The Golden Flask (33 page)

"The apprentice is now a guest of the English, much against his will, and my uncle's," replied the shadow.
"Your own path is clear: you are to leave immediately."

"Ah," said Jake, "you must be Timothy. I am Jake
Gibbs. Surely your uncle has told you about me."

Before the lad could answer, he was interrupted by a
loud crash at the door.
"Step away from Jake, or you will be filled with more
lead than the weight of the clock in the governor's pal
ace."

"I thought I told you to wait outside," said Jake in
dignantly as Alison waved her gun in the shadows.

"An ungrateful attitude," she replied. "But then, I
have come to expect it, having saved your life so many
times before."

"You've spent too much time with van Clynne," said
Jake. "You're starting to sound like him." He turned
back toward Bebeef s nephew. "We are all on the same s
ide here. Light a candle and I will show you a sign
your uncle would recognize."

"Why should I trust you?" said the lad, still holding
his sword at Jake's side. "Anyone could claim to be his
friend, and Mr. Gibbs is well known in several circles.
His father's firm supplies many of the items in this very
shop."

"Your uncle has a scar over his left eye that he got
while escaping a Turkish prince who held him for ransom in his youth," replied Jake. "If you have not heard
that story ten thousand times, you are not related to the professor."

"Everyone living in the province of New York has
heard that story ten thousand times," answered the nephew. Nonetheless, he lowered his sword and retreated to light a candle.

Jake reached under his clothes and undid the money belt at his waist. The back of the belt was stamped with
a Masonic symbol that the nephew quickly recognized. The symbol was shared by all members of the Secret
Service, but the esoteric marks above it were a mne
monic Bebeef himself used as the abbreviation for a
remedy for the Portuguese ailment—a disease King George was reputed to suffer from. The formula con
necting the king with the disease and the cure with the
Revolution was among the old professor's favorite if
somewhat obscure jokes.

"I am sorry," said the nephew, who recognized the
marks immediately. "I am Timothy Hulter, as you sur
mised. The Tories and British are envious of my uncle's
potions, and there have been several attempts at break-
ins."

"Where is he? I need his help urgently. There is a potion only he can concoct."

"With my mother in Brooklyn," said the lad. "He won't see anyone. He won't talk, not even to her. He
seems to have fallen into a deep spell, sitting day and
night in the back garden, staring at a madstone."

"A madstone?" Jake squinted, as if suddenly pre
sented with the unlikely object. Many people — including, it must be admitted, a few scientists — believed the
special rocks able to cure fever and madness. Despite
this, Bebeef had long dismissed such stones as mere
superstitions.

"It is, sir, a rock such as one has never seen before.
Until now, I thought such things were superstition. But
there is much in this shop that I would not believe except for my uncle's demonstrations."

Jake was just wondering whether he might alter his
plan for dealing with Bauer when the young man sud
denly took hold of his arm. "Please, sir, come with me
to the farm. You must find a cure for the spell that has
taken him."

"I don't know," said Jake. "I have pressing matters to attend to. And I know nothing of magic."

"Nor does my uncle. There must be science to it. There is no such thing as magic, only formulas yet to be discovered, as my uncle puts it. He has spoken of
you before this illness; surely he would help you if the
places were turned."

Jake owed Bebeef much. Not only had his concoc
tions rescued him from many difficult situations, but
the professor had sheltered him in the dark days of the
British invasion. If it were not for him, Jake might well
have suffered the same fate as Nathan Hale.

But the journey to Long Island was fraught with dan
ger. Nor would it directly assist his mission; u
nless, of course, he was able to cure the professor.
In that case, it would be more like an investment toward the solution, and not a delay at all.

"Tell me more about this ailment," said Jake. "No, wait — tell it to me on the way to the ferry."

"I have a small boat that is much safer," said the lad,
starting toward the door.

"Alison, you go back to Daltoons," Jake ordered, "and tell him I will return in time for the duel."

But before she could go or open her mouth to argue, a pair of shadows passed by the front window.
Jake grabbed both Alison and Timothy and threw them
to the floor.

The figures who had cast the shadows were members
of the Black Watch, too intent on the tavern across the
street to bother glancing inside the shop. Nonetheless,
Jake decided Alison was safer coming along with him.
She might even provide him with some cover, or at least a way of getting a message back to Culper if he
ran into difficulties. In any event, he could not let her
wander the city alone.

"Alison is a strange name for a boy," said the nephew after Jake told them they could rise.

"It will seem stranger still when I flatten you," she
promised.

* * *

Timothy's boat was far along the road to Corber's
Point, in a discrete yard where no questions would be
asked no matter who came or went, day or night. The trio trekked north all the way to Division Street, mak
ing sure their intentions were not known and they were
not followed. In truth, these precautions were overzeal
ous, but considering the circumstances, understand
able. Two hours later they were rowing as quietly as
possible across the East River. Jake and Timothy had
each taken an oar to use as an Indian paddles a canoe.
Alison lay in the bow, acting as lookout as the skiff worked across the bay in the manner of mist stealing into a valley. By the time they reached the small, tree-lined cove on the Long Island shore, it was well past midnight. Jake helped Timothy pull the small boat into the bushes. He and Alison followed the lad up to a dusty road and across a large, uncultivated field.

Alison was beginning to show the signs of fatigue.
She had given Jake the pistol she'd "borrowed" from
Daltoons, and left the lieutenant's heavy cloak at the
rowboat. But her pace dragged nonetheless, the fatigue of the past few days starting to take their toll. In truth,
even Jake's famous constitution was beginning to show
signs of wear as the trio hiked across a country road and found another shortcut through a pasture. The warm summer day had given way to a cool night, and the chilly air rubbed at Jake's shoulders like a carpenter works a fresh tabletop.

"Just four or five miles from here," said Timothy as they climbed over a stone wall and found another road.

"Can we rest?" asked Alison, setting her hands on the wall.

Before Jake could answer, she plopped over on the
ground.

"Mouthy for a girl," said Timothy, leaning over her to make sure she was merely sleeping. "But pretty, even with the short hair."

"I'd be careful what I accused her of," answered
Jake. "She insults very easily. And would most likely be
more than your match in a fight."

"I should like to wrestle her sometime and find out."

For all his protests against her behavior, Jake was
starting to feel just a bit protective — and even fatherly.
He scowled toward young Timothy, then hoisted Alison over his shoulder. "Come on, lead the way."

The Hulter farm was a fertile holding of nearly twenty cleared acres given over to the cultivation of corn. In
deed, it had been used for that purpose for several generations, spanning back to its original native owners. The house itself was not more than ten years old, a
replacement for a structure that had caught fire one
winter night when the fireplace was carelessly over-
stoked. A story-and-a-half, with finely decorated eaves and handsomely carved shutters, it was typical of the
humble farmhouses that dot the island, save in one re
gard. This was its elaborate garden, which ranged on
all four sides at some depth surrounding the building.
All manner of bushes and flowers crowded together in
an elaborate though specially ordered jumble. Each
had its own medicinal purpose; more than a few were
rare to these shores, nurtured by Timothy's mother's careful hand.

Grace Hulter was Professor Bebeef s youngest sister. The natural philosopher had always doted on her when
she was small; as she grew, she returned the favor sev
eralfold. They were close despite the years between them.

Grace's husband had left to join the Continental Army the previous year; she had had no word from
him since. Grace refused to countenance the neighbor
hood whispers that he had met his fate below White Plains. True or not, the rumors filled even her most
vitriolic Tory neighbors with pity for the famously kind
woman. Grace administered mild cures to all in the
surrounding country without regard to politics. Thus her husband's sins were not held too strongly against
her, though she was suspected of being a quiet rebel
herself.

By the time Jake unloaded the sleeping Alison from
his shoulder onto a wooden chair propped near the front door, the sun was sending an advance party of rays to test the horizon. Timothy led Jake directly to
the back yard, where the old professor was sitting beneath a rare and beautiful rose bush. In his hand was a
brown-colored rock not more than three inches long and another inch wide, rough-hewn around the edge, as if it were a petrified piece of wood. It seemed to glow faintly; the old man's eyes, wide open in what
seemed like perpetual astonishment, shone with the re
flected light.

Despite the fact that he was now, well past sixty,
Bebeef’s hair was full and thick, the magnificent locks falling around his ears and draping across the velvet of
his fine cloak. He wore the doctor's robes of the monastery where he had studied during his youth, as
was his habit when engaged in one of his more esoteric
experiments.

Jake had never seen him in such a stupor. He ad
vanced cautiously. Despite all his learning and experi
ence, he could not dismiss outright the possibility that
the stone did indeed contain some form of black magic.

"Professor, it's Jake Gibbs. I need your help. Profes
sor?"

Bebeef s stare did not alter, nor was there any other sign that he had noticed Jake.

"He does not stir for days at a time," said Mrs.
Hulter, coming out from the house. Dressed in a plain
white country dress, she seemed to float across the
stone path, her willowy hair tied in a modest bun at the
back of her neck. "He will not move or acknowledge
anyone and eats only a small bit of food."