The Golden Flask Page 4

  The traveler was Egans, who had restored both his strength and his anger during the several hours that had passed since encountering Jake and Colonel Hamilton. He had also recovered sufficient composure to cloak his business in the guise of a semi-innocent wanderer.

  "Good morrow to you," said van Clynne. "Which way are you going?"

  "To the river," replied the man.

  "Not far to go, then." Van Clynne stroked his beard a moment and attempted to puzzle out the man's ancestry. Though his skin was white, his wardrobe was just the sort of mixture an Iroquois might consider his Sunday best. Obviously this was a European adopted by natives at some point in his past.

  Such men had an unsurpassed ability to slide between the two worlds and were invaluable in business. They were generally easy to enlist, and rarely understood the nuances of European exchange rates. Van Clynne hated to miss an opportunity that might lead to future profits. But his beard scratching brought him back to his true priority: finding Jake and winning an appointment with Washington.

  "I wonder if you have seen a man about six foot tall and heading south on horseback," he asked the stranger. "An early riser two towns ago thought he caught sight of him hurrying this way. He has blond hair, a fine Continental uniform, and a habit for getting involved in difficult situations, from which I inevitably rescue him."

  "I have seen no one," claimed Egans.

  "He would have been in the company of another man, a Colonel Hamilton. My friend's name is Gibbs — a remarkable individual. I have no doubt posterity will learn a great deal about him, though the edges of his story will have to be rounded for easier consumption. Modesty prevents me from describing my role in his adventures, but it has been considerable. The times I have plucked him from Hades' vestibule are too many to count."

  "You look familiar," suggested the white Indian. "What is your name?"

  "Claus van Clynne, at your service," said the Dutchman. "You, too, seem familiar," he said. Now that he'd had a chance to think about it, he placed the man's signs and jewelry definitely among the Oneida. There were not many white men who would wear the simple stone and symbolic tree, and fewer still who would have been accorded the honor of the eagle feather tied to his scalp lock. He searched the cubbyholes of his brain and retrieved the name: "You are Egans, are you not?"

  Despite a secret hatred of the Dutch — van Clynne's ancestry was easily deduced from his clothes, to say nothing of his name and accent — Egans's stoic mask dropped for a moment. "How do you know me?"

  "You are quite famous," said the Dutchman. He slipped off his horse and approached, holding out his hand. "You were a white child kidnapped by the Mohawk, and then adopted by the Oneida during the troubles thirty years ago. Your white family came from land not far from mine, and your adopted uncle and I have made one or two suitable arrangements regarding furs and corn in the past, before the war. I believe you were baptized Christof—"

  "My Seneca name is Gawasowaneh."

  "Yes, yes, Big Snowsnake," said van Clynne, waving his hand as if he knew a thousand men with the Indian name. The Oneida were a touchy lot, and he did not want to provoke even an adopted son. Van Clynne was temporarily weaponless, his customary tomahawks left behind in Albany and his unloaded pistol resting comfortably in his saddlebag. "You have earned it for your role in the ceremonies."

  "I have earned it for my role as a warrior," said the Oneida. Indeed, his ceremonial names could not be uttered except at the council fire.

  "Just so, sir, just so. Would you prefer I use Gawasowaneh in addressing you? I myself am known by many Indian names." Van Clynne did not add that most of these might be translated loosely as "Big Tummy and Longer Tongue."

  "Call me what you will."

  "Thank you, sir, thank you. I know your entire life story; I congratulate you on your endurance. What brings you here?"

  Egans did not answer his question, but van Clynne was undaunted.

  "One of your native uncles and I had quite an arrangement three summers ago," continued the Dutchman, the memory of the profitable deal warming his heart. "I delivered certain blankets to the great chief Corn Planter, in exchange for wood carted down the mountain path. An unusual arrangement, but favorable to both sides. With your connections to the Iroquois Federation-—strong friends of mine, I might add. I have recently spent much time among the Mohawk, turning them from the English path into more profitable areas. Perhaps we have mutual acquaintances?"

  "As it happens, I am to meet my uncle at the river," suggested Egans. "Ride with me."

  Van Clynne wondered what a seventy-year-old Indian whose home was far to the northwest would be doing near the river. A belated if sharp sense of danger hastened him to postpone further talk of a business arrangement indefinitely.

  "I have urgent business further south," he noted, bowing and then reaching to pull himself back onto his horse. "Perhaps in a few days we can meet in some local inn."

  "I think you will come with me now," said Egans, pushing aside his coat to reveal a secreted pistol.

  "I should think it cold without a shirt beneath your coat. There is a fine tailor not too far from here. Perhaps if we took that road, I might be able to shave a few pence from the price."

  "I think not," said Egans. "We are almost at the river now."

  "Does your uncle know that you have allied yourself with the English?" asked van Clynne, steadying his horse as it climbed down the obscure, rock-strewn path. They were far from the main roads, approaching a wooded bluff overlooking the Hudson. The water was so close the Dutchman could catch glimpses of the gently rocking waves through the trees. "I would think he would have something to say about it."

  "I have not seen my uncle in many years, fat man."

  "I would think, sir, that personal insults will not forward our relationship in the least. But let me mention that your uncle still grieves your family's loss."

  "No other man has lost two fathers," said Egans suddenly, turning on van Clynne. "And now I suggest that you keep silent, or I will fill your mouth with lead."

  "As you wish, sir," said van Clynne. "Though, I would think you much wiser to align yourself with the patriotic cause, as it is one that argues for freedom and should be most compatible with the native lifestyle. These English — "

  "Enough! It was a Dutchman who killed my second father. Do not tempt me to take revenge."

  With great effort and a strong glance at the pistol lodged against his nose, van Clynne stopped his tongue. Egans's red father had in fact been killed by a German — the story was well known in the inns near the family's old homestead—but his friend was not in a mood to be corrected.

  Egans was a wily fellow, and he made sure to stay several yards behind van Clynne. He had also taken the precaution of removing the squire's pistol from his saddlebag, as well as confiscating his four purses. The pistol was of little account, as it hadn't been loaded, but the purses had a certain sentimental value — the Dutchman nearly cried over the bills they contained. True, he had taken the precaution of leaving nearly all his coins with Sarah Thomas's father for safe keeping before attending the ball, and had a good supply of New York pounds and a few British notes besides hidden in his heel. But this he considered emergency money, and of dubious authenticity besides.

  What van Clynne really wished for was a tomahawk. He was well known as one of the best ax chuckers in the province; were one in his hand right now, Egans would be wearing his hair much differently.

  "Stop," said the white Oneida as van Clynne's horse reached a high point in the trail. The trees immediately to the east had been cleared, giving them a good view of the Hudson below. The river was a bright expanse of blue, gleaming with the sparkle of the midday sun. Only a few boats were about.

  With Egans's attention turned toward the water, Escape was flapping her wings and heading for greener pastures. But the Dutchman needed a weapon to gain tactical advantage, and only one thing presented itself — his large and well-treasured silvery-gray beaver hat. Desp
erately, van Clynne flung it, startling Egans as he turned, and causing him to misfire his gun. In the same motion, van Clynne kicked his horse sharply. The animal leapt forward, but stumbled after only three steps, sending the Dutchman in a heap into the hillside brush. The considerable slope of the terrain added momentum to van Clynne's tumble, and the Dutchman was soon rolling down the hill with the force of an avalanche, throwing all manner of debris and dust in his wake. He was just barely able to steer himself by shoving his arms in front of him, managing to avoid several large rocks but crashing over a number of smaller ones.

  Egans started through the brambles at the top of the bluff, then realized he would have to find an easier passage. He jumped atop his horse and rode down the path, toward an abandoned step-back trail leading to the river bank.

  With a great groan, van Clynne bounced against a stone wall that stood a few yards from the edge of the water. He could hear the struggles of Egans's horse just to the south and knew he would not get very far on the ground in that direction before the Indian arrived. The way north was blocked by a large patch of overgrown blackberry sticker bushes; escape in that direction was likewise improbable.

  Indeed, the only path open was the river a few yards away. Not only did its waters beckon with a disarming calmness, but a canoe had been placed on the bank to make his exit child's play.

  Except that Van Clynne was deathly afraid of water. Given the choice, he would have walked barefoot through a field of burning corn before being berthed in the captain's quarters of a fine sailing ship.

  The sound of Egans's horse crashing through the woods vanquished his fear. Or rather, it gave the Dutchman courage enough to close his eyes as he dove into the canoe, his weight helping to move it out onto the water as the current caught hold and pushed it toward midstream.

  Chapter Six

  Wherein, a certain flask is opened and a perplexing problem pours out.

  Jake and his guide passed through a fertile farmland of southern Ulster and northern Orange counties without encountering any other difficulties. For the most part, the people here were strong patriots who had already suffered much for the war. A good number had been deployed as militia in the Highlands a few months before. The long rail fences and haphazard stone walls that marked the boundaries of their lands teemed with tall grass and summer flowers; truly Nature had blessed the area with an abundant flow of life.

  Had we the leisure, we might dally in one of these meadows or walk among the furrowed corn. The stone houses of the Huguenots that made up New Paltz might be of special interest, not merely for the architecture but the stories these stones might tell of harrowing winters and violent struggles in the old wilderness. But Jake and Colonel Hamilton did not linger here, taking without comment their fresh horses from the waiting militiaman, a tall fellow named Schenck, who had stood a lonely vigil by his yard's gate all night. They thundered onward, sucking hard bread crusts between their teeth, the fresh animals soon wheezing with the difficult pace.

  There was much the two men might have said to each other. Hamilton was especially interested in Miss Schuyler, whom he'd already heard rumors of another of Washington’s aides, Tench Tilgham, but their haste precluded idle chatter. Immediately south of the village, Hamilton left the main road, heading over a series of obscure paths that would have made van Clynne proud. The Shawangunk Mountains stood at their right shoulders, watching their progress through the foothills. Newburgh and New Windsor sat off to the left, closer to the river. Red-tailed hawks, surveying the fields for a midmorning snack, circled warily overhead, anxious lest the hurrying travelers suddenly covet their feathers.

  It was just about noon when the two men neared the vicinity where the rendezvous with the commander-in-chief had been arranged. The tangled area is known as the Clove. With the Highland mountains guarding the approach from the river, the land dives down into a lush valley, overgrown with all manner of Nature's bounty.

  Jake and Colonel Hamilton pushed down a path narrowed on both sides by massive bolts of daisies, laurel, and other wildflowers, their sweet scents filling their lungs. Hamilton suddenly veered to the right, crossing into what seemed at first a field made entirely of blackberries. But the bushes gave way to a meadow intersected by a firm path; Jake let his horse follow Hamilton's lead as they dipped down a gradual incline.

  Ahead, the two riders spotted a tall, regal man on horseback, gray hair flying beneath his hat as he paced with his mount on the hilltop. Some trick of the light washed out all else before, them, and for a moment it seemed as if horse and rider were walking on air.

  Jake spurred his horse at the sight; many months had passed since he had seen General Washington. Crossing a stream that lay between them, a shout went up. The general's guard appeared from both sides and intercepted the men. Recognizing Hamilton, they joined in escort, and the commander-in-chief found himself besieged by an eager body of young men whose emotions stirred even his fabled constitution.

  There are those who have made General Washington into a latter-day Caesar, only wiser and bolder. Another contingent, smaller but nearly as vociferous, crayons him a tyrant and fool. Those closest to him can speak equally of his steady faith and ready temper. Let us agree that he is neither demigod nor demon, but if the compass should shade toward one extreme over the other, let it be the former. No other single man has embodied our noble struggle so completely. No other man has pulled us together so completely, nor inspired so many tattered soldiers, ranks broken by bayonet charge, to turn round and face the enemy one last time, and thereby win victory and honor.

  The first sight of the long blue coat with its wide collar turned out gave Jake a flush of inspiration and strength. Any doubts over the outcome of the war were vanquished at the sight of this surrogate father on the hilltop, watching them approach.

  Washington's majestic blue uniform was fitted out with buff lapels and topped by gold epaulets, its swallowtails buttoned for riding. The light tan vest and breeches hugged his powerful body, draped by a diagonal light-blue ribbon. This ribbon, along with the unadorned cockade on his black, three-cornered hat, showed his rank, much as the yellow cockade had confirmed Hamilton's.

  With no hat to doff in salute, Jake held out both arms in exaltation as he drew up close. "General, sir," he exclaimed, "I have come as quickly as I could."

  Washington's light tone belied his words as he chided his young officer. "You look as if you've come straight from the dance floor. Is that a tailored uniform? On a member of the Secret Service? When I sent you to Schuyler I thought he'd put you to serious work."

  "I've had my moments, sir."

  "I rescued him from Betsy Schuyler's clutches, your Excellency," said Hamilton, drawing near. "It was a difficult fight, and I shall stand for a medal.”

  “It's I who rescued him," countered Jake. "Your secretary was ready to give himself up as a prisoner."

  Washington smiled, but already gravity was returning to his face. "Hamilton, there is some business for your immediate attention," he said, dismounting. "Harrison has a critical dispatch. Young Jake, walk with me a bit."

  The long grass brushed against the tight breeches of Jake's fancy dress pants as they walked. A clump of daylilies sat at the edge of the hilltop meadow, their red-and-yellow faces basking in the sun. Sprigs of daphne mixed in behind them, their berries just shading from blue to black.

  It would not have taken much imagination to think themselves on a picnic. Until the general began speaking.

  "You met Howe a few months ago," said Washington. "Or so I have heard."

  "Aboard his brother's ship in New York Harbor. They thought I was a spy — for their side."

  Washington laughed heartily. Certain of the younger men always tickled his sense of humor, and Gibbs had been among them from the first day they met. "I wonder how they got that idea."

  "You know the British. Always adding two and two and finding five."

  "What was your opinion of Sir William?"

  "The general
is the letter of the reports about him, perhaps worse. He's vain and indecisive. Given to drink and whoring."

  "Yes, and I'm sure the British say the same of me."

  "In his case it is true."

  Washington was silent a moment, as if considering the field around him. But his thoughts were much further away.

  "The general has helped us many times without knowing it," he said. "Still, he is more formidable than you give him credit for, and he can be perplexing."

  Washington reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out an ornate golden flask. If King George had appeared on the hilltop before them, Jake would not have been more surprised.

  "General?"

  "Take the flask and open it, Jake. Go on; it's not one of your poisons, I assure you. Nor is it rum."

  Beautifully worked, the flask was made of metal, shaped like a flat shovel used in a stable, though naturally much smaller. The stout neck had a delicate flute, stoppered with a common cork, in great contrast to the glimmering metal it fit into. There were no identifying marks, no signs of ownership or even the initials of the man who had made it. About the size of Jake's hand, the bottle appeared to have been hammered from pure gold, and must have been worth a considerable sum.

  Jake opened it slowly. Instead of liquid, it contained a tightly rolled parchment.

  In an ornate hand, the writing on the paper greeted General Burgoyne, congratulated him on his successes, and then declared that things were proceeding as planned.

  "If," the writer said, "according to my expectations, we may succeed rapidly in the possession of B —, the enemy having no force of consequence there, I shall, without loss of time, proceed to cooperate with you in the defeat of the rebel army opposed to you. Clinton is sufficiently strong to amuse Washington and Putnam. I am now making a demonstration southward, which I think will have the full effect of carrying our plan to execution. I have sent this message by duplicate couriers, to ensure its prompt arrival."