The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  Her reaction differed from the maid's only in that her lips pressed back sharply. In fact, despite the surrounding circumstances, this was quite a pleasant and lasting kiss.

  "What in hell are you doing with my sister!" thundered Clayton Bauer, outrage mixing with surprise as he realized the fellow before him was Bacon's agent and Keen's friend.

  "Thanking her for her assistance this morning," said Jake. "And saving her life."

  Clayton's reaction was absolutely on key, but Lady Patricia's husband had not yet registered a complaint. Perhaps he had missed the kiss.

  So naturally, Jake repeated it. This time there was token resistance, though he could tell from the way her hand pressed at his side that it was for appearance's sake only.

  The dragoons strained from their horses to catch the show. A few gripped the swords in their saddle sheaths, but the bulk wore grins that betrayed admiration for the bold young man who had so overt a manner — and such fine taste in lips.

  "Aren't you going to stop him?" Clayton demanded of his brother-in-law.

  The earl was one of those men so accustomed to hiring others to do their work for them that they cannot take a stand for themselves, even when confronted by the most vigorous insult. He mumbled some words of shock in a soft voice.

  "Stop," said Lady Patricia. It was the mildest rebuke imaginable, but it was enough for her brother, who stepped up and grabbed Jake by the arm.

  "You will leave off, sir," he said. "You will cease and desist!"

  "And who are you to order me about?"

  Jake squared his shoulders as he confronted the man. Clayton was several inches shorter, with a waist that betrayed many second and third helpings at the feasts the British had thrown this past winter. Still, he had the fiery aspect of a self-made man, and the righteousness of his cause propelled his words.

  "Do not think that because you are under His Majesty's protection that you do not have to observe the proprieties," said Clayton. "Why is everyone in Bacon's employ so damned arrogant?"

  "It may be that we are arrogant," returned Jake, "but I understand now why all of your men bear a common idiocy."

  The Tory's face twisted with anger and he turned to his brother. "Here, William, here is my glove. Demand satisfaction for his insult to your wife."

  "I do not think — "

  "No, Clayton. It was nothing." Lady Patricia's trembling voice revealed her great distress. She seemed torn by many conflicting emotions: admiration for her brother, a quiet contempt for her husband, and a definite desire for Jake.

  "Then I demand satisfaction," said Clayton, slapping Jake's cheek with the fingered end of his glove, "for the family name and my sister's honor."

  Jake stood still in the street for a second, playing the moment for its full drama. The entire world grew silent around him. He saw from Clayton's expression that the Tory was just now realizing the full implications of his challenge.

  "You will lend me your glove, as I do not have my own," said Jake with all the dignity of a Spanish don.

  The ritual proceeded quite properly. Clayton gave the place and the time: two days hence, at dawn, on the shore just north of Perth, a no man's land where the technicalities of the law would not follow.

  Jake had the option of weapons and conditions. He briefly considered swords — surely this would please the Tory mentality — but changed his mind as a sharp rejoinder occurred to him.

  "I choose pistols," said Jake. "I should not like your poor sister to cry over your slashed face in the coffin."

  "You will supply them.

  "It is only a matter of choosing which set," said Jake.

  He smiled wryly, imagining the Tory spending the whole next day practicing for a showdown which would never come. His smile broadened to the widest grin as he swept down in a bow and bid the company — and especially Lady Patricia — a fond adieu. Retrieving the case with the maps and pistol, he began walking back toward the infirmary with the air of a man who had just snuck from under Death's nose without so much as dusting his clothes.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne is discovered to have dawdled more than necessary.

  While Jake had seen Claus van Clynne heading anxiously for the exit, it could not be said with any veracity that the squire made a very quick departure. He did, indeed, head straight for the back door, proceeding through the kitchen into the rear hallway and back rooms with all the haste commonly associated with a windstorm. Alas, upon his arrival at the rear of the building he discovered the passage had been given over to storage — and his escape was blocked by a broad cubbyhole stuffed with all manner of maps.

  Cursing, he picked through the papers to see if the way beyond them might be cleared. It could not, but as he loudly cursed his frustration, his eyes happened upon the drawing in his hand, and he immediately retracted his angst. He pulled a second map out and examined it with great interest, temporarily losing all concern for the world around him.

  Only one thing could divert the Dutchman's attention from the danger Keen posed — the prospect of retrieving his purloined estate. For the maps in his hands were copies of ancient Dutch documents, and clearly showed his birthright. The name was misspelled, with an extra "e" at the end, but here finally was perfect and legal proof of his family's ownership.

  There is no describing the joy that enveloped the Dutchman at that moment. He felt as if every one of his ancestors had gathered round and begun pounding his shoulders while preparing the most glorious brown ale for celebration.

  The loud growl of Keen's voice in the foyer brought him back to his immediate predicament. He took the maps and returned to the kitchen, searching for a way out. Here he found the windows filled with provisions for the lord's supper and snacks. Only a small portion of the top quadrant remained of each, not enough to allow van Clynne's dream of escape to take flight.

  He picked up a large butcher's knife from the table, then with a firm resolve, shouldered open the door and proceeded toward the front, determined to fight his way clear to his land and destiny.

  Miraculously, the front hall was empty. Keen had rushed upstairs, looking for Alain. Though not overly religious, the Dutchman began saying a prayer beneath his breath even as he passed the stairway.

  "Mind you, I would have boldly faced him," the squire added after a humble amen. "A man such as Claus van Clynne is not frightened by the Keens of this world."

  It was at that moment that Keen spotted him from above.

  "You!"

  The single word, hurled at him from the top of the stairs, struck van Clynne just as he reached for the elaborate brass doorknob. Like a tangled, prickly vine, it grabbed at his head and shoulders, slapping itself to his body as Keen's South American leeches had once done.

  "You!" repeated the doctor, as stupefied and stunned at seeing the large shadow flitting before him as if the archangel himself had appeared to bring him to heaven. "I disposed of you weeks ago! Yet both you and your companion Gibbs have survived! How?"

  Van Clynne swirled in an elegant turn as he answered — not by voice but by the long-bladed knife, which flew from his fingers with a well-practiced flick.

  Alas, the squire had not had much experience throwing kitchen knives. The blade sailed forward through the dim space of the stairway, missing the doctor's head by a good foot, and lodging in a large and overdrawn portrait of King George II that stood on the wall.

  The projectile did have a positive effect on van Clynne's situation, however: Keen lost his footing as he ducked back out of the way. He tumbled over in a cursing heap, thrashing his head against the railing as he fell down the steps.

  "I will forestall a proper discussion of your ineffective potions until we meet under more leisurely circumstances," declared van Clynne as he pulled open the door. "Lord Peter, your ale was most satisfactory. You must introduce me to the brewer."

  Clayton, Lady Patricia, and her husband had recovered from Jake's insults, and were just knocking at the front doo
r. The Dutchman bowled them over as completely as the front pins in a skittle game. He reached the street as Keen emerged from the house, pistol in hand.

  Van Clynne had unholstered his own gun, and waved it back toward Keen as he headed around the corner of the building. The guards who had accompanied Clayton Bauer and his relatives hesitated at first, unsure precisely what side they should take in the conflict. Finally, their commander brought his horse forward, arranging his men in a protective cordon around Bauer and the others. This had the effect of leaving van Clynne and Keen temporarily to themselves, an arrangement neither cared to change.

  "You won't escape me this time," said Keen, advancing to the alley. "I had not thought to find you here, but it is most convenient."

  Van Clynne just managed to duck behind the large barrel Jake had used earlier as Keen fired from the street. In truth, the wood of the barrel would not have provided much of a stop for the well-muscled bullet. Pig fat, on the other hand, did quite nicely: One of New York's many fine pigs, running loose in the street and angry that its favorite resting place had been usurped, chose that moment to take a run at van Clynne — and thus met a premature end.

  Now it was Keen who retreated as van Clynne rose and cocked his pistol. The doctor ran back toward his coach, intending to grab another weapon. The Dutchman called out, but failed to fire; the doctor feinted to one side then dove to the other. Once more the squire took aim, but paused. Keen took advantage of the interlude to dive behind the coach. Van Clynne once again missed his chance to fire.

  Actually, his failure to shoot was due to a problem with the pistol. So often in tales such as these, weapons go off right on schedule. But pistols fail much more often in real life than in literature, and this one was no exception, responding to van Clynne's vigorous pulls and curses with the nonchalance of a deaf elephant.

  Sensing the problem, Keen opened the door of his coach and hastily climbed inside. Retrieving a wide-barreled blunderbuss from its compartment beneath the seat, he crept close to the door, listening for a moment to the Dutchman's loud complaints.

  "You are quite correct," said Keen, kicking the panel open. "They ceased making proper pistols years ago." Keen steadied his gun, not wanting to take any chance of missing again. Though of ample girth and now less than twenty feet away, the Dutchman had shown a remarkable propensity to dodge bullets and Death himself. "Fortunately, they have not forgotten how to make weapons such as these."

  "Just so," said van Clynne. "Just so."

  Keen mistook the squire's comment and confidential nod as being directed toward himself, a typical show of empty rebel braggadocio. In actual fact, it was meant for the figure who had secreted herself on the coachman's bench atop the vehicle, taking the horses' reins in hand. For we had not seen so much of Alison's bravery to think she would leave a fellow soldier in need, had we?

  The carriage lurched forward as Keen pulled the trigger, and the jolt — together with the squire's expedient flop to the ground — resulted in all fifteen balls sailing far wide of the mark. The horses decided the loud report had been meant for them, and began thundering down the street.

  The dragoon captain now decided to spend some of his resources, dispatching two men to chase down the vehicle while the others kept up their guard on Bauer and the house. In truth, the redcoats' most difficult job at the moment was keeping straight faces. Keen's earlier curses had not inclined them toward helping him, and the Dutchman's antics were more than a little comical. From the safety of their horses they thought the dispute purely personal and not worth their intervention.

  Keen cursed to high heaven as he rolled in the interior of the carriage, dust and smoke clouding his eyes and the door flapping back and forth in a great succession of crashes against his face. Several times he struggled upwards, intending to climb out and control the horses, only to be smacked down harder than before.

  When she noticed the redcoats starting to pursue, Alison jumped from the bench and tumbled into the dirt, where she was plucked by van Clynne as he beat a hasty retreat back to the Sons of Liberty's sanctuary.

  "You have your father's sense of timing," said the Dutchman as he led her up an obscure but convenient alleyway. "Another two seconds and my chest would have been weighed down with lead. Really, why does your race dally so when time is of the essence?"

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wherein, Jake launches a new plan, and Claus van Clynne offers his own revised theories of divination.

  Jake was met halfway to the infirmary hideout by a loose group of boys and young men sent by Culper as reinforcements. He was not surprised that they had not met van Clynne or Alison; both were independent sorts and undoubtedly were proceeding by their own lights and circuitous routes back. At the hospital, however, he did worry, and had hunted up Daltoons in preparation of mounting a rescue mission when the landless Dutch squire and the disguised girl appeared at the door, arguing about who had saved whom.

  "Where have you been?" demanded Jake.

  "We have been salvaging your operation," declared van Clynne. "As usual. I tarried long enough to make the entire episode seem a simple robbery, appropriating some cutlery along the way. Your friend Dr. Keen tried to upend me. Which raises another matter: I thought you had disposed of him."

  "He has more lives than a cat."

  "Indeed. Perhaps we should recruit several dogs to attack him. Now, on to more important matters: is there any ale in the house?"

  Jake shook his head and turned his attention to Alison, telling her with great severity that she had disobeyed his direct orders by not heading straight back to the infirmary. The ledger book was more important than all of their lives together, he told her, as its accounts might well tell General Washington where the British were heading. That, in turn, might save the entire Revolution.

  "It gives no more clue to Howe's intentions than the wind," said van Clynne as he pulled it from his belt. "I took the liberty of examining it on the way. It will show you quite clearly that the British have spies spread throughout the continent and pay them equally. But beyond that, nothing. Now, where is the ale stored? Must I attend to every phase of the operation myself?"

  The Dutchman disappeared down the steps. His opinions on other things might be severely prejudiced, but he was an unbiased expert when it came to account books. The places were clear, but Boston was as well-represented as Philadelphia, which appeared as many times as Newark, which sprung up as often as Jamestown, itself mentioned nearly as much as Albany. The agents were listed by number only, as might be expected; the Americans employed a similar system.

  The maps Jake had stolen were of even less value, being copies not of places in America but the lost continent of Atlantis.

  After a brief and uncharacteristic burst of temper, Jake admitted to himself his plan had failed miserably. And while Culper had already gone to the coffeehouse to work on the problem from there, there was scant hope of quick results. The British were sure to increase their security because of the prison break, and might even guess what the Americans were aiming at. Any information gleaned could easily be part of a plan to throw off the patriots.

  Not only had Jake failed to discover the British design, but he had announced to Keen that he was still alive — a development that would complicate his progress and have dire consequences for all who helped him.

  Never in all his operations could he remember failing so dismally. And the stakes were incredibly high; Washington himself was counting on him.

  The spy heard the general's voice in his head, setting notions into order: Use your imagination, the general ordered. Create a solution. Untie this knot. Create, Jake!

  "Alison, I want you to go with Lieutenant Daltoons to the coffeehouse," said Jake abruptly. "Then go where Culper assigns you."

  "He wishes to put me into retirement," protested Alison.

  "He merely wants you to be safe," said Jake.

  "I can do much more good in the city," said Alison. "You see what help I've already b
een. The fat Dutchman would not have escaped without me."

  "I hope you are not referring to me," harrumphed van Clynne as he climbed the stairs back to the loft. "As you are wrong on several counts: I am neither fat, nor was I in need of your assistance." The mug of porter he carried with him was not the highest quality, but acceptable under the circumstances. "I merely delayed my departure long enough to retrieve a map of the area where my land is situated, to assist the good General Washington in recommending my claim to Congress."

  "You must go," Jake told her. "For your own good. No arguing."

  "If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion," offered van Clynne, "I know a fine housewife on Long Island who would undoubtedly be glad to have her help. She is not Dutch herself, but married into the race. Granted, it is nominally behind the enemy lines, but the farm is safe enough."

  "I do not like the Dutch, even by marriage," said Alison. "They are cowards."

  "Cowards! After all of my efforts on your behalf!"

  The pope would stomach insults to the cross with less emotion than van Clynne showed now, his nose twitching with such fervor that Jake feared he would issue a catastrophic sneeze.

  "I will concede that you may be brave," said Alison, retreating half an inch, "though it was I who saved you."

  "You have much to learn, young woman," said the squire. "Who plucked whom from the city slop at the side of the street?"

  "Please, Claus, you're not helping the situation," said Jake.

  "There was a time when proper respect was shown for one's elders," he groused, walking toward a large chair in the corner where he could recover his dignity without further interference. "But mark my words, sir, your plan for gathering information is all wrong."

  "Which plan is that?" said Jake.

  "Whatever plan you are concocting. Undoubtedly it will entail much slinking about and additional fisticuffs. Brute force is unreliable in these situations. Finesse, sir — that is the Dutch way, tried and true. All you need do is discover the proper person, approach in the light of day, and ask."