Jim DeFelice - The Golden Flask

"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 celebrations. 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. Hamilton'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 behind 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 grappling with enemy soldiers, found a knot below the weaver's shoulder blade. With gentle but steady pressure 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 contribution 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 before 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 saddled, boarded, and galloping for the road south within a few minutes, the farmer having thrown in a small sword to seal the bargain.

While Jake rushes through the rough land of southern Orange County into the hills and barrens of northern 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 complete his voyage to General Washington successfully — assuming, of course, he could discover where the general 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 interpreted as his last. Indeed, by now his cursing had reached epic proportions, so that, beginning with Egans and ending with the Englishman who had discovered 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 canoe. 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.