Jim DeFelice - The Golden Flask

Brown shook his head. "There are ways to the island, but tonight — "

"I can take him, father. He should cut straight to Torman's, descend the Palisades, and find a boat there."

"Hush, dear, we don't want to interfere in the man's business."

"Actually, sir, I'd be happy for your help," said Jake. "And another share of this food."

Alison took the plate and refilled it.

"You are asking much," said Brown. "My home would be undefended. Even some of my neighbors covet it."

"If you can spare a few hours to guide me," Jake told him, "you would do our Cause a great deal of good."

"Let me go instead, father. You have to mind the inn. I know the way as well as you, and shortcuts besides."

A complicated series of looks crossed the poor innkeeper's face. While his instincts told him the man before him was in great need, he had no real proof that he should trust him beyond the letter from Washington. Truly, such a document could be easily forged; neither Brown nor his daughter had the vaguest notion what Washington's hand was like. But the tavern keeper was a strong patriot, determined to see the Cause prevail. Sacrifice was demanded of all, and chances had to be taken or the British would never be beaten. He could guide Jake to the river and be back by daybreak — a small risk, surely.

"I will take you," Brown finally decided. "As soon as you are ready."

"I am ready now," said Jake, taking a last bite and then draining the cider. "Let us get something for my horse and be off."

"Father, please take me, you must." Alison wrapped herself around her father like a snake around a tree.

"It is too dangerous," said Brown, but it was clear from his voice that he was wavering.

"Listen to your father," suggested Jake.

"I have the gun," Alison told her father. "I am the best shot in the neighborhood, you know it."

"Better for you to stay."

Alison took a shy glance at Jake, then put her arm gently on her father's arm. "But, papa, please. If it's not too dangerous for you, it won't be for me. We are a pair; you have said so yourself many times."

The keeper sighed. In truth, he had never refused his daughter the slightest favor since his wife had died. This was nothing more than a quick midnight ride, and perhaps it would quench her thirst for adventure.

"All right. Come along."

Jake scowled, but decided against objecting. He wanted to leave as quickly as possible, and did not want to risk his guide changing his mind.

And really, how much trouble could a young woman be, even one who insisted on wearing breeches?

The innkeeper and his daughter were most efficient guides, taking Jake across a succession of open meadows and close woods in the moonlight as easily as if they were riding down city streets. The keeper, who inside had appeared anything but athletic, proved to be a considerable horseman, and his skills had obviously been passed on to his daughter.

The willingness of ordinary folk to do extraordinary things in the name of Freedom continually amazed Jake. Many times he had been helped, even saved, by some farmer or housewife, who under other circumstances might have lived the most undisturbed life since Methuselah.

While he was more than happy to take advantage of their assistance, the spy also felt some obligation to repay their kindness. In this case, it seemed to him he could do that by informing Alison of the hard dangers of soldiering, in case she should run away and try to join the army. But every remark he made as they rode was answered by some optimistic comment. She loved the mud; she could exist for weeks on gruel; the damp earth invigorated her when she slept. She was three times as tricky as any boy, and able to hold her own should it come to that.

Jake could hear her father sighing beneath his breath; evidently these arguments had been made before.

Finally, she capped her retorts by declaring that if she couldn't join the line and march, then certainly she would become a spy such as her new friend, who was obviously not subject to the deprivations he was boasting so strongly of.

"I wonder, have you ever met Abigail Adams?" Jake asked, huffing a moment as he muscled his horse over a hedge.

Alison cleared the obstruction without the slightest exertion, and answered that she had not.

"You would like her. She is a Boston lady with ideas as bold as yours and wit twice as sharp."

"Then we shall have a pleasant time shooting redcoats together," retorted the girl.

The trio passed over a large creek and found a wide road. They traveled along it briefly, then crossed back into a cultivated cornfield and found an old path through a fallow field. The moon, missing only the slightest sliver, illuminated their way so completely they left the torches the innkeeper had prepared unlit.

The keeper had stuck an old, rusty sword in his saddle scabbard. Alison had been allowed to wield the blunderbuss. She rode with it across her saddle, half-cocked. Her father had made her take the precaution of securing the lock mechanism with a twig that prevented accidental firing; he claimed that it was faulty and given to slipping. Twig or no twig, Jake made sure to stay out of the line of fire.

Jake's ribs had long since given up complaining about the jostling they were taking, settling for a long and constant groan nagging at the back of his chest. The horse Eagleheart had sold him was a strong beast, powerfully winded, but far from the smoothest platform to ride on. Jake soon began to believe the horse understood English: while she would fight the hard pulls of his arms and legs, she moved quickly to the right and left when directed to do so by voice only. And when he said "whoa," the horse stopped short before he could pull the reins.

"Aye, trouble ahead," said the keeper, who had spotted the figures by the bridgehead the same moment Jake had. "Don't think they'd be on our side."

"You'd best go back," said Jake. "Thank you for your help. I can find the river from here; it won't be far."

"We can't leave him, father," said Alison.

As Jake was starting to assure her he would be fine, one of the sentries shouted at them. His stiff English accent made it all too clear whose side he was on.

"Let's go," said Jake, turning his horse to lead the retreat northwards. But the beast had taken no more than two steps when shots rang out. From the corner of his eye, Jake saw Alison's mount fall.

"Keep going!" he shouted to her father. He sailed around, pulling his pistol and sword out as he jumped down. He fired as he ran to the girl.

The men on the bridge were part of a detachment of His Majesty's marines, who had come ashore and moved a mile inland to prove the general principle that they could go anywhere they wanted. The figures on horseback were the first rebels — the first people — they'd spotted all evening, and the British advanced from the bridge with the enthusiasm of a gambler who has waited for the cocks to appear all night.

Jake's shot caused them to pause briefly and reload for a fresh volley. Fortunately, it was not concentrated nor well aimed, and Jake was able to duck it by flinging himself into the dirt.

The girl had taken cover behind her fallen horse. As Jake crawled toward her, he saw several other figures heading for the bridge, their shadows thrown forward by a signal fire.

The vanguard meanwhile made sure their bayonets were fixed and commenced a charge. They covered the ground quickly enough to make the god Hermes jealous. When the keeper saw them advancing on his daughter, all instinct of prudence and caution flew from his head. He took his sword and began flailing it like the Grim Reaper as he charged past Jake and Alison. He caught one of the marines straight across the neck, slicing the man's head clean off. The head flew through the field like a pumpkin kicked from the vine, while its late body staggered forward a few grotesque steps before collapsing.