The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

  Alison sprung after him.

  "You can't come with me," Jake said.

  "The British are looking for you," Daltoons told Jake. "And Culper specifically said for you to stay in hiding."

  "The beauty of being on a mission for General Washington," said the spy, "is that I take orders directly and only from him. A mission has but one chief."

  "I knew we would hear the theory at some juncture," muttered van Clynne as he slipped toward sleep. "Though usually it is to give me some base assignment."

  "Deliver Alison to Culper, and tell him to continue his efforts. With luck, my stage tricks won't be needed."

  "I want to help you." Alison caught hold of Jake's arm as he started down the stairs.

  Jake reached back and took her arms firmly, gripping not quite hard enough to hurt her, but surely pressing his will into her rebellious flesh. "If you truly care about our Revolution, you will go with Daltoons and not utter another word."

  "But — "

  "And hand me back my Segallas."

  Even in the dim light, there was no obscuring the look in Jake's eyes. Alison nodded meekly.

  "I shall pursue my own plan in the morning," vowed van Clynne between his snores.

  "Do that," said Jake, tapping his shoe as he left.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Wherein, Jake takes a not-so-leisurely stroll through the enemy city.

  After General Howe and his troops succeeded in turning the American line at Brooklyn Heights on Long Island in the fall of 1776, General Washington orchestrated a daring nighttime retreat. Having escaped the cauldron, the Continental troops hunkered down in the city opposite, preparing defenses for the inevitable assault. The ensuing disaster of Kipp's Bay, where Howe routed our boys with a heavy rain of cannon, is nearly too depressing to mention. Only by the most heroic of measures was the commander-in-chief able to regain control of his army and retreat north. It was not until the brave battle at White Plains that the tide was finally turned. That skirmish may well have preserved our Revolution, and shall undoubtedly be praised by generations to come, once we have won our Freedom.

  In the days following Washington's withdrawal from New York, a massive fire broke out in the western precincts. From Broadway west to the fort, from the water north to Barclay Street, no building was untouched by the flames. Even the magnificent steeple of Trinity Church glowed with the red flickers. The destruction was several times greater than that caused by the cannons of war; it may truthfully be said that no conflagration of similar proportions had ever raged on the continent. The wounded precincts have since become host to a city within a city built of ruins and canvas, the poor huddling for whatever shelter they can find.

  But as Claus van Clynne would cheerfully point out, ever since its establishment by the Dutch, New York has been a city of great resources and strength. The presence of the British in the fort at the island's southern tip — and even more importantly, on the fields to the north and the waters to the east and south — proved a magnet to all manner of Tory. American industry, ignorant of politics, constantly seeks to build and grow, no matter who sits in the governor's house or mans the battlements.

  Indeed, the city Jake proceeded through after leaving the infirmary hideout was enjoying what van Clynne's favorite philosopher Adam Smith might call an economic boom. Despite the late hour, the streets were filled with people going about their business. Even the notorious city pigs, supplemented by an occasional loose dog, walked with purpose. The air was as filled with the smell of money being made and spent as it was with horse dung.

  Jake thought of pulling up the collar of his jacket to obscure his face. But on second thought, he felt this might unnecessarily attract attention. How often is it said that the most obvious hiding place is the one least expected? He straightened his spine and walked with a solid gait, hastening up George's Street toward the commons and then eastward. At every step, it seemed he saw a soldier or an obvious British functionary; Jake smiled and always endeavored to make direct eye contact.

  It was a bold approach. While Jake had the advantage of moving through the city at a time when all of Howe's command and a large portion of his men had been removed to stew aboard ship, still, at any moment Chance herself might throw someone across his path who would recognize him and sound the alarm.

  Not that he was unarmed. Beneath his belt Jake carried his Segallas, fully loaded and ready for action. He also had two full-sized pistols borrowed from the Sons' armory beneath his jacket, and a knife tucked into his right boot.

  The spy's destination was a small apothecary shop off an alley on Cherry Street. Just a block off the docks and shipyards, before the Revolution the neighborhood was rough and thoroughly mixed, frequented by sailors and assorted ruffians who knocked shoulders with wealthy merchants, legitimate and otherwise. Any sort of deal in the world could be hatched here, and if the Devil were looking for a place to do his business, he could not have chosen a better spot.

  Nor had respectability threatened this vale now that war had come. Jake adopted a certain aggressive gait, hands swinging and chin jutting forward as he nudged his way past the taverns and warehouses. He walked quicker, beginning to anticipate the meeting he had planned; he had not seen the owner of the shop he was visiting for several months.

  But a half-block from his destination, a sensation grew on him that he was being followed. He took a left turn away from the building, walking up in the general direction of the reservoir. Sure enough, his fleeting glance revealed a figure in the shadows behind him.

  The buildings lining the street were butted against one another too closely to give him a hiding place. He continued walking, his step brisk and deliberate but not panicked, making it seem as if this were his direction all along.

  A shed that had been converted to a sales office for barrels of pitch sat on the next block, just on the outskirts of the tanning yards. A porch stood over the front of the building, guarded by two large, rough-hewn posts. The posts had an assortment of barrels and coils of rope hauled around them; whatever function these were meant to serve, they provided an excellent hiding place for the patriot spy as he ducked behind them and crouched down.

  The man following him turned the corner onto the empty street. Not seeing his quarry, he broke into a trot, his full-length cloak flapping as he ran to catch his prey.

  Jake slipped the knife from his boot and ran his thumb along the sleek steel blade. Just as the fellow passed him, Jake leaped over the barrel, grabbing the villain by the throat.

  "Why would anyone wear a heavy coat in the summer heat?" the patriot asked his prisoner.

  "Father!"

  "Damn you, Alison," said Jake, spinning her around but not releasing her. "You almost had your throat slit. Why aren't you with Daltoons?"

  "I told him I was going to the privy. He's very brave, but easily fooled. His coat is handy, though. It comes equipped with many pockets for weapons and such."

  Jake scowled. If his knife had frightened her for even an instant, there was no trace of it on her face. "What you need is a good caning."

  "Are all patriots treated this way?"

  "Ones who don't obey orders. Where's Claus?"

  "Sleeping like a baby, and snoring like a hound in heat."

  "That's something, at least." Jake thought of sending her back alone, but dismissed the idea on two counts: one that it was too dangerous, and two that she was unlikely to follow such an order. "Come along."

  The moon had continued her climb through the clear sky during Jake's brief detour, and now Night was serenading the city with her bright starlight and gentle bird songs. The building he sought had a large, multiply paned glass window that covered most of its front. Several of the panels were made of thick, brightly colored glass similar to that found in the most lavish churches. Other than this obvious sign of prosperity, there was no hint of the building's owner or his business. Jake stood before the closed doorway for a moment, waiting as two men walked into the tavern acro
ss the way.

  "Stay right here," said Jake to Alison. "Do not move. And do not go into that tavern. It is owned by a friend, but the sailors will have you aboard their ship before he spots you."

  "I am not afraid of them."

  "But I am," warned Jake.

  He reached inside his vest pocket and retrieved a narrow, wedge-shaped piece of metal which he wielded like a skeleton key. In a second, he pushed the door inwards and slipped inside.

  "Bebeef, are you awake?" he asked, walking toward the back. "Professor Bebeef?"

  The only answer was a soft thud from the back room. Jake stepped gingerly along the wide, painted pine planks; the floor was littered with glass jars, boxes, and canvas bags. Only half contained what one might call the customary wares of an apothecary.

  Nominally a druggist, the proprietor had a severe weakness for oddities and machines of all kinds. If the truth be told, he was a soft touch for any inventor or salesman who wandered in. On the floor and shelves were such items as an authentic Egyptian spyglass, a steel spring said to cure consumption better than Bebeef’s own potions, and a large, winged contraption with which, under the proper circumstances, a man could fly. That such circumstances had not yet been discovered did not prevent the gray-haired chemist, philosopher, and veritable wizard from cheerfully trying to sell the device to anyone who strayed into his store.

  "Bebeef?"

  Jake knocked at the door to the rear room, where the proprietor customarily slept.

  "Professor?"

  There was a sound inside, louder than before. Jake pushed the door open, then fell flat against the jam as a large white ball exploded toward him.

  The cat, Mister Spooky.

  "I am being assaulted by all sorts of animals today,” Jake complained to himself. His self-deprecating laugh was interrupted by a gentle but nonetheless obvious poke at his ribs.

  "Do not move or this sword will pierce your flesh," said an unfamiliar voice. "It is tipped with a poison that will kill you only after the most painful seizures imaginable."

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Wherein, Professor Bebeef’s situation is found to be desperate.

  I have no desire to be poisoned," said Jake softly. In the dim light of the shop, he couldn't tell who might be holding the sword on him. It certainly wasn't Bebeef.

  "Walk slowly with me, to the door. Too quickly, and I will plunge the sword in your side. Remember, I need only prick the skin for the poison to take effect."

  "I need to see Professor Bebeef," said Jake, who realized the voice and shadow belonged to a boy, not a man, and thus dismissed his original theory that he had been surprised by a British soldier guarding the confiscated stores. Still, he was in no position to relax. "I am a friend of his."

  "Move this way or you will die."

  The question was not so much whether the blade was truly covered with poison, but which poison it might be; the nearby shelves contained quite a variety.

  "You're not the apprentice who was here six weeks ago," said Jake. "You would remember that I borrowed a noise bomb."

  "The apprentice is now a guest of the English, much against his will, and my uncle's," replied the shadow. "Your own path is clear: you are to leave immediately."

  "Ah," said Jake, "you must be Timothy. I am Jake Gibbs. Surely your uncle has told you about me."

  Before the lad could answer, he was interrupted by a loud crash at the door. "Step away from Jake, or you will be filled with more lead than the weight of the clock in the governor's palace."

  "I thought I told you to wait outside," said Jake indignantly as Alison waved her gun in the shadows.

  "An ungrateful attitude," she replied. "But then, I have come to expect it, having saved your life so many times before."

  "You've spent too much time with van Clynne," said Jake. "You're starting to sound like him." He turned back toward Bebeef s nephew. "We are all on the same side here. Light a candle and I will show you a sign your uncle would recognize."

  "Why should I trust you?" said the lad, still holding his sword at Jake's side. "Anyone could claim to be his friend, and Mr. Gibbs is well known in several circles. His father's firm supplies many of the items in this very shop."

  "Your uncle has a scar over his left eye that he got while escaping a Turkish prince who held him for ransom in his youth," replied Jake. "If you have not heard that story ten thousand times, you are not related to the professor."

  "Everyone living in the province of New York has heard that story ten thousand times," answered the nephew. Nonetheless, he lowered his sword and retreated to light a candle.

  Jake reached under his clothes and undid the money belt at his waist. The back of the belt was stamped with a Masonic symbol that the nephew quickly recognized. The symbol was shared by all members of the Secret Service, but the esoteric marks above it were a mnemonic Bebeef himself used as the abbreviation for a remedy for the Portuguese ailment-a disease King George was reputed to suffer from. The formula connecting the king with the disease and the cure with the Revolution was among the old professor's favorite if somewhat obscure jokes.

  "I am sorry," said the nephew, who recognized the marks immediately. "I am Timothy Hulter, as you surmised. The Tories and British are envious of my uncle's potions, and there have been several attempts at break-ins."

  "Where is he? I need his help urgently. There is a potion only he can concoct."

  "With my mother in Brooklyn," said the lad. "He won't see anyone. He won't talk, not even to her. He seems to have fallen into a deep spell, sitting day and night in the back garden, staring at a madstone."

  "A madstone?" Jake squinted, as if suddenly presented with the unlikely object. Many people — including, it must be admitted, a few scientists — believed the special rocks able to cure fever and madness. Despite this, Bebeef had long dismissed such stones as mere superstitions.

  "It is, sir, a rock such as one has never seen before. Until now, I thought such things were superstition. But there is much in this shop that I would not believe except for my uncle's demonstrations."

  Jake was just wondering whether he might alter his plan for dealing with Bauer when the young man suddenly took hold of his arm. "Please, sir, come with me to the farm. You must find a cure for the spell that has taken him."

  "I don't know," said Jake. "I have pressing matters to attend to. And I know nothing of magic."

  "Nor does my uncle. There must be science to it. There is no such thing as magic, only formulas yet to be discovered, as my uncle puts it. He has spoken of you before this illness; surely he would help you if the places were turned."

  Jake owed Bebeef much. Not only had his concoctions rescued him from many difficult situations, but the professor had sheltered him in the dark days of the British invasion. If it were not for him, Jake might well have suffered the same fate as Nathan Hale.

  But the journey to Long Island was fraught with danger. Nor would it directly assist his mission; unless, of course, he was able to cure the professor. In that case, it would be more like an investment toward the solution, and not a delay at all.

  "Tell me more about this ailment," said Jake. "No, wait — tell it to me on the way to the ferry."

  "I have a small boat that is much safer," said the lad, starting toward the door.

  "Alison, you go back to Daltoons," Jake ordered, "and tell him I will return in time for the duel."

  But before she could go or open her mouth to argue, a pair of shadows passed by the front window. Jake grabbed both Alison and Timothy and threw them to the floor.

  The figures who had cast the shadows were members of the Black Watch, too intent on the tavern across the street to bother glancing inside the shop. Nonetheless, Jake decided Alison was safer coming along with him. She might even provide him with some cover, or at least a way of getting a message back to Culper if he ran into difficulties. In any event, he could not let her wander the city alone.

  "Alison is a strange name for a boy," said the nep
hew after Jake told them they could rise.

  "It will seem stranger still when I flatten you," she promised.

  Timothy's boat was far along the road to Corber's Point, in a discrete yard where no questions would be asked no matter who came or went, day or night. The trio trekked north all the way to Division Street, making sure their intentions were not known and they were not followed. In truth, these precautions were overzealous, but considering the circumstances, understandable. Two hours later they were rowing as quietly as possible across the East River. Jake and Timothy had each taken an oar to use as an Indian paddles a canoe. Alison lay in the bow, acting as lookout as the skiff worked across the bay in the manner of mist stealing into a valley. By the time they reached the small, tree-lined cove on the Long Island shore, it was well past midnight. Jake helped Timothy pull the small boat into the bushes. He and Alison followed the lad up to a dusty road and across a large, uncultivated field.

  Alison was beginning to show the signs of fatigue. She had given Jake the pistol she'd "borrowed" from Daltoons, and left the lieutenant's heavy cloak at the rowboat. But her pace dragged nonetheless, the fatigue of the past few days starting to take their toll. In truth, even Jake's famous constitution was beginning to show signs of wear as the trio hiked across a country road and found another shortcut through a pasture. The warm summer day had given way to a cool night, and the chilly air rubbed at Jake's shoulders like a carpenter works a fresh tabletop.

  "Just four or five miles from here," said Timothy as they climbed over a stone wall and found another road.

  "Can we rest?" asked Alison, setting her hands on the wall.

  Before Jake could answer, she plopped over on the ground.