The Golden Flask (14 page)

In seconds, Jake found himself floating a mere
dozen yards from the British fifth-rater, a frigate-sized
warship retired from the line but still a considerable
power in these waters. The deck was awash with light,
and reflections leapt across the waves, the shadows
dancing in a wild, silent procession. He had no choice
but to drift; furious kicking might raise all manner of
unwanted attention.

Fortunately, the British eyes were drawn to the Jersey shore, where word had just come of a major
land battle near a rebel bridge. Rumor had inflated the encounter that had claimed Paul Brown's life; had the
wind been different, Jake might have heard whispers of
two battalions of rebels encountered, with George
Washington himself at their head. Such are the strange
fortunes of war; the same skirmish that made an or
phan of Alison now allowed them to pass unnoticed by
a considerably larger and more dangerous British force.

The Hudson now pushed the two patriots toward the
Manhattan shore. Jake felt the current take him as if
he were a feather on the wind; the log lifted nearly out
of the water, and in a trice they were speeding toward
land, within sight of the former Fort Washington just to
the north.

The rushing current and riptide threatened a fresh
disaster for Jake and Alison. The way before them was
filled with large and treacherously sharp rocks, plung
ing their nasty beaks into the night air like the mouths of the Furies themselves.

"Watch out!" Jake yelled as the log rode forward.
Alison slipped to the side, barely saving her arm from
the craggy jaws of a boulder. The maneuver took the last of her energy, and in the next second, she fell off the tree trunk.

Jake dove face-first over the log after her. The moonlight was by no means bright enough to illuminate the depths, and he flailed blindly with his hands
and feet, trying to feel for the poor girl. His right shin
struck so hard against a rock that he involuntarily cursed; this led him to take a huge gulp of water into his lungs, and he fought to the surface coughing.

Her father's dying plea sounded through the sharp
rap of the water against the rocks, and as he cleared his
chest of water, Jake cursed himself for stopping at the
inn, cursed himself still harder for suggesting that the
pair guide him to the river.

For a brief moment the torrent around him seemed to cease and the din fall away. Jake heard a faint burble to his right, more animal than human. He dove
toward it, catching Alison as she slipped downward for
the third time.

He grabbed her under the arm and pulled her to the
surface, tossing her limp body into the air with all his strength. Eliciting a hopeful cough for his efforts, he
tightened his grip and spun back to face the rocks —
and just barely managed to get his free hand before his
face as the tide slammed him into a large, moss-covered crag.

The entire world might be coming to an end around him, but Jake could see nothing but black granite, feel
nothing but the young girl clamped in his arm. His fin
gers pounded against the rock as if to hold it off, while
the current took his feet and shot them to his right,
upsetting his balance. But this proved fortuitous, for
they landed against a sandbar, and in the next moment
Jake was able to lever himself and Alison into a pro
tected pool of water and get to his knees.

The shoreline proper was still some yards off, but
the way now was easy. With his last bit of strength, he
hauled Alison over his shoulders and crawled onto dry
land, collapsing just as the first rosy fingers of dawn
poked through the east.

Chapter Thirteen

Wherein, a weaver’s measure is retaken.

H
aving released his anger
in disposing of his guide
and driver, Major Dr. Keen mounted his coach and took stock of the situation. Once launched on a mission, a member of the secret department must carry it
to completion. In this case, Gibbs's escape was doubly vexing, as the doctor had already sent a dispatch to his
master, General Bacon, indicating the spy's demise. Should Bacon learn of the error, he would be well
within his rights to punish Keen for his premature opti
mism.

There was only one punishment meted out to mem
bers of the secret department, no matter the offense: death, as untimely and unpleasant as possible.

Keen had not yet received an acknowledgment from
Bacon, and so there might be a short opening for him
to ransom the situation, assuming he could do so with
out Bacon finding out.

In any event, there seemed no
other option. He whipped his horses southward toward
the largest settlements, reasoning that it would be the most likely direction for Jake to travel, as he must by rights have come from the north. Still, the British as
sassin knew from experience that finding the spy would
not be an easy task.
At least, Keen thought to himself, he would no
longer have to deal with Gibbs's vexing sidekick, the obnoxiously rotund and endlessly talkative van Clynne.

Thus, when he reached the small village where Jake had eaten and clothed himself, he stopped more to discover the lay of the land than in actual hope of apprehending the patriot spy.

Keen's fancy coach, to say nothing of the fine buckskin breeches and embroidered coat he wore, marked him as a man of wealth. In certain Whig circles, this would immediately arouse suspicions, and so when he climbed down near the public house, the doctor began promulgating a cover story to any who would listen: He was a private citizen appointed to a committee of inspection by Governor Clinton, and was looking for a friend said to be traveling with a Colonel Hamilton.

"And who might that be, sir?" asked the tavern owner when they were introduced.

"A man with blond hair, an inch or two over six foot," said Keen. He placed his weight on his walking stick, picking the pocket watch from his vest as if concerned about the fact that it was already well past seven
p.m.

"Fella like that was in around dinner, midday or so," said the keeper. "Said Colonel Hamilton directed him here. Ate like a horse."

"That would be him," answered the doctor. "We were to meet in town, but I was delayed. I wonder where he's gone to?"

The keeper shrugged. "Seemed in a hurry. Asked after the weaver, if I recall."

Keen thanked the man, left a shilling on the table, and walked down the weedy, dust-strewn street to the weaver's shop.

Candles were lit in the small building, which was factory, home, and sales floor all in one. The doctor rapped his stick on the side of the old Dutch-style split door before opening it himself and stepping into the large front room. He was greeted by the steady whisking sound of a loom.

The large, wood-framed machine took up nearly a third of the room. Its levers and pedals were being
worked with great concentration by Kristen Daley, the
daughter whom the weaver had strenuously tried to protect earlier in the day.

The girl was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice her visitor at first. Keen likewise was transfixed,
for here was a perfect American beauty, bundled in
mobcap and baggy smock, but no less beautiful for
these plain coverings. In London, the doctor had been
quite a partaker of feminine charms, and if the world
might be said to be filled with connoisseurs of female beauty, he could rightly be accorded a place of honor
among them.

The doctor doffed his hat — rare was the Colonial who earned this honor — then tapped his stick on the floor, tilting his head at an angle calculated to give off a good perspective on his jaw.

The girl looked up with a start.
"Excuse me," said the doctor. "I am looking for a
friend." He stepped forward and bowed. "Allow me to
introduce myself: Dr. Harland Keen. I am on a mission
for Governor Clinton."

"Oh," said the girl. She started to get up from the loom, but caught her dress on the bench; the frame, pedals, and cloth mechanisms formed a kind of cage for the operator, making it difficult to exit quickly. Keen flew across the room, catching her in his arms.
He lifted her up as if she were a princess, twirling her
away from the machine and then setting her down, bowing with all the flourish he had once used on the floor of the king's palace.

Under other circumstances, Keen would have been
sorely tempted to pursue his interest in her. Indeed, he
had to fight severely against his nature, reminding him
self that Gibbs's existence was a threat to his own life. "I hope you are all right, my dear," he told her, step
ping back. "I am searching for a friend of mine, a Col
onel Gibbs. He is tall, well-built, with blond hair. I believe he came here searching for a suit."

"A stranger bought clothes from my father this afternoon
," said the girl. "He was tall and more handsome than any man I have ever seen."

"Some women find Mr. Gibbs pleasing," allowed
Keen, suppressing a reaction to her flutter. "Though I
could not say but his nose seems over-large for his face, as well as his health. We were supposed to meet in this
town, or I thought we were."

Keen walked to a table near the side, where some
fine polonaise gowns were displayed. It took little
imagination to picture the girl in one.

"He said he was going to New York," she told him.

Keen barely heard. It had been too long since he partook of beauty, and the temptation to satisfy him
self on this morsel was overwhelming. Whether the girl
understood the look in his eye as he turned or not, she
took a step backwards. Keen advanced arms forward, his body literally shaking in anticipation.

"Another step toward my daughter and I will blow your head off."

Keen stopped dead, then looked up with a contrite smile at Kristen's father in the doorway.

"This is an interesting way of greeting customers."

"What business have you in my shop?" demanded the weaver, unimpressed. "State it quickly."

"I am looking for a friend," said Keen. Walking stick
in hand, he took a tentative step toward the man. His
gun appeared to be one of the colonists' infamous
Pennsylvania rifles, though at this distance, its legend
ary accuracy was hardly essential.

"You have no friend here," said the weaver. "Out with you."

"Now, now, my good man. We are all friends in one
way or another," said Keen.

The weaver's answer was cut short by a sharp jab of the doctor's cane in his stomach. The gun fired harm
lessly into the ceiling; Keen smacked the side of the
man's skull and sent him to a deep but unrestful sleep
against the cabinet.

"And now, my darling," said the doctor, turning
back. "Perhaps you would like to come with me to New
York? Have you seen the sights there?"

"She will not see them today," said a sharp female
voice.