The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

  "Stand down and present yourself for arrest. You are very much like the description of one of the prisoners said to have escaped yesterday from the city jail."

  The colonel pulled his sword from the scabbard with a great deal of pompous flash. It was a most ornate device, with hand-crafted silver embellishments about the handle and considerable scrolling up and down the blade.

  "You did not let me finish," said the Dutchman quickly. "I am under strict orders not to communicate my mission with anyone."

  "Piffle."

  "Well, I suppose I must make an exception, given your rank," said van Clynne, reaching beneath his hat toward his coat, then letting his fingers take a detour to the floor, where they found his hatchet. In the next instant, the Briton flew backwards as blood burst like a geyser from his skull, the ax having found its mark.

  Van Clynne started to rise from the bench to retrieve the hatchet, but was interrupted by a shout from nearby in the woods. A half-dozen British soldiers appeared from their bivouac as van Clynne grabbed for his reins. The little pony Fraunces had lent him strained for everything he was worth as the soldiers let their muskets get some exercise.

  The bullets did a nice job engraving their marks in the rear of the wagon. The Dutchman was, nonetheless, unscathed, as was his hat, which remarkably remained on his head despite the pace. But as he began congratulating his fortune and thinking if some way might be found to make the hat shrink a size, van Clynne realized one of the soldiers had appropriated the colonel's horse and was chasing him up the road.

  "Come now, little one," the Dutchman told the pony. "Let us see if we cannot reach yonder bend before this galloping horseman. We may effect an ambush if we do. I have often thought a small pony more worthwhile in a pinch than a dozen large stallions."

  The pony's ears bloated with the flattery as it strained its legs and pushed its shoulders forward in a manner that would have done fabled Pegasus proud. Alas, the animal was not used to such exertion, and quickly began to tire. When they were still several dozen yards before the turn, van Clynne realized they would not beat the redcoat there.

  The soldier had taken the colonel's sword as well as his horse. He began waving it above his head, momentum building as he leaned over his horse menacingly. Van Clynne reached below the seat and retrieved his pistol, endeavoring to pull back the lock into the firing position while all the while urging his little pony forward. The space between the horseman and the cart fell rapidly; van Clynne managed to point the gun and fire just as the swordsman took a swipe at his head. The blade missed. Alas, the same was true of van Clynne's bullet. The pony, exhausted, gave up his attempt at a gallop and fell into a strained trot, his body heaving with exhaustion. The redcoat pulled back on his reins, trying to gain a good angle for attack. Van Clynne threw down his pistol and reached for his remaining hatchet.

  He nearly lost it as the pony jerked to the side to avoid the soldier's swipe. Van Clynne just managed to thrust the handle up as the redcoat slashed violently toward his neck. Sword and ax crashed together with a clang so loud anyone in the neighborhood would have thought he was being called to church.

  Three times the weapons came together, and each time the Dutchman shuddered with the blow. The redcoat was a strong man born in northern Scotland and raised on red oats; he had ridden much as a youngster and by every right should have been at least a corporal, if not sergeant, except for some troubles he'd had as a young recruit.

  But van Clynne was in no position to inquire after his personal history. He pulled back the hatchet, only to see it fly from his grasp, propelled by a quicker-than-expected blow. The redcoat, sensing that victory was but a moment away, pulled back his sword and took a deep breath, savoring his moment of glory.

  "Well now," said van Clynne, doffing his hat as if in salute, "I am glad to finally be on even terms with you."

  "Even terms?" said the Scotsman with a tongue so thick his words sounded more like

  E turn,

  "And how do ye figure that 'un, son?"

  "Allow me to introduce myself," said van Clynne, taking the opportunity to slip down from the carriage on the side opposite the soldier. "Claus van Clynne, Esquire. You have undoubtedly heard of me."

  "Whether I heard of ye or not, it dan't matter. Ye slain the colonel, and I'll be making mince pie of ye in return." The redcoat pushed his horse forward and took another slash, nipping the oversized beaver hat but not its owner. Van Clynne threw himself on the ground and rolled beneath the wheels of the cart, using it for protection. No matter which way the redcoat attacked, van Clynne flew to the other side. Granted, he suffered a few close nicks and scratches, and the ground was not very soft or smooth, but the soldier could not get close enough to strike a serious blow without dismounting.

  "Come out, ye damn coward. Out, or I will kill your wee pony."

  "A true Scotsman would not harm a pony born on the heath," claimed van Clynne.

  The soldier knitted his brow. He had never heard of a pony imported to America from the heath, nor was he altogether certain what distinguishing marks, if any, a Scots pony would bear. Nonetheless, he held all equines in high esteem and felt it beneath him to attack this poor animal, just because its owner was a treacherous, murdering rebel.

  Besides, the pony would fetch a nice price back at the city.

  "All right then," said the redcoat, jumping from his horse. "But you yourself will get no mercy."

  Van Clynne just made it out from under the cart as the redcoat charged. He slipped onto the other side as the sword crashed so heavily against the wood that three inches of it were splintered.

  "Stand and fight like a man!" declared the Scotsman.

  "Oh gladly, sir," answered van Clynne. "But the odds are little lopsided, given that you have a sword and I have only my wits to protect me."

  "Ye dan't object when ye had the gun and axes."

  "I am only saying that I will put aside my wit, if you put aside your sword."

  This rather generous offer was answered by a vigorous flail of the sword. But as van Clynne circled the cart and the terms of the standoff became clear, the redcoat took a new assessment of the situation. Clearly, he could defeat the rotund Dutchman if they fought hand to hand — even without the dirk he had secreted in his belt.

  "All right, laddie," he said, holding the sword at his side. "I will fight you fair, like a man."

  He dropped the sword in the dust.

  "Oh, you want to play at fisticuffs," said van Clynne, edging to his right. "I should warn you, sir: I am Dutch."

  "So?"

  Van Clynne's answer was a feint toward the sword. The Scotsman grabbed his knife as he performed a spectacular front-roll to the ground in front of the saber. He landed on his feet in a fighting position, quite prepared to take on an entire regiment of rebels, if need be.

  He needn't. For the Dutchman had taken the opportunity to bolt not for the sword, but the soldier's nearby horse.

  "As you were not prepared to completely abandon your weapons, I did not forsake mine," shouted van Clynne as he leaped aboard and thundered away.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Wherein, Major Dr. Keen is sent to Brooklyn, for Squire van Clynne’s health.

  The battering at the engineer’s office left Major Dr. Keen in the foulest mood of his life. It was one thing to discover that Jake Gibbs had fooled him; Gibbs was surely the Americans' finest agent, a man trusted by Washington with only the most delicate missions. He had been schooled in England and came from a wealthy if not noble family. In some ways he reminded Keen of himself as a young man.

  But to find van Clynne alive and running through the streets of New York as freely as a rat — the humiliation was nearly too much to bear.

  By the time Keen's horses finally stopped their panicked flight they were nearly trampling the rough wood of the docks. His eyes fairly closed by bruises, the doctor saw no alternative but to slink into some lair and lick his wounds. He did not want to rejoin Clayton Bauer and his
relatives under any circumstances, as he would then be obliged to offer some sort of explanation for the tumult. Even the most convincing lie would be a degrading embarrassment.

  Rarely had the doctor found himself in such mental disarray. He could not repair to his apartments on the city's west side for fear that someone — perhaps an agent of Bacon's — would seek him out there. Nor could he rule out the possibility that Gibbs had been sent to assassinate him, in a reversal of their previous roles. And so Keen spent a miserable night shivering in a shack owned by an acquaintance midway between Rutger's land and Corlear's Hook. The wind and sea ravaged his ears with their unrelenting drone as he pitched in the narrow cradle of his bed, wrapped in a thin and threadbare cotton cloth. Not even his potions could allow him a fitless sleep.

  Still, the doctor had passed hard nights before, and the morrow brought him some hope and new priorities. He decided that he would no longer worry about Bacon and the consequences of the premature message announcing the death of his two enemies. There was nothing to be done about it one way or the other; he would have to accept whatever Fate delivered.

  That decision gave him a certain amount of peace, and allowed him to reach his next: he would find and eliminate van Clynne before attending to Gibbs.

  Van Clynne embodied nearly everything that Keen loathed, and yet he had beaten Keen consistently, escaping every encounter. To kill him, to rip the man's immense liver from his body and hold it above his head, to strip his gallbladder with a serrated knife and feed it to the rutting pigs. . Keen nearly frothed contemplating such joyful enterprises.

  He knew that van Clynne had a great propensity for drink and trusted that he would not be difficult to trace. The doctor began the day by making the rounds of the taverns and inns in the vicinity, gradually widening his net. All manner of owners and keepers knew his prey; van Clynne seemed to owe each inhabitant of the island at least five-shillings. But the Dutchman's comings and goings were not regular, and none of Keen's interviews produced definite news.

  Until, in mid-afternoon, he stopped at Fraunces Tavern.

  "Owes you too, eh?" said the proprietor after Keen had one of the servers fetch him.

  "He has owed me a great deal in the past," Keen told the aristocratic-looking man before him. He was aware that the middle-aged Fraunces shaded to the Whig side but was nonetheless confident he could be fooled. "In all honesty, it is I who owe him at present. I have business in Europe, and want to settle up before leaving."

  Though the story seemed plausible and even admirable in theory, Keen could not have hit on a tale that would have made Fraunces more suspicious. To his knowledge, van Clynne never, ever loaned money; it was a violation of the Dutchman's most sacred principles. But Fraunces had considerable experience tending bar, and nodded with a face that would have fooled Saint Thomas himself.

  "You are unlucky to have missed him," said the proprietor. "He was here before midday, and was speaking of going to Brooklyn. I believe he was paying off a debt among tavern owners there."

  Keen did not bother to finish his Madeira before leaving.

  "Add a shilling to van Clynne's bill," Fraunces told his bookkeeper when he returned upstairs. "I have just saved his life."

  "Overvalued by half," remarked the man.

  Clayton Bauer pulled back the pistol lock's hammer and steadied his aim, endeavoring to ignore his sister. "Clayton," she insisted, "it is nearly mid-afternoon. Your dinner has become cold."

  The pistol shot rent the air, but the paper Bauer had placed on the tree as a target remained untouched.

  "Damn."

  "It's a fine ham," said Lady Patricia.

  "Please, Patricia. Leave me alone. See to your husband, or take a carriage into town."

  The dismissive tone angered her and Lady Patricia felt the bile rise in her mouth. Still, she fought to control herself, and when she spoke, her voice was nearly as conciliatory as before. "Clayton, you can't go through with this silliness. It is beneath your station."

  "On the contrary, my dear. To ignore the insult is beneath my station. It would finish me."

  He bent down and picked up his ivory powder horn, refilling his pistol. Nearly half of his shots had failed to find the target. He decided to retie the blue ribbon around his white shirt-sleeve; perhaps it would bring him luck, if not improve his aim.

  "Clayton, he is a foolish young man. In England he would be a commoner, if not worse."

  "In England, I would be a commoner," he shot back. "You do not understand, Patricia. You do not understand the country or our ways. You have no notion what this war is about."

  "And I do not care to." She could not control her anger any longer. "It is ridiculous. Let the colonists set their own taxes and rule themselves. What is the difficulty? The result will be the same. We are bred from the same soil."

  "The result will be chaos and poverty. The issue is far beyond taxes. You do not understand the leveling of the mob, my dear. I doubt even your husband does. Nor did young Thomas."

  "Don't speak of my son in that tone."

  A twinge of regret flushed through him — Bauer had liked the young man a great deal — and he finished loading the pistol in silence.

  "Are you going to practice all day?"

  His answer was a shot that struck the paper square in the middle. Nodding with approval, Bauer began walking toward it to exult in his success. The high grass before the house flayed back with his boots, barely brushing his soft, smooth breeches. A redcoat sentry was posted a few yards to the north, along the stone wall that marked the former border of the property. The war had allowed Bauer to expand his estate for an extremely advantageous price. "Come and eat something. William is worried sick about you."

  "Lord William worries about nothing, not even your honor," said Bauer. He turned toward his sister suddenly. "Tell me, Patricia: did you enjoy that kiss?"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "I know you did. Bacon chooses his agents because they attract women. That is how they gather most of their information, from weak women."

  "You think all women are weak."

  "Everyone is weak," said Bauer, starting back to his mark. "It is just a question of how they show it."

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Wherein, the villain Eagans is briefly rejoined, and Squire van Clynne goes courting.

  The renegade Eagans had spent much of the time since his arrival in New York being abused by the British establishment.

  Not only was he denied prompt payment for his prisoner, but the lieutenant on Bacon's staff assigned to debrief him treated him with undisguised contempt. The man, Bacon's only officer left in the city, steadfastly refused to grant Egans his bounty or even his rightful pay until the entire business was complete. Given the lieutenant's intricate style of questioning, that might not happen for several weeks.

  Egans was a stoic, and could weather many difficult trials without complaint, but he had a hard time stomaching insults. Nor did he feel it the best use of his time to be kept hanging around the city answering questions about how many horses were sheltered in obscure stables north of the chain at Peekskill.

  When, at the end of his third interview the lieutenant still declined to approve the reward, Egans stormed from his office and headed straight to the jail where he had deposited his prisoner. If he could not have his money from the British, he decided, he would have it from the Dutchman, whose broad hints had included the possibility of a ransom.

  Arid after that, some piece of satisfaction might be retrieved from killing him.

  "Your prisoner escaped yesterday," sneered the clerk who met him at the desk. "Along with a group of other rebels. Undoubtedly he was the ringleader. Perhaps we shall hang you for bringing him."

  Egans instinctively reached for his pistol. As quickly as lightning flashes between clouds, three grenadiers grabbed him and flung him to the ground. His struggle ended when a muzzle appeared an inch from his nose.

  "Do not harm him," said the clerk. "As pleasant
as it would be, there are too many forms to fill out."

  Egans was grudgingly allowed to his feet.

  "Return with the fat Dutchman or your master, General Bacon, will have a full report. In triplicate."

  The renegade was too smart to say that he considered no one his master. He met the British clerk's stare blankly, holding his eyes in a defiant gaze. Neither man blinked.

  "Do you want the whole man or just his scalp?" asked Egans finally.

  "His scalp will do nicely. The rest of him takes up too much room."

  Van Clynne hurried past the British huts at Delancy's without stopping, despite a growing desire for something to quench his thirst. There was, at best, only a token force left guarding the small wood cabins built against the gentle hills and on the flats, but having just escaped British hospitality the Dutchman's mouth would have to be literally on fire before he would condescend to dally with any more redcoats or their German brethren. The colonel's horse proved a decent beast, not partial to either side, and van Clynne soon found the farm near Harlem where the Pinkertons had retreated to.

  This was a Dutch family hard on its luck, or so van Clynne theorized, for otherwise he could not supply a reason for their staying in the occupied city. The tailor's example notwithstanding, by van Clynne's lights every Dutchman hated the British. If the truth be told, his estimation of Dutch patriotism was somewhat off the mark, but his assessment of the Pinkerton's financial status was correct. The family's attitude toward the British had hardened considerably since their daughter's interlude with Howe, though having voiced pro-English sentiments in the past they could not now risk the reception they might find further north.

  They still had their pride, however, as the family patriarch made clear after ushering his old friend van Clynne inside.

  "Imagine, hinting that we might be bought off by supplying some small infantry unit with grain," complained Veder Pinkerton. "Grain!"