Jim DeFelice - The Golden Flask

Jake and Colonel Hamilton pushed down a path narrowed on both sides by massive bolts of daisies, laurel, and other wildflowers, their sweet scents filling their lungs. Hamilton suddenly veered to the right, crossing into what seemed at first a field made entirely of blackberries. But the bushes gave way to a meadow intersected by a firm path; Jake let his horse follow Hamilton's lead as they dipped down a gradual incline.

Ahead, the two riders spotted a tall, regal man on horseback, gray hair flying beneath his hat as he paced with his mount on the hilltop. Some trick of the light washed out all else before, them, and for a moment it seemed as if horse and rider were walking on air.

Jake spurred his horse at the sight; many months had passed since he had seen General Washington. Crossing a stream that lay between them, a shout went up. The general's guard appeared from both sides and intercepted the men. Recognizing Hamilton, they joined in escort, and the commander-in-chief found himself besieged by an eager body of young men whose emotions stirred even his fabled constitution.

There are those who have made General Washington into a latter-day Caesar, only wiser and bolder. Another contingent, smaller but nearly as vociferous, crayons him a tyrant and fool. Those closest to him can speak equally of his steady faith and ready temper. Let us agree that he is neither demigod nor demon, but if the compass should shade toward one extreme over the other, let it be the former. No other single man has embodied our noble struggle so completely. No other man has pulled us together so completely, nor inspired so many tattered soldiers, ranks broken by bayonet charge, to turn round and face the enemy one last time, and thereby win victory and honor.

The first sight of the long blue coat with its wide collar turned out gave Jake a flush of inspiration and strength. Any doubts over the outcome of the war were vanquished at the sight of this surrogate father on the hilltop, watching them approach.

Washington's majestic blue uniform was fitted out with buff lapels and topped by gold epaulets, its swallowtails buttoned for riding. The light tan vest and breeches hugged his powerful body, draped by a diagonal light-blue ribbon. This ribbon, along with the unadorned cockade on his black, three-cornered hat, showed his rank, much as the yellow cockade had confirmed Hamilton's.

With no hat to doff in salute, Jake held out both arms in exaltation as he drew up close. "General, sir," he exclaimed, "I have come as quickly as I could."

Washington's light tone belied his words as he chided his young officer. "You look as if you've come straight from the dance floor. Is that a tailored uniform? On a member of the Secret Service? When I sent you to Schuyler I thought he'd put you to serious work."

"I've had my moments, sir."

"I rescued him from Betsy Schuyler's clutches, your Excellency," said Hamilton, drawing near. "It was a difficult fight, and I shall stand for a medal.”

“ It's I who rescued him," countered Jake. "Your secretary was ready to give himself up as a prisoner."

Washington smiled, but already gravity was returning to his face. "Hamilton, there is some business for your immediate attention," he said, dismounting. "Harrison has a critical dispatch. Young Jake, walk with me a bit."

The long grass brushed against the tight breeches of Jake's fancy dress pants as they walked. A clump of daylilies sat at the edge of the hilltop meadow, their red-and-yellow faces basking in the sun. Sprigs of daphne mixed in behind them, their berries just shading from blue to black.

It would not have taken much imagination to think themselves on a picnic. Until the general began speaking.

"You met Howe a few months ago," said Washington. "Or so I have heard."

"Aboard his brother's ship in New York Harbor. They thought I was a spy — for their side."

Washington laughed heartily. Certain of the younger men always tickled his sense of humor, and Gibbs had been among them from the first day they met. "I wonder how they got that idea."

"You know the British. Always adding two and two and finding five."

"What was your opinion of Sir William?"

"The general is the letter of the reports about him, perhaps worse. He's vain and indecisive. Given to drink and whoring."

"Yes, and I'm sure the British say the same of me."

"In his case it is true."

Washington was silent a moment, as if considering the field around him. But his thoughts were much further away.

"The general has helped us many times without knowing it," he said. "Still, he is more formidable than you give him credit for, and he can be perplexing."

Washington reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out an ornate golden flask. If King George

had appeared on the hilltop before them,

Jake would not have been more surprised.

"General?"

"Take the flask and open it, Jake. Go on; it's not one of your poisons, I assure you. Nor is it rum."

Beautifully worked, the flask was made of metal, shaped like a flat shovel used in a stable, though naturally much smaller. The stout neck had a delicate flute, stoppered with a common cork, in great contrast to the glimmering metal it fit into. There were no identifying marks, no signs of ownership or even the initials of the man who had made it. About the size of Jake's hand, the bottle appeared to have been hammered from pure gold, and must have been worth a considerable sum.

Jake opened it slowly. Instead of liquid, it contained a tightly rolled parchment.

In an ornate hand, the writing on the paper greeted General Burgoyne, congratulated him on his successes, and then declared that things were proceeding as planned.

"If," the writer said,

"according to my expectations, we may succeed rapidly in the possession of

B —, the enemy having no force of consequence there, I shall, without loss of time, proceed to cooperate with you in the defeat of the rebel army opposed to you. Clinton is sufficiently strong to amuse Washington and Putnam. I am now making a demonstration southward, which I think will have the full effect of carrying our plan to execution. I have sent this message by duplicate couriers, to ensure its prompt arrival."

The message was signed by General Howe.

"B is Boston, obviously," said Jake. "But can it be?"

"Perhaps," said Washington. "We bloodied Howe's nose in the Jerseys but he was still quite strong. At first I believed he was aiming for Philadelphia, but it became clear his true strategy was to draw us into a fight on poor grounds. When that didn't work, he took his men back to Perth and Staten Island. Now he's loaded them aboard ship and disappeared." There was an impish twinkle at the corner of Washington's eye as he added, "Not to return to England, I'm afraid."

"Where was the message found?"

"The message came into our possession yesterday morning. A man stumbled into a patrol of General McDougall's soldiers in the Highlands. Clumsy, for a Tory spy."

Jake nodded. Not two months before, he had trailed a British messenger south from Canada to New York City. The last thing the man would have done was stumble into an American patrol and get captured.

But the paper in his hand certainly seemed genuine. And the container it had come in was not something to be given up lightly.

"Have you asked the Culpers for their opinion?" Jake asked. Culper was the code name for the leaders of the patriot spy ring in New York City. Their information on British intentions had proved extremely reliable in the past, and Jake had made use of both Culpers — Junior and Senior — in several of his operations. As contingencies continue to demand discretion, we will use only the name Culper in referring to the man at the head of the patriot spy ring, wherever we shall meet him in our tale.