The Golden Flask (4 page)

"You will do what I say, or I will kill you," said the
voice sharply. "Identify yourselves."

Jake, his barely healed wounds smarting from the
bumping they'd been treated to on the ride, stretched
his arms stiffly and studied the shadows. A man with a
gun was standing to their right.

"Excuse us, sir," said Hamilton brightly. "We are on
our way to New Paltz."

"No one travels at night on this road," said the man.
Tall, he cast a wedged shadow forward from the
woods. His accent was odd, though his words were per
fect English. The intonation reminded Jake of the
Iroquois, among whom he had just spent several har
rowing weeks.

"We are good patriots," answered Hamilton. His
service as an artillery officer had not taught him the
caution that was second nature to Jake. This was secure patriot country, after all, and his assumption that the men must be
must be part of the local militia was logical. "I
am Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, and this is my friend, Colonel Gibbs."

"A pair of colonels," said another voice, this one to
their left. There was no mistake about his accent — it was direct from one of London's cruder neighborhoods.

Jake quickly surveyed the nearby woods, looking for
a safe line of retreat. His only weapon was his Segallas
pocket pistol secreted at his belt. And Hamilton's
larger officer's pistol was snug in the holster on the side
of his saddle on his horse.

"If you've come to rob us," said Jake, "it will do you
no good; we've got no money."

"We're not interested in your money," said the man with the Indian accent, who seemed to be the other's
leader. He took a step from the shadows.

"Come now, friends, who is your commander?" said
Hamilton, taking a step forward.

Jake groaned. "Alexander," he said as he put his hand to his vest, "I believe my stomach is acting up."

"As well it should," said the leader. "Bring up the light."

A third and then a fourth man emerged from the
shadows near the bushes, the last holding a candle lan
tern. Its flame was hardly enough for anyone to read
by, but it gave Jake enough light to see there were no
other reinforcements.

"Gentlemen," he said, still feigning illness as he stepped forward, "I must speak to you alone."

"That's an old trick," said the first man who had
accosted them, standing to their right. The dim light
illuminated white skin, but his forehead and cheek
were tattooed with the unmistakable markings of an Iroquois warrior. His head was completely shaven, ex
cept for a scalp lock; tied with a large golden feather
and brass ring, it hung down the side of his head to his
shoulder. His clothes were a curious mixture of European and Indian dress. He wore a black, tailored jacket, but no shirt.
A long red ceremonial slash cut a diagonal
across his chest. His breeches were leather. In the
darkness it was impossible to tell what, if anything, he
wore on his feet.

Jake had come across painted whites before. Some
called them changelings, men who had been adopted
or stolen as youngsters to live among the Indians and
converted to their ways. Others called them renegades,
race traitors, and worse.

It was difficult to generalize about where such men's
loyalties lay. But these had already given themselves
away. Jake guessed the white Indian and his escorts must be messengers working between the British northern and southern frontiers; they were too far and too misplaced to be scouts.

"This is not a trick," said Jake. He had used his feigned stomach ailment to put the Segallas into his hand, and now contemplated how best to use its store
of bullets. "The name I have used until now is false, a
fiction to make travel among these rebels safer. I am Major Doctor Keen, assigned to General Bacon's intel
ligence service. I am on my way to our lines with valu
able information."

Keen's name was unfamiliar to them, but the mention of Black Clay was enough to give the quartet
pause. Bacon ran the British intelligence service head
quartered in New York City under General Howe.
They were ostensibly if indirectly under his command.

He was also a man who must not be crossed in the least way. The Englishmen took a step backward, nearly as a group.

The tattooed man was not impressed. He spat on the
ground.

"Egans, let us examine him," suggested the Londoner. "He should bear a token if he is a messenger."

"I did not say I was a messenger," answered Jake,
working his way slowly toward the man with the candle
lantern. He tried to use the same haughty tone Keen would have used. The spy felt safe in usurping Keen’s identity well as his voice, as he had watched the
doctor sink to the bottom of the Mohawk River a week
before.

"What are you then?" demanded Egans. Jake's
guess about the man's origins was correct — he was an
adopted member of the Oneida nation, among whom he had proven his worth and earned the name of a warrior some years before.

"I would not talk to one who pretends to be an Iro
quois," said Jake, as savagely as if his mother had been
accused of being a whore. The white Indian at first did not react, but his anger quickly grew as Jake began to
rattle off a series of curses in pidgin Huron. While
these ill-pronounced words represented all he knew of the tongue, still they were of sufficient slander to ac
complish Jake's purpose. No matter that the stress and
accent were wrong; the hate for the Huron nation's
eternal enemies, eaters of people and robbers of skins,
was perfectly clear.

"I have spent many weeks among the Huron," Jake
told the Englishmen as they strained to hold back the infuriated Egans. He embellished his preposterous tale
with a boldness that made it sound plausible. "Working
on an alliance. You will help take me to Howe."

"What about him?" said the candle-holder, gesturing
toward Hamilton.

"Oh, he's just a convenient rebel," said Jake, walking
to him. "We shall take him along as ransom. I doubt
he's really a colonel, though," he added. "I should be
surprised if he's even a captain."

Hamilton might have objected at this demotion, but
he was too busy flying to the ground. This sudden ac
tion was dictated by Jake's shout as he upturned the lantern into its bearer's face. In the next instant, he fired the Segallas at the next closest Englishman.

Jake's finger inadvertently nudged both of the gun's
small triggers, and thus two poisoned bullets instead of
one struck the man in the chest. Cursing, Jake dove at the last Briton, whose pistol discharged as they tumbled backwards.

Egans took a step backward, calmly drawing back
the lock on his musket. He caught the bare outline of
Hamilton springing to his feet and fired in the young officer's direction, ducking as a projectile flew at him.
The missile was a medium-sized rock, which missed
Egans's head by a half-foot. Fortunately, his bullet missed Hamilton by the same margin.

Jake and the Englishman fell together into the
stream, the Segallas dropping by the wayside. The patriot had just spotted a jagged rock to thrash his man's
head against when he felt his leg warm considerably. This sensation was followed by a strong, sharp poke,
which the patriot spy recognized only too well — his en
emy was endeavoring to stitch his name on Jake's leg,
if not his abdomen, with a small but still considerably
sharp knife.

The Englishman's head was thrust three times on the
stone, each time harder than before, so that with the third blow his brains burst in a gruesome mess from the skull. Jake jumped to his feet as the man's ghost ran from him.

The patriot had just enough time to duck as the
candle-bearer charged straight at him. The maneuver
sent the man flying face-first into the stream. It also brought Jake within reach of the dead man's discarded
knife, which he appropriated before wading after his prey.

While his first approach had ended in a comic flip, the Englishman aimed quickly to redeem himself. He had equipped himself with a hatchet, and took two
quick swipes at Jake to halt his advance. Knee-deep in water, the two men faced each other in the moonlight
oblivious to all else around them.

Hamilton, meanwhile, had managed to take a few
strides for his horse, where his pistol sat waiting. Egans got there first, shoving him aside and grabbing at the
saddle holster for the gun. Though of average height, Hamilton
could extend himself when enraged, and he
was rarely so hot as he was now. He flew headlong at the man, knocking the gun from his hand just as the
lock was pulled back. The woods exploded with the
misfired shot, but neither Hamilton nor the adopted Oneida was injured. Egans slipped and the pair rolled in the mud beneath the animals' hooves, the horses pulling and yanking at their tied reins.

Fury aside, Egans was more than a match for Hamil
ton. But Hamilton was persistent. They continued to
grapple together, until the white Oneida spotted the
fallen pistol a short distance away. Then began a desperate game of leapfrog, each man trying to reach the
weapon first.

Meanwhile, Jake and his opponent thrashed back
and forth on the creek bed. Twice the American took a
feint with his knife, falling back under the weight of a vicious flail from the Englishman's ax. On his third try,
Jake's luck seemed to run out — he slipped on the muck and fell backwards in a tumble. In the next instant, the Englishman fell upon him, hand curled back with the
heavy hatchet.

The weapon fell aside harmlessly. Jake had em
ployed a simple ruse to take his enemy off his guard,
plunging his knife full into his stomach as he charged.
He held the hilt firmly as the man first pushed then pulled, triumphant charge turned to desperate retreat.

On his knees in the water, Jake levered the blade through the man's organs, holding him tight with his
left hand. No lover's grasp was as sturdy as this death
grip; by the time he let the man collapse backwards
into the moonlit water, his soul had long since escaped its
earthly bounds.

And now Jake turned his attention to the shore
where Hamilton was deep into his own hard struggle.
Egans's superior skill and strength were showing; he managed to grab the pistol from the dirt and brought it
back in a crash across Hamilton's head.

Jake scooped up his Segallas and spun its barrels to fire,
but both bullets whizzed wide of his mark. Oblivi
ous, the white Oneida pulled Hamilton's empty pistol
back for a second blow as a hammer when Jake
crashed into his back. Knocked to the ground, Egans managed to tumble around and spring to his feet, and
Jake found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

It took a moment for him to realize the weapon had
already been fired. By that time, Jake was diving to his
right, out of aim. The Indian smiled brightly and leapt to the nearby horse.