The Golden Flask (54 page)

The Tory took this chance to grab another pistol from its panel at the back of the chair where he was sitting.

Jake dove at him before he could aim. As the two
men crashed back and forth, the muscles in Jake's body cried out in despair, every injury inflicted over the past
few days renewing itself. Half his body was covered in
sticky blood.

Bauer surprised Jake by sinking his teeth deep into his arm — apparently the tactic ran in the family. The
pain was so desperate the spy felt the hard shock in his
backbone. Jake retaliated by punching the Tory with his head, moving him back but not loosening his grip
on the pistol. Both men had their fingers on the trigger;
both had their other hand on the barrel, flailing in a desperate struggle to aim or divert its fatal ball.

Suddenly, one of the fingers succeeded in slipping
against the trigger, igniting the lock.

Whose finger it was, neither could tell. In the pure
moment of silence that followed, it did not matter.
Both men felt as if they had been transported, plucked
from the tormenting fires of hell and deposited in the
sweet clover hills of Oblivion.

And then Clayton Bauer's body fell limp, and Jake
Gibbs fell back, the smoking pistol dangling from his
bloody hand.

* * *

Daltoons's men had succeeded in surprising and dis
mounting the English soldiers, but he could see his troop was outnumbered and greatly outgunned. They
had only enough shot and powder to keep on for a few
minutes more; already he had lost two of his dozen men. Redcoat reinforcements kept appearing up the
road. While the patriots had good firing positions, in
command of the highway and the well-tended field be
fore it, a concerted charge by the British would easily
overwhelm them.

"Ames, you go back to the house and get them the hell out of there," said Daltoons. "We'll hold out as best we can."

Ames, realizing this might be the last time he saw his
commander, nodded gravely, but hesitated a moment
before putting down his rifle.

"Go, man," ordered Daltoons, and the young man was off, running down the hill.

It could well be that the moment of regret at leaving
his friends cost him his life. For as he neared the house, a British sniper who had managed to infiltrate
the woods spotted him, and with a single bullet sent his
poor soul scurrying to Saint Peter's well-trod gate.

Jake rose and surveyed the battered room, littered with
bodies. Once again he had failed, his finely crafted trick as useless as a child's game. But just as he was
about to curse himself and all his damnable cleverness, he realized Egans was still alive. He bent over him and
saw the wound was, fatal; the red man born white would die in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

"You must not try to speak," Jake said gently. He
pulled the front of Egans's coat together, covering the
bullet hole. "The ball has taken you through the lungs.
You are a brave man and true to your word; I am sorry
that I did not trust you before now."

"I had not earned it," said Egans, lifting his head. "I
do not fear death. The sky has already closed around
me. Howe is on his way to Philadelphia." He began to
cough blood. "He told his brother."

"Philadelphia," Jake repeated.

"Yes," said Egans. "He said so freely. Father!"

The last word was uttered in the nature of a hoarse
shout, emerging from his lips at the very moment his
soul passed on. Jake followed the corpse's gaze across
the room — right to Lady Patricia, who stood at the doorway with a rifle in her hands.

Chapter Forty-six

Wherein, the old adage, “Better late than never,” is proven true.

C
laus van Clynne’s journey
across the Hudson had been delayed by the contingencies of negotiation and logic, to wit: the squire could not understand why the ferryman deemed it necessary to increase the standard fee an extra two shillings, due to the fact the British were now in control of the Manhattan coast.

"If you do not understand that, then I shall charge
you three extra shillings, to cover the cost of my les
son," retorted the ferryman.

The negotiations proceeded at length until Alison dug into her own purse and tossed the man his extra
two shillings. Van Clynne did not like this, but he none
theless saw no reason not to get into the vessel while he complained.

While the Dutchman had spent considerable time on
the water of late, his characteristic fear of the waves
had not abated. Thus his eyes were closed firmly, and
covered with his hands besides, when the vessel touched the rocks a hundred yards or so north of the point where Jake and the others had come in.

"They're shooting!" said Alison as the boat scraped
onto the shore. "Look! Redcoats are coming over the hill. We must warn Jake!"

She was out and running before van Clynne could even open his eyes. The Dutchman's admonition that
she halt might just as well have been uttered at the sky.
Cursing, he turned to the ferryman and told him he must wait for his return.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I told you to," said van Clynne, reaching
beneath his shirt for a purse. "And because I will give you a fresh ten-pound note if you are here when I get
back."

"For that amount of money, I would wait for Satan
himself."

"Satan would not pay you nearly as well," grunted
van Clynne as he got out of the boat. He rushed up the shore to the two guards who were posted near the Sons
of Liberty's boats.

"Come with me quickly," he ordered.

"The hell we will," said one of the men. "Throw up
your hands you British dog, or I'll kill you where you
stand."

"I'm van Clynne, you idiot. Don't you hear the gunfire? Why did you let the girl go on without a weapon?"

"Jesus, Jack, it's the fat Dutchman who is always
complaining. Someone's snatched his beard away."

Under ordinary circumstances, van Clynne would have demanded to know by whose definition he was
being declared fat. But there was no time to waste; he
pushed down the man's gun and bade him follow up to
the house.

"Our orders were to stay and guard the boats."

"Were your orders to let the rest of the party die in the meantime? Come on then, and follow me. Hon
estly, there was a time when enlisted men showed ini
tiative. I hope your muskets are loaded with double shot, at least."

* * *

Spent gunpowder and smoke filled the room with a
hazy gray air. Jake and Lady Patricia stood alone above
a sea of blood and dead bodies. Her dressing gown was
still unclasped; were it not for the rifle, she might appear an angel or one of the Fates, come to account for the dead.

Jake held his arms out calmly. "Lady Patricia, I had
hoped you would not come to harm."

"Those are empty words," said the woman. "You have killed my entire family."

"I did not kill your son. Your brother-in-law and hus
band chose their own paths."

"It is the same. You rebels have no care for honor or
the rule of law. I did not understand my brother until
now."

"But we do. That is why we are fighting, as anyone who stays in this country more than a few weeks will learn. I do not mean to offer false hope, but if your son
was not accounted for, it may be because he escaped
alive. Perhaps he has deserted."

"I hardly think the son of a peer would run away from battle."

"He wouldn't be the first. He was a young man, and
Justice is a strong mistress."

Tears were beginning to well in her eyes, but Lady
Patricia was resolute. She lifted up the gun and with her thumb, reached to pull back the trigger.

"Jake!"

He dove to the side. Lady Bauer was pushed to the
floor by a body leaping across the threshold onto her
back.

Jake rolled to his feet and plucked the still-loaded rifle from the floor. He had to grab Alison as she aimed a blow at the noblewoman's head.

"She was going to kill you," cried the girl.

"It's all right, Alison." He gave her the rifle, then
reached down and gently touched the poor woman's
heaving body.

"Kill me, kill me," she sobbed. "I want to die."

Outside, the gunfire was getting closer — and thicker.

"I was not lying about your son," said Jake, still
crouched over her. "And I promise to ask General
Washington about him."

She made no acknowledgment that she had heard him. Jake stood over the prostrate, grief-ridden body. He knew many patriot women who had been made
widows from this war; he felt no less for her than them.

Alison, standing at his side, saw the gentle way he
knelt back and patted the Tory woman's shoulder. She
remembered what Mrs. Hulter had told her of love —
and in that instant despaired. The girl threw down the
gun on the couch and walked out of the house in a cloud.

She was nearly run over by van Clynne in the hall
way.

"There you are, as usual, dallying with the distaff while there is considerable work to be done," announced the Dutchman in a huff as he entered the room. "We are under attack. Our forces are retreating to the perimeter of the house."

"I'm leaving," said Jake, rising. He stopped short as he turned. "Where is your beard?"

"I doffed it as a disguise," said the Dutchman.

"You look like a new man," said Jake, scooping up his Segallas and grabbing the rifle. "Come. We have what we came for, thanks to your friend Egans."

The battle outside was proceeding with great fury, as
Daltoons attempted to beat the slowest retreat possible. His men were doughty volunteers, fully imbibed
with the spirit of Freedom, brave souls all. But no man
ner of rhetorical flourish can overcome the fact that they were over-matched.

The British, sensing their superiority, advanced with
an aggressive haste that gave Daltoons an idea. Load
ing his musket and pistol with double shot, he directed
his men to continue their withdrawal past the house.
He then hid himself in a thick bush as the British con
tinued their advance.