked Alison by the arm, nudged her a few steps backwards, and then yanked her along as he bolted up the street.

  When he realized the only things pursuing them were a few half-hearted oaths, he stopped.

  “You could have gotten us killed or worse,” he told Alison before releasing her.

  “I won’t be insulted by any British pig.”

  Daltoons was seized by a sudden fury and slapped her.

  She slapped him back. And yet, immediately after the impulse, regret flooded into her eyes.

  The lieutenant didn’t notice it.

  “You have a lot to learn,” he said, storming towards Miss Tennison’s. Allison followed, silent and somewhat chastened, if not wholly repentant.

  * * *

  The reader is no doubt familiar with the exploits of Mrs. Robert Murray, whose strategic introduction of tea and crumpets to the British leaders as their troops advanced up Manhattan Island in the fall of 1776 allowed George Washington to escape their clutches. Though not as famous, surely Miss Tennison had served the Cause nearly as well. The refreshments this simple dressmaker serves are not intended for British officers, however, but for their women, and it is through their gossip that many an English plan has found its way back to General Washington. Her biscuits, sweet as they may seem, are worse poison than bitter arsenic as far as the British war effort is concerned.