The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  For nearly a full minute he fought the dog with his bare hands, wrestling desperately to keep its mouth from his throat. Finally he managed to fall to the side and roll to his stomach, his back and coat offering some protection from the angry beast's slashes.

  Jake found the handle of the knife and pulled it from his boot, but dropped the blade as the mastiff slashed at his arm. He rolled over the knife and had to fight to his knees, the dog pulling viciously at his clothes before the spy finally managed to grab the weapon again. A sharp plunge with the blade into the animal's stomach drained the fight from it; he finished the job quickly by slitting upwards, all the way to its throat.

  He rose to find a servant at the door holding a pistol on him.

  * * *

  "I have told you who I am," Egans said coldly. "If there is ill blood between you and my superior, it is none of my concern. I will take my leave. I am already several days late."

  "Stop, Indian, or whatever you are," Bauer reached for the side of the couch. He didn't do so to steady himself. Ripping away the cloth, he retrieved a loaded pistol and pointed it at Egans.

  "George, what the hell is going on with that dog!" Bauer yelled before turning to the sailor who had helped bring him into the house. "Get the guards from outside and have him arrested," he ordered. "Move, man, before I have you thrown in chains as well."

  The sailor quickly headed for the door.

  * * *

  "Drop the knife, I say."

  "Come now," Jake told the servant. "You're not going to shoot me for a brief indiscretion."

  "Drop it or you're as good as dead."

  Jake complied as the man steadied his aim. He was holding the pistol with more confidence than David displayed toward his slingshot.

  "What have you done to her ladyship?"

  "Just put her to sleep." Jake took a stagey glance toward the bed, but George was too smart to allow him an opening. He circled around to the other side, out of reach for a lunge.

  Jake's blow had sent her slumbering, but otherwise left her unharmed. The servant placed his hand briefly at Lady Patricia's mouth to make sure she was still breathing.

  There was barely six feet separating them. Still, it would take more than Jake's normal dose of good luck to keep from getting a gut's worth of trouble if he dove for the pistol. Nor did a plunge through the door into the house seem like a good option.

  The Segallas was still in his belt, tucked beneath his coat. He tried to ease his hands down where he might grab it, but the servant returned his attention to him.

  "Keep your hands up and walk through the door."

  "And what if I don't feel in the mood for a stroll?" asked Jake.

  "Then I will kill you here and not bother cluttering the courts."

  * * *

  Egans's face betrayed no emotion. He knew the "sailor" would soon return with either some story or his weapon drawn, or both. He already had the information he had come for; all he need do now was wait.

  That he could do for a long time, as difficult as it was to stomach the stench of the cowardly Englishmen. If duty had not required his returning with the information Jake Gibbs and his friend the Dutchman sought, Egans would surely have attempted killing them all with his bare hands. In such a way, he decided, his mistakes would begin to be corrected, blood for blood.

  "You are not a native," said Bauer. "Why are you dressed that way?"

  Egans did not answer.

  "Speak, you race turncoat. Speak. That is an order." Bauer waved the gun in his face.

  "I was born white and adopted. I am an Oneida and a member of the bear clan. No one can steal that identity from me, for it has been sealed with blood."

  "White blood, I would bet," said Clayton. "Your soul has been poisoned by the pagans."

  Egans had many rejoinders, but offered none.

  "Really, Clayton," said Lord William. "I think you should let the soldiers handle this. You are weak from your ordeal."

  "He is undoubtedly another spy!"

  "He showed papers."

  "Easily forged. I should kill him now."

  "I don't think that would be wise," said the sailor, returning from outside. A Southerner caught in the city when the British invaded, James Dewey had joined in several clandestine operations against the British during his sojourn. Baffled by his compatriots' disappearance from outside, he'd decided retreat was now in order, and had produced a gun from under his billowing shirt to effect it. "Put down your pistol."

  Bauer shook his head. "I believe we have a standoff."

  "Not in the least." Dewey had been told by Daltoons that Jake would be inside the house, and so endeavored to tip the balance by calling him out.

  "I'm here," announced Jake, answering his call as he appeared beneath the arch leading to the hallway. "But not alone."

  The servant stood behind him, pistol poking into his ribs.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Wherein, a lesson in ciphers is well-learned, but does not prevent dire consequences.

  Dewey had always prided himself on his ability at arithmetic, and fully realized that the patriot forces were currently one weapon short. Still, by his reckoning there was no immediate need to comply with Clayton Bauer’s demand that he put down his gun. He was confident that the men who were supposed to be posted outside would eventually reinforce him.

  “I can kill you as soon as you fire. And I will,” he told Bauer.

  "Brave words, rebel," said Bauer. "Bring him over there, George. Where's my sister?"

  "Oh my God," said Lord William. He took a tentative step for the door, but the sailor's voice caught him.

  "Move, and your brother will die."

  "She's all right, m'lord," said the servant. "I caught this one before he could harm her."

  "Your wife is sleeping," Jake told Lord William. "I found it necessary to give her a blow to the head, but there should be no permanent damage. At least she will stay out of the line of fire."

  "My guards will be on you in a minute," promised Clayton.

  "We have replaced your guards," said Jake. "Our men are just now disposing of them. Your best course is to surrender; we will spare your lives."

  "I hardly expect, much less would I even accept, mercy from a rebel."

  Jake shrugged and continued to survey the room for some implement or distraction that would change the precarious equation.

  Egans made the first move. He had his eyes trained on Jake's guard, and when the servant began moving toward the window to see where the shots were coming from, he crashed against Clayton Bauer with the force of an angry bear. Bauer's bullet flew into the ceiling — but only after it punched a wide hole in Egans's bare chest.

  Jake dove to the ground as the servant and sailor shot at each other, the servant's bullet crashing straight through the sailor's heart, killing him instantly. Dewey's aim was just as true, for in that same moment his bullet flew into his enemy's mouth, exploding with gore through the back of his head.

  Jake jumped to his feet, Segallas in hand. He grabbed Lord William and fired a single shot directly into his temple. The bullet was too small to kill him instantly, and so the nobleman slumped to the floor, leaving his life to ebb slowly from him.

  The patriot spy turned and found Bauer descending on him, wielding his pistol like a hatchet. Jake took a blow at the side of the neck as he shot the Segallas point blank into the Tory's shoulder.

  The blow stung Bauer back to the couch.

  "Where is Howe going?" Jake demanded, flipping the barrel mechanism around so two fresh bullets were ready to fire.

  "Never," promised Bauer. He threw his gun at Jake, who ducked instinctively, choosing not to fire. If he did not succeed in getting Howe's destination, all of these deaths, and his entire mission, would be in vain.

  The Tory took this chance to grab another pistol from its panel at the back of the chair where he was sitting.

  Jake dove at him before he could aim. As the two men crashed back and forth, the mu
scles in Jake's body cried out in despair, every injury inflicted over the past few days renewing itself. Half his body was covered in sticky blood.

  Bauer surprised Jake by sinking his teeth deep into his arm — apparently the tactic ran in the family. The pain was so desperate the spy felt the hard shock in his backbone. Jake retaliated by punching the Tory with his head, moving him back but not loosening his grip on the pistol. Both men had their fingers on the trigger; both had their other hand on the barrel, flailing in a desperate struggle to aim or divert its fatal ball.

  Suddenly, one of the fingers succeeded in slipping against the trigger, igniting the lock.

  Whose finger it was, neither could tell. In the pure moment of silence that followed, it did not matter. Both men felt as if they had been transported, plucked from the tormenting fires of hell and deposited in the sweet clover hills of Oblivion.

  And then Clayton Bauer's body fell limp, and Jake Gibbs fell back, the smoking pistol dangling from his bloody hand.

  * * *

  Daltoons's men had succeeded in surprising and dismounting the English soldiers, but he could see his troop was outnumbered and greatly outgunned. They had only enough shot and powder to keep on for a few minutes more; already he had lost two of his dozen men. Redcoat reinforcements kept appearing up the road. While the patriots had good firing positions, in command of the highway and the well-tended field before it, a concerted charge by the British would easily overwhelm them.

  "Ames, you go back to the house and get them the hell out of there," said Daltoons. "We'll hold out as best we can."

  Ames, realizing this might be the last time he saw his commander, nodded gravely, but hesitated a moment before putting down his rifle.

  "Go, man," ordered Daltoons, and the young man was off, running down the hill.

  It could well be that the moment of regret at leaving his friends cost him his life. For as he neared the house, a British sniper who had managed to infiltrate the woods spotted him, and with a single bullet sent his poor soul scurrying to Saint Peter's well-trod gate.

  Jake rose and surveyed the battered room, littered with bodies. Once again he had failed, his finely crafted trick as useless as a child's game. But just as he was about to curse himself and all his damnable cleverness, he realized Egans was still alive. He bent over him and saw the wound was, fatal; the red man born white would die in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

  "You must not try to speak," Jake said gently. He pulled the front of Egans's coat together, covering the bullet hole. "The ball has taken you through the lungs. You are a brave man and true to your word; I am sorry that I did not trust you before now."

  "I had not earned it," said Egans, lifting his head. "I do not fear death. The sky has already closed around me. Howe is on his way to Philadelphia." He began to cough blood. "He told his brother."

  "Philadelphia," Jake repeated.

  "Yes," said Egans. "He said so freely. Father!"

  The last word was uttered in the nature of a hoarse shout, emerging from his lips at the very moment his soul passed on. Jake followed the corpse's gaze across the room — right to Lady Patricia, who stood at the doorway with a rifle in her hands.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Wherein, the old adage, “Better late than never,” is proven true.

  Claus van Clynne’s journey across the Hudson had been delayed by the contingencies of negotiation and logic, to wit: the squire could not understand why the ferryman deemed it necessary to increase the standard fee an extra two shillings, due to the fact the British were now in control of the Manhattan coast.

  "If you do not understand that, then I shall charge you three extra shillings, to cover the cost of my lesson," retorted the ferryman.

  The negotiations proceeded at length until Alison dug into her own purse and tossed the man his extra two shillings. Van Clynne did not like this, but he nonetheless saw no reason not to get into the vessel while he complained.

  While the Dutchman had spent considerable time on the water of late, his characteristic fear of the waves had not abated. Thus his eyes were closed firmly, and covered with his hands besides, when the vessel touched the rocks a hundred yards or so north of the point where Jake and the others had come in.

  "They're shooting!" said Alison as the boat scraped onto the shore. "Look! Redcoats are coming over the hill. We must warn Jake!"

  She was out and running before van Clynne could even open his eyes. The Dutchman's admonition that she halt might just as well have been uttered at the sky. Cursing, he turned to the ferryman and told him he must wait for his return.

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Because I told you to," said van Clynne, reaching beneath his shirt for a purse. "And because I will give you a fresh ten-pound note if you are here when I get back."

  "For that amount of money, I would wait for Satan himself."

  "Satan would not pay you nearly as well," grunted van Clynne as he got out of the boat. He rushed up the shore to the two guards who were posted near the Sons of Liberty's boats.

  "Come with me quickly," he ordered.

  "The hell we will," said one of the men. "Throw up your hands you British dog, or I'll kill you where you stand."

  "I'm van Clynne, you idiot. Don't you hear the gunfire? Why did you let the girl go on without a weapon?"

  "Jesus, Jack, it's the fat Dutchman who is always complaining. Someone's snatched his beard away."

  Under ordinary circumstances, van Clynne would have demanded to know by whose definition he was being declared fat. But there was no time to waste; he pushed down the man's gun and bade him follow up to the house.

  "Our orders were to stay and guard the boats."

  "Were your orders to let the rest of the party die in the meantime? Come on then, and follow me. Honestly, there was a time when enlisted men showed initiative. I hope your muskets are loaded with double shot, at least."

  * * *

  Spent gunpowder and smoke filled the room with a hazy gray air. Jake and Lady Patricia stood alone above a sea of blood and dead bodies. Her dressing gown was still unclasped; were it not for the rifle, she might appear an angel or one of the Fates, come to account for the dead.

  Jake held his arms out calmly. "Lady Patricia, I had hoped you would not come to harm."

  "Those are empty words," said the woman. "You have killed my entire family."

  "I did not kill your son. Your brother-in-law and husband chose their own paths."

  "It is the same. You rebels have no care for honor or the rule of law. I did not understand my brother until now."

  "But we do. That is why we are fighting, as anyone who stays in this country more than a few weeks will learn. I do not mean to offer false hope, but if your son was not accounted for, it may be because he escaped alive. Perhaps he has deserted."

  "I hardly think the son of a peer would run away from battle."

  "He wouldn't be the first. He was a young man, and Justice is a strong mistress."

  Tears were beginning to well in her eyes, but Lady Patricia was resolute. She lifted up the gun and with her thumb, reached to pull back the trigger.

  "Jake!"

  He dove to the side. Lady Bauer was pushed to the floor by a body leaping across the threshold onto her back.

  Jake rolled to his feet and plucked the still-loaded rifle from the floor. He had to grab Alison as she aimed a blow at the noblewoman's head.

  "She was going to kill you," cried the girl.

  "It's all right, Alison." He gave her the rifle, then reached down and gently touched the poor woman's heaving body.

  "Kill me, kill me," she sobbed. "I want to die."

  Outside, the gunfire was getting closer — and thicker.

  "I was not lying about your son," said Jake, still crouched over her. "And I promise to ask General Washington about him."

  She made no acknowledgment that she had heard him. Jake stood over the prostrate, grief-ridden body. He knew many patriot women who had been mad
e widows from this war; he felt no less for her than them.

  Alison, standing at his side, saw the gentle way he knelt back and patted the Tory woman's shoulder. She remembered what Mrs. Hulter had told her of love — and in that instant despaired. The girl threw down the gun on the couch and walked out of the house in a cloud.

  She was nearly run over by van Clynne in the hallway.

  "There you are, as usual, dallying with the distaff while there is considerable work to be done," announced the Dutchman in a huff as he entered the room. "We are under attack. Our forces are retreating to the perimeter of the house."

  "I'm leaving," said Jake, rising. He stopped short as he turned. "Where is your beard?"

  "I doffed it as a disguise," said the Dutchman.

  "You look like a new man," said Jake, scooping up his Segallas and grabbing the rifle. "Come. We have what we came for, thanks to your friend Egans."

  The battle outside was proceeding with great fury, as Daltoons attempted to beat the slowest retreat possible. His men were doughty volunteers, fully imbibed with the spirit of Freedom, brave souls all. But no manner of rhetorical flourish can overcome the fact that they were over-matched.

  The British, sensing their superiority, advanced with an aggressive haste that gave Daltoons an idea. Loading his musket and pistol with double shot, he directed his men to continue their withdrawal past the house. He then hid himself in a thick bush as the British continued their advance.

  The thick woods and rough terrain made it impossible to proceed as a line, despite the English officers’ efforts. Bayonets drawn, but still occasionally stopping to fire, the redcoats continued down the hill.