The Golden Flask (45 page)

Alison, seeing that he winced when moving his arm, got up and examined his back and shoulder.

"You have a wound," she said. "God, I can see the ball right in your skin. It looks like a rock."

Jake took a hard breath, then flexed his muscle. It felt as if a giant were pressing his thumb to it. The fact that the wound was not deep was fortunate, but the bullet must be removed and the wound sealed.

"Do you still have your knife?" he asked her when he finished tying the bandage on his leg.

"Yes." Her answer was clipped by the shivers of her teeth; despite the mist, the night still had a hard chill.

Jake got slowly to his feet, testing his balance by hobbling through the heavy mud to the waterline where the old pirate had gone to keep watch. "I need you to start a small fire," he told him.

"Daren't do that, captain," said the man. "The sentries on the prison ships will see it right away, and send a patrol. They've already heard us talking."

"Where are we?"

"Wallabout Bay, in the mud flats."

"The burial grounds."

"Aye. Under the protection of the ghosts, I daresay."

No account of the perfidy of the British during this
war can miss the horrors persecuted on those impris
oned aboard the
Jersey,
whose hulking hull loomed
nearby. The soft murmur of horror that drifted across
the water was not the lament of ghosts but the groan of
suffering.

Jake told the old pirate to gather some driftwood quickly; they must start a fire no matter the consequences. Indeed, he hoped the British might send someone to investigate, for therein lay their salvation;
it would be difficult to get off the mud flats except by
water, and they dare not wait until morning when they
would surely be discovered.

After the pirate had piled enough driftwood for a
modest fire, Jake undid the calked compartment in his
money belt where his flint lay and gave it to the old man.

"Old flint won't spark," complained the pirate after a few tries.

"You almost have it," urged Jake.

"Here now, the ghosts helped us," said the man as the fire sparked up.

"Get more wood, I want them to see the blaze," said
Jake.

Already there were shouts and activity on the prison , ships. The old pirate, not quite sure what Jake was up to, nonetheless began to hustle across the thick mud, seeking out more pieces of wood.

"Take the knife, Alison, and hold the blade in the
fire." Jake dropped to his knees, keeping his eye on the
water. He saw the outline of a longboat setting out
from one of the moored ships. "When it burns red, use the tip to pry out the bullet, then sear the sides of the
wound."

"But it will hurt you."

"It will hurt a hell of a lot more if you don't. Hurry,
before that patrol reaches us. Be brave, girl."

Alison held the knife into the flames as the pirate continued to carry and pile on the driest driftwood he could find. She steadied the blade until it was so hot it
was difficult to hold, even with her shawl as a makeshift
glove.

Alison bit her lip as she worked the tip against Jake's
flesh. He fastened his teeth on a part of his coat, trying
desperately not to cry out with the intense pain.

The offending bullet popped out with a hiss; she
closed her eyes and ran the flat of the knife around the
wound.

Jake collapsed forward on the ground, but slowly
willed himself back to his feet. Alison helped him up,
tears in her eyes.

"Are you all right?"

"It hurts like the devil's own poker," he admitted. "But that's a good sign. It's the infection dying. Come on now, I have to meet this shadow. You stay back
there on the firmer ground and say nothing, no matter
what happens. Do you still have the Segallas?"

"It's soaked."

"Hold on to it anyway. Perhaps you can bluff some
one, if it comes to that." Jake turned to the old pirate;
before he could say anything, the man was helping her
back up the beach.

While the others retreated, Jake warmed himself in
front of the flames. He took the dueling pistols from their protected bag and case, cocking them carefully
and leaving them within his reach. He would use them
as a last resort.

The pain from the cauterized wound was starting to
retreat. His heart was beating regularly now — or as
close to regularly – as could be expected, given the dan
ger. Jake took the vial of sleeping powder from his
pocket and loosened the cap, readying himself as the
British boat nosed into the mud flat at the water's edge.

Four men had been sent to investigate the fire. A
pair stayed with the boat; the other two fixed their bay
onets and then splashed across the water into the thick
mud, cursing at the muck.

Jake stood behind the fire, visible only as a dim
shadow in the darkness and fog. "About time ,you got
here," he shouted. "I have been waiting all night."

"Who are you?" asked the lead soldier, about twenty
yards away. "Declare yourself."

"Don't you recognize me?" said Jake. "You buried me here just yesterday."

"Buried — who are you, rebel?"

Jake held his arms out, as if welcoming them for
ward. He walked through the fire. There was no danger
of his soaked clothes catching as he passed through
quickly, but the effect was impressive.

"Jesus, Fred, he's a ghost."

"Indeed — and I am the Queen's mother."

The unsuperstitious Fred advanced toward Jake,
who held out his hands in supplication and continued
forward. The man reared back to slap down the rebel
figure with the butt of his gun — and then tottered over
to the ground, felled by a fistful of tossed sleeping pow
der.

"Run for your lives!" said the second man, turning and running back toward the boat. "It's a goddamn ghost."

He might have asked his companions how many
ghosts would have stopped to scoop up a musket. Jake
pushed his bruised leg forward, trying to hurry after the Britons before they could escape into the water. For a moment he worried that his plan had worked a
little too well. The scared redcoats might row away be
fore he could douse them all with the rest of his pow
der.

Fortunately, the two men who'd remained with the boat were no more superstitious than the archbishop's wife. Unfortunately, that meant they dealt with the
supposed specter in a very earthly manner. They raised
their guns and fired.

Because of the mist, Jake did not realize he was be
ing shot at until the bullets whizzed by a few feet from his head. It was only sheer luck — and the notorious
inefficiency of the muskets and their operators — that
saved him.

Of course, the Britons had no way of knowing that.
They saw a shadowy figure hobbling forward in the
mud flats toward them, apparently impervious to their weapons. They had buried numerous men in this same area over the past few months; it did not take much imagination to draw frightful conclusions and change
their minds about the existence of ghosts.

The first redcoat dove straight into the water, gun
and all. One of the men in the boat followed suit, leav
ing only a single marine to confront the apparition.

"I don't know who you are, rebel," said the man as Jake closed the distance between them to ten feet. "But I'll kill you where you stand, I promise."

"Attempt it," suggested Jake, bringing the gun up in
his right hand as he continued forward. "You have al
ready done so once."

Just as Jake decided he was close enough to fire, a
new ghost began flying downward from the beach. This
ghost was straight from hell, its horns pointed and tail
flying behind it. The soldier dove straight backwards
into the water and began flailing towards his compan
ions.

Jake fell to his knees laughing as Alison ran up be
hind him, her dress and scarf fluttering in the wind. He was so grateful at this easy victory — and so used to her
behavior by now — that he did not even bother to scold
her for disobeying his orders.

A few minutes later, the patriots and their pirate guide
had pushed the large boat into the water and begun
heading away from the prison ships. Their progress was
slow and the hour was now far advanced. Jake realized
they must head straight to the dueling site, and even then might not make it in time.

"Their guilt was in our favor," Jake said, standing
guard in the bow with the gun. The old pirate strained
against the oars. "You cannot go day by day and see the horrors on the
Jersey
without it affecting you in some way."

"They were cowards," said Alison firmly. "All the
British are."

"Not all of them," said Jake. "The war would have been over before it began if that were true."

"I would not say, sir, but that a real ghost may have
played a role in their banishment," put in the old pirate. "The girl and I noticed several shadows behind you when the soldiers drew near. And none of their
bullets managed to find you. That is a miracle not eas
ily explained."

"You have never faced a British line," said Jake, who
did not believe in ghosts, benevolent or otherwise. "A
full squad can fire at a barn three paces away, and not
a ball will strike it. Besides, it was very dark and they
were scared."

"There are more things in heaven and earth than you dream in the imagination, sir," said the old pirate.

"Shakespeare's
Hamlet,
though you misquote it."

"I don't know what the ghost's name was," continued the pirate respectfully, "but I can tell you a tale of
a haunted ship that routed half the Spanish fleet. And
another that still sails the ocean, looking for its true captain, lost overboard in a fearsome gale."

"I have no doubt," said Jake. They were entering the mouth of the bay. Despite his age and seemingly small
body, their companion was a strong rower; Jake began
to feel confident they would make the duel on time after all.

"Were you honestly a pirate?" asked Alison.

"Still am," declared the man boldly. "With a privateer's license. Aye, one from England, one from Spain
and one from France. I can plunder whom I please, when I please. Why, I know of many a pile of gold
buried on this Long Island alone, and several dozen in the Jerseys where we are headed. Better hunting in the
south, but I could tell you a story would make your short hair stand on end."