The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  Jake slipped against the sideboards of the bow as the man filled Alison with tales of adventure on the high seas. How much might be true or not, only he could say, but it was a fact that privateers did frequent these waters. Indeed, a sailing man working for the patriots could make a fine fortune fitting out against the British.

  And vice versa.

  Whether he would choose this stretch of Jersey coast to stash his treasure was another story. The sun was just rising as they neared the shore; Jake saw a beached boat and a canoe. A red cloth lay casually over the canoe's gunwale.

  Daltoons.

  "Alison, you hide near that boat," Jake said quickly, pointing to the canoe. "You see the red cloth? That is Lieutenant Daltoons's sign. Show yourself to no one but him, do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm going above. Run up when you hear the pistols fire. If I am shot, tell them pure water is the antidote, and' it must be poured directly into the wound. He is not to apply it to Bauer. Be positive about that."

  Alison nodded.

  "Tell him to make some excuse that he will bury Bauer himself. I expect he has already come up with a plan, but impress on him that it is important whoever is with Bauer think nothing is amiss. We must have secrecy."

  "I could have told you that," said Alison. "But what are you going to do with Bauer?"

  "Never mind. Just follow my directions for once. Do you swear?"

  "Aye-aye."

  "Swear it."

  Alison pressed her lips together, then reluctantly held up her right hand. "I swear it."

  Jake turned to the old pirate, whose toothless grin lit the grim morning.

  "You, sir, thank you for your help. I will recommend you to the Continentals, if ever you should need assistance."

  "And I will recommend you. You're a brave young lad. And you, young lady, you are as courageous as you are pretty."

  Jake helped her out of the boat, and she dashed through the water, holding up the folds of her damp dress as she ran for the canoe.

  "I don't even know your name," Jake said to the boatman as he put one foot in the water.

  "Just an old pirate, sir. Nothing more, nothing less. Good luck with your revolution."

  Jake hurried ashore, going as fast as he could manage with his wounded leg. As he started up the winding path toward the summit, where the duel was to be fought, he turned and saw the boat and the old pirate were gone, as if into thin air.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Wherein, the lamentable death of Jake Gibbs is fully recorded and properly mourned.

  “I might have expected the man was a coward. The city is filled with them these days.” Clayton Bauer folded his arms and walked back toward the thick, gray stone wall where his brother-in-law stood. He had drunk two cups of strong whiskey before putting himself into the boat to come here, and another upon reaching the shore. His courage thus ran ahead of him, strutting heavily in the thinning mist of the morning.

  "The sun is not quite on the horizon," said Daltoons, who had chosen the uniform of a British captain as his disguise. "The meeting was set for dawn. His honor entitles — "

  "Honor." Bauer spat in derision and paced back toward his brother-in-law and the servant who had rowed them here. The hilltop seemed isolated and empty, save for the three Tories and Daltoons; the four men could easily be alone in the world. Not even the birds were out, the earth blanketed in gray desolation. A painter could not have created a better morning for a duel.

  "A man who insults a lady has no honor," Bauer told Daltoons.

  The disguised patriot thought for a moment how pleasant it would be if Jake did not show up: he would thrash the Tory bastard around the mouth several times before carrying him off for questioning. Culper's elaborate web had failed to turn up any new information of the invasion, and torturing Bauer for Howe's destination seemed their only option.

  Daltoons had several men stationed in the nearby woods, dressed as redcoats and ready for any contingency. Each was armed with a pair of double-loaded muskets. Nor was Bauer's guard nearby. Reports that escaped rebel patriots in the area near his mansion had given them something better to do than traipse to Jersey.

  In any event, Bauer was not so cowardly nor so confident of the outcome to invite them along. He stalked back toward Daltoons, wearing the face of an outraged suitor, though secretly glad at this easy victory.

  "The sun is here, or would be, if this fog were not so heavy. Your friend has failed to attend. The insult against the lady is expunged by his lack of character, unless you yourself wish to uphold his honor."

  "Who said I insulted her?"

  The men turned in surprise as Jake walked across the hilltop, the limp in his leg barely noticeable. He had a large grin on his face and the sack with the pistols on his back.

  "Here are my pistols," said Jake, presenting the bag to Daltoons. "You will have my opponent's second examine them, and then load them."

  "Where is Doctor Clynne?" asked Daltoons, removing the gun case from the sack. He looked for some sign from Jake as to which gun to favor — or for anything that might indicate his plan.

  "Doctor Clynne?"

  "Our surgeon," prompted Daltoons. "I believe he went to fetch you this morning. He claimed to know all your haunts."

  "I'm sure he'll turn up," said Jake, adding in a whispered aside that the bullets must be handled gingerly. He turned to Bauer. "A nice morning to die, isn't it? Gray and overcast?"

  The Tory gave him a grimace. To his credit, there was no show of fear in his face. "Etiquette requires that you be given a chance to renounce your insult."

  "Hardly," said Jake. "A kiss is a kiss and can never be denied."

  Lord William's hands began to shake as he took up the copper bullet to load his brother-in-law's gun. Daltoons reached over and caught the ball as it slipped toward the ground.

  "What sort of bullets are these?" Bauer asked.

  "I would not shoot you with common lead. A man of your circumstances deserves finer metal. If you object to copper — "

  "The right of weapons is yours," said Bauer. He reached angrily for the gun Daltoons had originally loaded for Jake.

  His brother-in-law put out his hand to stop him. "Perhaps it was not meant as an insult," said Lord William. "This is a silly matter for two civilized men to fight over. No offense was taken."

  "Stand out of the way, William." Bauer sneered at the pistol's lack of ornamentation, then sighted down the barrel. The gun was lighter than the one he had practiced with and promised an easier kick.

  Jake remembered Bebeef’s advice that his victim's coat be removed to insure the poorly propelled bullet would prick the skin. He took off his own jacket, hoping it would entice Bauer to do the same.

  It did not.

  He turned to Daltoons. "It will look as if we are dead. Make an excuse to take both of us with you, and send Lord William back by himself."

  "Easily accomplished," said Daltoons. "But are you going to be shot as well?"

  "Alison is by the boat," Jake whispered, turning around as he heard Lord William behind him.

  "I beg you, sir, to renounce this foolishness."

  "I renounce nothing," said Jake. "It is an excellent day to die!" He took his pistol and began walking toward Bauer. "Is that the suit you're to be buried in? Where would you like the bullet hole?"

  "Braggadocio ill becomes you."

  "Hold my gun," said Jake, holding the pistol out to him. "Go ahead, I trust you won't shoot me before the proper time."

  Unsure what his opponent was up to, Bauer took the weapon cautiously. Jake promptly stripped off his vest coat, exposing his white shirt.

  "I want you to have a bright target. You'll excuse the tear in the back; a rebel and I recently had a disagreement. You will note where the coward struck me, but he paid for his impudence."

  Jake grabbed his gun back and began walking to his mark. This last bit of bluster finally achieved its purpose. Bauer, deciding he could not be outdone, took off
his own outer clothes.

  "Shall we draw lots for the first shot?" Jake asked.

  "The first shot is mine, by right," said Bauer. "If we are to observe the London etiquette."

  "In that case," said Jake, "I choose position. Start here, three paces, and fire."

  Concern flickered across Bauer's face. "I believe the general prescription is for a wider distance."

  "I will concede five," said Jake. "Unless you are afraid?"

  Bauer turned abruptly, aiming his gun toward the ground. "Your second may count us off."

  Jake nodded at Lord William. "Recommend me to your wife. I wish her Godspeed back to England."

  Lord William hesitated. He had lost his son a few months before, and now confronted the possibility of losing his brother-in-law. While he had not liked Bauer over-much, the man had always been decent to him and was, after all, his wife's brother. It was his honor at stake, in a way, as it was his wife who had been insulted, yet the entire matter seemed foolish and blown considerably out of proportion. But it was beyond his power to stop any of this; he nodded weakly and slipped to the side.

  "Start, Captain Daltoons, before the insult is compounded," demanded Bauer.

  "Wait!"

  The men turned and saw Alison running from the ridge, her dress flowing behind her. Daltoons guessed from the frown on Jake's face that this was not part of the plan. The lieutenant reached to his back and took hold of the small pistol hidden there.

  "Cousin, I wish to give you a kiss," said Alison, running forward.

  Hoping the dress and dim light would keep the Tories from recognizing her, Jake stepped forward and was rewarded with a quite accomplished kiss.

  "I might have known," he whispered. "Will you never follow my orders?"

  "Three boats approaching," she answered. "There are many redcoats in the second and third."

  "There's no need for concern," Jake announced loudly, turning away. "We will be done here quickly."

  "What is it?" asked Bauer.

  "Nothing. Our soldiers are patrolling below. Begin."

  "There is a prohibition against dueling, and we should obey the law," suggested Lord William, seizing on the pretext.

  But this attempt was brushed away by Bauer, who started the count himself. "One."

  "Redcoats," Alison hissed to Daltoons as the two men began to pace, counting off their steps together.

  "Too late to worry about them now," growled Daltoons. "Where the hell have you been? I sent out all my men looking for you."

  "With Jake, of course."

  "Two."

  There is little a duel can be compared to. Stripped of its haughty speeches and overbearing emotion, it is merely walking and counting, turning and shooting.

  When Bauer reached four, Jake became aware of every wound and bruise in his body. His muscles ached with the great fatigue of the night and indeed the entire war. He felt every abuse he had subjected himself to, every deprivation. His right arm and shoulder were especially grieved with their fresh wound; the muscles tensed and it took great effort to turn and present himself at five.

  He had sheltered a vague hope that Bauer might accept rules allowing him to fire first, or at least simultaneously; even the bravest man must flinch a bit at the moment of death.

  Less than ten yards separated them. Bauer took a breath and pulled the trigger, and Jake felt the air reverberate with the sound of his pistol.

  He thought Bauer had missed. Then he felt his chest tightening, and darkness clawing at his eyes. As his tongue thickened in his mouth, he jerked his arm up and just managed to squeeze the trigger.

  The ball struck the Tory in the meat of his right shoulder, away from the heart. The impact pushed Bauer's chest back and straightened his head; he smiled, took a labored breath, then collapsed slowly to the ground.

  As had Jake, a few yards away.

  Though she knew the plan well, Alison rent the air with a terrified scream, a wail that under other circumtances might have woken the dead. In this case, the two men remained crumpled on the hilltop, oblivious to the commotion that suddenly broke around them. Daltoons's men appeared in bright red uniforms, bayonets drawn, charging from the woods under the direction of a medium-sized man whose markings of sergeant were matched by the self-important strut so typical of the species. He ordered his companions about with a haughty snap and a variety of curses, just the thing to direct privates and confuse officers with. "What the hell is this, subjects of the king shooting each other?" said the sergeant, moving toward Daltoons. "Speak, sir."

  "You are in the habit of addressing a captain in such a manner?"

  "I will damn well address who I want as I want," answered the sergeant tartly. "Declare yourself."

  "Captain Mark Daltoons, His Majesty's Sixth Grenadiers." The unit was, of course, an invention, but it came from the disguised Libertyman with so much pretense that a colorful and glorious history was fully implied. "I am in charge here."

  "Like hell. I have a report of rebel activity, and am to secure the area."

  "You are speaking damn saucy to an officer, sergeant," said Daltoons, thinking his subordinate extending the part they had sketched. Alison's sighting prompted Daltoons to push the episode quicker than rehearsed.

  "This looks to me to be a duel, sir, explicitly prohibited. A punishable offense, I might say."

  "Talk to me privately, sergeant," said Daltoons. "That is an order."

  "I'm not sure you are in a position to order anyone about," answered the sergeant, who nonetheless retreated a few steps with Daltoons — and was almost cuffed.

  "Take Lord William back if he won't go on his own."

  "We're letting him go? I thought we were arresting them."

  "Do as I say. The real British are coming. Get Buckmaster the hell out of here. Jake wants him to think his brother-in-law is dead. Go now, before we're all shot."

  The sergeant looked back. "Jesus, they look dead to me."

  "Just go, you turnip-eating fool!"

  "I would not use such intemperate language, captain," answered the sergeant.

  As the redcoat captain and sergeant were having their tete-a-tete, Lord William walked gravely to his fallen brother-in-law. Tears had formed in his eyes, and he shook his head as he bent down to examine the prostrate body. The red liquid of the ball had done the job Bebeef had promised, not merely poisoning its victim but splattering him with Death's sanguine signature.

  "Damn you, Clayton," said Lord William. "Damn you. He was nothing to die for."

  Alison, meanwhile, was hunkered over Jake, sobbing quite convincingly.

  . "My lord, quickly." Daltoons reached down and lifted the man up. He steered him a few feet away. "Go back to New York while I deal with this. Have your man row you back. I will have your brother-in-law's body returned to you as soon as possible. We will invent an accident, and I will find a doctor who will sign a statement covering the death."

  "But ..."

  Daltoons gave the sergeant a glance, and the man advanced, putting his hand on Buckmaster's shoulder.

  "I would not want a stain to come upon your family because of this," said Daltoons. "This bastard of a sergeant is not settling for a light price. Go quickly before he changes his mind. More soldiers are on their way, and they may bring an officer of higher rank than myself. The scandal will be unavoidable then."

  Lord William hesitated. Truly he had lost so much in these past few months that a blot on his family's name for dueling — or rather, for having lost a duel — was nothing.

  "Your wife, sir. Go to your wife."

  The indecision melted. Lord William nodded, and let himself be directed to the rowboat by the sergeant and his servant.

  They were passed on the way by the "surgeon" whom Daltoons had waited on earlier. Huffing and puffing as he appeared from the waterside, in considerable agitation and complaining not only of the weather but the fact that no one in the country knew how to duel properly any more, Claus van Clynne made his very belated appeara
nce at the top of the hillside.

  Whereupon he saw his fallen comrade.

  The cry that followed could not be described in any manner that would portray it with the least degree of accuracy. One might cite the tremendous, pained explosion that falls from a moose's lips when its mate is felled by a hunter in the wild; it might perchance be compared to the fabled sad trumpet of an elephant reaching the holy burial ground of its breed. The famous wail of trumpets that brought down Jericho could be mentioned. Yet none of these sounds would catch the nuances, the depth, the range of the Dutchman's vast and sonorous lament.

  Chapter Forty

  Wherein, a miracle occurs, and a pageant unfolds.

  “If only you had waited for me,” sobbed van Clynne, pulling at his hair. “Surely I would have saved you. How many times have I plucked you from danger in the past? We were an inseparable pair. What will I do for an assistant now?”

  The Dutchman beat his breast with deep and genuine fervor. "Who will recommend me to General Washington? How will I get my property back?"

  "Crocodile tears," said Alison.

  "Do not think because you have finally found your proper clothes that I will allow you to be impertinent," said van Clynne. "There was a time when even young misses showed the proper respect for their elders. This is what the British have wrought: cynicism among the young. I am almost glad that you are not alive to see this sorry state," the Dutchman added, addressing his fallen comrade. "It would be more than your tender constitution could bear."

  "Tender constitution?"

  "Do not profane the dead with your remarks, child. Remember there is an afterlife. You, sir," van Clynne rose and found Daltoons. "I hold you fully responsible for this poor man's demise. The Revolution has lost its finest soldier. More harm has been done today to our cause than at any three battles on the continent."