The Golden Flask (44 page)

"And five more shillings when we get across. Do not
forget that we are well armed."

"Honor among thieves, sir. Best honor among pirates."

His spirits soaring thanks to the well-inflated fee, the
little man helped Alison into the bow of the rowboat,
then clambered in behind. They pushed off through the
fog nipping at the shoreline, the oarsman stroking with
an energy that belied his seemingly frail body.

By the time they were a quarter of the way across,
the man had begun humming a light air vaguely remi
niscent of "The Golden Vanity," the satirical ballad originally written of Sir Walter Raleigh. Alison soon
joined in, and the two broke into a loud if slightly off-
key chorus:

Sinking in the low land, low land, low,

Sinking in the low land sea.

"You've got a voice there, lass, a voice," said the
boatman. His lilt now hinted of the West Indies and his
eyes betrayed a tear from the song, which told of a
cabin boy rewarded for sinking an enemy vessel by be
ing cheated of his life. "A shame, really. A shame, a
shame."

Jake suddenly sensed the man was not speaking of
the song. Even as he pulled the pistol from his belt, he
saw a long, low shadow looming in the mist ahead.

"Into the water," he told Alison. He grabbed her arm and flung her overboard.

Her scream was drowned out by a shot from the ves
sel that lay in ambush. Jake fired his pistol at the spark,
and was rewarded by a satisfying splash, the gunman toppling into his grave. Behind him, the old pirate dove
into the water, stroking for the shore behind Alison.

"You will be repaid," Jake vowed, "if harm comes to her. I will pull your heart from your body through your
nostrils."

"A fine curse, Colonel Gibbs," boomed an all-too-
familiar voice from the nearby boat. "But I am afraid you won't live long enough to carry it out."

"I have been waiting for you to catch up to me for some time now, Keen. I am sorry to inform you that your operation proved unsuccessful."

"I suppose it depends on your perspective," an
swered Keen, his voice as cheerful as Jake's. The two
men might have been old college chums discussing the
day's laboratory procedures, each lying merrily to the
other of his successes. "In science, there is no such thing as a failed experiment, merely negative results."

"Always the optimist. Tell me, what did Black Clay
think of your failure? Or did you let him think you were dead?"

"I am glad my little ruse fooled you," said Keen.

"I never thought you were killed in the water."

"Come now, I'm sure you did. But then, I will admit
you surprised me tonight. I was looking for your friend
Mister Clynne, and here you show up instead."

"If you're referring to the Dutchman, I think you will
find a 'van' appended to his name. He is rather touchy if you leave it off."

"Indeed. But then he is cantankerous to a fault, is he
not?"

"I count it as his most endearing quality," said Jake.
Alison's strokes were now far in the distance; if nothing
else, Jake's banter had succeeded in purchasing her es
cape.

"It's you I have in front of me, colonel. I fear I will
have to deal with you straight away. Your cleverness
grows by the hour, it seems."

"I try to learn something new every day."

"Then this will be your most elucidating lesson," de
clared Keen.

"Much obliged, I'm sure. What lesson are we taking?"

"Ballistics, sir. Ballistics."

As the two men had been exchanging pleasantries,
the hired minions in Keen's longboat had continued to
row toward Jake. Their craft moved slowly, and not
merely because of the current. The doctor had re
moved his swivel gun from the bow of his carriage and
placed it at the bow of his boat; it was well-suited there, being of a naval design, though it tended to weigh against the craft's progress.
Jake slipped his knife into his hand, aiming to wait until the space between the boats was close enough to
leap across.

But the British assassin had fought him before, and if he had underestimated him severely at the start of
their mutual encounters, he now knew the American's
capabilities all too well. He ordered his men to halt while the two boats were still a good way apart.

"This is quite close enough to eliminate my friend,"
Keen declared. "Make ready to fire."

Jake had sensed from the start that Keen was hesi
tating to shoot, but could not understand why until he realized that while the light of Manhattan was silhou
etting his enemy's boat through the mist, his must be
nearly invisible with the much dimmer Brooklyn shore
behind him.

In that case, thought Jake, I won't help you find me
any more.

As quietly as possible, he sank to his knees, crouch
ing and willing the fog to fall in thick around him. Then
he had a second idea, and took, the bottle with the death poison from his pocket. The red liquid it con
tained was as thick as syrup, and coated the knife blade
as strongly as any glue.

Perhaps if he hit Keen, the doctor's men might think
him dead. Considering his usual treatment of subordi
nates, they would undoubtedly greet his demise with
some joy, and might even leave off chasing Jake.

And so we see how Hope springs up unrealistically in desperate times. Truly, Jake did not even know which dim shadow across from him was his nemesis.

He would have to get Keen to speak again. But doing that would reveal himself as well.

"I wonder, doctor — you never told me if you attended Edinburgh," said Jake.

"There he is," answered Keen. "Fire the damn gun."

In the split second it took for Keen's order to be
carried out, Jake's knife flew toward the shadow stand
ing midway back in the boat. He dove into the water just ahead of the cannon's crackle.

The patriot spy was not quite fast enough, nor lucky
enough, to escape all its bullets.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Wherein, ghosts intervene, and a few redcoats fall asleep.

“
K
een’s dead.”

“
My God, the bastard’s just pricked. The knife only caught his shoulder. How can he be dead?”

“
Shitten hell, see for yourself.”

“
ChristAlmightlyGod! We must be fighting the devil himself.”

“
The rebel bastard’s gone to the bottom, that’s for sure. Boat blew right out of the water.”

“
What to do with Keen?”

“
Take him back, I think.”

"To hell with that. Wrap the anchor around him and
drop the bastard overboard."

"Aye. See how far his threats get him."

"Deserves a decent burial for all that. He was a Christian."

"Seen no proof. Didn't he try to cheat us out of our
price for the boat?"

"Promised a good reward, though."

"Got no sight of it. An' he hasn't a cent in his pock
ets."

"Throw him overboard then."

"Maybe the money is lined in his coat. Strip it."

The voices faded across the water. Jake gripped the piece of smashed keel and gave a silent kick beneath the waves, working his way in the opposite direction.

He had been hit in his leg and his left shoulder,
though how badly he could not tell. The pistols in their
case hung like a heavy weight from the strap around
his neck. The only reason he did not let them drop was
that he could not spare the energy to undo the rope.

The patriot spy guessed that the low shadows loom
ing over his right arm must mark the Brooklyn shore
line; barely suppressing his moans, he pushed toward it. The natural action of the tide was sending him up
the mouth of the bay. A salty spray of water lapped at
his nose and eyes. He felt his body grow heavier and
heavier, every inch pressed down by fatigue.

Alison must be somewhere ahead, he thought. It was
unlikely she'd made shore yet. She was a strong girl, but Jake remembered the night on the Hudson. She
had not been able to make the beach by herself, for all
her energy.

He told himself he must push on and rescue her, must find the poor child — the poor woman — before she drowned. He owed it to her father.

He owed it to her.

He pushed on, until suddenly it felt as if Poseidon
himself had taken hold of him.

Not Poseidon; this was a smaller and mortal hand
grabbing him by the neck.

"Come along, now, sir; don't fight me or we will both
drown. The girl is waiting on shore."

It took Jake a moment to recognize that the voice belonged to the old pirate, and it was another second
before instinct told him he must trust the little man and his powerful strokes.

"I knew all the great pirate captains in my youth," the boatman told Alison, pointing out at the river as if the
ships floated there still. "Aye, gentlemen every one. It
is just bad politics that ruined their names. Politics and
prejudice; steer clear of them, girl." "Jake is waking up."

"Hush now, don't make no noise or we'll have the British marines down on us."

Jake lifted his head to consciousness, the voices taking shape before him. Alison and the old pirate were huddled cross-legged in the heavy mud of the shore a half-foot away.

"Jake, Jake, are you all right?" Alison asked.

"I don't know," he told her. "I seem to have all my arms and legs, at least."

"I repent, sir, of my perfidy," declared the old pirate. "I was tempted by gold and an evil man."

"The pirate saved us both, Jake," said Alison.

Even if Jake had been inclined at the moment to hold a grudge, his body ached too badly for him to do more than sit up. He examined his leg. A ball had ripped clear through the side of his thigh, taking a piece of the skin and bruising the muscle, but missing anything of importance. He took off his shirt and ripped part of the sleeve to fashion a bandage.