The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

  “ What to do with Keen?”

  “ Take him back, I think.”

  "To hell with that. Wrap the anchor around him and drop the bastard overboard."

  "Aye. See how far his threats get him."

  "Deserves a decent burial for all that. He was a Christian."

  "Seen no proof. Didn't he try to cheat us out of our price for the boat?"

  "Promised a good reward, though."

  "Got no sight of it. An' he hasn't a cent in his pockets."

  "Throw him overboard then."

  "Maybe the money is lined in his coat. Strip it."

  The voices faded across the water. Jake gripped the piece of smashed keel and gave a silent kick beneath the waves, working his way in the opposite direction.

  He had been hit in his leg and his left shoulder, though how badly he could not tell. The pistols in their case hung like a heavy weight from the strap around his neck. The only reason he did not let them drop was that he could not spare the energy to undo the rope.

  The patriot spy guessed that the low shadows looming over his right arm must mark the Brooklyn shoreline; barely suppressing his moans, he pushed toward it. The natural action of the tide was sending him up the mouth of the bay. A salty spray of water lapped at his nose and eyes. He felt his body grow heavier and heavier, every inch pressed down by fatigue.

  Alison must be somewhere ahead, he thought. It was unlikely she'd made shore yet. She was a strong girl, but Jake remembered the night on the Hudson. She had not been able to make the beach by herself, for all her energy.

  He told himself he must push on and rescue her, must find the poor child — the poor woman — before she drowned. He owed it to her father.

  He owed it to her.

  He pushed on, until suddenly it felt as if Poseidon himself had taken hold of him.

  Not Poseidon; this was a smaller and mortal hand grabbing him by the neck.

  "Come along, now, sir; don't fight me or we will both drown. The girl is waiting on shore."

  It took Jake a moment to recognize that the voice belonged to the old pirate, and it was another second before instinct told him he must trust the little man and his powerful strokes.

  "I knew all the great pirate captains in my youth," the boatman told Alison, pointing out at the river as if the ships floated there still. "Aye, gentlemen every one. It is just bad politics that ruined their names. Politics and prejudice; steer clear of them, girl." "Jake is waking up."

  "Hush now, don't make no noise or we'll have the British marines down on us."

  Jake lifted his head to consciousness, the voices taking shape before him. Alison and the old pirate were huddled cross-legged in the heavy mud of the shore a half-foot away.

  "Jake, Jake, are you all right?" Alison asked.

  "I don't know," he told her. "I seem to have all my arms and legs, at least."

  "I repent, sir, of my perfidy," declared the old pirate. "I was tempted by gold and an evil man."

  "The pirate saved us both, Jake," said Alison.

  Even if Jake had been inclined at the moment to hold a grudge, his body ached too badly for him to do more than sit up. He examined his leg. A ball had ripped clear through the side of his thigh, taking a piece of the skin and bruising the muscle, but missing anything of importance. He took off his shirt and ripped part of the sleeve to fashion a bandage.

  Alison, seeing that he winced when moving his arm, got up and examined his back and shoulder.

  "You have a wound," she said. "God, I can see the ball right in your skin. It looks like a rock."

  Jake took a hard breath, then flexed his muscle. It felt as if a giant were pressing his thumb to it. The fact that the wound was not deep was fortunate, but the bullet must be removed and the wound sealed.

  "Do you still have your knife?" he asked her when he finished tying the bandage on his leg.

  "Yes." Her answer was clipped by the shivers of her teeth; despite the mist, the night still had a hard chill.

  Jake got slowly to his feet, testing his balance by hobbling through the heavy mud to the waterline where the old pirate had gone to keep watch. "I need you to start a small fire," he told him.

  "Daren't do that, captain," said the man. "The sentries on the prison ships will see it right away, and send a patrol. They've already heard us talking."

  "Where are we?"

  "Wallabout Bay, in the mud flats."

  "The burial grounds."

  "Aye. Under the protection of the ghosts, I daresay."

  No account of the perfidy of the British during this war can miss the horrors persecuted on those imprisoned aboard the

  Jersey,

  whose hulking hull loomed nearby. The soft murmur of horror that drifted across the water was not the lament of ghosts but the groan of suffering.

  Jake told the old pirate to gather some driftwood quickly; they must start a fire no matter the consequences. Indeed, he hoped the British might send someone to investigate, for therein lay their salvation; it would be difficult to get off the mud flats except by water, and they dare not wait until morning when they would surely be discovered.

  After the pirate had piled enough driftwood for a modest fire, Jake undid the calked compartment in his money belt where his flint lay and gave it to the old man.

  "Old flint won't spark," complained the pirate after a few tries.

  "You almost have it," urged Jake.

  "Here now, the ghosts helped us," said the man as the fire sparked up.

  "Get more wood, I want them to see the blaze," said Jake.

  Already there were shouts and activity on the prison, ships. The old pirate, not quite sure what Jake was up to, nonetheless began to hustle across the thick mud, seeking out more pieces of wood.

  "Take the knife, Alison, and hold the blade in the fire." Jake dropped to his knees, keeping his eye on the water. He saw the outline of a longboat setting out from one of the moored ships. "When it burns red, use the tip to pry out the bullet, then sear the sides of the wound."

  "But it will hurt you."

  "It will hurt a hell of a lot more if you don't. Hurry, before that patrol reaches us. Be brave, girl."

  Alison held the knife into the flames as the pirate continued to carry and pile on the driest driftwood he could find. She steadied the blade until it was so hot it was difficult to hold, even with her shawl as a makeshift glove.

  Alison bit her lip as she worked the tip against Jake's flesh. He fastened his teeth on a part of his coat, trying desperately not to cry out with the intense pain.

  The offending bullet popped out with a hiss; she closed her eyes and ran the flat of the knife around the wound.

  Jake collapsed forward on the ground, but slowly willed himself back to his feet. Alison helped him up, tears in her eyes.

  "Are you all right?"

  "It hurts like the devil's own poker," he admitted. "But that's a good sign. It's the infection dying. Come on now, I have to meet this shadow. You stay back there on the firmer ground and say nothing, no matter what happens. Do you still have the Segallas?"

  "It's soaked."

  "Hold on to it anyway. Perhaps you can bluff someone, if it comes to that." Jake turned to the old pirate; before he could say anything, the man was helping her back up the beach.

  While the others retreated, Jake warmed himself in front of the flames. He took the dueling pistols from their protected bag and case, cocking them carefully and leaving them within his reach. He would use them as a last resort.

  The pain from the cauterized wound was starting to retreat. His heart was beating regularly now — or as close to regularly — as could be expected, given the danger. Jake took the vial of sleeping powder from his pocket and loosened the cap, readying himself as the British boat nosed into the mud flat at the water's edge.

  Four men had been sent to investigate the fire. A pair stayed with the boat; the other two fixed their bayonets and then splashed across the water into the thick mud, cursing at the muck.


  Jake stood behind the fire, visible only as a dim shadow in the darkness and fog. "About time,you got here," he shouted. "I have been waiting all night."

  "Who are you?" asked the lead soldier, about twenty yards away. "Declare yourself."

  "Don't you recognize me?" said Jake. "You buried me here just yesterday."

  "Buried — who are you, rebel?"

  Jake held his arms out, as if welcoming them forward. He walked through the fire. There was no danger of his soaked clothes catching as he passed through quickly, but the effect was impressive.

  "Jesus, Fred, he's a ghost."

  "Indeed — and I am the Queen's mother."

  The unsuperstitious Fred advanced toward Jake, who held out his hands in supplication and continued forward. The man reared back to slap down the rebel figure with the butt of his gun — and then tottered over to the ground, felled by a fistful of tossed sleeping powder.

  "Run for your lives!" said the second man, turning and running back toward the boat. "It's a goddamn ghost."

  He might have asked his companions how many ghosts would have stopped to scoop up a musket. Jake pushed his bruised leg forward, trying to hurry after the Britons before they could escape into the water. For a moment he worried that his plan had worked a little too well. The scared redcoats might row away before he could douse them all with the rest of his powder.

  Fortunately, the two men who'd remained with the boat were no more superstitious than the archbishop's wife. Unfortunately, that meant they dealt with the supposed specter in a very earthly manner. They raised their guns and fired.

  Because of the mist, Jake did not realize he was being shot at until the bullets whizzed by a few feet from his head. It was only sheer luck — and the notorious inefficiency of the muskets and their operators — that saved him.

  Of course, the Britons had no way of knowing that. They saw a shadowy figure hobbling forward in the mud flats toward them, apparently impervious to their weapons. They had buried numerous men in this same area over the past few months; it did not take much imagination to draw frightful conclusions and change their minds about the existence of ghosts.

  The first redcoat dove straight into the water, gun and all. One of the men in the boat followed suit, leaving only a single marine to confront the apparition.

  "I don't know who you are, rebel," said the man as Jake closed the distance between them to ten feet. "But I'll kill you where you stand, I promise."

  "Attempt it," suggested Jake, bringing the gun up in his right hand as he continued forward. "You have already done so once."

  Just as Jake decided he was close enough to fire, a new ghost began flying downward from the beach. This ghost was straight from hell, its horns pointed and tail flying behind it. The soldier dove straight backwards into the water and began flailing towards his companions.

  Jake fell to his knees laughing as Alison ran up behind him, her dress and scarf fluttering in the wind. He was so grateful at this easy victory — and so used to her behavior by now — that he did not even bother to scold her for disobeying his orders.

  A few minutes later, the patriots and their pirate guide had pushed the large boat into the water and begun heading away from the prison ships. Their progress was slow and the hour was now far advanced. Jake realized they must head straight to the dueling site, and even then might not make it in time.

  "Their guilt was in our favor," Jake said, standing guard in the bow with the gun. The old pirate strained against the oars. "You cannot go day by day and see the horrors on the

  Jersey

  without it affecting you in some way."

  "They were cowards," said Alison firmly. "All the British are."

  "Not all of them," said Jake. "The war would have been over before it began if that were true."

  "I would not say, sir, but that a real ghost may have played a role in their banishment," put in the old pirate. "The girl and I noticed several shadows behind you when the soldiers drew near. And none of their bullets managed to find you. That is a miracle not easily explained."

  "You have never faced a British line," said Jake, who did not believe in ghosts, benevolent or otherwise. "A full squad can fire at a barn three paces away, and not a ball will strike it. Besides, it was very dark and they were scared."

  "There are more things in heaven and earth than you dream in the imagination, sir," said the old pirate.

  "Shakespeare's

  Hamlet,

  though you misquote it."

  "I don't know what the ghost's name was," continued the pirate respectfully, "but I can tell you a tale of a haunted ship that routed half the Spanish fleet. And another that still sails the ocean, looking for its true captain, lost overboard in a fearsome gale."

  "I have no doubt," said Jake. They were entering the mouth of the bay. Despite his age and seemingly small body, their companion was a strong rower; Jake began to feel confident they would make the duel on time after all.

  "Were you honestly a pirate?" asked Alison.

  "Still am," declared the man boldly. "With a privateer's license. Aye, one from England, one from Spain and one from France. I can plunder whom I please, when I please. Why, I know of many a pile of gold buried on this Long Island alone, and several dozen in the Jerseys where we are headed. Better hunting in the south, but I could tell you a story would make your short hair stand on end."

  Jake slipped against the sideboards of the bow as the man filled Alison with tales of adventure on the high seas. How much might be true or not, only he could say, but it was a fact that privateers did frequent these waters. Indeed, a sailing man working for the patriots could make a fine fortune fitting out against the British.

  And vice versa.

  Whether he would choose this stretch of Jersey coast to stash his treasure was another story. The sun was just rising as they neared the shore; Jake saw a beached boat and a canoe. A red cloth lay casually over the canoe's gunwale.

  Daltoons.

  "Alison, you hide near that boat," Jake said quickly, pointing to the canoe. "You see the red cloth? That is Lieutenant Daltoons's sign. Show yourself to no one but him, do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm going above. Run up when you hear the pistols fire. If I am shot, tell them pure water is the antidote, and' it must be poured directly into the wound. He is not to apply it to Bauer. Be positive about that."

  Alison nodded.

  "Tell him to make some excuse that he will bury Bauer himself. I expect he has already come up with a plan, but impress on him that it is important whoever is with Bauer think nothing is amiss. We must have secrecy."

  "I could have told you that," said Alison. "But what are you going to do with Bauer?"

  "Never mind. Just follow my directions for once. Do you swear?"

  "Aye-aye."

  "Swear it."

  Alison pressed her lips together, then reluctantly held up her right hand. "I swear it."

  Jake turned to the old pirate, whose toothless grin lit the grim morning.

  "You, sir, thank you for your help. I will recommend you to the Continentals, if ever you should need assistance."

  "And I will recommend you. You're a brave young lad. And you, young lady, you are as courageous as you are pretty."

  Jake helped her out of the boat, and she dashed through the water, holding up the folds of her damp dress as she ran for the canoe.

  "I don't even know your name," Jake said to the boatman as he put one foot in the water.

  "Just an old pirate, sir. Nothing more, nothing less. Good luck with your revolution."

  Jake hurried ashore, going as fast as he could manage with his wounded leg. As he started up the winding path toward the summit, where the duel was to be fought, he turned and saw the boat and the old pirate were gone, as if into thin air.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Wherein, the lamentable death of Jake Gibbs is fully recorded and properly mourned.

  “ I might have expecte
d the man was a coward. The city is filled with them these days.” Clayton Bauer folded his arms and walked back toward the thick, gray stone wall where his brother-in-law stood. He had drunk two cups of strong whiskey before putting himself into the boat to come here, and another upon reaching the shore. His courage thus ran ahead of him, strutting heavily in the thinning mist of the morning.

  "The sun is not quite on the horizon," said Daltoons, who had chosen the uniform of a British captain as his disguise. "The meeting was set for dawn. His honor entitles — "

  "Honor." Bauer spat in derision and paced back toward his brother-in-law and the servant who had rowed them here. The hilltop seemed isolated and empty, save for the three Tories and Daltoons; the four men could easily be alone in the world. Not even the birds were out, the earth blanketed in gray desolation. A painter could not have created a better morning for a duel.

  "A man who insults a lady has no honor," Bauer told Daltoons.

  The disguised patriot thought for a moment how pleasant it would be if Jake did not show up: he would thrash the Tory bastard around the mouth several times before carrying him off for questioning. Culper's elaborate web had failed to turn up any new information of the invasion, and torturing Bauer for Howe's destination seemed their only option.

  Daltoons had several men stationed in the nearby woods, dressed as redcoats and ready for any contingency. Each was armed with a pair of double-loaded muskets. Nor was Bauer's guard nearby. Reports that escaped rebel patriots in the area near his mansion had given them something better to do than traipse to Jersey.

  In any event, Bauer was not so cowardly nor so confident of the outcome to invite them along. He stalked back toward Daltoons, wearing the face of an outraged suitor, though secretly glad at this easy victory.

  "The sun is here, or would be, if this fog were not so heavy. Your friend has failed to attend. The insult against the lady is expunged by his lack of character, unless you yourself wish to uphold his honor."

  "Who said I insulted her?"

  The men turned in surprise as Jake walked across the hilltop, the limp in his leg barely noticeable. He had a large grin on his face and the sack with the pistols on his back.