The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  "Porter then, or in a pinch, lager," demanded van Clynne. "Something with body to it. Brewed by a Dutch housewife if possible, or at least a German." He looked around the deck. The gondola was typical of the smaller vessels one finds in various river ports. The deck was well scrubbed and the hull freshly painted yellow, which implied somewhat more flash than the ship actually possessed. But the broad white sheets could hold the wind handily, and the vessel was surprisingly fast and even maneuverable. So much so that it occurred to the Dutchman that this small misadventure might end in his advantage, if only he could persuade the captain to take the craft south.

  The direction it was currently heading, however, was west, toward the shore he had so recently vacated.

  "I believe, sirs, that I have arrived just in the nick of time," declared the Dutchman, rising to his feet. "I have a business proposition that will do us all very handsomely, indeed. Do I have the honor of addressing the captain?"

  The man answered gruffly that he was in charge.

  "If I might make a suggestion," said van Clynne graciously, "this shore ahead ought to be avoided for the time being. It is frequented by a dastardly Indian, or I should say a white man painted as an Indian. A renegade, a changeling, a chicken in turkey feathers. He is obviously in the pay of British thieves and villains, and endeavored to murder me here. In fact, the poor condition of my vessel related directly to his actions. He — "

  Van Clynne stopped short when he saw Egans climb over the side, a nasty grin on his face and the Dutchman's crumpled beaver hat in his hand.

  "You lost your hat," sneered the Oneida. "And I have come to return it."

  The Dutchman, finally sensing the wind's direction, reached to the mast and grabbed one of the staves. Three sailors fell upon him as he reared back to throw it. He managed to launch it nonetheless, and despite the interference scored a direct hit on Egans's skull, laying him out.

  Van Clynne flicked off one of his assailants as he grabbed for another cudgel. By now the captain had picked up his sword, a fact van Clynne only realized when he felt the sharp blade flick past his face. He fell against the heavy wood of the mast, his weight sending another of the sailors to the deck.

  "You will surrender this vessel to me, sir," declared van Clynne, "or I will be forced to vanquish your entire crew."

  "Brave words, traitor," said the captain, showing off the gaps in his teeth. "You will not repeat them once I cut out your tongue."

  Van Clynne just managed to avoid the slash. He slid well below a second, but the third came remarkably close to his chest.

  This was partly by design, however. He had placed himself near the mast, and the swordsman yelped with the vibration as his sharp, heavily weighted sword crashed into the wood. A quick roundhouse blow took care of the captain's chin, and he was next seen sleeping like a baby on the deck, basking in the warm glow of the midday sun.

  But van Clynne still had half a dozen men to contend with. Two of these grabbed his legs and were unlikely to let go, despite his best efforts to bruise their arms and fingers. A sailor climbed against the sheet and sprang down at him. The Dutchman felt his knees give way and got his arms up just in time to prevent more than a glancing blow to the nose as he crashed face-first against the deck and an anchor chain. The same chain was quickly wound around his legs, but the redoubtable van Clynne did not admit defeat until Egans's voice, still slightly dazed, ordered the others to leave off hitting his prisoner.

  "Anyone who fights this hard will fetch a stiff price below, I warrant," said Egans, pointing his musket at van Clynne. "Surrender, sir, or I'll test the theory that you're worth as much dead as alive."

  "Alive would increase the price, I daresay," grunted van Clynne, striking his colors.

  Chapter Nine

  Wherein, the Jerseys are briefly praised, and Jake measures the mouth of a blunderbuss.

  The hot sun of the afternoon did not impede Jake's progress. While much of the land he passed through was still comparatively wild and wooded, it should be noted that the owners were for the most part firm patriots. The strife of the past few years had not shaken their faith in the grand cause of Freedom.

  So committed was Jake to reaching New York quickly that he let supper time slip without stopping; his only delays were a few brief pauses at streams to let his horse catch her breath. Eagleheart had made a good bargain; it was almost as if the old woman who had raised the filly had this mission in mind all along.

  Still, even the most motivated horse and rider must eventually pause to restore themselves. And if it were well past nine by the time Jake decided he must finally rest, it meant only that his hunger was more acute. Though the lieutenant colonel is blessed with a constitution barely in need of sleep, his appetite is second not even to Claus van Clynne's.

  On a road but a few miles removed from patriotic Hackensack, a sign soon caught his eye as he traveled: a boar curled before a fireplace. Heartened by the fact that the tavern windows were still lit with candles, Jake dismounted and took the three short porch steps to the front door in a single jump.

  At first he was surprised to find it barred from the inside, but on reflection he realized the hour and the times in general made this completely natural. Still, he thought his prospects of finding another inn more hospitable at this hour unlikely and decided to press for entrance.

  "Hallo there," he called, knocking. "Have you food for a hungry traveler who can pay with hard money?"

  The latter hint was not necessarily to be taken lightly, yet it failed to bring anyone to the door. Jake looked into the window but could not see much inside. His alert nose soon detected a simmering kettle of beans and he fell back on the door with good-natured — to say nothing of hungry —vigor.

  Finally, Jake heard footsteps crossing the foyer. But instead of opening the door, their author pushed against it and yelled at him to stop.

  "We've no room tonight," claimed the voice.

  "I only want food," said Jake.

  "We have none."

  "I can smell it."

  "Go away."

  On another night, Jake might have satisfied himself with a curse — surely the keeper was harming himself more than his prospective customer. But Jake was anxious to eat quickly and move on. So he pounded again, announcing that he would pay twice the normal fee.

  The keeper answered back that the visitor had been observed and marked as a Tory, and under no circumstances would he be admitted.

  Rather than answering that he was a patriot, and possibly giving himself away to any spy inside, the spy shouted that he was a Quaker, completely neutral.

  And willing to pay three times the normal charge, if his horse was fed as well as he.

  The offer — or Jake's continued knocking — finally moved the tavern owner. He opened the door and revealed himself to be a thin man with a high-pitched voice, an unshaven face, and breath that betrayed several pints' worth of cider.

  "Stop pounding my wall, Tory," said the keeper. "You'll get no food here."

  Jake accepted the challenge, pushing the door entirely open and taking two strides inside. Just as he was about to repeat his story that he was a Quaker — and add another shilling to the price he was willing to pay — a lad stepped out from behind a curtain at the side.

  The boy had not come into the room empty-handed. He pointed a large and most efficient-looking blunderbuss in Jake's face.

  "Put your hands up, traitor," said the young man. The peach fuzz had not yet bloomed on the fifteen-year-old's cheek, but he had a sharp look in his eyes nonetheless.

  The sheer number of projectiles in the thick barrel of his gun made it very difficult for the weapon to miss — a fact Jake was acutely aware of as he held out his hands in surrender.

  "I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding," he ventured. "I'm just a poor traveler, come for a bit of food. I saw by your sign that you were an inn."

  "And I see by your dress that you are a deserter," said the innkeeper, putting his hands on h
is hips with some satisfaction. "We watched you ride down the road. You are heading south toward the river and the British strongholds. You are under arrest."

  The boy with the gun stood motionless. No doubt this was his first time holding someone at gunpoint; Jake hoped his finger didn't develop a sudden itch.

  "The fact that I wear a hunting shirt does not make me a member of the militia," said Jake calmly. "Nor does my destination mean I am a deserter."

  "The militia and all of the army have gone north," replied the keeper, rubbing his hand on the front of the smock he wore over his clothes. "The alarm has gone out that there are redcoats abroad, and we have been told to be on the lookout for deserters."

  "But I'm not one.”

  The keeper gingerly reached beneath Jake's shirt, removing the gun and knife from his belt. He also took a small, water-tight pouch that contained some papers, Franklin's pass among them.

  The keeper thumbed through the documents so quickly that it was obvious he had not paused to read them. Nonetheless, he proclaimed that he had proof Jake was a deserter.

  "The committee of safety is meeting a short distance away in the morning," said the man. "You can beg their mercy, though I doubt it will do you much good."

  "I wonder," said Jake, turning sideways to his right as if to address both father and son at the same time, "if I might sit at one of your tables?" He put his left arm out slowly, pointing to the side, all the while watching the lad. "If I am to wait for the committee, then I cannot stand all night."

  "Well —" started the father. The rest of his sentence was cut off by the loud crash of the blunderbuss discharging.

  Into the ceiling. Jake had thrown himself into the boy, taking care to push the gun upwards first. The thick brass of the barrel flamed hot as ten balls exploded from its mouth; fortunately, they found their home in the thick ceiling beams, adding a decorative circular pattern to what had been simple if stout pine timbers.

  And the boy...

  "You're a girl," said Jake, rising. His push into her had proven the matter beyond doubt.

  "I'm as strong as any boy my age," she replied, bolting up after him. "And I'll get you, Tory bastard."

  She tried to make up for mishandling the gun by wrestling the intruder to the ground. Jake picked her up in his arms, twirled her around the room as she flailed, and, as gently as possible, tossed her at her father. The pair collapsed backward into the fireplace, sending a spray of dust and embers into the room. Jake picked up the blunderbuss from the floor where it fell, stomped on the cinders to keep them from starting a fire on the chestnut floorboards.

  "What will you do with us now, Sir Tory?" demanded the keeper indignantly after retrieving himself from the fire.

  "I'm not a Tory," said Jake. As the man had proved himself a stout if less than fully effective champion of the Cause, the spy decided to trust him. He reached into his sock and pulled out the paper with Washington's signature. "Few deserters carry a warrant from the commander-in-chief," he said.

  The keeper grabbed his daughter as she was about to fly into Jake. "Read these for me," he said, adding in an apologetic voice, "the light here is too dim for me."

  Which, of course, wasn't true; though Jake thought it more polite not to mention that fact, especially as it had possibly saved his life a moment ago, the keeper deciding to bluff rather than actually discovering the evidence against him.

  The girl could read very well, and she was soon nodding at her father, telling him in an awed voice that the man they had tried to arrest could charge "whatsoever honest amount he deems appropriate" and was "to be regarded with respect" as dictated by His Excellency, General Washington.

  "A hundred apologies, sir. A thousand, indeed. Paul Brown, at your service. Ask for anything. This is a patriot house. Stout patriots, as the neighbors will attest. Let me get you something to eat and drink. You must be tired after our — our discussion as it were."

  "It has been a long day," allowed Jake, replacing the pass in its hiding place.

  The keeper showed him to a seat at a table near the fireplace and presented him with a wooden bowl of baked beans and a full pewter tankard of very hard cider.

  "Those beans are our best," said Brown, who was now hospitable to a fault, fussing over each bite Jake took. "Alison learned the recipe from her mother, God rest her soul. Daughter takes after her, lucky for me."

  "Your wife dressed as a boy?"

  "I am close to the river here, sir, and not far from the British for all that," said Brown. "With a fifteen-year-old girl, well, as you appear to be a man acquainted with military matters, I need not tell you of certain indecencies the British have taken of late in this province. What I said before is true; there are strong rumors of redcoat raids this evening."

  But her father's opinion and Alison's reasons for wearing breeches were perhaps not in total harmony. For the girl clearly chafed as he spoke.

  "I'm not afraid of any British soldier," she declared. Her pants were a size or so too big, as was her shirt, but Jake judged that she would soon burst out in ways that shorn hair and rough clothes could not disguise. "I am as brave as any boy, and twice as strong."

  Jake smiled at her.

  "I am, sir. And I am as great a lover of freedom as anyone in the country, of any gender. I wish to serve the Cause and enlist. Other women have done so, and helped out quite handsomely."

  "Hush now, Alison. Let the man eat."

  "Please, sir, if you know General Washington, take me to him. I would like to be a soldier."

  "Alison!"

  Jake looked up from his food, bemused. "A strong patriot, eh?"

  "As strong as anyone."

  "You make good beans."

  "Do not try to sweeten me with your tongue, sir. I know that is what spies are always doing."

  "What makes you think I am a spy?"

  "With a note from General Washington and a direction toward New York, what else would you be?"

  Jake winked at her father. "I wouldn't think of joining the army if I were you," he said. "Sleeping on the ground night after night puts a sharp kink in your back. And the food is not as good as this."

  "You mock me, sir." Alison stood before him at the table, hands on her hips.

  "I do have need of a guide," said Jake, addressing her father. "I would like to find the most inconspicuous way to a ferry near Perth Amboy. I realize I'm quite a distance off."

  "You are indeed, sir," whistled the keeper. "You'll never make Perth tonight, and would spend a good portion of tomorrow, if not the next day. It's in British hands, besides."

  "I need to be in Manhattan by daybreak."

  Brown shook his head. "There are ways to the island, but tonight —"

  "I can take him, father. He should cut straight to Torman's, descend the Palisades, and find a boat there."

  "Hush, dear, we don't want to interfere in the man's business."

  "Actually, sir, I'd be happy for your help," said Jake. "And another share of this food."

  Alison took the plate and refilled it.

  "You are asking much," said Brown. "My home would be undefended. Even some of my neighbors covet it."

  "If you can spare a few hours to guide me," Jake told him, "you would do our Cause a great deal of good."

  "Let me go instead, father. You have to mind the inn. I know the way as well as you, and shortcuts besides."

  A complicated series of looks crossed the poor innkeeper's face. While his instincts told him the man before him was in great need, he had no real proof that he should trust him beyond the letter from Washington. Truly, such a document could be easily forged; neither Brown nor his daughter had the vaguest notion what Washington's hand was like. But the tavern keeper was a strong patriot, determined to see the Cause prevail. Sacrifice was demanded of all, and chances had to be taken or the British would never be beaten. He could guide Jake to the river and be back by daybreak — a small risk, surely.

  "I will take you," Brown finally decided. "As so
on as you are ready."

  "I am ready now," said Jake, taking a last bite and then draining the cider. "Let us get something for my horse and be off."

  "Father, please take me, you must." Alison wrapped herself around her father like a snake around a tree.

  "It is too dangerous," said Brown, but it was clear from his voice that he was wavering.

  "Listen to your father," suggested Jake.

  "I have the gun," Alison told her father. "I am the best shot in the neighborhood, you know it."

  "Better for you to stay."

  Alison took a shy glance at Jake, then put her arm gently on her father's arm. "But, papa, please. If it's not too dangerous for you, it won't be for me. We are a pair; you have said so yourself many times."

  The keeper sighed. In truth, he had never refused his daughter the slightest favor since his wife had died. This was nothing more than a quick midnight ride, and perhaps it would quench her thirst for adventure.

  "All right. Come along."

  Jake scowled, but decided against objecting. He wanted to leave as quickly as possible, and did not want to risk his guide changing his mind.

  And really, how much trouble could a young woman be, even one who insisted on wearing breeches?

  Chapter Ten

  Wherein, the river is not quite reached.

  The innkeeper and his daughter were most efficient guides, taking Jake across a succession of open meadows and close woods in the moonlight as easily as if they were riding down city streets. The keeper, who inside had appeared anything but athletic, proved to be a considerable horseman, and his skills had obviously been passed on to his daughter.

  The willingness of ordinary folk to do extraordinary things in the name of Freedom continually amazed Jake. Many times he had been helped, even saved, by some farmer or housewife, who under other circumstances might have lived the most undisturbed life since Methuselah.

  While he was more than happy to take advantage of their assistance, the spy also felt some obligation to repay their kindness. In this case, it seemed to him he could do that by informing Alison of the hard dangers of soldiering, in case she should run away and try to join the army. But every remark he made as they rode was answered by some optimistic comment. She loved the mud; she could exist for weeks on gruel; the damp earth invigorated her when she slept. She was three times as tricky as any boy, and able to hold her own should it come to that.