Jim DeFelice - The Golden Flask

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 vigorous 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 attempt 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."

"We've no ale aboard," said the man in charge of the boat, a thick-chested fellow whose words were punctuated with whistles, owing to the large gaps in his front teeth.

"Porter then, or in a pinch, lager," demanded van Clynne. "Something with body to it. Brewed by a Dutch housewife if possible, or at least a German." He looked around the deck. The gondola was typical of the smaller vessels one finds in various river ports. The deck was well scrubbed and the hull freshly painted yellow, which implied somewhat more flash than the ship actually possessed. But the broad white sheets could hold the wind handily, and the vessel was surprisingly fast and even maneuverable. So much so that it occurred to the Dutchman that this small misadventure might end in his advantage, if only he could persuade the captain to take the craft south.

The direction it was currently heading, however, was west, toward the shore he had so recently vacated.

"I believe, sirs, that I have arrived just in the nick of time," declared the Dutchman, rising to his feet. "I have a business proposition that will do us all very handsomely, indeed. Do I have the honor of addressing the captain?"

The man answered gruffly that he was in charge.

"If I might make a suggestion," said van Clynne graciously, "this shore ahead ought to be avoided for the time being. It is frequented by a dastardly Indian, or I should say a white man painted as an Indian. A renegade, a changeling, a chicken in turkey feathers. He is obviously in the pay of British thieves and villains, and endeavored to murder me here. In fact, the poor condition of my vessel related directly to his actions. He — "

Van Clynne stopped short when he saw Egans climb over the side, a nasty grin on his face and the Dutchman's crumpled beaver hat in his hand.

"You lost your hat," sneered the Oneida. "And I have come to return it."

The Dutchman, finally sensing the wind's direction, reached to the mast and grabbed one of the staves. Three sailors fell upon him as he reared back to throw it. He managed to launch it nonetheless, and despite the interference scored a direct hit on Egans's skull, laying him out.

Van Clynne flicked off one of his assailants as he grabbed for another cudgel. By now the captain had picked up his sword, a fact van Clynne only realized when he felt the sharp blade flick past his face. He fell against the heavy wood of the mast, his weight sending another of the sailors to the deck.

"You will surrender this vessel to me, sir," declared van Clynne, "or I will be forced to vanquish your entire crew."

"Brave words, traitor," said the captain, showing off the gaps in his teeth. "You will not repeat them once I cut out your tongue."

Van Clynne just managed to avoid the slash. He slid well below a second, but the third came remarkably close to his chest.

This was partly by design, however. He had placed himself near the mast, and the swordsman yelped with the vibration as his sharp, heavily weighted sword crashed into the wood. A quick roundhouse blow took care of the captain's chin, and he was next seen sleeping like a baby on the deck, basking in the warm glow of the midday sun.

But van Clynne still had half a dozen men to contend with. Two of these grabbed his legs and were unlikely to let go, despite his best efforts to bruise their arms and fingers. A sailor climbed against the sheet and sprang down at him. The Dutchman felt his knees give way and got his arms up just in time to prevent more than a glancing blow to the nose as he crashed face-first against the deck and an anchor chain. The same chain was quickly wound around his legs, but the redoubtable van Clynne did not admit defeat until Egans's voice, still slightly dazed, ordered the others to leave off hitting his prisoner.

"Anyone who fights this hard will fetch a stiff price below, I warrant," said Egans, pointing his musket at van Clynne. "Surrender, sir, or I'll test the theory that you're worth as much dead as alive."

"Alive would increase the price, I daresay," grunted van Clynne, striking his colors.

The hot sun of the afternoon did not impede Jake's progress. While much of the land he passed through was still comparatively wild and wooded, it should be noted that the owners were for the most part firm patriots. The strife of the past few years had not shaken their faith in the grand cause of Freedom.

So committed was Jake to reaching New York quickly that he let supper time slip without stopping; his only delays were a few brief pauses at streams to let his horse catch her breath. Eagleheart had made a good bargain; it was almost as if the old woman who had raised the filly had this mission in mind all along.

Still, even the most motivated horse and rider must eventually pause to restore themselves. And if it were well past nine by the time Jake decided he must finally rest, it meant only that his hunger was more acute. Though the lieutenant colonel is blessed with a constitution barely in need of sleep, his appetite is second not even to Claus van Clynne's.

On a road but a few miles removed from patriotic Hackensack, a sign soon caught his eye as he traveled: a boar curled before a fireplace. Heartened by the fact that the tavern windows were still lit with candles, Jake dismounted and took the three short porch steps to the front door in a single jump.

At first he was surprised to find it barred from the inside, but on reflection he realized the hour and the times in general made this completely natural. Still, he thought his prospects of finding another inn more hospitable at this hour unlikely and decided to press for entrance.

"Hallo there," he called, knocking. "Have you food for a hungry traveler who can pay with hard money?"

The latter hint was not necessarily to be taken lightly, yet it failed to bring anyone to the door. Jake looked into the window but could not see much inside. His alert nose soon detected a simmering kettle of beans and he fell back on the door with good-natured — to say nothing of hungry — vigor.

Finally, Jake heard footsteps crossing the foyer. But instead of opening the door, their author pushed against it and yelled at him to stop.

"We've no room tonight," claimed the voice.

"I only want food," said Jake.

"We have none."

"I can smell it."

"Go away."

On another night, Jake might have satisfied himself with a curse — surely the keeper was harming himself more than his prospective customer. But Jake was anxious to eat quickly and move on. So he pounded again, announcing that he would pay twice the normal fee.

The keeper answered back that the visitor had been observed and marked as a Tory, and under no circumstances would he be admitted.

Rather than answering that he was a patriot, and possibly giving himself away to any spy inside, the spy shouted that he was a Quaker, completely neutral.

And willing to pay three times the normal charge, if his horse was fed as well as he.

The offer — or Jake's continued knocking — finally moved the tavern owner. He opened the door and revealed himself to be a thin man with a high-pitched voice, an unshaven face, and breath that betrayed several pints' worth of cider.