The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  "Like your tailor."

  "A temporary setback," admitted van Clynne, feeling expansive. "It was the right forest but the wrong pew, the proper church but the wrong tree. The plan remains sound." He settled into the well-cushioned seat and pulled a small stool up for his feet. In truth, properly comfortable chairs had gone out of style thirty years before. This one with its wide wings and broad but firm seat would have to do.

  "You have a plan?" Daltoons asked Jake.

  "Not yet."

  "Culper will be able to solve it, if anyone can."

  "I doubt in time. General Washington has a difficult schedule to meet. Perhaps I should row out and ask Howe himself."

  "The man has no taste," said van Clynne. "He believes wine better than beer."

  "If I were Howe," said Alison, "I would attack Philadelphia. It's full of pompous puffs who will gladly bow to the king."

  "So now you are a politician as well as a soldier," said Daltoons. "Shall we call you General Alison, or Congressman?"

  "I do not think that I will allow you to call me anything," said Alison. "And why do you wear that red cloth around your neck? Is it your sweetheart's sign?"

  The lieutenant turned red. "My mother gave it to me before I joined the army," he said. "I do not have a sweetheart."

  "I could have predicted that," said Alison.

  While the pair were engaged in their light fencing, Jake made a mental list of the men who must know Howe's true plan. General Clinton surely would know where his commander was going, even if Culper's efforts to infiltrate his staff had so far revealed nothing.

  Kidnap him? If easier than swimming out to Howe, it was still difficult in the extreme. Nor was Jake likely to find any knowledgeable member of his circle an easy target. Keen would probably have alerted the entire British force by now.

  He began thinking of prominent Tories who might have been let in on the secret, and once more came to Bauer. Surely his network of Loyalists would have been of use to Howe in his planning. Bauer had also helped organize Tory cabals in the city of New York before the invasion, and it would be logical to have him help or at least advise in setting the stage in Boston.

  Or Philadelphia. Or Georgia. Or the Carolinas.

  He had a company of guards, but that obstacle might not prove insurmountable. If he were kidnapped, he might be rowed from his own dock without an inordinate amount of trouble.

  But how to get him to say what he knew? And how to know it was true?

  Bauer's fierce reputation was not unwarranted. Fight off his guards, kidnap the man, torture the answer from him — and then be victimized by a simple if well-told lie?

  Worse, kidnapping might alert the British, and possibly cause them to change their plans.

  Brute force would be unreliable, Jake realized. Claus — dare he concede it? — was right about that.

  Bauer must be the solution; Fate had not thrown them together so often today without some purpose. Too bad he couldn't just kill him, then dissect his brain for the answer.

  Jake's mind lit with an idea.

  "Do you think Bauer will show up for the duel?" he asked Daltoons.

  "Of course." The lieutenant had laughed at the story earlier with a touch of envy; he wished he might develop his older friend's flair, as well as find his luck.

  "Even if he knows I'm an American?"

  "How will he know?"

  "Keen will tell him." Jake reconsidered. "Well, perhaps he has reason not to. Bauer still thought I was a spy for Bacon just now. Lady Patricia seemed to think Keen and I were friends, which is an idea that could only come from Keen. He must have some reason for keeping my identity secret."

  "In any event, I would think Bauer's reputation guarantees his presence at the duel," said Daltoons. "But why would you attend?"

  "To kill him and then raise him from the dead."

  "What?"

  Jake jumped from his chair. "We are going to kidnap him and steal the answer, without anyone else realizing it. We will need some contingency to distract his dragoon guard, in case they feel obliged to attend the duel. Can you arrange an order to take them away from his house?"

  "I'm sure we can find a diversion," said Daltoons, unsure what Jake was up to. "But don't you think you should consult with Culper?"

  It was as useless to try and stop Jake when he was launched on a plan as it was to argue with van Clynne about Dutch superiority. The patriot spy waved him off as he ran to grab his coat. "The first trick is to kill him, the second to cure him. That way we'll keep others' suspicions down and only worry about his. Have everything ready for me. I must see a friend. In the meantime, organize some sort of order or delay for the guard. I want to make sure Bauer arrives on the Jersey shore without it."

  Alison sprung after him.

  "You can't come with me," Jake said.

  "The British are looking for you," Daltoons told Jake. "And Culper specifically said for you to stay in hiding."

  "The beauty of being on a mission for General Washington," said the spy, "is that I take orders directly and only from him. A mission has but one chief."

  "I knew we would hear the theory at some juncture," muttered van Clynne as he slipped toward sleep. "Though usually it is to give me some base assignment."

  "Deliver Alison to Culper, and tell him to continue his efforts. With luck, my stage tricks won't be needed."

  "I want to help you." Alison caught hold of Jake's arm as he started down the stairs.

  Jake reached back and took her arms firmly, gripping not quite hard enough to hurt her, but surely pressing his will into her rebellious flesh. "If you truly care about our Revolution, you will go with Daltoons and not utter another word."

  "But — "

  "And hand me back my Segallas."

  Even in the dim light, there was no obscuring the look in Jake's eyes. Alison nodded meekly.

  "I shall pursue my own plan in the morning," vowed van Clynne between his snores.

  "Do that," said Jake, tapping his shoe as he left.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Wherein, Jake takes a not-so-leisurely stroll through the enemy city.

  After General Howe and his troops succeeded in turning the American line at Brooklyn Heights on Long Island in the fall of 1776, General Washington orchestrated a daring nighttime retreat. Having escaped the cauldron, the Continental troops hunkered down in the city opposite, preparing defenses for the inevitable assault. The ensuing disaster of Kipp's Bay, where Howe routed our boys with a heavy rain of cannon, is nearly too depressing to mention. Only by the most heroic of measures was the commander-in-chief able to regain control of his army and retreat north. It was not until the brave battle at White Plains that the tide was finally turned. That skirmish may well have preserved our Revolution, and shall undoubtedly be praised by generations to come, once we have won our Freedom.

  In the days following Washington's withdrawal from New York, a massive fire broke out in the western precincts. From Broadway west to the fort, from the water north to Barclay Street, no building was untouched by the flames. Even the magnificent steeple of Trinity Church glowed with the red flickers. The destruction was several times greater than that caused by the cannons of war; it may truthfully be said that no conflagration of similar proportions had ever raged on the continent. The wounded precincts have since become host to a city within a city built of ruins and canvas, the poor huddling for whatever shelter they can find.

  But as Claus van Clynne would cheerfully point out, ever since its establishment by the Dutch, New York has been a city of great resources and strength. The presence of the British in the fort at the island's southern tip — and even more importantly, on the fields to the north and the waters to the east and south — proved a magnet to all manner of Tory. American industry, ignorant of politics, constantly seeks to build and grow, no matter who sits in the governor's house or mans the battlements.

  Indeed, the city Jake proceeded through after leaving the infirmary hideout was enjoyi
ng what van Clynne's favorite philosopher Adam Smith might call an economic boom. Despite the late hour, the streets were filled with people going about their business. Even the notorious city pigs, supplemented by an occasional loose dog, walked with purpose. The air was as filled with the smell of money being made and spent as it was with horse dung.

  Jake thought of pulling up the collar of his jacket to obscure his face. But on second thought, he felt this might unnecessarily attract attention. How often is it said that the most obvious hiding place is the one least expected? He straightened his spine and walked with a solid gait, hastening up George's Street toward the commons and then eastward. At every step, it seemed he saw a soldier or an obvious British functionary; Jake smiled and always endeavored to make direct eye contact.

  It was a bold approach. While Jake had the advantage of moving through the city at a time when all of Howe's command and a large portion of his men had been removed to stew aboard ship, still, at any moment Chance herself might throw someone across his path who would recognize him and sound the alarm.

  Not that he was unarmed. Beneath his belt Jake carried his Segallas, fully loaded and ready for action. He also had two full-sized pistols borrowed from the Sons' armory beneath his jacket, and a knife tucked into his right boot.

  The spy's destination was a small apothecary shop off an alley on Cherry Street. Just a block off the docks and shipyards, before the Revolution the neighborhood was rough and thoroughly mixed, frequented by sailors and assorted ruffians who knocked shoulders with wealthy merchants, legitimate and otherwise. Any sort of deal in the world could be hatched here, and if the Devil were looking for a place to do his business, he could not have chosen a better spot.

  Nor had respectability threatened this vale now that war had come. Jake adopted a certain aggressive gait, hands swinging and chin jutting forward as he nudged his way past the taverns and warehouses. He walked quicker, beginning to anticipate the meeting he had planned; he had not seen the owner of the shop he was visiting for several months.

  But a half-block from his destination, a sensation grew on him that he was being followed. He took a left turn away from the building, walking up in the general direction of the reservoir. Sure enough, his fleeting glance revealed a figure in the shadows behind him.

  The buildings lining the street were butted against one another too closely to give him a hiding place. He continued walking, his step brisk and deliberate but not panicked, making it seem as if this were his direction all along.

  A shed that had been converted to a sales office for barrels of pitch sat on the next block, just on the outskirts of the tanning yards. A porch stood over the front of the building, guarded by two large, rough-hewn posts. The posts had an assortment of barrels and coils of rope hauled around them; whatever function these were meant to serve, they provided an excellent hiding place for the patriot spy as he ducked behind them and crouched down.

  The man following him turned the corner onto the empty street. Not seeing his quarry, he broke into a trot, his full-length cloak flapping as he ran to catch his prey.

  Jake slipped the knife from his boot and ran his thumb along the sleek steel blade. Just as the fellow passed him, Jake leaped over the barrel, grabbing the villain by the throat.

  "Why would anyone wear a heavy coat in the summer heat?" the patriot asked his prisoner.

  "Father!"

  "Damn you, Alison," said Jake, spinning her around but not releasing her. "You almost had your throat slit. Why aren't you with Daltoons?"

  "I told him I was going to the privy. He's very brave, but easily fooled. His coat is handy, though. It comes equipped with many pockets for weapons and such."

  Jake scowled. If his knife had frightened her for even an instant, there was no trace of it on her face. "What you need is a good caning."

  "Are all patriots treated this way?"

  "Ones who don't obey orders. Where's Claus?"

  "Sleeping like a baby, and snoring like a hound in heat."

  "That's something, at least." Jake thought of sending her back alone, but dismissed the idea on two counts: one that it was too dangerous, and two that she was unlikely to follow such an order. "Come along."

  The moon had continued her climb through the clear sky during Jake's brief detour, and now Night was serenading the city with her bright starlight and gentle bird songs. The building he sought had a large, multiply paned glass window that covered most of its front. Several of the panels were made of thick, brightly colored glass similar to that found in the most lavish churches. Other than this obvious sign of prosperity, there was no hint of the building's owner or his business. Jake stood before the closed doorway for a moment, waiting as two men walked into the tavern across the way.

  "Stay right here," said Jake to Alison. "Do not move. And do not go into that tavern. It is owned by a friend, but the sailors will have you aboard their ship before he spots you."

  "I am not afraid of them."

  "But I am," warned Jake.

  He reached inside his vest pocket and retrieved a narrow, wedge-shaped piece of metal which he wielded like a skeleton key. In a second, he pushed the door inwards and slipped inside.

  "Bebeef, are you awake?" he asked, walking toward the back. "Professor Bebeef?"

  The only answer was a soft thud from the back room. Jake stepped gingerly along the wide, painted pine planks; the floor was littered with glass jars, boxes, and canvas bags. Only half contained what one might call the customary wares of an apothecary.

  Nominally a druggist, the proprietor had a severe weakness for oddities and machines of all kinds. If the truth be told, he was a soft touch for any inventor or salesman who wandered in. On the floor and shelves were such items as an authentic Egyptian spyglass, a steel spring said to cure consumption better than Bebeef’s own potions, and a large, winged contraption with which, under the proper circumstances, a man could fly. That such circumstances had not yet been discovered did not prevent the gray-haired chemist, philosopher, and veritable wizard from cheerfully trying to sell the device to anyone who strayed into his store.

  "Bebeef?"

  Jake knocked at the door to the rear room, where the proprietor customarily slept.

  "Professor?"

  There was a sound inside, louder than before. Jake pushed the door open, then fell flat against the jam as a large white ball exploded toward him.

  The cat, Mister Spooky.

  "I am being assaulted by all sorts of animals today,” Jake complained to himself. His self-deprecating laugh was interrupted by a gentle but nonetheless obvious poke at his ribs.

  "Do not move or this sword will pierce your flesh," said an unfamiliar voice. "It is tipped with a poison that will kill you only after the most painful seizures imaginable."

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Wherein, Professor Bebeef’s situation is found to be desperate.

  I have no desire to be poisoned," said Jake softly. In the dim light of the shop, he couldn't tell who might be holding the sword on him. It certainly wasn't Bebeef.

  "Walk slowly with me, to the door. Too quickly, and I will plunge the sword in your side. Remember, I need only prick the skin for the poison to take effect."

  "I need to see Professor Bebeef," said Jake, who realized the voice and shadow belonged to a boy, not a man, and thus dismissed his original theory that he had been surprised by a British soldier guarding the confiscated stores. Still, he was in no position to relax. "I am a friend of his."

  "Move this way or you will die."

  The question was not so much whether the blade was truly covered with poison, but which poison it might be; the nearby shelves contained quite a variety.

  "You're not the apprentice who was here six weeks ago," said Jake. "You would remember that I borrowed a noise bomb."

  "The apprentice is now a guest of the English, much against his will, and my uncle's," replied the shadow. "Your own path is clear: you are to leave immediately."

  "Ah,"
said Jake, "you must be Timothy. I am Jake Gibbs. Surely your uncle has told you about me."

  Before the lad could answer, he was interrupted by a loud crash at the door. "Step away from Jake, or you will be filled with more lead than the weight of the clock in the governor's palace."

  "I thought I told you to wait outside," said Jake indignantly as Alison waved her gun in the shadows.

  "An ungrateful attitude," she replied. "But then, I have come to expect it, having saved your life so many times before."

  "You've spent too much time with van Clynne," said Jake. "You're starting to sound like him." He turned back toward Bebeef s nephew. "We are all on the same side here. Light a candle and I will show you a sign your uncle would recognize."

  "Why should I trust you?" said the lad, still holding his sword at Jake's side. "Anyone could claim to be his friend, and Mr. Gibbs is well known in several circles. His father's firm supplies many of the items in this very shop."

  "Your uncle has a scar over his left eye that he got while escaping a Turkish prince who held him for ransom in his youth," replied Jake. "If you have not heard that story ten thousand times, you are not related to the professor."

  "Everyone living in the province of New York has heard that story ten thousand times," answered the nephew. Nonetheless, he lowered his sword and retreated to light a candle.

  Jake reached under his clothes and undid the money belt at his waist. The back of the belt was stamped with a Masonic symbol that the nephew quickly recognized. The symbol was shared by all members of the Secret Service, but the esoteric marks above it were a mnemonic Bebeef himself used as the abbreviation for a remedy for the Portuguese ailment—a disease King George was reputed to suffer from. The formula connecting the king with the disease and the cure with the Revolution was among the old professor's favorite if somewhat obscure jokes.