The Golden Flask (27 page)

It might be said that his chisel was strong but his saw
not half as sharp as typical of the breed, for though he
worked steadily for half an hour, he made so little progress that many a journeyman would have hailed him as an accomplished master.

The significance of this porch for our story is that it
lay directly behind the painted brick building used by
the British engineers to house some of their more important drawings and least important staff. The carpen
ter, who soon gave up his work to slip a long narrow bar and a pistol beneath his smock and apron, was none other than the well-disguised hero of our tale, Jake Gibbs.

Besides the costume and hat, Jake had added a wide
bandage to his chin, wrapping it once around the bottom
quarter of his face to obscure the rounded, often smiling jaw that was among his best features. Rubbing
it, he made his way up the alley, crouching behind a
barrel as the lone guard assigned to watch the building
made his founds in front.

A young maple tree, tall but too slender to provide
more than token support, stood nearby. A window with
a solid-looking brick ledge and frame would give Jake a
good boost to the second story, where his metal shim
ought to make short work of the hall opening.

The guard's pace wasn't exactly up to parade-field
specifications. It was more a mopey snuffle, difficult to
time exactly but ripe with the sort of lackadaisical ef
fort that promised the alley would be unsupervised for
long stretches. In addition, the guard had recently ac
quired a new set of boots, and so his approach was easy
to avoid — the leather soles made a sharp sound as they
scraped the pavement stones. As they became louder,
Jake dropped to his knees and made sure his body was
well behind the barrel.

Once the scrapes began heading in the other direction, Jake rose and peered in the window. As Culper's
diagram had predicted, it looked in on the dining
room. The table had been set, which meant that the
secretary would soon be down for supper.

Jake was about midway up when the guard's soles began scraping again in his direction. He hurried up
ward, reaching the window that according to Culper
opened into a small storage room.

Unfortunately, Culper's information was wrong. It
opened into an upstairs hallway, in full view of the of
fice where his lordship worked.

Or rather, the office where he was just now emerging.

Jake ducked away so quickly his grip loosened and
his fingers slipped from the ledge. The distance to the
ground was not enormous, but he still met the earth
with a resounding smack, his legs groaning from the
unexpected shock.

Jake groaned as well. He fell to his back, holding his
breath as the scraping from the front of the house stopped, then resumed with much greater vigor.

The Segallas, cleaned and reloaded after the plunge
in the river, was secreted at the top of his right sock. As
he reached for it, the guard appeared over him and ordered him to stand upright.

"I am trying," said Jake. "But I have had a wicked bee sting here, and cannot even stand up." He rolled
over, scratching at his leg as if injured — and hoping for
a chance to remove the pistol.

"Never mind that," said the sentry. "Explain who you are."

"I am a poor carpenter," said Jake. "As you can see
from my tools on the porch."

"What is a carpenter doing working on a brick build
ing?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I am working on that
porch there," gestured the spy. "A man named Baxter hired me to do some work. I was chased here by a nest
of bees."

"Baxter? That building belongs to an old woman named Fife."

Jake grimaced. "Baxter was the name of the fellow
who hired me." He rose. "Jesus, the damn thing is back," he said, swatting at the air.

The soldier was not fooled. But Jake was able to duck the butt of his gun as he swatted. He pulled his
pry bar from his belt and smashed it across the man's
face. A harder smash to his skull knocked him senseless.

Jake took off his apron and used its strings to truss
the redcoat. Pulling him back to the porch, he fastened
him below the steps, blindfolding and gagging him so he could not call out when he awoke. Jake judged it
would be several hours, if not longer, before he man
aged to free himself.

By the time the patriot returned to the window, Al
ain was entering the dining room. Jake gripped the
brickwork and hoisted himself quickly upwards on the side, his fingers clinging to the smooth clay like barnacles to a ship's bottom. He was at the upstairs hall win
dow in a trice, pushing his slender metal bar between
the sill and the sash and gently nudging it upwards. In
the next second, he had slipped inside, confident that
he would soon be on his way back to Washington with
the whole story of Howe's pending invasion.

Chapter Twenty-four

Wherein, Jake examines diverse maps, drawings and a maid’s fine lips.

T
he chestnut floor planks
were covered with a thin, fairly worn carpet, which provided little cushion for Jake's footsteps. With the first creak, he realized he had best proceed barefoot, and leaned against the wall to gingerly unbuckle and remove his shoes.

His destination was only a few feet away, not far
from the top of the stairs. The house's owner, a hearty patriot, had taken the precaution of removing not only
his furniture but many of his finely trimmed doors and
shutters before fleeing. Thus anyone coming up the stairs would have an unobstructed view of the office, with Jake inside.

There was nothing to do but pray that wouldn't hap
pen. Jake tiptoed across the hallway, shoes in one hand and cocked pistol in the other. Tucking the shoes by the
door, he posted his gun on a chair within easy grasp and sized up the office.

Culper's intelligence had pegged the room as the
most likely place plans for an invasion or other helpful
records might be kept. In truth, this was but a guess
based on its use by the senior staff. Jake realized at
a glance that only a thorough search would confirm or deny it. The place was hardly a model of bureaucratic efficiency. There were three small desks, each covered
with a variety of books, loose papers, and sketch upon
sketch of maps. The center of the room was filled by a
large table, whose smooth wood surface was neatly overhung by several layers of charts. Important papers
and maps were stored without obvious order throughout the room, and indeed, throughout the entire house.
The rumors of English efficiency were, in this depart
ment at least, greatly exaggerated.

Jake moved first to the central table; the pile proved
a collection of various fanciful plans of world cosmology, replete with mermaids, phoenixes, and centaurs — obviously the sort of project a young subordinate filled
idle hours with while his boss was far away. Much pain
had been taken with several of these; on one edge of
the table were tacked a series of studies for heads and faces. Jake had gained an appreciation for art while in
Oxford for his schooling, and realized immediately that
these drafts displayed considerable dexterity.

They were of little importance now, however. He turned his attention to the documents and books on
the desks, going through them as rapidly as possible without creating too much noise. For the most part, the
papers were plans for bridges and bivouacs that could be put into use anywhere on the continent; not one showed any geography or features that might hint where Howe was heading.

Jake's inspection was suspended by a knock so loud
on the door below that it felt as if it were made at his shoulder. This was followed by a familiar
harrumph,
a
not altogether pleasant clearing of the throat, and a general "hello there." The heavy steps of a butler
sounded up the stairwell as van Clynne's voice boomed
out, inquiring after his "good friend, the distinguished
Lord of Marquedom, Count Alain, peer to the realm."

Had any other patriot knocked on Alain's door, Jake
would have immediately guessed that trouble was
afoot. But his long experience with van Clynne led him
to believe that the Dutchman, as usual, was merely
showing his face where it did not belong. Jake cursed
silently, then told himself that at least van Clynne's
loud voice would distract the servants and his lordship
from any noise he might make upstairs. Jake returned to the desks and began pulling open the drawers to examine their contents.

He was into the second desk when he heard a light foot treading on the stairs. There was no chance to escape; his only option was to hide next to the door
and hope whoever was coming up the stairs passed by.

Vain hope. Jake crushed himself against the wall as
the room filled with the light scent of pot marjoram. A
woman in her early twenties followed. She looked
down and asked aloud where the shoes had come from.

"They're mine, I'm afraid," said Jake, putting his
hand quickly over her mouth. As she began to struggle,
he found it necessary to use both arms to keep her still;
as it was necessary to cover her mouth, he used the only device handy —his mouth.

Her lips were quite soft and surprisingly compliant, and in a moment he felt her body slacken into surren
der.

* * *

Claus van Clynne, meanwhile, made his way through
the house with characteristic bluster. The butler who
answered his knock gave the bearded, russet-clad visi
tor a quizzical look, as if he had opened a door and come face-to-face with a ghost of the island's past.

The Dutchman saw the man's apprehension as an invitation to proceed.

"Good evening, sir. Claus van Clynne at your ser
vice, here to express my severe condolences to his fine
young lordship. His marquessship is at home, I assume."

"Allow me to introduce my young assistant, Al
Stone." Here van Clynne swept toward Alison, still on
the doorstep."Despite his tender age, my friend is
quite a lion with arithmetic. He can multiply the nines
and even the odd eight as if they were tens, which is a
considerable talent in business. Hmmm, do I detect the
scent of roast capon?”

"It is quail, sir."

"Quail!" thundered van Clynne. "Properly prepared
quail will triple the life span!"

Van Clynne led Alison and the attendant to the din
ing room, where the young lord was seated at the table
with the air of a North Sea walrus awaiting his mollusk.
Ever mindful of his manners, the Dutchman put his
hand to his head, then belatedly realized he no longer
had a hat. No matter — he swept an imaginary one off
his head with the smooth gesture of a dancer opening a
show for His Majesty himself.