The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

The young lieutenant let the British vanguard, perhaps six men in all, pass him before he opened fire. He chose his first victim well, smashing the skull of a British lieutenant with both bullets from his double-packed musket. The shot from his pistol was borne of desperation, but no less accurate. He caught the company sergeant in the chest as the man aimed a shot in revenge. With great war whoops and hosannas, Daltoons gave the general impression that a full squad of men were launching a surprise counterattack.

  The redcoats who had advanced down the hillside now had to retreat and deal with this new problem in their flank, or risk being cut off. The main company, meanwhile, immediately sought cover, having seen two of their leaders cut down by the troop of sharpshooters in the wood.

  The feint relieved the pressure on his men and would give Jake and the others in the house a chance to escape. But Daltoons had suddenly made himself the acute object of redcoat desire. He dove over the large rock wall that marked the former edge of Bauer's property just as a fresh volley of musket balls punctuated the woods around him.

  The lieutenant still had two small pistols in his belt, both loaded, assuming the charges had not been dislodged by his rough travel. Without bothering to check, he took one in his hand and began making his way along the wall toward the river as quickly as possible, half-crouching, half-running.

  The woods and brambles, to say nothing of the smoke from their weapons, obscured the redcoats' vision and allowed Daltoons to gain a good lead before they realized where he was. Gradually, the Englishmen figured out that the attack at their side was merely a distraction. Endeavoring to overcome its effects, they redoubled their assault, though handicapped by the loss of their lieutenant and sergeant.

  As Daltoons reached the back garden of the mansion, they were testing the defenses at the perimeter on the other side of the house. Not hearing any gunfire, he leapt over the wall and began racing for the lawn overlooking the river. In truth, he thought the American side of the operation had by now concluded, and feared he would reach the river too late to join the boats. He had ceased worrying about being shot; indeed, he had ceased worrying about anything, focusing entirely on the river.

  As he reached the path that led down to the water’s edge, the lieutenant became aware of two distinctly different objects in his periphery: the figure of a redcoat sharpshooter taking aim at the woodside ten yards from the mansion's front door, and a considerably more demure, willowy figure, walking as if in a daze from behind the brick wall out onto the lawn.

  He recognized Alison, full in the aim of the redcoated demon and his gun.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Wherein, bravery proves stronger than love, and vice versa.

  Ten yards might just as well have been ten miles, as far as the accuracy of the small pistol in Daltoon’s hand was concerned. But the young lieutenant had no time to worry about that; indeed, he had no time to worry at all.

  "Death to all redcoats!" he screamed, charging the sharpshooter. In the same motion he fired his pistol.

  The bullet sailed well wide of its mark, but its effect was precisely what Daltoons wished. The Briton turned and fired not at Alison but at the blur attacking him.

  "Mark!" shouted Alison as Daltoons fell to the earth, the side of his chest punctured by the wound. The spell that had taken hold of her vanished as she ran to the man who had just saved her life.

  "I'm all right," he gasped. "The gun, the gun in my belt."

  Alison looked up and saw the redcoat who had cut down Daltoons advancing with his bayonet. She grabbed the pistol and with a steady hand pulled back the lock at its side to fire.

  Nothing happened. Whether the charge was knocked out by Daltoons's efforts or fouled by his blood, the effect was the same. Alison and the lieutenant were defenseless.

  It took the redcoat a moment to recover his breath from the sudden fright of being faced down by a pistol. "So, rebel, you thought you would kill me," he said, gripping his rifle so he could take a good plunge with the bayonet.

  Retreat was cut off by the wall behind her, but in any event, Alison would not have left Daltoons. She threw down the gun and put her hands defiantly to her hips as she rose. "You're awful damn talky for a private," she said.

  "I will show you the difference between talk and action, you damn rebel," said the Briton, preparing to lunge. "You will repent your tart tongue."

  A shot rang out as the man started forward. The bullet took his head and snapped it sideways in a grotesque spiral toward death.

  "Her tongue is her best feature by far, I think," said Jake Gibbs, vaulting over the wall. The rifle in his hand was still smoking.

  * * *

  Jake and company managed to make their boats well ahead of the British patrol, which was delayed by its need to search and secure the mansion. The ferryman hired by van Clynne now proved his patriotism, getting not only his vessel but the others started into the water as the Americans dove into the river. The man was soon humming a healthy tune, leading the tiny armada around a crag which cut off their pursuers' aim.

  Halfway to Jersey, the patriots paused to take stock. Daltoons had lost several of his men, and the young lieutenant lamented not merely their passing but the fact that their bodies had been left unburied.

  "You're lucky you're not dead yourself," said Jake. "Let me see your chest there."

  "It's not even a scratch," protested the lieutenant.

  "It needs to be examined," said Alison, pulling aside his coat to do so.

  There was not a large amount of blood. A bullet had wedged itself at the side of Daltoons's ribs; though doubtlessly painful, it did not threaten his life.

  "It can be plucked out with a knife," said Alison. "I have performed the operation before. All we require is a bit of fire."

  "And a good strong dose of whiskey," advised Jake. "You will be back in good health after a little rest. And perhaps some nursing. I sense you have a volunteer." He was not surprised to notice that both the lieutenant and Alison blushed. "Though I believe she is supposed to be elsewhere on Manhattan at the moment."

  "The girl and I have reached an agreement concerning her disposition," announced van Clynne. "There is a certain woman named Hulter on Long Island, who has need of assistance on her farm. Apparently you have already made her acquaintance."

  "I have indeed. But when did she volunteer to take on a girl?"

  "Tut, tut, my good man, she is not taking on a girl, but rather a daughter. And perhaps a son-in-law as well. These things are well valued by the Dutch."

  Jake rolled his eyes at the Dutchman's typically belabored speech. He knew better than to ask van Clynne for an explanation of how he knew Mrs. Hulter. But he sensed that the good woman would indeed accept Alison.

  "Long Island would be a good place for a wounded soldier to recover," said Alison hopefully.

  "It would indeed," answered Daltoons.

  "I think Culper would approve," said Jake. "It seems a satisfactory arrangement for all parties."

  "It is one I championed from the beginning," said van Clynne.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Wherein, the past is fondly, if questionably, recalled as our tale ventures towards its end.

  Several hours later and some miles north on the Jersey shore, two tired but well-cheered travelers paused to let their horses drink from a stream.

  "And so, it would appear that I have quite saved the day once more."

  "You saved the day?" Jake's face twisted as he got down from his borrowed mare. Van Clynne had been uncharacteristically silent for nearly three minutes now, so he might have expected some such outburst as they paused. Still, it did not pay to allow any claim by the Dutchman to go unchallenged. "How, pray tell, did you manage that?"

  "Through my usual pluck," said the squire. "Really, I would have thought by now you would be fully conversant with my methods."

  "I will grant that you played a role in our escape," said Jake, "but frankly, I think you take far too much credit. As usual."

&
nbsp; "Tut, tut, my good man, there is enough glory to go around. Though I would note that my intelligence proved correct; Philadelphia is Howe's target."

  "Assuming he doesn't change his mind."

  "Come now, the wig-maker would be the first to know. Nonetheless, your methods arrived at the proper solution eventually. I daresay that you ought not be over-criticized."

  "My thanks for the compliment."

  Jake stretched his legs, trying to fool his various pains into thinking they were temporary. In truth, he knew he had almost been too clever on this mission; all his plans had nearly come to naught. Nonetheless, he could not think of another way he might have tricked out the information. Howe's damnable golden flask had proven to contain a most difficult riddle.

  "I shall make sure to mention your efforts to His Most Excellent Excellency General Washington when we meet," said van Clynne. "I shall reinforce your official report; a natural enhancement is needed for the dry tidings you render. Really, did your studies not include a proper recognition of the rhetorical arts?"

  "When you meet General Washington?"

  "Surely you are taking me with you to General Washington. Granted, my face - is nicked, but that was in the line of duty."

  "I'm not sure I will introduce you at all."

  "Come, sir, I realize you jest — yes, you play the fox, twirling my leg. Well, sir, I will indulge you. Nay, I will encourage you. You have earned a little laugh."

  "I've earned a rest, I think."

  "We have many miles to ride, and then you will rest," said van Clynne, adopting Jake's usual line of argument in these conversations. "Really, sometimes I wonder how you ever became a spy with such a shallow constitution. Let us board our horses and be off. We have but a few hours before darkness, and even if we ride all night, we will be hard-pressed to make the camp on time."

  And so once again Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs found himself in the familiar position of shaking his head as he traveled with van Clynne. There was, it will be admitted, a vague pleasure attached to the Dutchman's company, even as he complained that the trees were no longer as green as they once were.

  "You know, Claus, you look quite young without your beard," ventured Jake as he boosted himself onto his horse's back. "I think you are not half as old as you pretend."

  "Thank you, sir, for your kind words, but there is no need to win my affections with flattery. I already hold you in high esteem."

  "I am surprised that you allowed your beard to be cut at all. Did you harbor some secret admiration for Alison?"

  "Please, sir, let us not be so impertinent. Nor should you forget that I found you holding a British noblewoman in your arms. What will General Washington say to that, I wonder?"

  "He might well ask if I kissed her," said Jake, spurring his mount. "And I will have to say I did."

  Van Clynne prodded his horse to follow. The white-gray stallion was a sturdy beast, provided by a Jersey patriot. For once the Dutchman had the faster horse, and he quickly caught up to his companion.

  "There was a time when a gentleman refused to tell whether he kissed or not. Now, if Governor Stuyvesant were here, I can assure you, things would be different. There was a gentleman, sir, despite his occasional show of temper. A gentleman was a gentleman under his direction; he inspired them."

  "Indeed," answered Jake. "Indeed."

  Historical Note

  Howe’s “B—“ letter and his attempt to confuse Washington is well documented, though there had always been some question of how and when the American general realized Philadelphia was the true British target.

  The existence of the New York spy ring, with the code-named Culpers as the organizers, is also amply authenticated by historical sources, though my interpretation is that the original writer of the Gibbs stories argues for a far more active – and I would think jollier – underground than previously known. While the records are understandably less than complete, no record of the activities described here seems to exist, though it will be admitted that there are also no firm contradictions.

  Students of history will realize that Alexander Hamilton did indeed fall in love with Betsy Schuyler, reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in America, though the first meeting between them has always been thought to occur several months after this tale claims.

  Many young women donned men’s clothes to fight in the war, as pension petitions and other records show, so Alison’s bravery did not seem unusual to me.

  I believed that we had finally caught the original author out with his far-fetched tale of the madstone. Yet Cynthia Blair, a fellow writer, graciously shared some of her own research on the subject, proving that the stones were not only common but held in some esteem at the time.

  As usual, I received considerable help deciphering the old manuscript and making it somewhat presentable for contemporary readers. Local historians and librarians, and even my niece Domiana, have all helped a great deal. And of course without the support of my wife Debra (who converted and retyped much of the original three manuscripts into e-book format) and other members of my family, I should not have been able to complete the work. I’d also like to thank the many readers who have spoken to me and written to me for their ideas and suggestions.

  Avid followers of the series first two books, The Silver Bullet and The Iron Chain, may be surprised to find that there is apparently a month’s gap between the present installment, The Golden Flask, and its predecessor.

  This is not due to a flaw in the publisher’s work schedule, but an apparent gap in the original manuscript. Clearly, big events took place in Jake Gibb’s career in the weeks immediately after The Iron Chain ends. As this book opens some six weeks later, the hero-spy has just recovered from wounds that apparently brought him to within an inch of meeting his Maker.

  What happened? The present author is as much in the dark as the reader. There remains a mountain of old manuscripts to sort through, and perhaps the answer lies within them.

  For more about this series and others I have written, visit my website at Jim DeFelice.com.

  Thanks for reading.

  - J.D.

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