The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  “You stay out of this.”

  “Gladly,” said the squire as he rose. “I make it a habit never to interfere in a family quarrel.”

  “This is not a family quarrel.”

  “As you wish.”

  “This is a deadly serious business, Alison,” Jake warned. “I cannot play governess any longer.”

  “Governess! Is that what you think of me, a child?” Alison said.

  “You’re young. And – “

  “And a woman, is that it?”

  “You’re still a girl.”

  “I am fifteen, and as brave as any man. I want to fight for our freedom.”

  “No boy your age would be allowed to join the army.”

  “Piffle. I know many who have.”

  “Enough,” said Jake. “Working for Culper is the same as working for General Washington. If you want to be treated like a soldier, act like one and follow orders.”

  “But, Father – “

  “And if you call me father one more time, I’ll have you whipped before the entire company.’

  “They should like that, I expect,” said the girl, folding her arms before her.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Wherein, Dr. Keen makes his way back into our story.

  After leaving the weaver, Major Dr. Harland Keen headed to the river near Tappan in as foul a mood as any man since Hudson found it necessary to concede his craft drew too much draft to pursue the passage to India up these waters. It was by now well past midnight. Any boat Keen spied would be his for the taking, but he feared some random guard or sentry near the docked ferries might cause complications. So he continued south to an area with less settlement, spotting a large, old flatboat as he drove his wagon over a pine-planked bridge spanning a creek that emptied into the river.

  While Dr. Keen was a man on the other side of fifty and had spent much of his life in London besides, he was still in reasonable shape. His physique was aided by certain substances of his own concoction which he imbibed from time to time. He took one of these now — a small pill whose major ingredient was distilled from a member of the nightshade family, Daturastramonium — before climbing down from his carriage to inspect the craft.

  This was nothing more than a serviceable vessel, of the type commonly used by farmers to carry wagons across the river. Several years had passed since its paint began chipping off, but otherwise the boat appeared sound and relatively solid; ropes were conveniently tied to cleats at the bottom where the wheels of a vehicle could be secured.

  A house sat on a small rise a hundred yards away, with a grouping of farm buildings just beyond. Keen briefly considered going there and impressing the inhabitants in the manner of the navy. But free labor was hardly worth the risks or the delay, and besides, the pill was already starting to have its effect. He took off his coat and vest, laying them carefully inside the coach. Rolling up his sleeves, he went to the horses and carefully led them onto the vessel, pulling their heads firmly despite their brief nickers of protest. He sliced the ropes holding the boat to shore, picked up the large pole paddle, and was off.

  There was a moment, just before he reached the middle of the river, when the tide slipped back. Another man might have thought the luck that had brought him to the craft had now gone against him. But Keen merely pushed his oar harder, and the boat rewarded him with a swift slide toward the opposite shore. A bright moon gave him plenty of light to steer by, and he soon found a landing on the other side of the water.

  He would not have paused at a tollhouse had he seen one, nor did he hesitate as he drove his team onto the south road near the river. The land here was called neutral, meaning that both sides claimed it and neither could control it. The doctor's earlier adventures had made it somewhat familiar, and Keen realized that he had only to go a few miles south to find Dobbs Ferry, which was a Tory haven.

  A Loyalist militiaman attached to a British guard unit was posted near the road when Keen arrived two hours before dawn. In actual fact, the man was fulfilling his duty with a surfeit of snores; he was stretched out with his head against a pile of wood and his bayonet idling nearby. Keen kicked the musket into the woods with disdain. When this failed to wake the man, he turned his boot to the laggard's ribs.

  "I am Major Dr. Harland Keen," he said over the man's groans. "Take me to your commander immediately."

  The guard's reaction was to reach for his musket, moving in slow motion as if still dreaming. When his hand failed to discover it, he reached further; finally he rolled over as if flopping in bed. Keen was in no mood for this. He bent and grabbed the sentry's neck, hauling him up with a sharper grasp than a huntsman chastising a young pup.

  "I will give you a choice: you will take me to your captain now, or I will take you to your Creator. Which do you prefer?"

  "Th-the captain," stuttered the unfortunate soldier, who received one last kick from Keen's well-crafted shoe as he hurried into action.

  His commander proved to be a hardened lifer who had been up and down the command ranks several times, advancing as high as major twice before descending to start again. He did not take kindly to being woken in his bed by his private, but his reaction was •somewhat different when Keen plunged the end of his walking stick into his stomach.

  "You will rise and find me fresh horses to pull my carriage, and an escort to King's Bridge," said the doctor. "You will do so quickly."

  "Who the devil are you?"

  "I am Major Dr. Harland Keen, of General Bacon's staff. And if you ask another question, I will answer with the sharp end of my stick, instead of the blunt knob I have in your stomach. Be thankful that I do not have any more explosive powder for its charge, or you would be examining the floorboards through the hole in your middle right now."

  Similar rough treatment of fellow members of His Majesty's service brought the doctor to Manhattan toward four p.m. He learned one piece of good news along the way: Bacon, along with his aides, had gone out to the ships with Howe. Keen was thus afforded a brief opportunity to intercept Gibbs and dispose of him without his knowledge.

  But finding the rebel spy in the city could easily prove as difficult as catching him on the road south of New Windsor. Keen was loath to call on the military establishment for direct assistance for several reasons, the most prominent being that General Bacon might inadvertently be informed. Besides, Gibbs wasn't likely to present himself to them for their inspection.

  The first time they had tangled, Gibbs had infiltrated a Loyalist ranger group and foiled their plans to destroy the chain blocking the upper Hudson against the fleet. The next time, Gibbs had been meeting with Indians and assorted whites friendly to the king. Keen, who had never had a chance to properly question him on the matter, hypothesized that dealing with Loyalists must be his enemy's specialty. Perhaps in coming to the city of New York he was aiming a direct blow at the men responsible for Loyalist spying throughout the several colonies.

  And so, starting with a few hints and prejudices, Keen worked out a sound plan, deciding to call on civilian officials in a position to interest Gibbs. At the very top of his list was Clayton Bauer, whose house being north of the city proper made the late afternoon stop particularly convenient. Keen prepared his face with a slight touch of rouge, lightening his heavy jowl before descending from his carriage and walking up the precisely laid path to the front door.

  This solid piece of wood was meant to be most imposing. Carved completely from a chestnut tree several hundred years old and polished with the same care a gemstone would receive, it glowed a garish hue that clashed with the rustic hillside leading down to the river.

  Keen curled his lip in contempt, thinking of how easy it was to make a fortune in America, but how difficult to display it properly.

  * * *

  His Colonial host met him in the front parlor with a less than enthusiastic gait, ushering him toward a settee with a perfunctory gesture.

  "I hope you are well," said Bauer with a voice that suggested otherwise.
>
  "And I assume that you have gotten over the Portuguese ailment."

  The unsubtle reminder that Keen had cured Bauer's venereal disease a few months before was all the doctor needed to demonstrate his power over him. Bauer nodded, gave up his pitiful airs, and waved a hand to the servant, dismissing him.

  "My sister and brother-in-law are here from England," said Bauer.

  "How pleasant," answered Keen. "I have not seen Lord Buckmaster in quite some time. I believe I treated him for an ailment similar to yours some years before he married your sister."

  Bauer's face immediately brightened. In his case, Keen's cure had gotten to the cause of the disease as well as the symptoms, taking care to remove a certain individual who could have complicated his life to a great degree. He wondered whether the same service had been performed for his brother-in-law. In any event, the doctor had just generously given him ammunition against his lordship, should he ever need any.

  Though his manner remained brusque, Keen was in fact treading cautiously, careful not to give away the true nature of his situation. It would not do to let Bauer have any power over him.

  "I was in the vicinity," said Keen. "I had hoped to meet a friend."

  "A friend?"

  Assured from the tone that he had left Bauer with the implication that he was seeking a fellow agent, Keen proceeded to describe Jake carefully — without using his name. "He is a fellow doctor, in a sense," he noted. "I had hoped to meet him when he came to the island. He has been away.”

  "Where?"

  Keen smiled. "He is quite a traveler, my friend."

  "His name?"

  "It is perhaps best not to say."

  "When did he arrive?"

  "I believe within the last day, though it is possible I am returning before him. He is the sort much given to delay. I am sure you know the type."

  "Indeed. There was a man here this morning who washed up on shore. His name was Jake Stone or some other such thing, and he said nothing of you, nor of being a doctor."

  "I would hope he would not."

  "I think him a poor spy. He quickly gave himself away and even mentioned Bacon."

  Keen smiled, not bothering to inform Bauer how completely he had been fooled. "I have had some association with General Sir Henry myself," said the doctor. "I would not think one of his men would give himself away."

  "Bacon's intelligence people are not as smart as you believe. We are not enemies, General Bacon and I. Nor are our people. You are here, for example."

  "Come now, surely you don't believe I am in his employ. I am assigned to the admiralty as a surgeon and doctor."

  "Who rarely is aboard ship and is free to come and go as he pleases?"

  Keen shrugged. "I wonder where my friend got to."

  "Perhaps my sister Patricia could tell you more. She spent some time with him, seeing to his breakfast."

  Keen stroked his chin thoughtfully, as if considering whether speaking to her was worth the effort. A few minutes later, he was listening as Lady Patricia recounted the entire meeting. Her continued reference to the man as being "unexceptional" told the doctor she felt otherwise.

  "He was pleasant enough, but he seemed mainly interested in getting to the city. I encouraged him.”

  Keen nodded. Lady Patricia had changed from her morning white to a high-waisted gown whose yellow was the bright shade of spring's first daffodils. Though near forty, her face had a radiant, youthful smile, and her charm and grace could easily beguile a much younger man.

  To say nothing of Keen himself. Her husband was a weakling, easily managed out of the way.

  But duty called. Gibbs would not wait for him.

  Perhaps Gibbs would return for Bauer, however. Had he been sent to assassinate him, then warned off by the guards? Clearly he was after the Tory — Keen's best path might well be to shadow the man.

  "His eyes perked up when I mentioned the theater," said Lady Patricia. "I thought he was going to say something about it, but my brother insisted on dominating the conversation."

  "The theater. You have been?"

  "We are going this evening," said Lady Patricia. "After some supper and a few errands. We should leave soon, if we are going to eat."

  "The theater in New York is surprisingly good," hinted Keen.

  "So I have been telling my sister," said Bauer, his tone a harsh hint to Keen.

  Which went unheeded.

  "I go at every opportunity," said the doctor.

  "Perhaps you would join us this evening," said Lady Patricia. Her tone was stiff. She did not truly want Keen to accompany them, but extended the invitation for form's sake. In England, it would be completely understood that she had meant the invitation for politeness only.

  "I am in the mood for entertainment," said Keen. "Thank you, I accept your invitation."

  "Lord Peter Alain is coming with us," said Bauer, hoping that would put Keen off.

  On the contrary. The doctor saw quickly that the young fool might actually be useful. Keen had recently supplied him with certain medicines on account, and he would no doubt gladly make inquiries after Gibbs to discharge the debt. These would not attract the same attention as Keen's. Meanwhile, the doctor would stay close to Bauer in case an attempt was made at the theater.

  To say nothing of being near Bauer's sister, reluctant though she might be. Keen rose, extending his arm. "M'lady, I am at your beck and call this evening."

  "Come then, let me get my husband," said Lady Patricia, ruining the moment.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne spies an old acquaintance.

  The tailor whose shop Claus van Clynne sought was located not far from the tanning yards. It was a good distance from the Sons of Liberty hideout, and the Dutch squire would have readily accepted a ride, had one been proffered. It was not, nor was van Clynne a man who would readily condescend to hire a hack. He therefore contented himself with walking.

  Despite his airs and general habits, the Dutchman could mount a considerable pace when motivated, and there was no motivation higher in his mind than the rightful return of his property. Having received a full briefing of the mission from Jake, van Clynne realized that this golden flask was for him a golden opportunity; Washington would react with joyful gratitude when the Dutchman rode into camp tomorrow with the news he was about to discover. There was little doubt but that the commander-in-chief would dispatch a company of men to immediately enforce van Clynne's claims on the purloined estate.

  The squire's suit had been severely punished during his recent travails, and so he had a ready job with which to occupy the man and divert his attention. In addition, some months before van Clynne had arranged to supply the tailor with a good load of buttons at a considerable profit; he planned to broach the subject now in case a similar opportunity might present itself.

  It should be noted that, while his hate of all things English remained strong and healthy, van Clynne's love of profit was equally vigorous. If he would not sacrifice the former for the latter, he would certainly endeavor to shave or stretch the bounds of both to avoid conflict.

  The Dutchman's course ambled across the foot of Golden Hill in view of the harbor, though his personal gaze consisted steadfastly of dry land. He had well filled his month's quotient for wetness these past few days. Though perhaps not as active as before the war, the port still did a lusty business, and the usual merchant vessels were greatly supplemented by military ships and freelancers operating under what polite society referred to as letters of marque, and more simple folk called pirates. The body of water between Manhattan and Long Island was dotted with masts; if it was not quite the forest some commentators have compared it to, it was still a bit more than open meadow.

  The red bricks of the tailor shop soon crowded into the Dutchman's landlocked view, jutting toward the street in a peculiarly lopsided fashion. Quinton van Tassel had been speaking of repairing these for the many years van Clynne had known him. One thing or another had prevented hi
m from letting the contract, but he never failed to mention his resolve to fix the bricks when he spoke with a customer, and today was no exception. Never mind that the two men had not seen each other for several months; the wall and the failing foundation beneath it were the first topic broached.

  "The work must be done," opined Quinton without explanation as van Clynne entered the shop, "but fifty guilders is the lowest estimate, and too dear at half that."

  "I quite agree," said van Clynne. "The worst part is, there is not a good Dutch mason left in the precinct to do the work.”

  "Aye, nor do they make bricks properly anymore," said Quinton. "The clay is defective."

  "As is the water, a key ingredient. To say nothing of the trowels."

  "Aye, the trowels. A sorry state." The tailor took a step back and surveyed van Clynne's suit. "A fine outfit, but in need of a patch and tuck," he declared. "And some pressing."

  "No time for pressing," said van Clynne. "As for the repairs: how much?"

  "Three guilders' worth."

  "Outrageous! I could have an entire suit for half."

  "Indeed. The cloth alone would come to six."

  "I bought the suit for less than three guilders."

  "Your father might have. It dates from then."

  "For two guilders I'd expect a fine French weave, and see it pressed."

  "You find me in a generous mood," said the tailor, extending his arm.

  "I would need the work done on account," mentioned van Clynne after handing over the coat. "As I have recently been separated from my resources."

  The tailor's face changed several shades as he promptly flung the coat back to van Clynne.

  "I do not believe I heard you properly. Did the word 'account' pass your lips?"

  "Indeed," lamented van Clynne. "But considering the affair of the buttons ..."

  "An arrangement to which I was forced only by severe want."