The Golden Flask (9 page)

As they came to the village, Hamilton bade his friend farewell.

"I assume we will see you in a few days," said the aide. "And we'll be singing your praises again."

"Have some strong ale ready," suggested Jake.

"With pleasure."

Jake's first stop was an inn, where he had a quick breakfast — for such it was, even though the clock was
past midday — of apple pie and fresh pheasant. The fowl was well prepared and left him in good spirits as he walked down the street to a weaver named Brian Daley, reported by Hamilton to be an especially hot friend of the Cause. The scouting proved accurate, though a bit more information might have prevented
the misunderstanding that followed Jake's mentioning
the colonel by name.

"Colonel Hamilton sent you, did he?" asked the
man, setting aside the bolt he was working and rising
from his loom.

Jake nodded in the affirmative, turned to take note
of a fine piece of cloth, and suddenly found himself
threatened by a sharp and rather nasty poker, its busi
ness end dusted with hot ashes.

"Stay away from my daughter, do you hear?" said
the man. "All you macaronis in your fancy suits — if you
attempt to sweet-talk her the way that West Indies bas
tard did, I'll have you skinned alive."

Jake managed to nudge the pointer from his face
and delicately assured the man that his interest was in
clothes, not daughters.

"It will help our cause a great deal," the spy added. "And you will be paid properly by General Washing
ton's men, as these letters show."

The warrant allowing funds to be drawn — initialed
by General Washington himself — helped clear up matters
, and the weaver took him into the back room, where material was piled in haphazard fashion.

"I don't have time for a suit to be made," said Jake.

"I wasn't proposing to delay you," said the man,
pushing aside several blankets to get to a store of knee
breeches prepared for other clients. He looked back at
Jake. "You're a tall one, though. It won't be easy to find something suitable. Although . . . Kristen, fetch me the trousers I set aside for Master Sullivan."

"Trousers? You're going to make me into a sailor? I
am bound for New York, and must fit in there."

The weaver was unmoved by this confidence, much less the complaint. "You weren't aiming for any high
society balls, were you?" he asked gruffly.

Indeed, he might be, thought Jake. The British in
New York were famous for their parties, and it was quite easy to pick up important command gossip at their celebra
tions. But he had no time to argue. The pants soon made their entrance in the hands of the weaver's daughter Kristen, who entered from the stairs. Hamil
ton's interest in her was well justified; the girl's smooth,
unblemished face was as round as a ripe tulip, and even in plain working clothes and apron, she added light to the room upon entering. Jake endeavored to keep his mind on his business. Excusing himself, he
went behind a small screen and changed. The white trousers were a little tight in the thigh, but serviceable.

"How do they look?" Jake asked, stepping from be
hind the screen.

Kristen had barely time to blush before her father
ordered her out of the room.

"Back to work with you," he yelled at her, chasing her up the stairs. "And you, sir —"

"I'll keep my pants on, I assure you. Have you a waistcoat and jacket?"

"I have a hunting shirt, though it has seen better days," said the weaver. "It should be about your size."

"That would be fine," said Jake. The shirt proved somewhat large at the stomach, but
Jake donned it gladly. His clothes were more than a bit
mismatched, even for these desperate times, but virtue often comes from necessity, and it did so here. The
costume would make it easy for Jake to pass himself
off as a poor militia deserter; the woods and swamps of
north Jersey were full of them, and none would be wearing the latest fashions.

As the weaver adjusted Jake's coat, he suddenly fell
back in pain.

"The damn gout has my shoulder." The man's face was white and drawn.

Jake eased the man around and pulled up his shirt,
looking at his back. His nimble fingers, so used to grap
pling with enemy soldiers, found a knot below the
weaver's shoulder blade. With gentle but steady pres
sure he poked it down, and the man's color returned.

"Are you a doctor, sir?" asked Daley, with obvious
relief.

"Of sorts," said Jake. "Is there an apothecary in town?"

"A liar and a thief, as are the entire breed."

Jake smiled. "I want you to obtain a cure from him
called the Gibbs Family Remedy. It contains an extract
from the Caribbean sea whip. A teaspoon when this flares up, and you will feel a new man."

The weaver looked at him suspiciously.

"If he tries to charge you more than a dollar for the
bottle, tell him you know he paid but ten pence."

Jake's father had discovered the properties of the fish from an aboriginal doctor and sold it at close to
cost, determined that it would be his lasting contribu
tion to the science of cures.

The weaver was so pleased that he produced a pair
of boots and a large beaver hat with a hawk's feather,
adding them to the bill at half-price. Jake's next
stop was at the stable owned by a certain Michael
Eagleheart, a farmer and smithy who had helped find horses for several of Washington's officers. Eagleheart,
a bluff fellow with a quick hand and ready laugh, allowed
as how Jake had come just in time; the day be
fore he had taken possession of a mount ridden only by
an old woman to church on Sundays.

To say that Jake was dubious of the tale is to say a
donkey has four legs. Nonetheless, the claim was
backed up in the flesh, as a three-year-old filly in fine
mettle was soon found standing atop fresh shoes and
shouldering a gentle disposition. Her price, at fifty
pounds, was half the going rate, and Jake had her sad
dled, boarded, and galloping for the road south within
a few minutes, the farmer having thrown in a small sword
to seal the bargain.

Chapter Eight

Wherein, Squire van Clynne has several experiences on
the river, some unpleasant, and others more so.

W
hile Jake rushes through
the rough land of south
ern Orange County into the hills and barrens of north
ern Jersey, we will rejoin his friend and late
companion, Claus van Clynne, who has been amusing
himself by trying to escape the villainous white Indian,
Egans.

Kneeling as his canoe flowed from the riverbank, van
Clynne picked up a paddle and attempted to accelerate his progress downstream. The Dutchman had lost his weapons and purses, but not his considerable store of passes and pin money, and thus was able to comfort
himself with the knowledge that, if he could merely
overcome this tiresome interlude, he might yet com
plete his voyage to General Washington successfully — assuming, of course, he could discover where the gen
eral was.

These optimistic thoughts were not the only goad to
his progress. Egans followed behind him on the shore,
sending bullets so close that his hatless hair fluttered with the passing breeze.
The Oneida was one of those men who learns greatly
from his mistakes. When he reloaded and fired again, he
was able to correct for his earlier aiming inadequacies,
and was rewarded with a direct hit on van Clynne's
canoe. The musket ball smashed against the hull with
such ferocity that the Dutchman lost his balance and
nearly fell over. The bullet sailed through the side into
the floor of the canoe and thence into the depths, where it descended with an ominous hiss.

The squire was too busy holding the craft upright at
first to realize the import of the noise. But he soon
discovered a geyser rising in front of him and noticed
at the same time a severe list developing in his vessel,
the small hole magnifying steadily.

The Hudson is perhaps the mightiest of our native
rivers. Before the war, it was a veritable highway of
commerce, as choked with traffic as the streets of New
York City or Philadelphia. Even now, no stretch of it is
ever completely empty, and as van Clynne began to scream for rescue, there were three or four vessels close enough to hear his call.

Could they reach him in time, though? As his canoe
swamped, the Dutchman paddled madly for the nearest craft, a single-masted gondola steered by a large
tiller at the rear. Its two sails were filled with the wind,
and as it tacked to head toward the floundering canoe,
the squire began to feel the icy lap of the waves on his
thighs. He pushed his oar violently through the water,
his concentration remarkable, his progress less so. As
admirable a vessel as the birch canoe may be, it was not designed to operate with a punctured hull.

Van Clynne could not swim, and as the water reached for his chest he feared that he had breathed
his final breath of dry air. With heavy heart and a last
burst of energy he gave his oar one last brutal push, determined to meet his maker as a brave Dutchman,
fighting adversity to the last.

It will be to his credit to note that his usual habit of complaint was not suspended in the moment he inter
preted as his last. Indeed, by now his cursing had reached epic proportions, so that, beginning with
Egans and ending with the Englishman who had dis
covered the North River, not a single living being could be truthfully said to have escaped his verbal wrath. His
words were not stilled until the water splashed full in his
face. He dove forward fitfully, writhing in what he
hoped approximated the manner of a fish.

During the Dutchman's struggle, the gondola had
managed to slip against the wind, and a sudden trick of
the current sent it streaking toward the floundering ca
noe. A sailor in the bow leaned over and caught van
Clynne's coat just before the Dutchman disappeared
below the waves. The weight was so great that the poor
man fell in with him.

The rest of the small crew quickly hove to. Within a
minute, both men had been hauled from the depths
and pulled aboard. Van Clynne had temporarily lost consciousness; he was brought around by some vigor
ous pumping of his chest and a dose of stiff rum.

"That is the most infernal excuse for liquor I have
ever tasted," coughed the Dutchman, sitting upright on
the deck. He reached up and grabbed hold of a rope ladder that led to the mast above. "Please, don't at
tempt to poison me further. If you are trying to kill me, send me back into the river. If you want to restore my
health, fetch me a good keg of ale."