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The Golden Flask

Page 29

by Jim DeFelice


  "Claus van Clynne never hides. That is a coward's way.”

  * * *

  "I am warning you, girl,” said van Clynne a bit later, as he submitted, albeit reluctantly, to Alison’s barbering skills, “one nick and I will retaliate with appropriate measures. A strong paddling would do your soul good, I daresay."

  "I used to shave my father every day. Now hold your mouth still — if that is possible."

  "Impertinence. Impertinence in the young. In my time, it was unheard of."

  "I am not as young as you pretend, and you are not as old," said Alison, who now had the advantage of seeing van Clynne's face — or a quarter of it — without its customary beard. "I doubt you are beyond thirty, if that. Now be quiet or we shall never arrive in time."

  "Owww! What was your father's face made of? Iron?" Van Clynne reached up and grabbed her hand.

  "Don't be such a baby," said Alison, freeing her wrist with a snap. She dipped the long straight-edge razor in the soapy warm water and prepared for another swipe. "A little bloodletting is good for your vapors."

  "My vapors are in perfect condition, thank you. And I would expect you to show proper deference, now that I have condescended to allow you to shave me."

  "Condescended?"

  "Shaving is a sacred rite in the Dutch way of things, my dear. It is not every young woman who is accorded the privilege."

  "Honored, I'm sure," said Alison sarcastically, plucking tightly at the next hairs and ignoring the ensuing howl. "When was the last time you washed your beard? I believe I have found a bird's nest here."

  Chapter Forty-three

  Wherein, Jake again kisses danger in the face.

  The last time he had been in this mansion, Jake had arrived in a dazed condition with an armed guard at his shoulder. Still, he had enough of an idea of the layout to narrow Clayton Bauer’s office down to one of two rooms in the western corner of the house. With Bauer gone, it would be the best place to hide – and would also give him a chance to search through the spymaster’s papers.

  Both rooms had windows facing the Hudson. Jake chose the corner to try first because it was closest to him as he moved through the woods from the side.

  Though his wounds had been redressed at the Smith house, he did not want to push his battered leg harder than necessary. He walked forward slowly, glancing through the trees down toward the beach where he had washed up some days before. The disguised Libertymen had already appeared on the river; he had only a few minutes to get inside if he was to beat Egans.

  The company of redcoats assigned to Bauer had returned in foul moods from the earlier diversion sent to them by Culper's men. Roused from bed to attend a false report of rebels attacking the rocky shore upriver, all they had to show for their adventures were skinned knees and bruised shins. The sentry posted at Jake's corner of the house was having trouble keeping his eyes open as he leaned against the building.

  Jake kept the man's shiny coat in view as he half-crawled, half-trotted past a shed which housed mowing equipment. He just managed to roll against the side of the building when he heard voices approaching from the rear; the low shrubs were enough to hide him only because the two sentries were talking rather than paying attention to their duties.

  The men were discussing whether their company's assignment would be changed now that Bauer had been killed. Neither seemed to like the "uppity colonist," but they realized the chore of guarding him had been comparatively easy. The unit headquartered up the road a quarter mile away had been put on notice to prepare for an "expedition at sea." They worried over the cryptic phrase and whether it would soon describe their fates as well.

  The talk faded as the guards called to their mate by the house. He shouted a one-word response and they reversed course, patrolling in the opposite direction. Their assignment doubtlessly called for them to walk the vast yard's perimeter in parallel, not tandem. Jake, ever the military commander, could not help but shake his head as he bolted to his feet and did his best imitation of a sprint toward the building.

  The sentry did not notice him until the patriot's knife was slitting a peephole at his throat.

  Jake propped the dead man against the house, hoping the others would not return before they were replaced by Daltoons's squad. In any event, he would look from the distance as if he were sleeping.

  The window nearby was open a crack. Jake went to it, listened a moment to make sure the room was empty, and decided he was unlikely to find a situation more inviting. He slipped inside with less care than a sparrow entering her nest.

  This was not Bauer's office, unless he had suddenly gained a very feminine side. Even if the rich yellow and pink coverlet on the bed hadn't made it clear that Lady Bauer was staying here, the room was thick with her lilac-scented perfume.

  Jake was adjusting his eyes to the dim interior light when he heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. He ducked and started to slide beneath the thick mahogany bed before realizing he couldn't squeeze in; the only other place to hide was behind the large curtain at the window he had entered. He was halfway there when the door opened behind him.

  "You?"

  Lady Patricia's voice held him suspended in midstep on the velvet rug. Jake took a breath, then turned to see her standing in her unclasped dressing gown, hair down, hands open at her sides. The hard soap of pain had scrubbed the pores of her face; rarely had mourning worn such beauty.

  * * *

  "I am Christof Egans, a messenger from General Burgoyne. I was ordered by the general to extend greetings to his honor Mr. Bauer before proceeding to General Clinton's headquarters."

  The redcoat guard, standing at the top of the path from the beach, endeavored to keep his eyes off the strange markings on the man's face and chest. Nonetheless, his contempt for the visitor was undisguised.

  "You're a white man?"

  "I am an Oneida warrior. My Indian name is Gawasowaneh; in your tongue, it means Big Snowsnake. Do you wish my entire history, or will you do your duty and take me to your master?"

  "Mr. Bauer is not here."

  "I will wait, then," said Egans.

  "You'll be waiting till Judgment Day. He's dead. Killed in a duel. Brother came back this morning."

  "Take me to the brother, then," said Egans.

  The English sentry had heard rumors of changelings and race traitors but had never seen one, much less found one in the employ of his government. Still, all manner of arrangements were made during wartime. When he searched Egans he found him unarmed. His papers were in order. And so the private turned him over to his corporal, standing on the shallow step before the front door, and retreated to his post — only to find another guard in his place. As he protested the unexpected relief, he was knocked over the head from behind.

  Egans, meanwhile, repeated his previous interview with the private for the corporal, with roughly the same stoic expression. Contrary to van Clynne's concerns, Egans had no difficulty pretending to be something he was not. The white Oneida soon found himself padding softly behind the corporal as he was shown inside to the parlor.

  "I will attempt to find Lord William for you," said the corporal. Like the rest of his men, he came from the English Highlands, but his accent had been suppressed by years of contact with his betters. He had also learned a great deal more manners than his privates. "I must say that he is deeply grieved today. Your audience may be strained."

  "I am only here on orders," replied Egans. "As soon as they are fulfilled, I will be happy to leave."

  "Aye, I reckoned that." The corporal gave him a crooked half-smile and turned on his heel to find Bauer's lone servant, George.

  Egans stood as erect as a statue in the well-appointed room. No rag rugs covered these wide floorboards; Persian and Flemish craftsmen had slaved for many years so Clayton Bauer's guests could walk from one room to the next without getting splinters in their feet. At Egans's side stood a massive clock, taller and wider than he, and filled with a mechanism as finely and precisely tuned as
the Oneida's own heart. Its deep click filled his ears.

  The reader should not think that the past few days hadn't taken their toll on the adopted Indian's faculties. The physical difficulties, to one so inured to a hard life of fighting, were of little concern. Egans had endured hand-to-hand warfare with bitter rivals; that was a considerably greater trial, in his opinion, than any fight with whites, no matter how extended. But the revelations of his parentage, and more importantly, the identity of his adopted father's killer, had struck the core of his being. His hate had been so strongly held that it guided his most important decisions since coming of age. It was one thing to shift alliances — Egans had been taught the ways of justice and honor, and knew firmly what he must do — but it was another thing to face the grave error his life had been victim to. It was a shortcoming he was responsible for; he must somehow find a way not simply to amend it but to expiate its consequences. Many men had been wrongly sent to their deaths because of his mistake.

  Jake need not have worried about his new loyalty. Rather greater was the possibility that Egans might suddenly do something very rash because of it. His calm, stoic exterior, hardened by his years with his Iroquois family, hid the raging emotions of a volatile white child, not yet tamed by civilization's conventions. Sooner or later, the painted skin would fail to contain the tormented soul bubbling below.

  "Who are you, sir, and why do you come to my brother's house?" said Lord William Buckmaster as he entered the room.

  "I am called Egans, a messenger for General Burgoyne. The general bade me directly to pay my respects, before I attended General Clinton. I have come to fulfill my duty."

  He addressed Lord William in a flat voice, and seemed to take no notice of the man's finery, the well-arranged powdered wig and black silk suit. Lord William had daubed his cheeks with rouge, but the lines of his grief were obvious enough as Egans held his eyes.

  Buckmaster dismissed the corporal, telling him to go and check on his men. When he was gone, Lord William addressed Egans with a level voice, endeavoring to take no notice of his odd appearance. He assumed such things were commonplace in this strange and violent land.

  "My brother-in-law is dead," said Buckmaster. "I am waiting now on the arrival of his body."

  Egans nodded.

  "Would you care for a drink?"

  "No."

  Egans waited silently as Lord William called for George to bring him a strong whiskey.

  "Sir," said the servant, "I believe that some addiional soldiers are arriving outside. And I have heard noises in the north wing — "

  "Just get me the damn whiskey. Now!"

  The outburst represented Lord William's surrender. He sank into the blue velvet chair behind him, lucky that it was there to break his fall.

  Egans stood motionless, observing, feeling only contempt for the weakling before him.

  * * *

  The same spell that had arrested Jake stopped Lady Patricia as well. Jake broke it first, moving quietly and quickly behind her to shut the door. Then he touched her shoulder with his left hand — his right still held his knife — not knowing whether she would cry out in alarm or fall into his arms.

  She did neither, turning instead. A thousand emotions mixed in her face.

  "You killed my brother."

  There was a moment that seemed a century then, as if Jake might be somehow able to commit her soul to his memory, as if in the silence some essential part of each might mix. For van Clynne had judged his friend well; Jake had become enamored of the woman whose lips he first kissed for convenience only. Whether for her nobility in suffering, her strong yet charitable way, or the inviting curve of her body — it was impossible to say.

  As the first moment grew to the next, the spy banished any weakness the attraction would bring. Yet some emotion remained; some regret tempered his strength.

  "Your brother is alive." Jake took her hand as she started back in shock. "I am not an agent for Bacon, but Washington."

  "Washington?"

  He let her slip back to the bed, sitting on the edge and catching her hands to her mouth. He saw her next move before she attempted it, grabbing her mouth quickly as she rose to set the alarm.

  "Let me go, you bastard." The words choked out between his fingers, not loud enough for anyone outside the room to hear. "You killed my son. You and your treacherous friends, you lying bastard!"

  * * *

  Lord William rubbed his face, as if he could pull the shattered shards of his soul back together. He looked up and offered his guest a wan smile of apology.

  "Excuse me," he said. "My son disappeared — we have to assume he died — in the war, and now my brother. His wounds were more of the self-inflicted nature. Pride, really."

  There was a shout at the front hall, and Lord William jumped to his feet, running to the door — where he found his brother-in-law, groggy but quite obviously alive, hanging on the shoulder of a sailor.

  * * *

  "If you yell out, your husband inside will die," Jake warned her. He moved his hand down and gripped his arm around her neck, trying not to choke her though keeping her secure. He had the knife in his right hand, but there was as much chance of him using it against her as there was of the sun rising a second time that day. "Your brother will be killed as well, this time for real."

  "I don't believe you," she said, yet she made no effort to call out or get away as Jake leaned down to slide the knife into his boot. Her long dressing gown was half buttoned, an inch of pink skin exposed between her breasts. Jake, still holding her around the neck, reached to the nearby table and pulled off the cloth, fashioning it as a light clasp for her hands.

  "I did not kill your son," he said as he tied her hands. "And I did not make the promise to help find him lightly."

  "You are a liar and a devil."

  "You accepted my kisses readily enough."

  "Don't flatter yourself," she said.

  "I notice you're not trying to escape."

  "I'm not as foolish as you think. You would grab me in a second, wouldn't you? And slit my throat. Kill me now, then. Go ahead. Kill me as you have devastated the rest of my family."

  A sudden energy flooded into her body. Jake caught it just in time, clamping his hand over her mouth.

  "I'm not going to kill you," he said, a second before she bit his fingers.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Wherein, several weapons are produced, as are some slight complications.

  Daltoons checked his pocketwatch warily as he squatted by the stone pillar along the roadway. His men would have deposited Clayton Bauer at the front door and ought to have neutralized the guards by now.

  No matter whether in the city or not, operations on Manhattan were always fraught with danger. Daltoons, by now an experienced veteran of irregular warfare, habitually felt his palms sweating at some point during a mission. They had turned to raging torrents now, and he wiped them on his freshly bleached white breeches, anxious for his men to arrive and tell him everything was going as planned.

  His hope was in vain. Hasty footsteps down the path and labored breathing announced a messenger.

  "One of the sons of bitches got away," said the man. "He ran from the back when we secured the horses at the barn. You said not to shoot."

  "Shitten hell." Daltoons turned his eyes back to the road. There was a redcoat encampment less than a quarter mile away.

  "Pull everybody from around the building. March up to the crossroads with me," said the young lieutenant, loosening the worse curses in his arsenal as he began trotting up the hill, guns ready. "Shitten damn hell in a British dandy's rogering hatbox."

  * * *

  "It was some manner of rebel plot," Clayton Bauer told his brother-in-law as he was helped to the couch. "They were trying to get information from me on Sir William's plans. At least I believe that is what they were doing. I told them he was going to Boston." He managed a wry smile as he sat down. "The idiot has probably changed his mind several times now, and
reversed course from Philadelphia, so lord knows I may have told them the truth.” He noticed Egans. “Who the hell are you?"

  Bauer jumped upwards, still struggling with the effects of the drugs. Bebeef s sleeping powder had a nasty habit of leaving the joints knotted with pain for several hours after the primary effect had worn off.

  Egans did not react.

  "He's a messenger from Burgoyne," said Lord William.

  "Gentleman Johnny is using clowns?"

  "My name is Egans," the white Oneida said. "I was told to extend the general's personal regards before reporting to General Clinton."

  "What the hell would you be told that for?"

  "I am not in the habit of questioning my orders," said Egans. "If you wish me to leave, I shall."

  "No, I do not wish you to leave," said Clayton, who waved off his brother's attempts to pull him back to the couch. "I want you to explain who the hell you are, and what you are doing here. The last time I saw Burgoyne I promised to see him in hell for his slander. He would no more extend me greetings than he would address a horse in the street."

  * * *

  Jake nearly screamed with the pain as Lady Patricia clamped her teeth on his fingers. He caught her as she tried to squirm away and pulled her back, hesitating to punch her but finally seeing no choice.

  Just as his fist found the side of her head, a dark brown figure rushed through the door and flew at his back, snarling and barking. The mastiff that had once guarded him on the beach now sent him flying forward on the bed; Jake reached for his Segallas in his belt but lost his balance and fell over as the animal slashed its teeth into his side.

 

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