The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  "How do you know? They have no uniforms."

  "It's not much of a guess. Who else would be armed here? Pretend you are helping tie this bag."

  Alison did as she was told. The road they were on led down into the cluster of buildings near the ferry landing, which was still a few turns away. If there were rangers here, it was a good bet there would be many more guards at the ferry itself.

  Why? Yesterday's escapees would be leaving New York, not trying to sneak back into it. Was something else going on, or was the patrol merely the result of an overanxious subaltern, bored with his normal assignment?

  "We need to do a little reconnaissance," Jake told Alison as he pulled her to one side to allow a man leading two sheep to pass by. "Do you think you could walk around the quay?"

  "If you mean spying, I have been waiting all day for some chance at adventure."

  He took hold of her arm. "This is deadly serious, Alison. They'll kill us if they find out who we are."

  "I'm not a child."

  The strong glance from her eyes shone with something he had not detected there before, a look that did not retreat. It was more than bravery. Jake wondered if, in changing her dress, Alison had made the transformation from girl to woman.

  "We will stop, as if for supper," he told her. "While I talk up the customers in these taverns, you go down to the ferry and assess the guard. Try to discover why there are so many, but do not make yourself conspicuous."

  "Do you think they are after us?"

  "Probably not," said Jake. "They would have no reason to look here. Still, it's best not to take chances — even if they would be looking for a young ruffian, not a pretty young woman."

  Her answer was a slight but definite blush on her cheek.

  "The danger is not that they will recognize you," Jake warned, "but that they will try to take advantage of you. Stay as far from the guards as practical; ask the women and children what is going on."

  "It's you who should be careful," said Alison.

  "Well, now I know you've grown up, if you're starting to worry about me. Meet me in the Peacock there."

  Jake pointed at the tavern down a small side street. "If anything happens to me — "

  "I'll go straight to Lieutenant Daltoons." Jake had intended on telling her to go back to the farm, but her reply was so confident — and exactly what an agent should do, in her position — that he let it pass. "Take no more than a half hour."

  "I will be back before you can sneeze," she promised.

  * * *

  By now, the reader must be tiring of the description of every tavern and ordinary we stop at along the way. Truly, these are all of a common class, the same as any of us meet upon our daily travels. But it can only be emphasized that each has its peculiarities. The Peacock, for example, is a most curious mix of the modern and the ancient. The floor is packed dirt; one has the impression upon entering that cows recently trod there. The front room, however, is large and mounted by a balcony dressed in polished oak. At the center of the ceiling — so far overhead it must rival several European opera houses for its height — is a grand chandelier, with glass baubles pyramiding down in a style reminiscent of the finest French palace. Yet the tables below are rough-hewn from common pine, hardly squared and as level as the average mountain path. The wicker announcing the bar is wrought from common black iron — and not wrought very well, if the truth be told. On the other hand, the keeper pours his ale in magnificently tooled pewter tankards that would divert even van Clynne in a moment of thirst.

  If there was an explanation for the contrasts, Jake did not seek it. When he entered the Peacock following a fruitless tour of several smaller and plainer establishments, he asked for a beer and sifted into the small crowd milling at the end of the room, ears open. Amid the usual talk of weather and crops, there were a few comments about the removal of the main elements of the British army from Staten Island, which these firm Tories interpreted as a positive development: the damn rebels were finally going to get theirs.

  "There still seem many troops around these parts," Jake suggested to his neighbors as he sipped at his ale. "It looks like a half-hearted offensive, if you ask me."

  "Half-arsed, you mean," said the man next to him, whose belly pushed the buttons of his brown waistcoat nearly perpendicular. "Howe is as competent a general as I am a farmer."

  "You're a better blacksmith than he is, too," laughed a neighbor. "Though not by much."

  "I heard there was a prison break in New York, and they've doubled the guard," suggested Jake.

  The others scoffed.

  "They're always looking for someone," said a customer.

  "They are trying to organize the Loyalist militia, so the civilian authorities look for a pretext to panic," explained the blacksmith. He had a ruddy face and short, naturally curled hair; there was ever so slight a hint of Sweden in his voice, as if he had come over as a child. "A man enters looking to settle a debt, and the guard is doubled and the shutters thrown. Haven't you enlisted?"

  This was apparently meant as a joke, for the others all laughed.

  "What do you do, stranger?" another man asked Jake. "You are not from here, I warrant."

  "I have lately located to New York from above," said Jake, supplying a common story. "I am an apothecary by trade, and have been on Long Island to seek herbs."

  "Manhattan weeds are not good enough for you?" asked a thin man clad entirely in white. This initiated a round of jokes about druggists' poor cures, all of which Jake had heard many times before. There was the cold cure that grew hair on a hen's chin; the bear who died with a toothache that reappeared in a patient. He laughed along and contributed his own story of a medicine intended for gout that transferred the stiffness to another member.

  The sum of all this mirth was that Jake was stood to another beer by the company as being a good sort. Neither the beer nor the conversation brought anything tangible relating to the guards and the patrols, and Jake soon made his way to a table to await Alison.

  The girl conducted her investigation with the aplomb of a seasoned veteran. Walking toward the ferry, she fell in with a group of women who were seeing a minister off after his visit to their homes. The women did not think the size of the guard unusual, and Alison soon drifted toward a young farm boy who was seeing after some pigs.

  "Hello, sir, are you selling these animals?"

  "Are you buying?" he answered, turning to see who had hailed him. When he caught sight of her, his wits seemed to flee. "I, a, excuse me, miss."

  "No, I am not buying anything," Alison sensed her advantage and pressed it. "I am meeting a friend nearby, but I am wondering — are the soldiers out for any particular reason, or are they just bullying people?"

  "Neither, I would imagine, or both," said the lad. "That is the prettiest dress I have ever seen. As is your kerchief."

  She smiled and swept away. A few other encounters failed to yield any useful information, and Alison soon found herself passing directly before the guards at the ferry house. There were a few low suggestions. These were true redcoats, and as rude as any on the continent.

  "I see that you men do not carry bayonets," she said presumptively. "It is just as well. Here you are obviously cutting yourselves with your sharp wits, and with knives you would truly do each other great harm."

  "M'lady condescends to speak to the rabble," said one of the redcoats, sweeping down in mock courtesy. "We are thrilled."

  "It is clearly the most thrill you have ever seen in your lives," said Alison.

  "I can suggest a much better thrill," said the redcoat, pointing the butt of his gun so that it just barely touched her dress.

  "And undoubtedly you would suggest a price as well, as you are the type that can only find diversion by paying for it," she answered, pulling her skirts back.

  The soldier's fellows nearly fell over themselves laughing. He could not let himself be humiliated so easily. Feeling himself growing hot, he reached quickly into a pocket and threw a
shilling into the dust as Alison began walking away.

  "Come," she answered, "your mother was paid twice that to conceive you."

  The private was not the type to accept defeat gracefully. But Alison had learned a few things and gained considerable poise in the two days since she had faced a similar, if more inebriated, foe with Daltoons. As the soldier puffed out his chest and advanced, she slipped to the side and kissed him on the cheek. He stepped back in amazement — and tripped over her outstretched leg.

  "Do not be so fresh from now on," she said. "And shave, or else no woman will ever kiss you."

  The entire company of soldiers began laughing so hard tears streamed from their faces. Her victim bore as dazed and angry a countenance as King George betrayed when first presented with the Declaration of Independence.

  His fellows caught him as he rose.

  A gray-haired woman stepped up and began scolding the men in a severe tone to be about their business. Her voice brought the men's sergeant, who barked that they had better get their dirty hides the hell back at their posts or face a prompt whipping.

  "You must be more careful," the old woman warned Alison when the danger had passed. "They interpret any remark as an invitation."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "I am sure you can, dear." The woman patted her scarf carefully. "Are you traveling alone?"

  "My father — my cousin, that is – and I are going back to the city. I am to meet him nearby, at the Peacock."

  "Be careful. There are many soldiers about. To say nothing of the lower types."

  "Are the soldiers looking for someone?"

  "A fat Dutchman who is a horrible rebel," said the woman. "He instigated a riot to escape prison in the city yesterday. It's the talk of the place, they say. A man has been going through the docks, looking for him and offering a reward. He is said to owe him a considerable sum."

  "A Dutchman launched the riot?" Alison was truly incredulous, as she knew the real story and wondered how it had been twisted. "How?"

  "He broke out from jail with a regiment of men, and then tried to rob a young lord of his valuables," said the woman. She nodded deeply, as if she had just confirmed the standing of one of the Eight Wonders of the World. "He is the commander of a large army of rebels. He heads the Sons of Liberty. Be on your guard."

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Wherein, Jake and Alison discover there is no pirate like an old pirate.

  Jake was amused though overly surprised to find that van Clynne had been promoted.

  "He is becoming quite famous," he told Alison when she found him in the tavern a few minutes after her encounter with the old woman. "I have no doubt that he will eventually supplant General Washington as leader of the Revolution."

  "There is a man going around looking for him but he has confused the description," Alison told him. "They think he is smart!"

  "He is very clever in his way."

  "Not as clever as you."

  "Still, I think we had best wait for dark and find a more private way across the river. If they are looking for Claus, they may know of me as well."

  Jake and Alison made their way through a good roast chicken with full trimmings as the spy considered his best course. There would be many boats available for the taking once dusk fell, though the heavy presence of guards did tend to complicate matters.

  By now Culper and Daltoons would be worried about him. Perhaps they had solved the puzzle without his assistance. So much the better then. He would go ahead with his plan to kidnap Bauer in broad daylight and carry him to General Washington trussed like a prize pig.

  Jake's contemplation of this happy sight was cut short by the arrival of a poorly shaven man with a rough jacket and open collar. He was not very tall, and as he stood over the table with a half-stoop his mouth was a few inches below Jake's ear. His whisper released an odor of gin so strong that Alison curled her nose and pushed her seat back.

  "I could not help noticing, my friend, that you seem to be dallying here," suggested the man, whose appearance and manner showed great familiarity, with the sea. His grin revealed he was several teeth short of a full set, and his left pinky, plopped with the rest of his hand casually against the chair back, ended at the knuckle. His black trousers dragged to his heels and his white shirt puffed out from a chest any rooster would be proud of.

  "And what would it be to you if we were?"

  "Oh, nothing, friend, nothing." The man pulled back the empty chair gently and sat. "Evening, miss. A very pretty blanket on your hair. Very becoming."

  "It is an Arabian scarf," declared Alison.

  "Yes, yes, I thought so myself." The man nodded, then turned his full attention back to Jake. "I believe you may be in need of discreet transportation."

  "Why would you think that?"

  The man laughed lightly and patted Jake's arm. "No pirate like an old pirate."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Nothing, sir, nothing. Two pounds, that's all."

  "For?"

  "Delivering you where you are going. The Jerseys, I assume?"

  The uninitiated might miss the suggestive intonation of the destination. The Jerseys were a favorite destination for smugglers.

  Jake shook his head. "I am neither a pirate nor a smuggler."

  "Oh," said the man, starting to get up. '"Scuse me, then. Beg pardon, miss."

  Jake caught the man's arm; there was just enough rue surprise beneath the confident grin to trust the man.

  "Tell me where to meet you. I will give you the desti-lation after I arrive."

  "That isn't the way it works, sir. Some destinations are more costly. The rowin', an' all."

  "I will make it worth your while. Assuming, of course, you are a confidential man."

  As he said these last words, Jake glanced down toward his lap. The old pirate did likewise, and saw that he was within aim of Jake's Segallas.

  Again, surprise melted to a grin.

  "Quite confidential, sir. A very confidential man, am I. I like your ways. They remind me of a captain or two I knew in the days of yore."

  "Have a gin on me," said Jake, producing a coin.

  "Obliged, sir, obliged." He tipped the cap he was wearing. "I will find you on the road," he said in a soft voice. "Wait an hour."

  Before they left the inn, Jake sought out the tavern owner's wife and told her his cousin felt chilly with the night air. He persuaded her to sell him a shawl, then wrapped it around Alison loosely enough to give the small Segallas a nest at her sleeve.

  Jake put his knife in his boot but kept the officer's pistol just visible beneath his jacket, where it would have some deterrence value. He tucked the vial of sleeping powder and the smaller bottle with the death potion into his waistcoat pocket; they could be quickly retrieved yet would be secure in their containers. The dueling pistols, loaded with their trick potion, were safe within their waterproof case in Jake's bag, hung across his chest by a rope.

  Thus prepared, Jake and Alison left the inn and began walking warily up the street in the opposite direction of the ferry, parallel to the water. If anything, the number of guards on the street had increased, and there was nearly a full company of redcoats at the ferry.

  On the other hand, the clear sky that had cooled the night had changed its mind, and was now unfurling a blanket of mist over the water to provide a little warmth. It was just the thing to steal quietly across the river in.

  "I've never been a pirate before," said Alison, tugging her cape around her shoulders.

  "And you are not now. Say nothing." Jake saw a shadow near a building a few yards ahead, but when they approached, realized it was nothing but the odd reflection of a drainpipe.

  The buildings around them gave way to an open shoreline as they walked. Jake felt apprehension growing in his stomach, and began to think it might be safer just to steal a boat.

  A hiss greeted them from a clump of bushes ahead.

  "Aye, ya took yer time, but it's a pirate's right to go whe
n and where he pleases," said the man they had met inside the Peacock. He stood and unsheathed a lantern. "This way then."

  He skipped ahead on the road, taking them down a stony path to his boat. Even in the darkness, it was obvious the vessel had been recently painted. Jake took this as a good sign, for not only did it indicate the craft probably wouldn't leak, but that the man knew his business well enough to profit handsomely. Paint was a capital expense afforded by only the most successful smuggler.

  "Up, with ya, lass. Before boarding, sir, your destination."

  "Manhattan. Along the docks, but not at the ferry."

  "Manhattan?"

  "You know the place?" said Jake sarcastically.

  "My business is strictly cash and carry," said the man. His disappointment was understandable; the close destination would bring a paltry fare, hardly worth his effort.

  "Here is a crown for you."

  "A full crown?"

  "And five more shillings when we get across. Do not forget that we are well armed."

  "Honor among thieves, sir. Best honor among pirates."

  His spirits soaring thanks to the well-inflated fee, the little man helped Alison into the bow of the rowboat, then clambered in behind. They pushed off through the fog nipping at the shoreline, the oarsman stroking with an energy that belied his seemingly frail body.

  By the time they were a quarter of the way across, the man had begun humming a light air vaguely reminiscent of "The Golden Vanity," the satirical ballad originally written of Sir Walter Raleigh. Alison soon joined in, and the two broke into a loud if slightly off-key chorus:

  Sinking in the low land, low land, low,

  Sinking in the low land sea.

  "You've got a voice there, lass, a voice," said the boatman. His lilt now hinted of the West Indies and his eyes betrayed a tear from the song, which told of a cabin boy rewarded for sinking an enemy vessel by being cheated of his life. "A shame, really. A shame, a shame."