The Golden Flask (13 page)

Jake's protest was useless. The girl was already run
ning 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 ra
vine 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.

* * *

Those who have sailed up the Hudson from the bay will well remember the massive rock ledge that seems to leap from the Hudson's waves straight up toward heaven. This part of Jersey appears to stand upon a solid platform, raised like the bank of the Nile by Moses against some foreign horde. Indeed, these natural defenses helped secure the patriots during the dark days of the British rush to take Manhattan.

But the fortress rocks are not as impenetrable as they seem from the water, and there are many points where they fade back from the river. Countless crevices and paths wind their way down, ancient ways first explored by the Indians who made their homes here. Alison led Jake down one now, slipping and dodging through the mazelike natural wall as if she were a raindrop descending to earth.

Here Jake's height and bulky shoulders proved something of a disadvantage. Normally sure-footed, with the balance of a squirrel, he found himself continually sliding one way or the other. It did not help that the route, though direct, was long as well as treacherous; he grew more and more tired as he went. At length, the lieutenant colonel began to wonder when he would reach the bottom, and even doubted the wisdom of his choice to try Manhattan from the Jersey shore.

"Here we are," said Alison finally, poking her way past some saplings that had forced themselves up in the crocks of the river stones. "God, look at the ships upon the river. They must belong to the redcoats we fought."

They did indeed. Three schooners escorted by a fifth-rate stood off the shore, while a dozen whaleboats scurried back and forth, taking men from the Jersey side to the ships. Fires burned on the ground above, and lanterns and torches glimmered in the boats, covering the proceedings with a golden glow.

"I don't suppose they've done me the courtesy of leaving a boat nearby," said Jake. Though his voice was sardonic, he nonetheless glanced up and down the shore.

"We can take that log and float across on it," sug
gested Alison, sprinting across the narrow ledge of shore.

"We
can't do anything, miss," said Jake. "
You
have to go back to your inn."

"Why? What luck will I have there?"

"I'm sure you could run a good business, if you put
your mind to it. You are a good cook."

"The inn will be taken from me in a day, and you
know it," said the girl. "Even if I were a boy, it would
be so."

"Some neighbor will help you, I'm sure," said Jake.

"Here, this log will do nicely. Come now. You prom
ised father you'd look after me."

Before he could grab her, Alison threw her weight
against a large, broken tree trunk sitting at the waves'
edge. Jake was surprised to see that she was strong enough to get it into the water by herself.

But if he had once been bemused by her determina
tion, he had a considerably different opinion now. He could not traipse through the city of New York with a
child at his elbow. She would be an unimaginable lia
bility.

Or would she? Jake was known, but surely this girl was not. A brave young woman might serve the Cause
in countless ways; many were doing so already.

The question was moot. Alison was already several
yards from shore. Cursing, Jake slipped off his boots
and took a few ginger steps on the rocks before diving
into the river.

Chapter Twelve

Wherein, Van Clynne’s progress is briefly examined, as is Jake’s swimming prowess.

C
laus van Clynne at
that moment was contemplating
somewhat similar waves, if a vastly different situation.
His captors, having recovered from their wounds,
found it difficult to contain their animosity toward him,
especially as he was chained and could not retaliate.
The poor Dutchman therefore suffered sundry blows before Egans, worried about the bounty he would re
ceive for returning a rebel spy for interrogation, ordered he be left alone.

"I don't know why you think I'm a spy," complained
the squire.

"Your forged papers are proof," said Egans.

"They are not forged, sir. I am purely a man of busi
ness."

"A fancy name for it. Personally, I don't care; you'll
bring me twenty crowns whether you're a cousin of the
king or George Washington himself."

"Twenty, is that all?" asked van Clynne. "I've got more than that in my purse."

"You did indeed," answered Egans, "in each purse. I
have never seen such a collection of notes in my life."

The Dutchman's grumbles about thieves not being
trusted were ignored. The open boat continued southward, her two small sails, set atop each other, puffed full with the wind. The moon gave her more than enough light to sail by. There were no American river
patrols to stop her and the only complication lay sev
eral miles downstream, where the chain at Peekskill
stopped all river traffic.

Van Clynne's head rested against the hard oaken rails of the vessel's side. He was consoled by the fact
that his hat had been returned; not only was it a long
time companion, but no self-respecting Dutchman con
sidered himself properly dressed without one.

Perhaps the return of his headgear was a positive
omen. He knew from recent experience that the river barrier was impenetrable, and that these British mis
creants would therefore have to make landfall in patriot territory. As van Clynne realized he had good
hopes of meeting friends once ashore — there was not a
man or woman of Dutch descent in the valley whom he
did not know — his outlook on the adventure began to
brighten. Surely this difficulty would prove but another arrow in the quiver of accomplishments he would pre
sent when he asked General Washington for consider
ation in the matter of his land. The general, and
afterwards the Congress, would consider the great tri
als van Clynne had overcome and see justice served.
And who could doubt that the Dutchman, as resource
ful a man as ever to have trod these shores, would find
some stratagem to ease his escape once embarked on dry land, where the air was clearer and the beer free for the taking?

So van Clynne began to feel optimistic, and as always when he was optimistic, he began to talk, and as always
when he began to talk, he began to complain. It was
good-natured criticism, meant for the edification of the
listeners.

"This is an adequate vessel, for its purpose," said the
squire. "But, there are certain recommendations I
would make for its improvement. If it were constructed
in the Dutch manner, it would be two or three times faster. We would be in New York already."

"And why would you want to get there quickly?" de
manded one of the sailors.

"Oh, I am in no hurry. I will get there when I arrive," said van Clynne philosophically. "But I should much prefer a Dutch sloop."

"Bah."

"The Dutch have been sailing this river for considerable time," essayed van Clynne. "We have learned to make the vessel flat-bottomed —"

"As is this one."

"— with a shallow draft that can tiptoe across the sandbars. The sides are much lower, much broader. This vessel is barely big enough for both you and I, while on a Dutch sloop, half the province could stretch out. And your sail arrangement: inefficient in the extreme."

"What's the trouble here?" demanded the captain. "What is this shouting about? Are you aiming at waking the entire shoreline?"

"The prisoner's giving us advice to make the ship better."

"Oh he is, is he? Well perhaps the improvements would begin with using him as an anchor."

"Tut, tut, sir; I won't be moved by idle threats."

"Idle, is it?"

But it was, so long as the crew kept Egans aboard. And as these men — British sailors under special order — had been detailed to transport Egans southward, they were forced to leave his prisoner in peace.

Which was more than van Clynne did for them, continuing his loud harangue on such diverse topics as the quality of Dutch hemp and the fine art of skimming stones across the water. His talk was not precisely idle. The Dutchman hoped some citizen ashore might hear it, recognize its timbre, and knowing his great antagonism toward the sea, row out to investigate. His heart perked as they neared Poughkeepsie, as the city's residents were especially alert, but the good citizens of the town seemed all abed. Fishkill Landing was the same. No matter how loud he spoke — and he was soon nearly hoarse with his shouting — he could not raise a response.

Finally, van Clynne saw that they were tending
toward the eastern shore. He marshaled his tired body, still heavily chained, and decided he would save his
strength for some new effort, as yet invented.

"So you've finally shut your mouth, have you?" asked Egans.

"My mouth opens and shuts as it pleases me," said
van Clynne. "And as for you, sir, there are several facts
regarding your past of which you are quite mistaken. It
would please me greatly to straighten you out on them.
First off, regarding your ancestry — "

"I think it will please you very much to be quiet
now," said Egans, revealing his pistol. The dim light
made his tattooed face, as well as his grin, all the more
sinister.

Van Clynne saw no alternative but to nod in agree
ment.

* * *

J
ake spat a mouthful of water from his throat as he grabbed onto the tree trunk. The strong tides of the
river were pushing it rapidly downstream, toward the
British and their ships. Alison struggled, but her exhausted body was no match for the strong current. She
felt her grip slipping; suddenly, she fell headfirst into the waves.

The patriot spy grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her up over the floating log.

"All right," he said. "I suppose I'm stuck with you.
Let's not visit any sea rays along the way."

Alison was too winded to celebrate. Jake kicked hard, pushing the log before him as he aimed toward the dark shadow of Manhattan island.

The Hudson is no simple stream. Like a great lady,
she moves back and forth as much according to whim
as the edicts of the moon. Between her various eddies
and flows, she is constantly changing direction, and often goes three different ways at once. Tonight she
was feeling particularly capricious; Jake had no sooner
found a suitable spot to aim at on the eastern shore than the Hudson took it into her head to send him back west.