Jim DeFelice - The Golden Flask

As the keeper regrouped, he felt a sharp prick in his side. Thinking it no more than a splinter, he steadied his horse in front of Jake and Alison and told them to run while he held off the advancing knot of marines.

The Britons' shouts of attack were drowned out by the sound of the blunderbuss, which exploded with the deep crackle of a light cannon. Alison had handled her gun as well as any hard veteran of the Connecticut line, waiting until the last possible moment and bowling over the tight clump of lobstercoats charging against her father. Four or five figures collapsed in a great tumble of hot death, their thirst for blood quenched forever by their own.

Only one redcoat from the vanguard escaped unscathed. He had already turned his attention toward the girl, and now charged bayonet-first, aiming to avenge his fellows. Jake managed to knock him off balance by diving at him with the sword, striking his bayonet with a sharp crash.

The Briton rolled to the ground but quickly recovered, wielding his Brown Bess in time to ward off a second blow, so expertly that the short sword flew from Jake's hand.

A quick slash and the silvery blade of the bayonet nicked through the patriot's hunting shirt, catching his ribs and tickling the recently healed wounds. Jake fell to the ground with the pain, and the marine kicked him in the side before heaving the gun back for a fresh thrust.

The marine shouted as he prepared to make his murderous stab. His high note of glee broke into a shocked riff of surprise and pain. Alison had exchanged the discharged blunderbuss for a knife she kept secreted at her waist and sprung on the man like a badger defending her young.

The wound she inflicted was no more than superficial, but its timing was critical. Jake flew to his feet and grabbed the man by the neck, pulling him with such force that the redcoat lost his will to fight as well as his weapon. As Jake pulled his arm around the man's neck, Alison picked up the marine's bayonet-tipped musket and skewered him. He fell to earth with a dying gasp.

War is never a pretty sight, especially at close range. Both Jake and the girl were splashed full with blood. But Alison stomached it as easily as Jake, and had he the leisure, he might have commented on her bravery.

He did not. A new volley sounded over their heads as the reinforcements from beyond the bridge charged into the field to renew the assault. Jake led Alison toward the spot where he had left his mare; the horse stood calmly by, gently nickering that her owner had best get a move on.

Alison's father, in the meantime, had been dashing on horseback to and fro, his sword flashing as he made sure the fallen redcoats would rise no more. Fresh out of opponents, he followed to where Jake was pushing Alison aboard the horse.

By the time he arrived, he was gripping his own mount's neck. He waved them forward, telling them to hurry and escape before the reinforcements caught up.

"Father!" Alison shouted. "What's happened?"

"I'm all right, all right," mumbled Brown. In fact, he was anything but. He fell over from his horse, landing in a heap as his bloody sword dropped nearby.

“ Father! Father!"

Alison jumped from the horse and ran to the stricken figure. Jake followed, scooping up his dented sword on the way.

Brown rolled out on his back, stretching up to look square at the moon. The golden orb hung above like a benign party lantern. An owl, startled by the carnage before him, crossed before it, his path a compass toward blessed Avalon.

"Papa, Papa."

"It's fine, my dear. I see your mother."

"No!"

The redcoats were charging across the field toward them, shouting. Oblivious, Alison kneeled down and held her father's head in her arms.

"Papa, Papa," she told him in a shaking voice. "I need you, Papa."

"Don't worry, child. You have our friend here." Brown reached up his hand to Jake, who took it gently. Already the grip was cold and weak. "Take care of her."

"I will, sir," said Jake, his eyes locking on the dying man's.

"I'm coming, Mary."

"Father!"

A haphazard volley of shot fired on the run missed Jake and Alison, but caught Jake's mare. The spy yanked Alison to her feet and pulled her with him toward a row of trees at the edge of the field. The girl stumbled and fell; Jake ducked back, took her under his arm, and began running again, holding her like a log plucked for the fire.

Only a macabre coincidence kept him from being speared through the back by the swiftest of their pursuers. Just as the redcoat reached out to stab him, the soldier tripped over the discarded head of his comrade, the same man Brown had earlier decapitated. The marine fell forward, and discovering what he had fallen over, began retching violently.

The two patriots reached the tree line barely ahead of a second lobstercoat. Jake tossed Alison roughly into a bush, then ducked as the marine charged; he was able to upend the man and grab a large tree limb as another soldier reached the woods. A swift slash disabled this attacker, and Jake turned his attention back to the first, still sprawled on the ground. A blow from his boot dispatched him from the active duty rolls; Jake helped himself to the man's bayoneted weapon and went to the bush where he had thrown Alison.

She wasn't there. He pushed through, stickers grabbing at his clothes and face. Jake had just yanked a particularly nasty branch from his cheek when his injured ribs were creased by a thin but still hurtful tree limb.

"Jesus!"

"I'm sorry," Alison exclaimed. "I didn't know it was you."

"Come on, before the others find us." Jake pushed her forward. The woods were just thin enough for them to run through, and the top cover filtered the moon's light, sheltering them with a veil of darkness. After they had gone a hundred feet or so, Jake pulled Alison to a stop, whispered that they should be quiet, and thus changed their tactic from rapid retreat to organized withdrawal.

The marines had lit torches and were scouring the field and the edge of the woods. The fight, however, had been knocked from them. Jake and Alison moved stealthily to the east, and within a half hour could no longer hear the English shouts, nor see their lights.

Another half hour of walking brought them to a road. Jake motioned with his hand that they should stop and rest; they were both so tired they flopped down right into the dust.

"I am sorry about your father," Jake told her. "I am truly sorry."

The girl did not say anything, but began softly weeping to herself. Jake knelt and held her in his arms. Back at the tavern, her body had felt considerably harder, more muscular, and though there was no mistaking her sex, he did not doubt her boasts about being stronger than many boys. Now, she felt as weak and soft as a tender kitten, stranded after its mother has been snatched away.

"I must go," said Jake. "I'm sorry for you, but my mission is critical. It will be light in a few hours, and I must find a way across the river. Hide here until dawn. The soldiers have given up their pursuit and will soon return to their boats. I'll continue south and find my way across with the light."

"We are barely a mile from the Hudson," said Alison, springing to her feet. "Come on."

"Wait. You can't come with me."

"You need me to show you the way. You can't go south here. And you will never get down the cliffs by yourself."

"Wait!"

Jake's protest was useless. The girl was already running full speed down the road in the direction of the river. Cursing beneath his breath, he ran to catch up. He soon found himself sliding off the road down a ravine Alison seemed to know as well as the furrows of her garden. His feet finally found a solid path, and once more he had to run to catch up with her.