The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  "That is the reason for the room beneath my crown," declared the Dutchman. "I have come in search of the finest wig-maker in the city. You are Mr. George, I presume."

  "Yes, indeed."

  "Wig-maker to Sir William?"

  The man patted his left palm with a barber's fleam retrieved from the center table. Ordinarily used for letting blood, the sharp instrument was an intimidating weapon under any circumstance.

  "What business is that of yours?"

  "No business," said van Clynne. "Merely that he recommended you to me, that is all. For a wig."

  "As I said, you do not seem the type to wear a wig. The habit has largely gone out of style, except among the highest class of British officers. And even then — "

  "Well that is where you are wrong, sir," said van Clynne. "Quite wrong. Indeed, I believe a club wig would look quite handsome on me."

  "A club wig? On a Dutchman?" The barber laughed. He loosened his white apron and removed it, revealing a fashionably striped set of breeches and waistcoat. "No one has worn those in many years."

  Van Clynne feigned confusion. "Sir William told me he had just ordered a dozen."

  "He's pulling your leg. He's quite a prankster, Sir William. People don't realize he has a sense of humor. I tell you, no one knows a man like his barber. Let a little blood, and a bond forms."

  "Indeed. Are you thirsty?"

  "Thirsty?"

  "I came in for a wig, but now I find myself in a mood for a good bleed," lied van Clynne. "But in order to do so, I need a little, preparation, shall we say?"

  "A bit of Dutch courage, eh?" said the barber, reaching back to a drawer on the counter near his side window. "Rum'll knock you up in a second. Medicinal, of course."

  "Actually, I was in mind of a strong beer or two. Perhaps you will accompany me. I will stand for it, naturally."

  The barber looked at him doubtfully. "It is getting late in the day. I was thinking of going upstairs for supper before too long. The wife is waiting."

  "She would begrudge you a beer with a customer?"

  "If the truth be told — "

  "What is happening in our city?" complained van Clynne, rising from the chair. "These rebels have put foolish notions into everyone's heads. Women no longer know their proper place. I tell you, sir, during Governor Stuyvesant's day, none of this would have happened."

  "Now, now, relax, man. She is a good woman. Too given to church sermons, that is all. Trying to keep me on the righteous path."

  "Well," said van Clynne haughtily, "from the way Sir William was bragging about you, I thought you would accept my invitation to a drink quite readily. But I shall have to tell him he was wrong."

  "Just a minute now," said the barber, taking his arm. "Do you really require a letting?"

  "I have been feeling most melancholy of late," said van Clynne. "Given to heavy moods. I also require a wig. I would naturally want the most expensive, in keeping with my station."

  "That being?" “

  “Purveyor of purveyment. Contracting contracts. And the like," said Van Clynne.

  "No horses' hair for you then, I daresay."

  "Beneath contempt."

  "Well, I cannot avoid my duty to my fellow man," said the barber, who also would not avoid the possibility of a handsome profit and free drinks. "After all, I have taken an oath."

  The oath happened to be in relation to his wife's cooking — perhaps they could have a bite to eat as well.

  "Which tavern did you have in mind?" he asked.

  "You understand, sir, that the style was originally called an entire, as it contained hints of every brewing method known to man.” Van Clynne continued. “Top fermenting — yes, that is the proper place for a porter to begin, at the height of the liquid, where the flavor noodles can take their proper perspective on the proceedings. You understand the theory of flavor noodles, do you not?"

  The barber shook his head. He had been endeavoring to follow van Clynne's learned discussion on beer through several light ales, four lagers, and a very serious porter. The Dutchman had chosen this inn not merely because it lay in the opposite direction of the fort, but because it made a specialty of brewing several various styles of beer. It thus fulfilled his purposes remarkably well.

  The poor barber had begun to show signs of inebriation with his third tankard, and now betrayed distinct symptoms of total drunkenness, finding not only that everything presented to him was pleasing, but endeavoring to be most pleasing in return. His new friend, in turn, was not only agreeable but generous: Van Clynne was willing not only to pay for the drinks, but had even agreed to twice the normal sum for the planned bloodletting. Plus, he had ordered dinner — a very fatted fowl, complete with fixings, still being prepared.

  The Dutchman, judging that he had cooked his gander long enough, now pulled the fryer from the pan. "And so, sir, onto the topic of wigs."

  "Wigs?"

  "You have fitted Sir William, have you not?"

  "Oh yes. Sir William. Has me cut his nose hairs. They grow like a jungle."

  "I suppose he has ordered a tye wig?"

  "Tye wigs, no."

  "Are they not popular in Boston?"

  "Boston? I would not think so."

  "Didn't Sir William enquire as to the popularity of wigs where he was going?"

  "Isn't go'n Boston," said the barber, shaking his head. "He's going to Phil, Philadelphia. And you know what they wear there?"

  Van Clynne did not bother to listen to the reply, instead slapping two fresh notes on the counter. As he waved to the proprietor, the wig-maker abruptly fell over on the floor in a drunken stupor.

  To say that the Dutchman was in a cheerful mood when he opened the door and stepped into the now darkened street would be to understate the obvious. To say his spirits reversed would miss the mark again — for the Dutchman suddenly found a large arm coiling around his neck.

  It belonged to his former jailer, Christof Egans.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Wherein, Egans’ genealogical roots are briefly dug up, and concerns sprout regarding Jake’s state.

  Just the man I was looking for,” declared van Clynne, barely managing to keep his balance as he was pulled from the doorway and pushed against the wall.

  "You will shut your mouth for me, Dutchman," answered Egans. "I have spent considerable energy tracking you down, and waited here nearly a full hour."

  "You should have come in," said van Clynne apologetically, noting the pistol in Egans's hand. "Surely I owe you a drink for delivering me to New York."

  "Silence! You are worth as much to me dead as alive now." Egans loosened his grip and spat in disgust — a reaction, it must be admitted, to the somewhat sour odor the beer had imparted to van Clynne's breath. "I hate the damn Dutch."

  "I do not see why," said van Clynne, smoothing his beard with as much dignity as the circumstances permitted. "Considering that you are Dutch yourself."

  "You are a miserable liar!" screamed Egans, pushing the gun at van Clynne's face.

  "Just so, sir, just so," tutted the Dutchman, casting an eye up and down the empty street before continuing. "But search your memory well after you shoot me. Remember your dear birth mother. When her face comes to mind, you will see it bore the strong, sturdy lines of an Amsterdam native. A fine beer-maker, I might add; no one could beat her hops."

  "My stepfather was killed by a Dutchman, van Gergen."

  "Your stepfather was a noble warrior and a great chief to his people," said van Clynne. "But he was killed by Von Gorgon. Von, not van. The vowel makes all the difference in the world. He was a German. They are a notoriously disagreeable people."

  "I do not believe you."

  "Naturally," said van Clynne. He reached into his pocket, smiling as Egans aimed his gun. "Allow me to show you a map."

  He produced the small sheaf of documents he had taken from the engineering office and began leafing through them. In due course he came to the map of the quadrant in question and unfolded
it for his captor. Von Gorgon's name was clearly marked.

  As was Egans's, in a note indicating the German had usurped the property that had once belonged to "good Mr. Egans, his wife Gelda and child, miserably martyred by the native peoples."

  Egans stepped back in confusion. Now it must be admitted that this last note was in a hand remarkably like van Clynne's, and that he had been examining this particular page in great detail upon his return to the Sons' headquarters the previous evening. Even so, it was not the map nor the argument that convinced the adopted Indian, but van Clynne's details of his mother's face, which conjured a dark but accurate memory in his breast.

  "Come, sir, let us step off the street where we can talk," suggested van Clynne, gingerly extending his hand and lowering Egans's pistol. "I have not had supper. A good sturgeon steak, I believe, would revive me properly. And you appear in need of several strong ales."

  Some time later, seated in a tavern located in the dock area and waiting for the well-buttered fish to be served, van Clynne unwound the tale of Egans's ancestors. John Egans had married Gelda Guldenwinckle of the Amsterdam Guldenwinckles, a housewife of the old school. Particularly adept at raising tulips, she was said by some gossipy neighbors to quite spoil her only child, young Christof.

  At this point in the narrative, a tear formed in the ordinarily stoic Egans's eye, and the squire hastened to proceed. It took nearly three hours and four times as many cups of strong ale to relate the entire story of Egans's capture at the age of two by a small band of Mohawk, who in due course turned the child over to the Oneida. Van Clynne skipped over the womenfolk's role in the proceeding; this revealed his Western prejudice, as a native would have instead properly emphasized it. Nonetheless, his praise of Egans's stepfather was genuine and found a receptive ear.

  Egans already knew much of the story well, but he had never heard it put so eloquently or fetchingly. For the first time in his life, he had something of an appreciation for his white parents as well as his red. It would not be truthful to say that the former had replaced the latter in his esteem, but the changeling now looked upon the world with completely changed, if somewhat beery, eyes.

  Such was the power of van Clynne's tongue that, well before the end of dinner — marked by some creamy Gouda — Egans had not only given the Dutchman back his paper money and passes, but his political allegiance had shifted one hundred and eighty degrees. His hatred for the Dutch had been transformed into a complete loathing of the Germans — and thus by strong logic their allies, the British. The fact that the English had cheated him on countless occasions, and never shown him a quarter of the deference van Clynne made so obvious in his speech, clearly helped this conversion, though in the squire's opinion the shift was merely a result of Dutch blood winning out.

  "I will murder every damn mercenary I see," declared Egans, slamming his fist on the table so hard that his tankard, thankfully empty, fell to the floor.

  "Quiet now. We will find a more appropriate venue for your rage," said van Clynne, smiling nervously at their neighbors, including a pair of alarmed Hessians, before hurrying to pay the bill.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Daltoons paced through the large, empty room at the top of the infirmary. He had run out of fresh curses to use on himself for letting Alison slip away, and as the old ones were by now well-worn, he kept his vigil in silence. He assumed — he prayed — that she had found Jake. He further assumed —he further prayed — that Jake's failure to return as promised was due to some minor complication.

  He had done more than merely pray. The undercover officer had spent much of the day searching the city, together with some of Culper's other men, but without result. Nor had Culper succeeded in discovering Howe's target, despite his best efforts.

  The spy ring itself remained in mortal danger. The British had reacted to yesterday's jail break with great indignation, to say nothing of increased patrols and a tripling of the normal guard at every facility. Nearly every soldier who remained in the city had been set to work harassing suspected patriot sympathizers, and there was word that the authorities were planning to conduct a house-to-house search for the escapees.

  Culper had taken the precaution of sending men known to be wanted into hiding and emptying the places the Sons of Liberty had used with great regularity. This infirmary was one of them, but as it was the place Jake was to return to, someone must wait here. And Daltoons had appointed himself that someone.

  The Connecticut native had served Culper and the other members of the Sons of Liberty spy ring in a variety of capacities. He had never been more concerned than now, however. The lieutenant was not so much worried about Jake, whom he regarded as something of a mentor, but the spirited Miss Alison, whose beauty he had no trouble spotting beneath her rough disguise. She was a very remarkable girl, he thought to himself. More than remarkable. Were the circumstances different . . .

  The reader may well fill in that last thought, as Daltoons had no time to do so himself. A loud wail rose at the far end of the block and sent the lieutenant to the window. He had not heard such a horrible sound since the landlord had packed five bags full of cats and kittens and tossed them into the harbor.

  As his ears struggled from the strain, he realized the wail was actually a maudlin Dutch song of thanksgiving:

  We gather together

  To ask the Lord's blessing.

  He chastens and hastens

  His will to make known.

  The wicked oppressing

  Now cease to be distressing.

  Sing praises to His name

  For He forgets not His own.

  Except that the words sounded more like:

  We gather together

  To ask good Laura's blessing.

  She hastens to unbutton

  That her bosom be known.

  With lavish caressing

  We complete the undressing.

  Sing praises to her

  Whose lips are our own.

  "I assume this singing is some strategy of yours, meant to scare off the English," Daltoons said, meeting the two purveyors of this song at the back door with a sharp halberd as they concluded the verse. He had to retreat a step, so thick was the stench of beer from them.

  "Just so, sir, just so," declared van Clynne, putting his finger to the point of the weapon. "We have pretended to be drunken revelers to put off the patrols. We are not, of course, though I daresay such accomplished tones have not been heard on these streets in many years."

  "Thank God."

  "Allow me to introduce my friend and fellow kinsman, Mr. Egans, a worthy Dutchman of the finest stock, and a fine tenor, all told.

  Daltoons's head tilted forward incredulously as he examined the man before him. He did have white features, and they might perhaps be Dutch, but they were sheathed in garb that was so obviously Indian as to chase any other nationality far away.

  The man greeted the young lieutenant's inspection of his tattoos and scalp lock with a prodigious and very beery burp.

  "Inside, quickly, both of you," ordered Daltoons. "Drunken fools."

  At this, van Clynne's dander stood up.

  "We are neither drunk nor fools, sir," declared the squire, who was in fact a far distance from being inebriated, no matter how off-key his singing had been.

  "Speak for yourself," said Egans. "I am drunker than a cat in an herb garden."

  And with that, he fell forward into Daltoons's arms.

  "Being Dutch, I naturally assumed he could hold his beer," said van Clynne after he and the lieutenant had delivered the man to a bed upstairs. "But perhaps the strain of the night has been too much on his humors."

  "I don't know if we should trust him."

  "You can trust him," said van Clynne. "And he will be a valuable agent to you. He is, after all, Dutch."

  "You have admitted yourself he was raised by the Iroquois and served the British."

  "The latter was due to a profound misunderstanding, which I have rectified," declare
d van Clynne. "As for the former, the federation is a powerful one, but varied in its nature. Many of its nations are indeed on our side. The Oneida are very much inclined toward us."

  This was not so much a lie as a slight shading of the notion of neutrality.

  "We'll see what Culper has to say about it," said Daltoons finally. "In the meantime, Jake is still missing."

  "Tut, tut, he will arrive as appointed," said the Dutchman, walking toward the chair where he had spent the previous night. Having done a full day of work, he decided he would reward himself with a good nap. "And undoubtedly he will insist on carrying on with his plan, though I have already solved the problem. Be sure to wake me on the morrow."

  "Wake yourself," said Daltoons. "I have details to see to. There are barely three hours till dawn. We will have to kidnap Bauer ourselves if Jake does not show up. I half hope he will not come easily."

  "Always with the fisticuffs," complained van Clynne, drifting off. "You youngsters must learn the great Dutch art of finesse."

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Wherein, Jake and Alison reach the ferry – nearly.

  For a man who knew he was likely to die in twelve short hours, Jake walked toward the Brooklyn shoreline with an easy step indeed. Granted, the knowledge that he would rise soon after being hit by the bullet added to his confidence, but he might nonetheless be taken as proof of the old proverb construing peace on those who face their demise mightily. The smile on his face was due to the thoughts of how he would fool Bauer when he was revived; there is little so amusing as making a complete ass of your enemy with the aid of a child's pretend game.

  "It's colder than last night," said Alison, turning around just as they reached the road that led down to the ferry. "Why are the nights so cold when the days are hot?"

  "Ssshh," said Jake, whose mood suddenly turned as heavy as the bag he was carrying. "Those are Loyalist rangers."