The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

  As the keeper regrouped, he felt a sharp prick in his side. Thinking it no more than a splinter, he steadied his horse in front of Jake and Alison and told them to run while he held off the advancing knot of marines.

  The Britons' shouts of attack were drowned out by the sound of the blunderbuss, which exploded with the deep crackle of a light cannon. Alison had handled her gun as well as any hard veteran of the Connecticut line, waiting until the last possible moment and bowling over the tight clump of lobstercoats charging against her father. Four or five figures collapsed in a great tumble of hot death, their thirst for blood quenched forever by their own.

  Only one redcoat from the vanguard escaped unscathed. He had already turned his attention toward the girl, and now charged bayonet-first, aiming to avenge his fellows. Jake managed to knock him off balance by diving at him with the sword, striking his bayonet with a sharp crash.

  The Briton rolled to the ground but quickly recovered, wielding his Brown Bess in time to ward off a second blow, so expertly that the short sword flew from Jake's hand.

  A quick slash and the silvery blade of the bayonet nicked through the patriot's hunting shirt, catching his ribs and tickling the recently healed wounds. Jake fell to the ground with the pain, and the marine kicked him in the side before heaving the gun back for a fresh thrust.

  The marine shouted as he prepared to make his murderous stab. His high note of glee broke into a shocked riff of surprise and pain. Alison had exchanged the discharged blunderbuss for a knife she kept secreted at her waist and sprung on the man like a badger defending her young.

  The wound she inflicted was no more than superficial, but its timing was critical. Jake flew to his feet and grabbed the man by the neck, pulling him with such force that the redcoat lost his will to fight as well as his weapon. As Jake pulled his arm around the man's neck, Alison picked up the marine's bayonet-tipped musket and skewered him. He fell to earth with a dying gasp.

  War is never a pretty sight, especially at close range. Both Jake and the girl were splashed full with blood. But Alison stomached it as easily as Jake, and had he the leisure, he might have commented on her bravery.

  He did not. A new volley sounded over their heads as the reinforcements from beyond the bridge charged into the field to renew the assault. Jake led Alison toward the spot where he had left his mare; the horse stood calmly by, gently nickering that her owner had best get a move on.

  Alison's father, in the meantime, had been dashing on horseback to and fro, his sword flashing as he made sure the fallen redcoats would rise no more. Fresh out of opponents, he followed to where Jake was pushing Alison aboard the horse.

  By the time he arrived, he was gripping his own mount's neck. He waved them forward, telling them to hurry and escape before the reinforcements caught up.

  "Father!" Alison shouted. "What's happened?"

  "I'm all right, all right," mumbled Brown. In fact, he was anything but. He fell over from his horse, landing in a heap as his bloody sword dropped nearby.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wherein, Melancholy shows her tearful face, and Jake confronts a development that will have diverse consequences for our tale.

  “ Father! Father!"

  Alison jumped from the horse and ran to the stricken figure. Jake followed, scooping up his dented sword on the way.

  Brown rolled out on his back, stretching up to look square at the moon. The golden orb hung above like a benign party lantern. An owl, startled by the carnage before him, crossed before it, his path a compass toward blessed Avalon.

  "Papa, Papa."

  "It's fine, my dear. I see your mother."

  "No!"

  The redcoats were charging across the field toward them, shouting. Oblivious, Alison kneeled down and held her father's head in her arms.

  "Papa, Papa," she told him in a shaking voice. "I need you, Papa."

  "Don't worry, child. You have our friend here." Brown reached up his hand to Jake, who took it gently. Already the grip was cold and weak. "Take care of her."

  "I will, sir," said Jake, his eyes locking on the dying man's.

  "I'm coming, Mary."

  "Father!"

  A haphazard volley of shot fired on the run missed Jake and Alison, but caught Jake's mare. The spy yanked Alison to her feet and pulled her with him toward a row of trees at the edge of the field. The girl stumbled and fell; Jake ducked back, took her under his arm, and began running again, holding her like a log plucked for the fire.

  Only a macabre coincidence kept him from being speared through the back by the swiftest of their pursuers. Just as the redcoat reached out to stab him, the soldier tripped over the discarded head of his comrade, the same man Brown had earlier decapitated. The marine fell forward, and discovering what he had fallen over, began retching violently.

  The two patriots reached the tree line barely ahead of a second lobstercoat. Jake tossed Alison roughly into a bush, then ducked as the marine charged; he was able to upend the man and grab a large tree limb as another soldier reached the woods. A swift slash disabled this attacker, and Jake turned his attention back to the first, still sprawled on the ground. A blow from his boot dispatched him from the active duty rolls; Jake helped himself to the man's bayoneted weapon and went to the bush where he had thrown Alison.

  She wasn't there. He pushed through, stickers grabbing at his clothes and face. Jake had just yanked a particularly nasty branch from his cheek when his injured ribs were creased by a thin but still hurtful tree limb.

  "Jesus!"

  "I'm sorry," Alison exclaimed. "I didn't know it was you."

  "Come on, before the others find us." Jake pushed her forward. The woods were just thin enough for them to run through, and the top cover filtered the moon's light, sheltering them with a veil of darkness. After they had gone a hundred feet or so, Jake pulled Alison to a stop, whispered that they should be quiet, and thus changed their tactic from rapid retreat to organized withdrawal.

  The marines had lit torches and were scouring the field and the edge of the woods. The fight, however, had been knocked from them. Jake and Alison moved stealthily to the east, and within a half hour could no longer hear the English shouts, nor see their lights.

  Another half hour of walking brought them to a road. Jake motioned with his hand that they should stop and rest; they were both so tired they flopped down right into the dust.

  "I am sorry about your father," Jake told her. "I am truly sorry."

  The girl did not say anything, but began softly weeping to herself. Jake knelt and held her in his arms. Back at the tavern, her body had felt considerably harder, more muscular, and though there was no mistaking her sex, he did not doubt her boasts about being stronger than many boys. Now, she felt as weak and soft as a tender kitten, stranded after its mother has been snatched away.

  "I must go," said Jake. "I'm sorry for you, but my mission is critical. It will be light in a few hours, and I must find a way across the river. Hide here until dawn. The soldiers have given up their pursuit and will soon return to their boats. I'll continue south and find my way across with the light."

  "We are barely a mile from the Hudson," said Alison, springing to her feet. "Come on."

  "Wait. You can't come with me."

  "You need me to show you the way. You can't go south here. And you will never get down the cliffs by yourself."

  "Wait!"

  Jake's protest was useless. The girl was already running full speed down the road in the direction of the river. Cursing beneath his breath, he ran to catch up. He soon found himself sliding off the road down a ravine Alison seemed to know as well as the furrows of her garden. His feet finally found a solid path, and once more he had to run to catch up with her.

  Those who have sailed up the Hudson from the bay will well remember the massive rock ledge that seems to leap from the Hudson's waves straight up toward heaven. This part of Jersey appears to stand upon a solid platform, raised like the bank of the Nile by Moses against so
me foreign horde. Indeed, these natural defenses helped secure the patriots during the dark days of the British rush to take Manhattan.

  But the fortress rocks are not as impenetrable as they seem from the water, and there are many points where they fade back from the river. Countless crevices and paths wind their way down, ancient ways first explored by the Indians who made their homes here. Alison led Jake down one now, slipping and dodging through the mazelike natural wall as if she were a raindrop descending to earth.

  Here Jake's height and bulky shoulders proved something of a disadvantage. Normally sure-footed, with the balance of a squirrel, he found himself continually sliding one way or the other. It did not help that the route, though direct, was long as well as treacherous; he grew more and more tired as he went. At length, the lieutenant colonel began to wonder when he would reach the bottom, and even doubted the wisdom of his choice to try Manhattan from the Jersey shore.

  "Here we are," said Alison finally, poking her way past some saplings that had forced themselves up in the crocks of the river stones. "God, look at the ships upon the river. They must belong to the redcoats we fought."

  They did indeed. Three schooners escorted by a fifth-rate stood off the shore, while a dozen whaleboats scurried back and forth, taking men from the Jersey side to the ships. Fires burned on the ground above, and lanterns and torches glimmered in the boats, covering the proceedings with a golden glow.

  "I don't suppose they've done me the courtesy of leaving a boat nearby," said Jake. Though his voice was sardonic, he nonetheless glanced up and down the shore.

  "We can take that log and float across on it," suggested Alison, sprinting across the narrow ledge of shore.

  "We can't do anything, miss," said Jake. "

  You have to go back to your inn."

  "Why? What luck will I have there?"

  "I'm sure you could run a good business, if you put your mind to it. You are a good cook."

  "The inn will be taken from me in a day, and you know it," said the girl. "Even if I were a boy, it would be so."

  "Some neighbor will help you, I'm sure," said Jake.

  "Here, this log will do nicely. Come now. You promised father you'd look after me."

  Before he could grab her, Alison threw her weight against a large, broken tree trunk sitting at the waves' edge. Jake was surprised to see that she was strong enough to get it into the water by herself.

  But if he had once been bemused by her determination, he had a considerably different opinion now. He could not traipse through the city of New York with a child at his elbow. She would be an unimaginable liability.

  Or would she? Jake was known, but surely this girl was not. A brave young woman might serve the Cause in countless ways; many were doing so already.

  The question was moot. Alison was already several yards from shore. Cursing, Jake slipped off his boots and took a few ginger steps on the rocks before diving into the river.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wherein, Van Clynne’s progress is briefly examined, as is Jake’s swimming prowess.

  Claus van Clynne at that moment was contemplating somewhat similar waves, if a vastly different situation. His captors, having recovered from their wounds, found it difficult to contain their animosity toward him, especially as he was chained and could not retaliate. The poor Dutchman therefore suffered sundry blows before Egans, worried about the bounty he would receive for returning a rebel spy for interrogation, ordered he be left alone. "I don't know why you think I'm a spy," complained the squire.

  "Your forged papers are proof," said Egans.

  "They are not forged, sir. I am purely a man of business."

  "A fancy name for it. Personally, I don't care; you'll bring me twenty crowns whether you're a cousin of the king or George Washington himself."

  "Twenty, is that all?" asked van Clynne. "I've got more than that in my purse."

  "You did indeed," answered Egans, "in each purse. I have never seen such a collection of notes in my life."

  The Dutchman's grumbles about thieves not being trusted were ignored. The open boat continued southward, her two small sails, set atop each other, puffed full with the wind. The moon gave her more than enough light to sail by. There were no American river patrols to stop her and the only complication lay several miles downstream, where the chain at Peekskill stopped all river traffic.

  Van Clynne's head rested against the hard oaken rails of the vessel's side. He was consoled by the fact that his hat had been returned; not only was it a longtime companion, but no self-respecting Dutchman considered himself properly dressed without one.

  Perhaps the return of his headgear was a positive omen. He knew from recent experience that the river barrier was impenetrable, and that these British miscreants would therefore have to make landfall in patriot territory. As van Clynne realized he had good hopes of meeting friends once ashore — there was not a man or woman of Dutch descent in the valley whom he did not know — his outlook on the adventure began to brighten. Surely this difficulty would prove but another arrow in the quiver of accomplishments he would present when he asked General Washington for consideration in the matter of his land. The general, and afterwards the Congress, would consider the great trials van Clynne had overcome and see justice served. And who could doubt that the Dutchman, as resourceful a man as ever to have trod these shores, would find some stratagem to ease his escape once embarked on dry land, where the air was clearer and the beer free for the taking?

  So van Clynne began to feel optimistic, and as always when he was optimistic, he began to talk, and as always when he began to talk, he began to complain. It was good-natured criticism, meant for the edification of the listeners.

  "This is an adequate vessel, for its purpose," said the squire. "But, there are certain recommendations I would make for its improvement. If it were constructed in the Dutch manner, it would be two or three times faster. We would be in New York already."

  "And why would you want to get there quickly?" demanded one of the sailors.

  "Oh, I am in no hurry. I will get there when I arrive," said van Clynne philosophically. "But I should much prefer a Dutch sloop."

  "Bah."

  "The Dutch have been sailing this river for considerable time," essayed van Clynne. "We have learned to make the vessel flat-bottomed — "

  "As is this one."

  "— with a shallow draft that can tiptoe across the sandbars. The sides are much lower, much broader. This vessel is barely big enough for both you and I, while on a Dutch sloop, half the province could stretch out. And your sail arrangement: inefficient in the extreme."

  "What's the trouble here?" demanded the captain. "What is this shouting about? Are you aiming at waking the entire shoreline?"

  "The prisoner's giving us advice to make the ship better."

  "Oh he is, is he? Well perhaps the improvements would begin with using him as an anchor."

  "Tut, tut, sir; I won't be moved by idle threats."

  "Idle, is it?"

  But it was, so long as the crew kept Egans aboard. And as these men — British sailors under special order — had been detailed to transport Egans southward, they were forced to leave his prisoner in peace.

  Which was more than van Clynne did for them, continuing his loud harangue on such diverse topics as the quality of Dutch hemp and the fine art of skimming stones across the water. His talk was not precisely idle. The Dutchman hoped some citizen ashore might hear it, recognize its timbre, and knowing his great antagonism toward the sea, row out to investigate. His heart perked as they neared Poughkeepsie, as the city's residents were especially alert, but the good citizens of the town seemed all abed. Fishkill Landing was the same. No matter how loud he spoke — and he was soon nearly hoarse with his shouting — he could not raise a response.

  Finally, van Clynne saw that they were tending toward the eastern shore. He marshaled his tired body, still heavily chained, and decided he would save his strength for some new effort, as yet
invented.

  "So you've finally shut your mouth, have you?" asked Egans.

  "My mouth opens and shuts as it pleases me," said van Clynne. "And as for you, sir, there are several facts regarding your past of which you are quite mistaken. It would please me greatly to straighten you out on them. First off, regarding your ancestry — "

  "I think it will please you very much to be quiet now," said Egans, revealing his pistol. The dim light made his tattooed face, as well as his grin, all the more sinister.

  Van Clynne saw no alternative but to nod in agreement.

  Jake spat a mouthful of water from his throat as he grabbed onto the tree trunk. The strong tides of the river were pushing it rapidly downstream, toward the British and their ships. Alison struggled, but her exhausted body was no match for the strong current. She felt her grip slipping; suddenly, she fell headfirst into the waves. The patriot spy grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her up over the floating log.

  "All right," he said. "I suppose I'm stuck with you. Let's not visit any sea rays along the way."

  Alison was too winded to celebrate. Jake kicked hard, pushing the log before him as he aimed toward the dark shadow of Manhattan island.

  The Hudson is no simple stream. Like a great lady, she moves back and forth as much according to whim as the edicts of the moon. Between her various eddies and flows, she is constantly changing direction, and often goes three different ways at once. Tonight she was feeling particularly capricious; Jake had no sooner found a suitable spot to aim at on the eastern shore than the Hudson took it into her head to send him back west.