Jim DeFelice - The Golden Flask

"You're a white man?"

"I am an Oneida warrior. My Indian name is

Gawasowaneh;

in your tongue, it means Big Snowsnake. Do you wish my entire history, or will you do your duty and take me to your master?"

"Mr. Bauer is not here."

"I will wait, then," said Egans.

"You'll be waiting till Judgment Day. He's dead. Killed in a duel. Brother came back this morning."

"Take me to the brother, then," said Egans.

The English sentry had heard rumors of changelings and race traitors but had never seen one, much less found one in the employ of his government. Still, all manner of arrangements were made during wartime. When he searched Egans he found him unarmed. His papers were in order. And so the private turned him over to his corporal, standing on the shallow step before the front door, and retreated to his post — only to find another guard in his place. As he protested the unexpected relief, he was knocked over the head from behind.

Egans, meanwhile, repeated his previous interview with the private for the corporal, with roughly the same stoic expression. Contrary to van Clynne's concerns, Egans had no difficulty pretending to be something he was not. The white Oneida soon found himself padding softly behind the corporal as he was shown inside to the parlor.

"I will attempt to find Lord William for you," said the corporal. Like the rest of his men, he came from the English Highlands, but his accent had been suppressed by years of contact with his betters. He had also learned a great deal more manners than his privates. "I must say that he is deeply grieved today. Your audience may be strained."

"I am only here on orders," replied Egans. "As soon as they are fulfilled, I will be happy to leave."

"Aye, I reckoned that." The corporal gave him a crooked half-smile and turned on his heel to find Bauer's lone servant, George.

Egans stood as erect as a statue in the well-appointed room. No rag rugs covered these wide floorboards; Persian and Flemish craftsmen had slaved for many years so Clayton Bauer's guests could walk from one room to the next without getting splinters in their feet. At Egans's side stood a massive clock, taller and wider than he, and filled with a mechanism as finely and precisely tuned as the Oneida's own heart. Its deep click filled his ears.

The reader should not think that the past few days hadn't taken their toll on the adopted Indian's faculties. The physical difficulties, to one so inured to a hard life of fighting, were of little concern. Egans had endured hand-to-hand warfare with bitter rivals; that was a considerably greater trial, in his opinion, than any fight with whites, no matter how extended. But the revelations of his parentage, and more importantly, the identity of his adopted father's killer, had struck the core of his being. His hate had been so strongly held that it guided his most important decisions since coming of age. It was one thing to shift alliances — Egans had been taught the ways of justice and honor, and knew firmly what he must do — but it was another thing to face the grave error his life had been victim to. It was a shortcoming he was responsible for; he must somehow find a way not simply to amend it but to expiate its consequences. Many men had been wrongly sent to their deaths because of his mistake.

Jake need not have worried about his new loyalty. Rather greater was the possibility that Egans might suddenly do something very rash because of it. His calm, stoic exterior, hardened by his years with his Iroquois family, hid the raging emotions of a volatile white child, not yet tamed by civilization's conventions. Sooner or later, the painted skin would fail to contain the tormented soul bubbling below.

"Who are you, sir, and why do you come to my brother's house?" said Lord William Buckmaster as he entered the room.

"I am called Egans, a messenger for General Burgoyne. The general bade me directly to pay my respects, before I attended General Clinton. I have come to fulfill my duty."

He addressed Lord William in a flat voice, and seemed to take no notice of the man's finery, the well-arranged powdered wig and black silk suit. Lord William had daubed his cheeks with rouge, but the lines of his grief were obvious enough as Egans held his eyes.

Buckmaster dismissed the corporal, telling him to go and check on his men. When he was gone, Lord William addressed Egans with a level voice, endeavoring to take no notice of his odd appearance. He assumed such things were commonplace in this strange and violent land.

"My brother-in-law is dead," said Buckmaster. "I am waiting now on the arrival of his body."

Egans nodded.

"Would you care for a drink?"

"No."

Egans waited silently as Lord William called for George to bring him a strong whiskey.

"Sir," said the servant, "I believe that some addiional soldiers are arriving outside. And I have heard noises in the north wing — "

"Just get me the damn whiskey. Now!"

The outburst represented Lord William's surrender. He sank into the blue velvet chair behind him, lucky that it was there to break his fall.

Egans stood motionless, observing, feeling only contempt for the weakling before him.

The same spell that had arrested Jake stopped Lady Patricia as well. Jake broke it first, moving quietly and quickly behind her to shut the door. Then he touched her shoulder with his left hand — his right still held his knife — not knowing whether she would cry out in alarm or fall into his arms. She did neither, turning instead. A thousand emotions mixed in her face. "You killed my brother." There was a moment that seemed a century then, as if Jake might be somehow able to commit her soul to his memory, as if in the silence some essential part of each might mix. For van Clynne had judged his friend well; Jake had become enamored of the woman whose lips he first kissed for convenience only. Whether for her nobility in suffering, her strong yet charitable way, or the inviting curve of her body — it was impossible to say. As the first moment grew to the next, the spy banished any weakness the attraction would bring. Yet some emotion remained; some regret tempered his strength. "Your brother is alive." Jake took her hand as she started back in shock. "I am not an agent for Bacon, but Washington." "Washington?" He let her slip back to the bed, sitting on the edge and catching her hands to her mouth. He saw her next move before she attempted it, grabbing her mouth quickly as she rose to set the alarm. "Let me go, you bastard." The words choked out between his fingers, not loud enough for anyone outside the room to hear. "You killed my son. You and your treacherous friends, you lying bastard!"

Lord William rubbed his face, as if he could pull the shattered shards of his soul back together. He looked up and offered his guest a wan smile of apology.

"Excuse me," he said. "My son disappeared — we have to assume he died — in the war, and now my brother. His wounds were more of the self-inflicted nature. Pride, really."

There was a shout at the front hall, and Lord William jumped to his feet, running to the door — where he found his brother-in-law, groggy but quite obviously alive, hanging on the shoulder of a sailor.

"If you yell out, your husband inside will die," Jake warned her. He moved his hand down and gripped his arm around her neck, trying not to choke her though keeping her secure. He had the knife in his right hand, but there was as much chance of him using it against her as there was of the sun rising a second time that day. "Your brother will be killed as well, this time for real."

"I don't believe you," she said, yet she made no effort to call out or get away as Jake leaned down to slide the knife into his boot. Her long dressing gown was half buttoned, an inch of pink skin exposed between her breasts. Jake, still holding her around the neck, reached to the nearby table and pulled off the cloth, fashioning it as a light clasp for her hands.