The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

  This was apparently meant as a joke, for the others all laughed.

  "What do you do, stranger?" another man asked Jake. "You are not from here, I warrant."

  "I have lately located to New York from above," said Jake, supplying a common story. "I am an apothecary by trade, and have been on Long Island to seek herbs."

  "Manhattan weeds are not good enough for you?" asked a thin man clad entirely in white. This initiated a round of jokes about druggists' poor cures, all of which Jake had heard many times before. There was the cold cure that grew hair on a hen's chin; the bear who died with a toothache that reappeared in a patient. He laughed along and contributed his own story of a medicine intended for gout that transferred the stiffness to another member.

  The sum of all this mirth was that Jake was stood to another beer by the company as being a good sort. Neither the beer nor the conversation brought anything tangible relating to the guards and the patrols, and Jake soon made his way to a table to await Alison.

  The girl conducted her investigation with the aplomb of a seasoned veteran. Walking toward the ferry, she fell in with a group of women who were seeing a minister off after his visit to their homes. The women did not think the size of the guard unusual, and Alison soon drifted toward a young farm boy who was seeing after some pigs.

  "Hello, sir, are you selling these animals?"

  "Are you buying?" he answered, turning to see who had hailed him. When he caught sight of her, his wits seemed to flee. "I, a, excuse me, miss."

  "No, I am not buying anything," Alison sensed her advantage and pressed it. "I am meeting a friend nearby, but I am wondering — are the soldiers out for any particular reason, or are they just bullying people?"

  "Neither, I would imagine, or both," said the lad. "That is the prettiest dress I have ever seen. As is your kerchief."

  She smiled and swept away. A few other encounters failed to yield any useful information, and Alison soon found herself passing directly before the guards at the ferry house. There were a few low suggestions. These were true redcoats, and as rude as any on the continent.

  "I see that you men do not carry bayonets," she said presumptively. "It is just as well. Here you are obviously cutting yourselves with your sharp wits, and with knives you would truly do each other great harm."

  "M'lady condescends to speak to the rabble," said one of the redcoats, sweeping down in mock courtesy. "We are thrilled."

  "It is clearly the most thrill you have ever seen in your lives," said Alison.

  "I can suggest a much better thrill," said the redcoat, pointing the butt of his gun so that it just barely touched her dress.

  "And undoubtedly you would suggest a price as well, as you are the type that can only find diversion by paying for it," she answered, pulling her skirts back.

  The soldier's fellows nearly fell over themselves laughing. He could not let himself be humiliated so easily. Feeling himself growing hot, he reached quickly into a pocket and threw a shilling into the dust as Alison began walking away.

  "Come," she answered, "your mother was paid twice that to conceive you."

  The private was not the type to accept defeat gracefully. But Alison had learned a few things and gained considerable poise in the two days since she had faced a similar, if more inebriated, foe with Daltoons. As the soldier puffed out his chest and advanced, she slipped to the side and kissed him on the cheek. He stepped back in amazement — and tripped over her outstretched leg.

  "Do not be so fresh from now on," she said. "And shave, or else no woman will ever kiss you."

  The entire company of soldiers began laughing so hard tears streamed from their faces. Her victim bore as dazed and angry a countenance as King George betrayed when first presented with the Declaration of Independence.

  His fellows caught him as he rose.

  A gray-haired woman stepped up and began scolding the men in a severe tone to be about their business. Her voice brought the men's sergeant, who barked that they had better get their dirty hides the hell back at their posts or face a prompt whipping.

  "You must be more careful," the old woman warned Alison when the danger had passed. "They interpret any remark as an invitation."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "I am sure you can, dear." The woman patted her scarf carefully. "Are you traveling alone?"

  "My father — my cousin, that is — and I are going back to the city. I am to meet him nearby, at the Peacock."

  "Be careful. There are many soldiers about. To say nothing of the lower types."

  "Are the soldiers looking for someone?"

  "A fat Dutchman who is a horrible rebel," said the woman. "He instigated a riot to escape prison in the city yesterday. It's the talk of the place, they say. A man has been going through the docks, looking for him and offering a reward. He is said to owe him a considerable sum."

  "A Dutchman launched the riot?" Alison was truly incredulous, as she knew the real story and wondered how it had been twisted. "How?"

  "He broke out from jail with a regiment of men, and then tried to rob a young lord of his valuables," said the woman. She nodded deeply, as if she had just confirmed the standing of one of the Eight Wonders of the World. "He is the commander of a large army of rebels. He heads the Sons of Liberty. Be on your guard."

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Wherein, Jake and Alison discover there is no pirate like an old pirate.

  Jake was amused though overly surprised to find that van Clynne had been promoted.

  "He is becoming quite famous," he told Alison when she found him in the tavern a few minutes after her encounter with the old woman. "I have no doubt that he will eventually supplant General Washington as leader of the Revolution."

  "There is a man going around looking for him but he has confused the description," Alison told him. "They think he is smart!"

  "He is very clever in his way."

  "Not as clever as you."

  "Still, I think we had best wait for dark and find a more private way across the river. If they are looking for Claus, they may know of me as well."

  Jake and Alison made their way through a good roast chicken with full trimmings as the spy considered his best course. There would be many boats available for the taking once dusk fell, though the heavy presence of guards did tend to complicate matters.

  By now Culper and Daltoons would be worried about him. Perhaps they had solved the puzzle without his assistance. So much the better then. He would go ahead with his plan to kidnap Bauer in broad daylight and carry him to General Washington trussed like a prize pig.

  Jake's contemplation of this happy sight was cut short by the arrival of a poorly shaven man with a rough jacket and open collar. He was not very tall, and as he stood over the table with a half-stoop his mouth was a few inches below Jake's ear. His whisper released an odor of gin so strong that Alison curled her nose and pushed her seat back.

  "I could not help noticing, my friend, that you seem to be dallying here," suggested the man, whose appearance and manner showed great familiarity, with the sea. His grin revealed he was several teeth short of a full set, and his left pinky, plopped with the rest of his hand casually against the chair back, ended at the knuckle. His black trousers dragged to his heels and his white shirt puffed out from a chest any rooster would be proud of.

  "And what would it be to you if we were?"

  "Oh, nothing, friend, nothing." The man pulled back the empty chair gently and sat. "Evening, miss. A very pretty blanket on your hair. Very becoming."

  "It is an Arabian scarf," declared Alison.

  "Yes, yes, I thought so myself." The man nodded, then turned his full attention back to Jake. "I believe you may be in need of discreet transportation."

  "Why would you think that?"

  The man laughed lightly and patted Jake's arm. "No pirate like an old pirate."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Nothing, sir, nothing. Two pounds, that's all."

  "For?"
<
br />   "Delivering you where you are going. The Jerseys, I assume?"

  The uninitiated might miss the suggestive intonation of the destination. The Jerseys were a favorite destination for smugglers.

  Jake shook his head. "I am neither a pirate nor a smuggler."

  "Oh," said the man, starting to get up. '"Scuse me, then. Beg pardon, miss."

  Jake caught the man's arm; there was just enough rue surprise beneath the confident grin to trust the man.

  "Tell me where to meet you. I will give you the desti-lation after I arrive."

  "That isn't the way it works, sir. Some destinations are more costly. The rowin', an' all."

  "I will make it worth your while. Assuming, of course, you are a confidential man."

  As he said these last words, Jake glanced down toward his lap. The old pirate did likewise, and saw that he was within aim of Jake's Segallas.

  Again, surprise melted to a grin.

  "Quite confidential, sir. A very confidential man, am I. I like your ways. They remind me of a captain or two I knew in the days of yore."

  "Have a gin on me," said Jake, producing a coin.

  "Obliged, sir, obliged." He tipped the cap he was wearing. "I will find you on the road," he said in a soft voice. "Wait an hour."

  Before they left the inn, Jake sought out the tavern owner's wife and told her his cousin felt chilly with the night air. He persuaded her to sell him a shawl, then wrapped it around Alison loosely enough to give the small Segallas a nest at her sleeve.

  Jake put his knife in his boot but kept the officer's pistol just visible beneath his jacket, where it would have some deterrence value. He tucked the vial of sleeping powder and the smaller bottle with the death potion into his waistcoat pocket; they could be quickly retrieved yet would be secure in their containers. The dueling pistols, loaded with their trick potion, were safe within their waterproof case in Jake's bag, hung across his chest by a rope.

  Thus prepared, Jake and Alison left the inn and began walking warily up the street in the opposite direction of the ferry, parallel to the water. If anything, the number of guards on the street had increased, and there was nearly a full company of redcoats at the ferry.

  On the other hand, the clear sky that had cooled the night had changed its mind, and was now unfurling a blanket of mist over the water to provide a little warmth. It was just the thing to steal quietly across the river in.

  "I've never been a pirate before," said Alison, tugging her cape around her shoulders.

  "And you are not now. Say nothing." Jake saw a shadow near a building a few yards ahead, but when they approached, realized it was nothing but the odd reflection of a drainpipe.

  The buildings around them gave way to an open shoreline as they walked. Jake felt apprehension growing in his stomach, and began to think it might be safer just to steal a boat.

  A hiss greeted them from a clump of bushes ahead.

  "Aye, ya took yer time, but it's a pirate's right to go when and where he pleases," said the man they had met inside the Peacock. He stood and unsheathed a lantern. "This way then."

  He skipped ahead on the road, taking them down a stony path to his boat. Even in the darkness, it was obvious the vessel had been recently painted. Jake took this as a good sign, for not only did it indicate the craft probably wouldn't leak, but that the man knew his business well enough to profit handsomely. Paint was a capital expense afforded by only the most successful smuggler.

  "Up, with ya, lass. Before boarding, sir, your destination."

  "Manhattan. Along the docks, but not at the ferry."

  "Manhattan?"

  "You know the place?" said Jake sarcastically.

  "My business is strictly cash and carry," said the man. His disappointment was understandable; the close destination would bring a paltry fare, hardly worth his effort.

  "Here is a crown for you."

  "A full crown?"

  "And five more shillings when we get across. Do not forget that we are well armed."

  "Honor among thieves, sir. Best honor among pirates."

  His spirits soaring thanks to the well-inflated fee, the little man helped Alison into the bow of the rowboat, then clambered in behind. They pushed off through the fog nipping at the shoreline, the oarsman stroking with an energy that belied his seemingly frail body.

  By the time they were a quarter of the way across, the man had begun humming a light air vaguely reminiscent of "The Golden Vanity," the satirical ballad originally written of Sir Walter Raleigh. Alison soon joined in, and the two broke into a loud if slightly off-key chorus:

  Sinking in the low land, low land, low,

  Sinking in the low land sea.

  "You've got a voice there, lass, a voice," said the boatman. His lilt now hinted of the West Indies and his eyes betrayed a tear from the song, which told of a cabin boy rewarded for sinking an enemy vessel by being cheated of his life. "A shame, really. A shame, a shame."

  Jake suddenly sensed the man was not speaking of the song. Even as he pulled the pistol from his belt, he saw a long, low shadow looming in the mist ahead.

  "Into the water," he told Alison. He grabbed her arm and flung her overboard.

  Her scream was drowned out by a shot from the vessel that lay in ambush. Jake fired his pistol at the spark, and was rewarded by a satisfying splash, the gunman toppling into his grave. Behind him, the old pirate dove into the water, stroking for the shore behind Alison.

  "You will be repaid," Jake vowed, "if harm comes to her. I will pull your heart from your body through your nostrils."

  "A fine curse, Colonel Gibbs," boomed an all-too-familiar voice from the nearby boat. "But I am afraid you won't live long enough to carry it out."

  "I have been waiting for you to catch up to me for some time now, Keen. I am sorry to inform you that your operation proved unsuccessful."

  "I suppose it depends on your perspective," answered Keen, his voice as cheerful as Jake's. The two men might have been old college chums discussing the day's laboratory procedures, each lying merrily to the other of his successes. "In science, there is no such thing as a failed experiment, merely negative results."

  "Always the optimist. Tell me, what did Black Clay think of your failure? Or did you let him think you were dead?"

  "I am glad my little ruse fooled you," said Keen.

  "I never thought you were killed in the water."

  "Come now, I'm sure you did. But then, I will admit you surprised me tonight. I was looking for your friend Mister Clynne, and here you show up instead."

  "If you're referring to the Dutchman, I think you will find a 'van' appended to his name. He is rather touchy if you leave it off."

  "Indeed. But then he is cantankerous to a fault, is he not?"

  "I count it as his most endearing quality," said Jake. Alison's strokes were now far in the distance; if nothing else, Jake's banter had succeeded in purchasing her escape.

  "It's you I have in front of me, colonel. I fear I will have to deal with you straight away. Your cleverness grows by the hour, it seems."

  "I try to learn something new every day."

  "Then this will be your most elucidating lesson," declared Keen.

  "Much obliged, I'm sure. What lesson are we taking?"

  "Ballistics, sir. Ballistics."

  As the two men had been exchanging pleasantries, the hired minions in Keen's longboat had continued to row toward Jake. Their craft moved slowly, and not merely because of the current. The doctor had removed his swivel gun from the bow of his carriage and placed it at the bow of his boat; it was well-suited there, being of a naval design, though it tended to weigh against the craft's progress. Jake slipped his knife into his hand, aiming to wait until the space between the boats was close enough to leap across.

  But the British assassin had fought him before, and if he had underestimated him severely at the start of their mutual encounters, he now knew the American's capabilities all too well. He ordered his men to halt while the two bo
ats were still a good way apart.

  "This is quite close enough to eliminate my friend," Keen declared. "Make ready to fire."

  Jake had sensed from the start that Keen was hesitating to shoot, but could not understand why until he realized that while the light of Manhattan was silhouetting his enemy's boat through the mist, his must be nearly invisible with the much dimmer Brooklyn shore behind him.

  In that case, thought Jake, I won't help you find me any more.

  As quietly as possible, he sank to his knees, crouching and willing the fog to fall in thick around him. Then he had a second idea, and took, the bottle with the death poison from his pocket. The red liquid it contained was as thick as syrup, and coated the knife blade as strongly as any glue.

  Perhaps if he hit Keen, the doctor's men might think him dead. Considering his usual treatment of subordinates, they would undoubtedly greet his demise with some joy, and might even leave off chasing Jake.

  And so we see how Hope springs up unrealistically in desperate times. Truly, Jake did not even know which dim shadow across from him was his nemesis.

  He would have to get Keen to speak again. But doing that would reveal himself as well.

  "I wonder, doctor — you never told me if you attended Edinburgh," said Jake.

  "There he is," answered Keen. "Fire the damn gun."

  In the split second it took for Keen's order to be carried out, Jake's knife flew toward the shadow standing midway back in the boat. He dove into the water just ahead of the cannon's crackle.

  The patriot spy was not quite fast enough, nor lucky enough, to escape all its bullets.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Wherein, ghosts intervene, and a few redcoats fall asleep.

  “ Keen’s dead.”

  “ My God, the bastard’s just pricked. The knife only caught his shoulder. How can he be dead?”

  “ Shitten hell, see for yourself.”

  “ ChristAlmightlyGod! We must be fighting the devil himself.”

  “ The rebel bastard’s gone to the bottom, that’s for sure. Boat blew right out of the water.”