The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  Daltoons ignored him, hurrying his men to deposit the seemingly lifeless bodies in the cart hauled by other assistants and just now appearing from the woods. He took a rifle and ran to the edge of the bluff overlooking the shore, in time to see Buckmaster and his servant push off. Two genuine British boats were just making shore.

  "I would have stopped this duel," wailed van Clynne, turning back to his fallen comrade. "Had I not been delayed by the perfidious tides, slow horses, and the contingencies of, the contingencies — "

  "Of breakfast?" shot Alison, borrowing a canteen from the sergeant who had given Daltoons so much lip.

  "He will have a fine burial, as fine a funeral as ever mounted in this land. Washington himself will be a pallbearer, and I right behind him, assuming my grief subsides."

  While van Clynne wove plans for the funeral, Alison poured water directly into the hole the poisoned bullet had cut. Jake opened his eyes slowly, then pulled up with the soft groan of one interrupted from a pleasant dream.

  "He should be taken to Philadelphia immediately," van Clynne continued, addressing the heavens with his upturned eyes. "Given a procession through the city, and then interred in a place where the Congress can visit his grave every day for inspiration. Near a tavern, of course."

  "Sounds like a lot of trouble," said Jake.

  "Oh no, sir, it is but a trifle. I would think Congress would be happy for the diversion." Van Clynne blinked, suddenly realizing he was talking to a dead man. Daltoons caught him as he fell backwards in a faint.

  "A drug from Professor Bebeef," Jake explained. "The antidote is pure water, as Alison has so obligingly demonstrated. Our friend Bauer will be like this for an hour. Were the others convinced?"

  "Quite," said Daltoons. "But we must leave immediately. The soldiers arriving below are not ours."

  Van Clynne, having recovered from his shock, gave Jake a hearty pat on the back. "Well now, I think the entire episode has progressed very nicely. My acting clinched the effect completely."

  "Your acting?"

  "Indeed, sir. I knew you were but momentarily indisposed, and endeavored to give the best show."

  "Uh-huh."

  The body of the prostrate Tory was hoisted into the cart. The horse began moving before the lieutenant could even produce the whip.

  "Smith's lies a league or so from here," Daltoons told Jake as the company double-timed into the woods. "Will that do for your plans?"

  "Very nicely. Alison and I had quite an adventure reaching you," added Jake, but just as he started to tell Daltoons why he had arrived so late, a man appeared ahead at a bend in the path. Jake bolted forward, flying at him. Before anyone realized what was happening, he had thrown Christof Egans to the ground and pinned him beneath his knees. He pulled the white Oneida's long strand of hair through his fingers, threatening him with his other fist.

  "This bastard is employed by the British as a messenger," Jake told the others as they ran up. "He tried to take me prisoner and sell me in New York."

  "He's on our side," said van Clynne, huffing forward to intercede. "He has converted. He came with me, and was standing lookout in the woods, as he and I arranged. Come now, sir, you'll ruin what little hair he has left."

  Jake looked at Egans doubtfully as the Dutchman told the full story. Despite his faith in van Clynne, he let his prisoner free with some reluctance.

  Egans had not uttered a word in his defense, and did not do so now. "Two boats landed further north," he said instead. "Splitting off from the two approaching the landing below."

  "Quickly," said Daltoons. "This way through the woods."

  "I know of a better path to Smith's," boasted van Clynne. "We have only to follow a small detour this way . . ." He pushed back a tree branch to reveal a narrow and barely noticeable deer path beyond a small if strongly running creek. "... and we will arrive inside an hour. My path has the benefit of being nearly undetectable from the road," he added as the company veered to follow.

  "Remarkable," said Daltoons.

  "Smith is a fine brewer of beer, no doubt," suggested Jake.

  "Top-fermented ale, to be exact," said van Clynne, with his customary air of superiority.

  * * *

  The placing of the bandage covering Clayton Bauer's chest was done smartly, but in fact, it was not secured well enough to prevent the few drops of water that splashed up from the creek as the men crossed from finding their way into the wound. Thus, unknown to Jake and the others, the Tory leader gained consciousness as he was driven through the woods in the wagon. Disoriented and confused, he did not grasp at first what had happened to him; he knew that he had been shot, but surprisingly felt no pain. For some moments he thought truly that he had died. But the voices around him gave sufficient hint that he had not, and Bauer was wise enough not to cry out. Some sixth sense warned him that the red uniforms that surrounded his wagon were not worn by true friends of the crown, and when he heard Jake's voice giving directions, he realized a trick had been perpetrated.

  For all the patriot rhetoric against him, Clayton Bauer was a brave man. He had sworn that he would continue to serve his king until the moment of his death, and it was an oath he meant to keep.

  * * *

  "I tell you, sir, that I will not play the role of devil in your pageant. Play acting, sir; it is beneath me." Van Clynne protested even as Daltoons's sergeant took his measurements and began cutting a piece of red cloth for his suit. "I don't know if we have enough to cover him with," complained the man, whose talents as a tailor were being put to considerable test.

  "You told me not twenty minutes ago that it was your acting that convinced everyone I was dead."

  "That is a different thing, sir; then I was playing myself. Now I am the devil."

  "You're not pretending to be the devil, Claus, just a British doctor."

  "In the service of the king. It is the same thing. No Dutchman in his proper mind would deign to take up such a role. Never, sir, never."

  "If you can give me another way to find out where Howe is going, I will take it."

  "I have already told you: he asked his wig-maker for wigs in the fashion of Philadelphia. What more do you need?"

  "Remember which package is which. The salts are harmless; mix them in the water to make it seem as if it is a cure. The sleeping powder will only work if it is loose in the air. Be careful; it is very potent."

  "I should prefer a good knock on the head to one of your powders," countered van Clynne. "Perhaps we can pretend he has been sent to Hell, and make him confess the plans to Lucifer himself."

  "What if this doesn't work, Jake?" asked Daltoons.

  "Then we'll pull his arms and legs apart until he talks."

  "We should try that first," suggested Egans.

  "People are too susceptible to suggestion under torture," said Jake. "We do it my way."

  The back room of the Smith farmhouse had been transformed from a humble closet for potatoes and onions to a well-appointed bedroom. The curtains at the window would not bear close examination, but the fine furniture at bedside, the white dressing table and fine mirror, along with the books casually strewn about, had all come from an abandoned and half-burned mansion not far away. It would not be difficult to convince the groggy patient he had been transported back to New York. But van Clynne and Daltoons must do better — they must pretend that weeks, not hours, had passed since Bauer fell on the field of honor.

  Van Clynne, chafing under the burden of his red uniform, set a satchel at the foot of the bed, dismissed the others, and signaled to the sentry at the door that he was ready to begin.

  "English, indeed," he muttered beneath his breath, before applying the antidote.

  But Jake had not chosen van Clynne to play the role of doctor merely because he was unknown to the Tory. In the seconds before Clayton Bauer revived, the Dutchman's body underwent a vast transition, rivaled only by the changes that came upon his voice. His accent, as his patient opened his eyes, perfectly mimicked that of a n
ative Londoner. If the squire was not an actor by trade, he was an accomplished man of business — nearly the same thing.

  "It is about time," he told the revived man. "I feared you would resist this cure as well. Six weeks I have been trying to revive you."

  Bauer started to push himself up, but van Clynne restrained him easily.

  "Gently, my good man. Your constitution is at a very delicate stage, though your wounds have healed."

  "Who are you?"

  "Doctor Henry van Castle," answered van Clynne.

  "You are Dutch?"

  "Flemish. Actually, I have lived in England since I was nine, until coming to this cursed land three months ago. It is a mistake I regret every day."

  "Where am I?"

  "You, sir, are in the home of a British officer who rescued you from certain death. No other man in the colonies could have ministered to you as I have, day after day, night after night, for twelve, er, six long weeks. At great personal risk, I might add. To aid a dueling victim is a crime that can be punished by hanging, you know."

  Bauer made a face. "Since when? Where are my sister and her husband?"

  "His lordship is with General Howe," said van Clynne loudly, as this was a cue to Daltoons, waiting outside the door. "Or so I am told. We are making preparations to abandon New York, and I haven't a clue as to where anyone is at the moment, not even my wife. Frankly, I will be only too glad to leave this diseased vale; the very air we breathe swarms with pestilence."

  There was a knock at the door. Van Clynne admitted Daltoons, who had given himself a promotion to major to enhance the illusion that time had passed during Clayton's sleep.

  "Thank God!" declared Daltoons as he saw Clayton propped on his pillow, eyes wide open. "I had despaired of your reviving."

  "Where am I?"

  "In the city. We are safe for the moment," answered Daltoons. "But we will have to move shortly. The rebels have taken King's Bridge and .are marching south as we speak. An entire army of them has appeared. If we cannot hold them at the woods near Harlem, the city will be abandoned." He lowered his voice. "In truth, the order to evacuate non-essentials has already been passed. But do not say so in front of the doctor, or the others."

  "What? The rebels on Manhattan?"

  Daltoons nodded solemnly. He endeavored to play his role as well as van Clynne.

  "What has happened to that idiot Howe?"

  Daltoons's only answer was a scoff of contempt.

  The plan was that Bauer would supply the answer himself, with a statement such as, "What happened when he reached Boston?" or "Cannot he be ordered from Philadelphia?" But the star of this stage play had not studied his lines in advance as the others had.

  "Where are my sister and her husband?"

  "They believe you dead," said Daltoons. "They have gone to General Howe, to seek his help recovering your body. Rumor has it you were buried in the Jerseys."

  "Buried?"

  "Circumstances did not permit our enlightening them. They left to seek Howe shortly after you were shot, before this business. You seemed dead, at first."

  Van Clynne sniffed. "I should have been consulted immediately. I have had cases like this before. Such cures are child's play for a scientist such as myself."

  "Bacon is after you for killing his man. He seems to sense that you are still alive. I hesitated approaching General Howe, as I feared Bacon would find out. I myself do not have much influence, though perhaps if you sent word yourself, that would be a different matter."

  Bauer, still obviously disoriented, struggled to prop himself on his elbows. "My mansion . . ."

  Daltoons shook his head. "General Bacon has it watched night and day."

  "Why are you hiding me?"

  "As a matter of honor, nothing more. I hope your second would have done the same for my friend." Daltoons straightened. "Some men still have a sense of honor."

  Bauer did not respond. Daltoons, trying not to show his disappointment, pushed on with the script. "There are not many troops left in the city. I doubt we'll be able to defend it."

  "What the hell has Howe done, the incompetent windbag?" complained Bauer. "What of Clinton?"

  "Summoned by Howe the very day you were killed. Or shot, rather."

  "Should we send a message to his brother-in-law?" van Clynne asked Daltoons. "There is, after all, the question of my fee."

  "I am sure you'll be paid," said Daltoons. "Do you want us to send to them?"

  Before Bauer could reply, there was a sharp volley of gunfire outside.

  "Damn," said Daltoons. "The rebel sympathizers have launched many raids from within our borders, emboldened by their nearby army. I assure you, I will protect you as I have these past six weeks. It is a matter of honor. Doctor, take care of him. I will have a squad of men to escort you to the boat when there is no hope of defense. Do not hesitate when they arrive."

  Daltoons exited. Van Clynne rolled up his sleeves and mixed the salt in a glass of water, as if preparing a treatment.

  "What is this?" Clayton demanded as the glass was offered to him.

  "An emetic," said the pseudo-physician. "Your spleen must be vacated."

  "Thank you, I think not."

  The Dutchman shrugged. "As you wish." He placed the glass on the bureau. "Should I send a message to your brother-in-law his lordship?"

  Clayton hesitated before answering.

  "Yes."

  "Well? How shall I find them?"

  "Send after Howe."

  "The general or the admiral?"

  "The general, you idiot."

  "Excuse me, sir, but I think that you would show a bit more respect for the man who saved your life."

  Bauer scowled. "If the general has taken Boston as he planned, then I assume they are there. Though they may just as well be back in England."

  "Here, let me make you comfortable."

  And with that, the Dutchman flicked some sleeping powder into Bauer's nose, sending him back off to slumber.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Wherein, the coffee is putrid, and a new plan is hatched to verify the results of the old.

  Jake drummed his fingers on the pine farm table. The others – van Clynne, Daltoons, Eagans, Alison and two other Liertymen – sat at various stations around the stone-walled kitchen, waiting for his decision. Daltoons thought Bauer must have told them the truth, which meant Boston was the target. Van Clynne was convinced of just the opposite, contending that the Tory had somehow seen through their charade.

  Jake wasn’t sure. Their little play had gone off fairly well; he'd sat with his ear to the wall and heard every bit of it. But the ill logic of attacking Boston continued to bother him. And something about Bauer's replies seemed as fake to his ears as the others' lines.

  "I have to have some other verification," said Jake finally. "Bauer may have seen through our charade."

  "What other proof can we get you?" asked Daltoons. "Not even Culper has broken through their silence."

  Jake rose and went to the small fireplace on the side of the room. He had to reach General Washington tomorrow morning with the information or the march for Boston would begin. Already he envisioned the soldiers gathering their things, advance parties readying the road.

  Jake pushed away a bunch of dried onions hanging from the kitchen rafters as he walked to the side of the room. He turned there and walked back, trying to fertilize his thoughts with exercise. Alison had taken it upon herself to make breakfast, though given the meager cupboard this was more an act of conjuring than cooking. Three eggs, small enough to embarrass a hen or perhaps embolden a sparrow, were fried with the help of some pork grease in the iron pan at the fire's fore; these were multiplied in a sense with the help of a few stale crusts that the mice had not deemed worthy of attacking. The only things plentiful were onions, and Alison had populated her omelet with two dozen of them, a fact the others noted grimly as they picked through the scrapings.

  Except for Daltoons, who gobbled it down as anxiously as i
f it were honey. "Just like my mother's cooking," he told the girl, who smiled at first but then resumed the businesslike pose copied from Jake.

  Alison poked open the kettle and judged that the coffee was not quite done. The men did not seem upset; indeed, as they had watched the ingredients being prepared, they were not in a mood to hurry the concoction along. About a dozen beans, retrieved from the bottom of a grinder, were supplemented with a chicory weed, some grass and a handful of dried blueberries.

  Or at least, they seemed to be dried blueberries. It was difficult to tell, as they appeared to have been dried several lifetimes before.

  "If I return to Washington with the wrong information, it will be worse than not arriving at all," said Jake finally. "I'm just not convinced."

  "It is a shame that you had no truth potion," said Daltoons. "Stuff some of that up his nose and we'd have the answer in a lick."

  "Doctor Keen tried such a medicine on me during one of our meetings," said the Dutchman. He had responded to the news that his nemesis had died a second time with a contemptuous grunt. He had little doubt Keen would rise again. "It rendered me dizzy, but was insufficient to loose my tongue. Of course, our friend inside is not Dutch, but I would think no drug foolproof."

  "My people have an excellent method for extracting information," said Egans. "Set him over a fire and put the question to him."

  "I agree," said Daltoons.

  Jake frowned. "Too many people admit fantasies under torture. We could never trust what he said, especially now."

  "Too bad we can't just release him and see what he does," suggested Daltoons, rising to see if the coffee might be ready. "He'd be bound to make a report to someone."

  "Why can't we do that?" asked Jake. "That's a great idea, Mark."

  "I think, sir, the effects of the bullet's drug are lingering in your brain," said van Clynne. "Or else the fumes of the concoction our little friend is preparing. Release him and let him report to Howe?"