The Golden Flask (3 page)

"Wait." Jake caught Hamilton by the arm as he
started away. He was only three years older than Hamilton, but had seen enough danger since the war started to make them seem like decades. "Let me change from
this uniform first. And I have to say goodbye to Sarah."

"No time. Besides, the suit looks quite dashing."

"The breeches are too damn tight."

"You can find other clothes after we reach the gen
eral. We're to meet him below Newburgh by noon, and
even if we start now I'm not at all sure we'll make it."

"Let me just catch Sarah's eye. And a Dutch friend
of mine is here who has proven himself useful in diffi
cult situations; the general may want to make further use of him."

"Colonel — sir." Hamilton's grip on Jake's arm was
as powerful as any British grenadier's, but there was a
note of respect and even supplication in his voice.

And something else.

Ordinarily, Hamilton was happy to rely on the com
mander-in-chiefs’ authority and address even major
generals as if they were privates. But speaking now to Jake, genuine admiration mixed with fearful worry; his
words nearly trembled in his mouth.

"I would like nothing better than to stay on a few
hours myself. But the entire British army has disap
peared from the Jerseys, packed themselves into ships,
and rode out to sea. If we don't discover their intentions within the next few days, we risk a disaster that
will make Ticonderoga look like milk spilt at a maids'
picnic. No one must be informed of our business, not
even the closest friend. You would know that much better than I."

Duty having clamped her heavy arm on Jake's shoul
der, he nodded and followed Hamilton to the horses
without comment.

* * *

The Dutchman whose value Jake had mentioned
would have welcomed an interruption. He happened at
that moment to be deeply engaged in discussion with
Colonel Flanagan. Not in itself unusual, except that he was spending considerably more time listening than
speaking.

Ordinarily, van Clynne would use any meeting with a
close confidant of the commanding general of the
Northern Department to press his claims for the return
of his ancestral lands, stolen from the family by English
interlopers. But it happened that a month earlier the
squire had been engaged by the colonel to sell
a
variety
of items, including a very fine carriage.

"What a coincidence. I was planning to work on that
transaction tomorrow," said van Clynne.

"That would be very good — I could use the thirty
crowns, believe me."

Van Clynne ignored the note of sarcasm in the colo
nel's voice. In actual fact, the wagon had fetched forty
crowns at Half Moon some weeks before,
just
before
the Dutchman ventured north to assist Jake in his deal
ings with the Mohawk. But such a large interval had
transpired in the meantime that his memory of the de
tails of the business had faded.

Or so he would claim if pressed. For the moment he frowned, allowing as how there was a great shortage of money and an oversupply of wagons, which made achieving a favorable price difficult. Perhaps, he hinted, his usual broker’s fees could be boosted as an incentive to a deal.

"I doubt that," said Flanagan. "We have a contract.
Your word is your bond, you said."

"As it remains, stronger than any rope. Indeed, stronger than the chain across the Hudson — which I
saved, by the by, and which I am due to, er, inspect
directly."

Flanagan caught van Clynne's cuff as he attempted
to retreat. "I saw a carriage that looked very similar to
mine in town just the other day. Another coincidence?"

"As I said, there is quite an oversupply." Van Clynne
looked eagerly for a diversion. He saw one in the per
son of a servant who entered the room carrying a tray of Port. "Here we are, Colonel. Something to drink?"

"No."

"Of course, you are a beer man. As am I, in fact.
Indeed, I had set out in search of some ale when you
bumped into me. Here . . ." He called over to the ser
vant. "Two cups of your finest ale. Wait — better make it
porter; my friend and I have just been discussing some
stout business."

"Excuse me, sir, but I am serving the wine."

"Just so," said van Clynne, "but it is a venial offense
and I won't hold it against you. Hurry now; the colonel
is a military man and has many important things to attend to."

As the waiter retreated, van Clynne took a step to
follow.

"Hold it, Claus." Flanagan extended an arm and hooked his finger in a buttonhole on the Dutchman's vest.

"I promise to give the carriage my top priority."

"There is another matter I'd like to discuss. General
Schuyler told me you have recently been among the
Mohawk. I would like to know their strength and plans."

"Yes, the Maquas." Van Clynne frowned, running his
eye up and down Flanagan's dark blue uniform. Un
doubtedly, Flanagan was merely making a pretext, planning a return to the obnoxious topic of his wagon
as soon as possible. "My friend Mr. Gibbs would do
better to fill you in. He was gathering intelligence, while I served primarily as facilitator and interpreter. The interviews were not all together pleasant, as I'm sure he will tell you with his usual flair."

"Jake left a short while ago," said Flanagan. "And
you're here now."

"Where did he go?" demanded Sarah Thomas, who
had been silently observing their conversation.

"I'm sorry, Miss Thomas, but I saw him leave the room a short while ago," said Flanagan.

Tears welled in Sarah's eyes as anger flushed her
cheeks. "He's gone to see Betsy I'll bet. She claimed to
have a headache and went upstairs."

Flanagan had a daughter about Sarah's age and well
understood her consternation. "I saw him go outside with another officer," he explained. "Not with Betsy."

"Colonel Hamilton?"

The words were scarcely out of Sarah's mouth when
van Clynne began to bluster. "Hamilton?" he demanded. "Alexander Hamilton? Are we speaking of
the young officer who handles much of His Excellency
General Washington's correspondence? A man at
Washington's beck and call every hour of the day?"

Before Flanagan or Sarah could answer, van Clynne
was asking which door they had taken and throwing
himself hastily in that direction. The Dutchman ran
into the hallway, seeking out his friend with loud en
treaties and a sprinkling of even louder curses.

A personal meeting with General Washington had always been a prominent feature of van Clynne's strat
egy to win back the rights to his property — and here
was his chance to arrange one. Surely Jake would tell
Hamilton that the Dutchman's plea was a righteous
one. Surely the young aide would escort him directly to
the general.

But they were nowhere to be found. The landless squire expended a considerable portion of complaints
and not a little wheezing before he discovered a stable-hand who had seen them and their mounts head south
from the estate. With a great shout, van Clynne real
ized Dame Opportunity was about to slip off his door
step.

Not if he could help it. Nor did van Clynne let the fact that the man had only a hazy notion of where the two were going delay him. He trusted to his wits and Fate to reunite them, ere Jake met the general.

Assuming he set off right away.

"A horse, a horse!" he demanded. "My land for a horse."

What Shakespeare might have thought of this plagia
rism will not be recorded here. A horse was produced
nearly as quickly as the gold from one of the Dutchman's four purses. He thundered into the night, push
ing the beast with more fire than Paul Revere displayed
the night of his famous tour of the Boston suburbs.

Chapter Three

Wherein, Jake and Colonel Hamilton make the
acquaintance of several shady fellows.

T
he cool night air
and the rush of excitement at being
summoned by General Washington invigorated Jake. H
e urged his horse southward with the enthusiasm
of a boy released from school the day stripers start
their river run. Hamilton was right beside him; the two
men took advantage of the strong moon and clear
night sky to thunder at full speed through the Hudson
Valley hills. They reached the small settlement of Cox
sackie, some twenty miles below Albany, in barely the
time it would take to spell the name. The horses Ham
ilton had chosen were slender but sturdy beasts, identi
cally colored — roan, with a single white daub at the left
eye. Their muscled legs seemed capable of outrunning
the wind.

As fast as the horses strode, Jake's mind went
quicker. He began to fear what might lie ahead. It was
not fear for himself. Until presented with a specific
danger, Jake Gibbs was not the type to dwell on contin
gencies. But he realized that the Revolution had
reached a tremulous point. Already, there were rum
blings of discontent in the army, and the chronic
shortage of funds was becoming acute. While delega
tions had been sent abroad to seek foreign support,
European powers such as France would not back a cause that appeared headed for defeat. Another major setback —
the loss of Boston or Philadelphia, or even
Albany—could easily end all hope of assistance.

The area Jake and Hamilton rode through had been among the first visited by white men after the conti
nent's fortunate discovery. The Dutch, including mem
bers of the van Clynne family, had made this land their
own, exploring, farming, and trading for furs. It was
still sparsely settled, however, for various reasons be
ginning with the geography. Hills and mountains rose up in jagged lines from the fiver; between them, all
manner of ponds, creeks, and streams flowed in crazy-
quilt patterns, now shimmering in the moonlight.

A few miles south of Coxsackie, a stream crossed the
roadway to mark a perfect
X
on the darkened land
scape, and it was here that the two Continental officers
stopped to refresh their horses and stretch their own arms and legs.

The spot was idyllic, but the choice was unfortunate,
for no sooner had the men slipped off the backs of their mounts than they were warned to stand away, with their hands held out at their sides.