The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

Jake suddenly sensed the man was not speaking of the song. Even as he pulled the pistol from his belt, he saw a long, low shadow looming in the mist ahead.

  "Into the water," he told Alison. He grabbed her arm and flung her overboard.

  Her scream was drowned out by a shot from the vessel that lay in ambush. Jake fired his pistol at the spark, and was rewarded by a satisfying splash, the gunman toppling into his grave. Behind him, the old pirate dove into the water, stroking for the shore behind Alison.

  "You will be repaid," Jake vowed, "if harm comes to her. I will pull your heart from your body through your nostrils."

  "A fine curse, Colonel Gibbs," boomed an all-too-familiar voice from the nearby boat. "But I am afraid you won't live long enough to carry it out."

  "I have been waiting for you to catch up to me for some time now, Keen. I am sorry to inform you that your operation proved unsuccessful."

  "I suppose it depends on your perspective," answered Keen, his voice as cheerful as Jake's. The two men might have been old college chums discussing the day's laboratory procedures, each lying merrily to the other of his successes. "In science, there is no such thing as a failed experiment, merely negative results."

  "Always the optimist. Tell me, what did Black Clay think of your failure? Or did you let him think you were dead?"

  "I am glad my little ruse fooled you," said Keen.

  "I never thought you were killed in the water."

  "Come now, I'm sure you did. But then, I will admit you surprised me tonight. I was looking for your friend Mister Clynne, and here you show up instead."

  "If you're referring to the Dutchman, I think you will find a 'van' appended to his name. He is rather touchy if you leave it off."

  "Indeed. But then he is cantankerous to a fault, is he not?"

  "I count it as his most endearing quality," said Jake. Alison's strokes were now far in the distance; if nothing else, Jake's banter had succeeded in purchasing her escape.

  "It's you I have in front of me, colonel. I fear I will have to deal with you straight away. Your cleverness grows by the hour, it seems."

  "I try to learn something new every day."

  "Then this will be your most elucidating lesson," declared Keen.

  "Much obliged, I'm sure. What lesson are we taking?"

  "Ballistics, sir. Ballistics."

  As the two men had been exchanging pleasantries, the hired minions in Keen's longboat had continued to row toward Jake. Their craft moved slowly, and not merely because of the current. The doctor had removed his swivel gun from the bow of his carriage and placed it at the bow of his boat; it was well-suited there, being of a naval design, though it tended to weigh against the craft's progress. Jake slipped his knife into his hand, aiming to wait until the space between the boats was close enough to leap across.

  But the British assassin had fought him before, and if he had underestimated him severely at the start of their mutual encounters, he now knew the American's capabilities all too well. He ordered his men to halt while the two boats were still a good way apart.

  "This is quite close enough to eliminate my friend," Keen declared. "Make ready to fire."

  Jake had sensed from the start that Keen was hesitating to shoot, but could not understand why until he realized that while the light of Manhattan was silhouetting his enemy's boat through the mist, his must be nearly invisible with the much dimmer Brooklyn shore behind him.

  In that case, thought Jake, I won't help you find me any more.

  As quietly as possible, he sank to his knees, crouching and willing the fog to fall in thick around him. Then he had a second idea, and took, the bottle with the death poison from his pocket. The red liquid it contained was as thick as syrup, and coated the knife blade as strongly as any glue.

  Perhaps if he hit Keen, the doctor's men might think him dead. Considering his usual treatment of subordinates, they would undoubtedly greet his demise with some joy, and might even leave off chasing Jake.

  And so we see how Hope springs up unrealistically in desperate times. Truly, Jake did not even know which dim shadow across from him was his nemesis.

  He would have to get Keen to speak again. But doing that would reveal himself as well.

  "I wonder, doctor — you never told me if you attended Edinburgh," said Jake.

  "There he is," answered Keen. "Fire the damn gun."

  In the split second it took for Keen's order to be carried out, Jake's knife flew toward the shadow standing midway back in the boat. He dove into the water just ahead of the cannon's crackle.

  The patriot spy was not quite fast enough, nor lucky enough, to escape all its bullets.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Wherein, ghosts intervene, and a few redcoats fall asleep.

  “Keen’s dead.”

  “My God, the bastard’s just pricked. The knife only caught his shoulder. How can he be dead?”

  “Shitten hell, see for yourself.”

  “ChristAlmightlyGod! We must be fighting the devil himself.”

  “The rebel bastard’s gone to the bottom, that’s for sure. Boat blew right out of the water.”

  “What to do with Keen?”

  “Take him back, I think.”

  "To hell with that. Wrap the anchor around him and drop the bastard overboard."

  "Aye. See how far his threats get him."

  "Deserves a decent burial for all that. He was a Christian."

  "Seen no proof. Didn't he try to cheat us out of our price for the boat?"

  "Promised a good reward, though."

  "Got no sight of it. An' he hasn't a cent in his pockets."

  "Throw him overboard then."

  "Maybe the money is lined in his coat. Strip it."

  The voices faded across the water. Jake gripped the piece of smashed keel and gave a silent kick beneath the waves, working his way in the opposite direction.

  He had been hit in his leg and his left shoulder, though how badly he could not tell. The pistols in their case hung like a heavy weight from the strap around his neck. The only reason he did not let them drop was that he could not spare the energy to undo the rope.

  The patriot spy guessed that the low shadows looming over his right arm must mark the Brooklyn shoreline; barely suppressing his moans, he pushed toward it. The natural action of the tide was sending him up the mouth of the bay. A salty spray of water lapped at his nose and eyes. He felt his body grow heavier and heavier, every inch pressed down by fatigue.

  Alison must be somewhere ahead, he thought. It was unlikely she'd made shore yet. She was a strong girl, but Jake remembered the night on the Hudson. She had not been able to make the beach by herself, for all her energy.

  He told himself he must push on and rescue her, must find the poor child — the poor woman — before she drowned. He owed it to her father.

  He owed it to her.

  He pushed on, until suddenly it felt as if Poseidon himself had taken hold of him.

  Not Poseidon; this was a smaller and mortal hand grabbing him by the neck.

  "Come along, now, sir; don't fight me or we will both drown. The girl is waiting on shore."

  It took Jake a moment to recognize that the voice belonged to the old pirate, and it was another second before instinct told him he must trust the little man and his powerful strokes.

  "I knew all the great pirate captains in my youth," the boatman told Alison, pointing out at the river as if the ships floated there still. "Aye, gentlemen every one. It is just bad politics that ruined their names. Politics and prejudice; steer clear of them, girl." "Jake is waking up."

  "Hush now, don't make no noise or we'll have the British marines down on us."

  Jake lifted his head to consciousness, the voices taking shape before him. Alison and the old pirate were huddled cross-legged in the heavy mud of the shore a half-foot away.

  "Jake, Jake, are you all right?" Alison asked.

  "I don't know," he told her. "I seem to have all my arms and legs, at lea
st."

  "I repent, sir, of my perfidy," declared the old pirate. "I was tempted by gold and an evil man."

  "The pirate saved us both, Jake," said Alison.

  Even if Jake had been inclined at the moment to hold a grudge, his body ached too badly for him to do more than sit up. He examined his leg. A ball had ripped clear through the side of his thigh, taking a piece of the skin and bruising the muscle, but missing anything of importance. He took off his shirt and ripped part of the sleeve to fashion a bandage.

  Alison, seeing that he winced when moving his arm, got up and examined his back and shoulder.

  "You have a wound," she said. "God, I can see the ball right in your skin. It looks like a rock."

  Jake took a hard breath, then flexed his muscle. It felt as if a giant were pressing his thumb to it. The fact that the wound was not deep was fortunate, but the bullet must be removed and the wound sealed.

  "Do you still have your knife?" he asked her when he finished tying the bandage on his leg.

  "Yes." Her answer was clipped by the shivers of her teeth; despite the mist, the night still had a hard chill.

  Jake got slowly to his feet, testing his balance by hobbling through the heavy mud to the waterline where the old pirate had gone to keep watch. "I need you to start a small fire," he told him.

  "Daren't do that, captain," said the man. "The sentries on the prison ships will see it right away, and send a patrol. They've already heard us talking."

  "Where are we?"

  "Wallabout Bay, in the mud flats."

  "The burial grounds."

  "Aye. Under the protection of the ghosts, I daresay."

  No account of the perfidy of the British during this war can miss the horrors persecuted on those imprisoned aboard the Jersey, whose hulking hull loomed nearby. The soft murmur of horror that drifted across the water was not the lament of ghosts but the groan of suffering.

  Jake told the old pirate to gather some driftwood quickly; they must start a fire no matter the consequences. Indeed, he hoped the British might send someone to investigate, for therein lay their salvation; it would be difficult to get off the mud flats except by water, and they dare not wait until morning when they would surely be discovered.

  After the pirate had piled enough driftwood for a modest fire, Jake undid the calked compartment in his money belt where his flint lay and gave it to the old man.

  "Old flint won't spark," complained the pirate after a few tries.

  "You almost have it," urged Jake.

  "Here now, the ghosts helped us," said the man as the fire sparked up.

  "Get more wood, I want them to see the blaze," said Jake.

  Already there were shouts and activity on the prison , ships. The old pirate, not quite sure what Jake was up to, nonetheless began to hustle across the thick mud, seeking out more pieces of wood.

  "Take the knife, Alison, and hold the blade in the fire." Jake dropped to his knees, keeping his eye on the water. He saw the outline of a longboat setting out from one of the moored ships. "When it burns red, use the tip to pry out the bullet, then sear the sides of the wound."

  "But it will hurt you."

  "It will hurt a hell of a lot more if you don't. Hurry, before that patrol reaches us. Be brave, girl."

  Alison held the knife into the flames as the pirate continued to carry and pile on the driest driftwood he could find. She steadied the blade until it was so hot it was difficult to hold, even with her shawl as a makeshift glove.

  Alison bit her lip as she worked the tip against Jake's flesh. He fastened his teeth on a part of his coat, trying desperately not to cry out with the intense pain.

  The offending bullet popped out with a hiss; she closed her eyes and ran the flat of the knife around the wound.

  Jake collapsed forward on the ground, but slowly willed himself back to his feet. Alison helped him up, tears in her eyes.

  "Are you all right?"

  "It hurts like the devil's own poker," he admitted. "But that's a good sign. It's the infection dying. Come on now, I have to meet this shadow. You stay back there on the firmer ground and say nothing, no matter what happens. Do you still have the Segallas?"

  "It's soaked."

  "Hold on to it anyway. Perhaps you can bluff someone, if it comes to that." Jake turned to the old pirate; before he could say anything, the man was helping her back up the beach.

  While the others retreated, Jake warmed himself in front of the flames. He took the dueling pistols from their protected bag and case, cocking them carefully and leaving them within his reach. He would use them as a last resort.

  The pain from the cauterized wound was starting to retreat. His heart was beating regularly now — or as close to regularly – as could be expected, given the danger. Jake took the vial of sleeping powder from his pocket and loosened the cap, readying himself as the British boat nosed into the mud flat at the water's edge.

  Four men had been sent to investigate the fire. A pair stayed with the boat; the other two fixed their bayonets and then splashed across the water into the thick mud, cursing at the muck.

  Jake stood behind the fire, visible only as a dim shadow in the darkness and fog. "About time ,you got here," he shouted. "I have been waiting all night."

  "Who are you?" asked the lead soldier, about twenty yards away. "Declare yourself."

  "Don't you recognize me?" said Jake. "You buried me here just yesterday."

  "Buried — who are you, rebel?"

  Jake held his arms out, as if welcoming them forward. He walked through the fire. There was no danger of his soaked clothes catching as he passed through quickly, but the effect was impressive.

  "Jesus, Fred, he's a ghost."

  "Indeed — and I am the Queen's mother."

  The unsuperstitious Fred advanced toward Jake, who held out his hands in supplication and continued forward. The man reared back to slap down the rebel figure with the butt of his gun — and then tottered over to the ground, felled by a fistful of tossed sleeping powder.

  "Run for your lives!" said the second man, turning and running back toward the boat. "It's a goddamn ghost."

  He might have asked his companions how many ghosts would have stopped to scoop up a musket. Jake pushed his bruised leg forward, trying to hurry after the Britons before they could escape into the water. For a moment he worried that his plan had worked a little too well. The scared redcoats might row away before he could douse them all with the rest of his powder.

  Fortunately, the two men who'd remained with the boat were no more superstitious than the archbishop's wife. Unfortunately, that meant they dealt with the supposed specter in a very earthly manner. They raised their guns and fired.

  Because of the mist, Jake did not realize he was being shot at until the bullets whizzed by a few feet from his head. It was only sheer luck — and the notorious inefficiency of the muskets and their operators — that saved him.

  Of course, the Britons had no way of knowing that. They saw a shadowy figure hobbling forward in the mud flats toward them, apparently impervious to their weapons. They had buried numerous men in this same area over the past few months; it did not take much imagination to draw frightful conclusions and change their minds about the existence of ghosts.

  The first redcoat dove straight into the water, gun and all. One of the men in the boat followed suit, leaving only a single marine to confront the apparition.

  "I don't know who you are, rebel," said the man as Jake closed the distance between them to ten feet. "But I'll kill you where you stand, I promise."

  "Attempt it," suggested Jake, bringing the gun up in his right hand as he continued forward. "You have already done so once."

  Just as Jake decided he was close enough to fire, a new ghost began flying downward from the beach. This ghost was straight from hell, its horns pointed and tail flying behind it. The soldier dove straight backwards into the water and began flailing towards his companions.

  Jake fell to his knees laughing as
Alison ran up behind him, her dress and scarf fluttering in the wind. He was so grateful at this easy victory — and so used to her behavior by now — that he did not even bother to scold her for disobeying his orders.

  A few minutes later, the patriots and their pirate guide had pushed the large boat into the water and begun heading away from the prison ships. Their progress was slow and the hour was now far advanced. Jake realized they must head straight to the dueling site, and even then might not make it in time.

  "Their guilt was in our favor," Jake said, standing guard in the bow with the gun. The old pirate strained against the oars. "You cannot go day by day and see the horrors on the Jersey without it affecting you in some way."

  "They were cowards," said Alison firmly. "All the British are."

  "Not all of them," said Jake. "The war would have been over before it began if that were true."

  "I would not say, sir, but that a real ghost may have played a role in their banishment," put in the old pirate. "The girl and I noticed several shadows behind you when the soldiers drew near. And none of their bullets managed to find you. That is a miracle not easily explained."

  "You have never faced a British line," said Jake, who did not believe in ghosts, benevolent or otherwise. "A full squad can fire at a barn three paces away, and not a ball will strike it. Besides, it was very dark and they were scared."

  "There are more things in heaven and earth than you dream in the imagination, sir," said the old pirate.

  "Shakespeare's Hamlet, though you misquote it."

  "I don't know what the ghost's name was," continued the pirate respectfully, "but I can tell you a tale of a haunted ship that routed half the Spanish fleet. And another that still sails the ocean, looking for its true captain, lost overboard in a fearsome gale."

  "I have no doubt," said Jake. They were entering the mouth of the bay. Despite his age and seemingly small body, their companion was a strong rower; Jake began to feel confident they would make the duel on time after all.

  "Were you honestly a pirate?" asked Alison.

  "Still am," declared the man boldly. "With a privateer's license. Aye, one from England, one from Spain and one from France. I can plunder whom I please, when I please. Why, I know of many a pile of gold buried on this Long Island alone, and several dozen in the Jerseys where we are headed. Better hunting in the south, but I could tell you a story would make your short hair stand on end."