The Golden Flask (10 page)

"We've no ale aboard," said the man in charge of the boat, a thick-chested fellow whose words were punc
tuated with whistles, owing to the large gaps in his front teeth.

"Porter then, or in a pinch, lager," demanded van Clynne. "Something with body to it. Brewed by a
Dutch housewife if possible, or at least a German." He
looked around the deck. The gondola was typical of
the smaller vessels one finds in various river ports. The
deck was well scrubbed and the hull freshly painted
yellow, which implied somewhat more flash than the ship actually possessed. But the broad white sheets
could hold the wind handily, and the vessel was surpris
ingly fast and even maneuverable. So much so that it
occurred to the Dutchman that this small misadventure
might end in his advantage, if only he could persuade the captain to take the craft south.

The direction it was currently heading, however, was
west, toward the shore he had so recently vacated.

"I believe, sirs, that I have arrived just in the nick of
time," declared the Dutchman, rising to his feet. "I
have a business proposition that will do us all very
handsomely, indeed. Do I have the honor of addressing
the captain?"

The man answered gruffly that he was in charge.

"If I might make a suggestion," said van Clynne gra
ciously, "this shore ahead ought to be avoided for the
time being. It is frequented by a dastardly Indian, or I
should say a white man painted as an Indian. A renegade, a changeling, a chicken in turkey feathers. He is
obviously in the pay of British thieves and villains, and
endeavored to murder me here. In fact, the poor condition of my vessel related directly to his actions. He — "

Van Clynne stopped short when he saw Egans climb
over the side, a nasty grin on his face and the Dutch
man's crumpled beaver hat in his hand.

"You lost your hat," sneered the Oneida. "And I have come to return it."

The Dutchman, finally sensing the wind's direction,
reached to the mast and grabbed one of the staves. Three sailors fell upon him as he reared back to throw it. He managed to launch it nonetheless, and despite the interference scored a direct hit on Egans's skull, laying him out.

Van Clynne flicked off one of his assailants as he
grabbed for another cudgel. By now the captain had picked up his sword, a fact van Clynne only realized
when he felt the sharp blade flick past his face. He fell
against the heavy wood of the mast, his weight sending
another of the sailors to the deck.

"You will surrender this vessel to me, sir," declared
van Clynne, "or I will be forced to vanquish your entire
crew."

"Brave words, traitor," said the captain, showing off the
gaps in his teeth. "You will not repeat them once I
cut out your tongue."

Van Clynne just managed to avoid the slash. He slid
well below a second, but the third came remarkably close to his chest.

This was partly by design, however. He had placed
himself near the mast, and the swordsman yelped with
the vibration as his sharp, heavily weighted sword
crashed into the wood. A quick roundhouse blow took
care of the captain's chin, and he was next seen sleeping like a baby on the deck, basking in the warm glow
of the midday sun.

But van Clynne still had half a dozen men to con
tend with. Two of these grabbed his legs and were un
likely to let go, despite his best efforts to bruise their arms and fingers. A sailor climbed against the sheet
and sprang down at him. The Dutchman felt his knees
give way and got his arms up just in time to prevent
more than a glancing blow to the nose as he crashed
face-first against the deck and an anchor chain. The
same chain was quickly wound around his legs, but the
redoubtable van Clynne did not admit defeat until
Egans's voice, still slightly dazed, ordered the others to
leave off hitting his prisoner.

"Anyone who fights this hard will fetch a stiff price
below, I warrant," said Egans, pointing his musket at
van Clynne. "Surrender, sir, or I'll test the theory that
you're worth as much dead as alive."

"Alive would increase the price, I daresay," grunted
van Clynne, striking his colors.

Chapter Nine

Wherein, the Jerseys are briefly praised, and Jake
measures the mouth of a blunderbuss.

T
he hot sun of
the afternoon did not impede Jake's
progress. While much of the land he passed through
was still comparatively wild and wooded, it should be
noted that the owners were for the most part firm patriots. The strife of the past few years had not shaken
their faith in the grand cause of Freedom.

So committed was Jake to reaching New York quickly that he let supper time slip without stopping;
his only delays were a few brief pauses at streams to let
his horse catch her breath. Eagleheart had made a good bargain; it was almost as if the old woman who had raised the filly had this mission in mind all along.

Still, even the most motivated horse and rider must
eventually pause to restore themselves. And if it were
well past nine by the time Jake decided he must finally
rest, it meant only that his hunger was more acute.
Though the lieutenant colonel is blessed with a consti
tution barely in need of sleep, his appetite is second not even to Claus van Clynne's.

On a road but a few miles removed from patriotic
Hackensack, a sign soon caught his eye as he traveled:
a boar curled before a fireplace. Heartened by the fact
that the tavern windows were still lit with candles, Jake
dismounted and took the three short porch steps to the
front door in a single jump.

At first he was surprised to find it barred from the inside, but on reflection he realized the hour and the
times in general made this completely natural. Still, he thought his prospects of finding another inn more hospitable at this hour unlikely and decided to press for
entrance.

"Hallo there," he called, knocking. "Have you food for a hungry traveler who can pay with hard money?"

The latter hint was not necessarily to be taken
lightly, yet it failed to bring anyone to the door. Jake
looked into the window but could not see much inside. His alert nose soon detected a simmering kettle of beans and he fell back on the door with good-na
tured — to say nothing of hungry —vigor.

Finally, Jake heard footsteps crossing the foyer. But
instead of opening the door, their author pushed against it and yelled at him to stop.

"We've no room tonight," claimed the voice.

"I only want food," said Jake.

"We have none."

"I can smell it."

"Go away."

On another night, Jake might have satisfied himself with a curse — surely the keeper was harming himself
more than his prospective customer. But Jake was anx
ious to eat quickly and move on. So he pounded again,
announcing that he would pay twice the normal fee.

The keeper answered back that the visitor had been
observed and marked as a Tory, and under no circum
stances would he be admitted.

Rather than answering that he was a patriot, and
possibly giving himself away to any spy inside, the spy
shouted that he was a Quaker, completely neutral.

And willing to pay three times the normal charge, if
his horse was fed as well as he.

The offer — or Jake's continued knocking — finally moved the tavern owner. He opened the door and re
vealed himself to be a thin man with a high-pitched
voice, an unshaven face, and breath that betrayed sev
eral pints' worth of cider.

"Stop pounding my wall, Tory," said the keeper. "You'll get no food here."

Jake accepted the challenge, pushing the door entirely open and taking two strides inside. Just as he was about to repeat his story that he was a Quaker — and add another shilling to the price he was willing to pay — a lad stepped out from behind a curtain at the side.

The boy had not come into the room empty-handed. He pointed a large and most efficient-looking blunderbuss in Jake's face.

"Put your hands up, traitor," said the young man. The peach fuzz had not yet bloomed on the fifteen-year-old's cheek, but he had a sharp look in his eyes nonetheless.

The sheer number of projectiles in the thick barrel of his gun made it very difficult for the weapon to miss — a fact Jake was acutely aware of as he held out his hands in surrender.

"I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding," he ventured. "I'm just a poor traveler, come for a bit of food. I saw by your sign that you were an inn."

"And I see by your dress that you are a deserter," said the innkeeper, putting his hands on his hips with some satisfaction. "We watched you ride down the road. You are heading south toward the river and the British strongholds. You are under arrest."

The boy with the gun stood motionless. No doubt this was his first time holding someone at gunpoint; Jake hoped his finger didn't develop a sudden itch.

"The fact that I wear a hunting shirt does not make me a member of the militia," said Jake calmly. "Nor does my destination mean I am a deserter."

"The militia and all of the army have gone north," replied the keeper, rubbing his hand on the front of the smock he wore over his clothes. "The alarm has gone out that there are redcoats abroad, and we have been told to be on the lookout for deserters."

"But I'm not one.”

The
keeper gingerly reached beneath Jake's shirt, re
moving the gun and knife from his belt. He also took a
small, water-tight pouch that contained some papers,
Franklin's pass among them.

The keeper thumbed through the documents so
quickly that it was obvious he had not paused to read
them. Nonetheless, he proclaimed that he had proof Jake was a deserter.

"The committee of safety is meeting a short distance
away in the morning," said the man. "You can beg
their mercy, though I doubt it will do you much good."

"I wonder," said Jake, turning sideways to his right as if to address both father and son at the same time, "if I might sit at one of your tables?" He put his left arm out slowly, pointing to the side, all the while watching the lad. "If I am to wait for the committee, then I cannot stand all night."

"Well —" started the father. The rest of his sentence
was cut off by the loud crash of the blunderbuss dis
charging.

Into the ceiling. Jake had thrown himself into the boy, taking care to push the gun upwards first. The thick brass of the barrel flamed hot as ten balls exploded from its mouth; fortunately, they found their
home in the thick ceiling beams, adding a decorative circular pattern to what had been simple if stout pine
timbers.