by Jim DeFelice
The Golden Flask
Patriot Spy [3]
DeFelice, Jim
Black Coyote, Inc. (2011)
Tags: Patriot Spy
Patriot Spyttt
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The Golden Flask is the third volume of a rollicking, fast-paced American Revolutionary adventure series by NY Times Bestselling novelist Jim DeFelice.
It is the summer of 1777. General Washington holds in his hands an ornate golden flask containing an intercepted enemy message. The letter warns of a massive British attack that will force Washington to commit his troops in defense of the Revolution. But is the letter genuine? And where is the attack aimed? To find out, Washington turns to his master spy, Lt. Col. Jake Gibbs. His ability to infiltrate the British army, sneak behind enemy lines, and bring back intelligence is already legendary.
With the help of a remarkable young woman, the Patriot Spy dodges renegades and killers, crossing the mighty Hudson River to the Tory-held island of Manhattan where the golden flask will spill out its brew of intrigue and blood.
The Golden Flask
by Jim DeFelice
Copyright © Jim DeFelice 1996
Cover by Jim DeFelice
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission except in the case of brief quotations attributed to the author, or embodied in critical articles or reviews.
You may contact Jim at [email protected], or visit his website at Jim DeFelice.com on the world wide web.
Introduction
By now, many readers will be familiar with the history of these stories, which are loosely translated from some old manuscripts found in the root cellar of an eighteenth-century farm. Whether the originals were intended as history or fiction is difficult to tell. The places described are verifiably real, as are most of the people and situations. Anyone interested in some of the surrounding history will find some notes addressing it at the end of the book.
The original author's sympathies were clearly on the side of the Revolutionists, and so we must forgive his occasional lapses into partisanship. My contribution has been to update the language here and there, and fight against his habit of puffing out the simplest descriptions and going on for pages when a single paragraph will do.
In one of the strangest and most bewildering events of the war, the British army that had been harrying New Jersey during the early summer of 1777 suddenly gave up its efforts to force General Washington into a decisive battle. Under the command of Sir William Howe, some 20,000 redcoats, Hessians, and various hangers-on marched onto ships and disappeared into the mists of the Atlantic.
They were obviously preparing for a new invasion, but General Washington wasn't sure where. On the one hand, Philadelphia seemed a logical choice: difficult to defend, it was the capital of the Revolutionary congress and had ostensibly been Howe's target during his Jersey campaigns. Yet there were rumors of an attack up the Hudson toward Albany, and intelligence pegged Boston as the next British prize.
The loss of any of these cities would be devastating, but Washington could not guard all three. Just at the moment he was about to choose where to march his army, a letter fell into his possession from General Howe giving his place of attack as "B—."
The writing was in Howe's hand, and even a schoolboy would realize "B—" was Boston. But was the letter a ruse?
The commander-in-chief faced the most perplexing dilemma of the war. March to Boston, and Albany and Philadelphia were free for the plucking. Hesitate for more than a few short days, and the British would dance their way through New England.
There was only one way to discover Howe's true intentions: Send the most illustrious member of the Secret Service into New York to find out what Howe was up to. And therein lies our present tale.
—Jim DeFelice Hudson Valley, N.Y.
Chapter One
Albany, N.Y.
Summer 1777
Wherein, a riot threatens to break out where a ball had been, and Jake is challenged to a duel.
He was unarmed, his ribs throbbed from several recent injuries, and he was about to come under severe attack.
A lesser man might have quaked in his low, silver-buckled shoes. But Lieutenant Colonel Jake Stewart Gibbs took the charge manfully, extending his uniformed arm with grace as Mother Schuyler took his hand and led him through the minuet.
Jake even smiled. It was the price one paid for dancing with her daughter Betsy.
"You are as fine a dancer as a soldier," said Catherine Schuyler as the music ended.
He bowed gracefully, his hand carefully placed on his side to keep the bandages on his ribs from bursting. He'd only risen from the convalescent bed this morning — against the wishes of his nurse, who happened to be Betsy herself.
"I can see where your daughter learned her charms," Jake told his hostess as he took her arm and steered her from the dance floor. "I wonder if you two conspired against me."
The ball was being held in the Schuylers' Albany mansion, known as the Pastures. Despite the poor news from the north, most of the city's social elite had gathered.
"My husband's orders were quite specific," said Catherine Schuyler. "You are to stay in Albany this evening and meet him tomorrow only if your wounds have healed sufficiently. You look quite handsome in that uniform," she added. "And your hair has completely covered the awful slash you arrived with."
"I have had more severe cuts from errant barbers," replied Jake.
This was just the sort of lie dashing young spies are always telling young women, but it had a considerably different effect on the middle-aged matron. Mrs. Schuyler frowned and her soft, sweet voice transformed to a scold. "Don't tell me your tales," she said, waving her finger up at his face. "It is only a miracle you survived. The first night they laid you in the bed, I thought you were dead."
"Oh, I've been much closer to death. There was the time in Quebec when the governor caught me in his office, for instance. And two months ago on the HMS Richmond the noose was already on my neck. Your friend Claus van Clynne saved me from that predicament."
"You were close to death indeed," interjected Colonel Thomas Flanagan, appearing at Jake's right. General Schuyler had pressed Flanagan into serving as his substitute at the ball while he attended to more difficult matters further north.
"Van Clynne is no friend of ours," sniffed Mrs. Schuyler. "He goes about styling himself a squire when he has no land at all."
"He is a bungler and a thief," charged Flanagan.
"Come, Colonel, I understand you have done business with Claus yourself."
"Business, yes — I should like to meet him here tonight. We have a matter to discuss."
"Claus van Clynne was not invited," said Mrs. Schuyler. "Nor would he be welcome."
"He speaks highly of you," said Jake.
"That is a bolder lie than the one about your wound," she replied.
"I am surprised to see you in uniform," said Flanagan. "I did not think the Secret Service was given to wearing them."
"I think it is quite becoming," said Betsy Schuyler, fluttering her skirts as she reached them. She had temporarily managed to extricate herself from a line of suitors to check on her patient. "Much better than the clothes he arrived in." Betsy hooked her arm in Jake's. "Our own tailor made it. I think the blue of his jacket matches his eyes. His breeches are pleasing as well. Very snug."
"And here I thought you were spoken for," Flanagan hinted to Jake.
"I have heard of no wedding vows," answered Betsy sharply. "Nor an engagement given."
"Sarah has been in Boston to attend a sick aunt," Jake explained. "I have not seen her since I returned, though I sent word to her father."
The muscles in Betsy's arm tensed, telling Jake she wished he would reconsider the points he had made in their conversation that afternoon. In truth, he found Betsy a nearly perfect woman, beautiful and intelligent, plucky and brave. She had only one short-coming: General Phillip Schuyler, commander of the northern department of the Continental Army, was her father. And despite Schuyler's recent kindness, Jake did not have a particularly high opinion of him.
He kept that opinion steadfastly to himself, however. Sarah's claim was older and deeper, as he had explained to Betsy — though it was obvious she had not accepted his words as final.
"Perhaps one of you gentlemen will get me some punch," hinted Betsy's mother Catherine.
"I have some business to attend to," said Flanagan. "But I'm sure Colonel Gibbs will oblige."
Mrs. Schuyler was waylaid by an old acquaintance as the trio headed across the room, leaving Jake and Betsy to find the table themselves.
"You are the only one here who does not seem on edge," said Betsy. Her lilac perfume tickled his nose as the hoops of her brocaded skirt swirled against his side. He had to admit there were much less pleasant ways to spend an evening.
"Don't believe everything you see. I would much prefer to be doing something useful."
"Do you think Burgoyne will attack Albany?"
"He will try to reach it," said Jake.
"Does my father have the troops to stop him?"
The note in her voice surprised him. Jake took hold of Betsy's elbow as he looked down into her eyes. The girl was devoted to her father, but even she couldn't hide her doubts.
Despite his own feelings toward the general, Jake's first impulse was to try and reassure her.
"Don't tell me not to worry," she said before he could speak. "Don't be like the others. Be honest."
The spy nodded, his lips tightening before he spoke.
"We won't give up."
It was the most he could say. The recent fall of Ticonderoga without a fight was a sobering reminder of how precarious the Revolution was. Jake knew there were plans for waylaying Burgoyne's advance — he had been wounded initiating some of them — but he could not be confident they would be enough.
"Well, this party is supposed to boost everyone's spirit," said Betsy resolutely. "Let us try this punch."
The concoction included a small amount of rum and a much larger portion of sugar — ordinarily too sweet for Jake, but some sacrifices were expected during war.
Betsy turned back to the room, smiling at a knot of admirers who were pitching together their courage to ask for a dance. While there was some sentiment that her older sister Angelica was prettier, Jake would have to cast his vote in Betsy's favor. Indeed, there was only one woman he could think of who was more fetching and she was many miles away.
But if that was so, who was wearing the red velvet dress and making a beeline directly for him, young men swooning in her wake?
"Jake, how long have you been in Albany without coming to see me?"
"Sarah?"
Jake took a step forward and found himself nearly consumed by Sarah Thomas. He hugged her to him, running his ringers through her auburn hair and savoring the crush of her round, rich breasts. For a brief moment he forgot everything — the war, as well as Betsy Schuyler behind him.
"Your father said you were in Boston," he told Sarah.
"I hurried back when I heard your life was in danger," said Sarah, taking a step away and surveying him — with one eye cast menacingly at Betsy. "Apparently I arrived not a-moment too soon. What happened to you?"
"Among other things, a Mohawk made the mistake of trying to carry off a piece of my scalp without taking care to make sure I was dead first." He held her hands a moment longer, then loosened his grip to gesture to his side, where Betsy was standing in a pose that would have intimidated Minerva. "Sarah, I believe you know Betsy Schuyler. Her family nursed me back to health."
"Indeed."
Rarely has a simple word contained such understated venom. In a clash of arms, Jake Gibbs had few betters, but he felt temporarily overmatched as the air around the two women sparked with the electricity of a sudden summer storm. *
"Sarah Thomas," said Betsy Schuyler. "I hadn't realized you were invited."
"I wasn't," said Sarah. "A friend of mine escorted me. A most distinguished gentleman, as it happens."
Any question as to the gentleman's identity was forestalled by a loud harangue just now rising near the orchestra.
"I should think that another violin would be needed for proper dancing. In my day, accompaniment was accompaniment, and we did not cut corners with it."
As he had done on so many occasions, Claus van Clynne made a most timely entrance. Pushing his way through the crowd, he temporarily displaced Sarah and Betsy, whose hostilities were interrupted by the small whirlpool created by the squire's arrival.
The portly Dutchman, freshly combed and dressed in a fine russet suit, might have been termed a dashing figure, assuming one made proper allowances for the antique quality of his clothes, his large stomach, and his somewhat scraggly, if over-full, red beard. His shoes bore large golden buckles, and he had not one but two watch chains. His buttons were silver, and his sleeves very properly ruffled. His hat was by far the finest in the hall, circling his head like the clouds over Olympus, and nearly as gray. The beavers that had volunteered their coats for it had been truly noble beasts.
"I had not expected you out of bed for at least another week," said van Clynne, giving Jake a pat on the side so sturdy the spy gasped with pain. "But of course, I had not counted on Dutch cures."
"You seem to have made your own recovery," said Jake.
"A trifle," said the Dutchman, whose most serious wound during the adventure consisted of the loss of an entire bushel of wampum. "A misunderstanding. The Maquas and I have always been on the friendliest of terms. Indeed, we have done much business together, and will do so in the future."
"Not the near future," said Jake. "They've all gone over to Burgoyne."
Van Clynne dismissed this as he might dismiss word of poor weather. "A temporary indiscretion. Now that you are fully recovered, perhaps you can accompany me to Peekskill. I have some business there and aim to leave in the morning."
"I can't," said Jake. "Schuyler will need me.
The Dutchman sniffed and pulled at his beard, but noting Betsy nearby, did not voice his opinion of the Albany aristocrat turned commander. Instead, he took a glance at the tables, searching for something to drink. Besides the punch, the Schuylers were serving the best Madeira they had, but as of yet no ale had been liberated from the kitchen. While van Clynne went to perform that mission, Jake returned his attention to Sarah and Betsy.
The British and American armies exchanged less threatening glares. Under the guise of complimenting each other, the two women traded pointed insults. Sarah noted that Betsy's new dress was most becoming, considering that it had been let out twice in recent months. Betsy opined that the rouge on Sarah's cheek was very much in fashion, no matter what the word from Europe might suggest. Sarah allowed as how no one in the room would notice that Betsy mixed a little clothes dye with her hair soap; Betsy complimented Sarah on the handkerchief discreetly stuffed in the front of her dress.
By now a knot of women had assembled, and the atmosphere was heavier than a late winter's fog. While somewhat flattered to be the object of such attention, Jake was not about to let the two young women come to blows. He owed Betsy his gratitude for her service as nurse, and Sarah much more. Surely a smile to one, a kiss to the other, and peace would break out.
Or at least a truce that would facilitate tactful withdrawal. But as he stepped forward to propose a cease fire, Jake was grabbed from behind by a most unfeminine hand.
"You, sir, are a scoundrel and a villain. You will accompany me outside, where we will arrange to redress our difficulties on the field of honor."
Chapter Two
Wherein, Jake is summoned to meet with the commander-i
n-chief, and the Bard is misquoted.
Jake, unsure what he had done and somewhat annoyed at being interrupted, spun around to face his challenger.
He was met by a young man of twenty with a disheveled mop of hair, mud-soiled if nicely tailored clothes, and a broad, impish smile on his face.
"Alexander Hamilton, what the devil brings you to Albany?"
"Come to rescue you from a tight situation, I see," said Hamilton, whose buff and blue uniform proclaimed him a member of General George Washington’s staff. He swept his tricornered hat toward Betsy and Sarah. "Ladies."
"Colonel Alexander Hamilton," said Jake, introducing them. He was as glad of the company as the interruption. "Be careful of him, ladies; he is most ambitious. Just a few weeks ago he was a captain."
"Charmed," said Betsy as he took her hand to kiss it. She fluttered her eyes at him, making sure Jake saw.
"I hope you will excuse me if I remove Colonel Gibbs from your presence. But first let me say, Miss Thomas, that dress is particularly fetching. And you, Miss Schuyler, I hope my delay in making your acquaintance to this point won't be held against me, for surely it has been my great loss."
The reader will be spared the swain's additional bouquets, though the women were not. Sarah immediately became suspicious, but Betsy's eyes filled with a sort of light a poet might devote a lifetime to describing.
"Outside," Hamilton whispered to Jake as he turned from them. "We must not be overheard."
Jake, with a sinking feeling that he was about to become embroiled in the political fallout from the Ticonderoga fiasco, reluctantly bowed his apologies and followed Hamilton through the room. They passed through the ornately worked portal, leaving the faux woodlands on the walls behind.
