The Golden Flask (32 page)

"I shall pursue my own plan in the morning," vowed
van Clynne between his snores.

"Do that," said Jake, tapping his shoe as he left.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Wherein, Jake takes a not-so-leisurely stroll through the enemy city.

A
fter General Howe and
his troops succeeded in turning the American line at Brooklyn Heights on
Long Island in the fall of 1776, General Washington
orchestrated a daring nighttime retreat. Having escaped the cauldron, the Continental troops hunkered
down in the city opposite, preparing defenses for the
inevitable assault. The ensuing disaster of Kipp's Bay,
where Howe routed our boys with a heavy rain of can
non, is nearly too depressing to mention. Only by the most heroic of measures was the commander-in-chief
able to regain control of his army and retreat north. It was not until the brave battle at White Plains that the
tide was finally turned. That skirmish may well have
preserved our Revolution, and shall undoubtedly be
praised by generations to come, once we have won our
Freedom.

In the days following Washington's withdrawal from New York, a massive fire broke out in the western pre
cincts. From Broadway west to the fort, from the water
north to Barclay Street, no building was untouched by
the flames. Even the magnificent steeple of Trinity Church glowed with the red flickers. The destruction
was several times greater than that caused by the can
nons of war; it may truthfully be said that no conflagra
tion of similar proportions had ever raged on the continent. The wounded precincts have since become
host to a city within a city built of ruins and canvas, the
poor huddling for whatever shelter they can find.

But as Claus van Clynne would cheerfully point out,
ever since its establishment by the Dutch, New York
has been a city of great resources and strength. The presence of the British in the fort at the island's south
ern tip — and even more importantly, on the fields to the north and the waters to the east and south — proved
a magnet to all manner of Tory. American industry,
ignorant of politics, constantly seeks to build and grow,
no matter who sits in the governor's house or mans the
battlements.

Indeed, the city Jake proceeded through after leaving the infirmary hideout was enjoying what van Clynne's favorite philosopher Adam Smith might call an economic boom. Despite the late hour, the streets were filled with people going about their business.
Even the notorious city pigs, supplemented by an occa
sional loose dog, walked with purpose. The air was as filled with the smell of money being made and spent as
it was with horse dung.

Jake thought of pulling up the collar of his jacket to
obscure his face. But on second thought, he felt this might unnecessarily attract attention. How often is it
said that the most obvious hiding place is the one least expected? He straightened his spine and walked with a
solid gait, hastening up George's Street toward the commons and then eastward. At every step, it seemed
he saw a soldier or an obvious British functionary; Jake smiled and always endeavored to make direct eye con
tact.

It was a bold approach. While Jake had the advan
tage of moving through the city at a time when all of
Howe's command and a large portion of his men had
been removed to stew aboard ship, still, at any moment
Chance herself might throw someone across his path who would recognize him and sound the alarm.

Not that he was unarmed. Beneath his belt Jake carried his Segallas, fully loaded and ready for action. He
also had two full-sized pistols borrowed from the Sons' armory beneath his jacket, and a knife tucked into his right boot.

The spy's destination was a small apothecary shop off an alley on Cherry Street. Just a block off the docks and shipyards, before the Revolution the neighborhood was rough and thoroughly mixed, frequented by sailors and assorted ruffians who knocked shoulders with wealthy merchants, legitimate and otherwise. Any sort of deal in the world could be hatched here, and if the Devil were looking for a place to do his business, he could not have chosen a better spot.

Nor had respectability threatened this vale now that war had come. Jake adopted a certain aggressive gait, hands swinging and chin jutting forward as he nudged his way past the taverns and warehouses. He walked quicker, beginning to anticipate the meeting he had planned; he had not seen the owner of the shop he was visiting for several months.

But a half-block from his destination, a sensation grew on him that he was being followed. He took a left turn away from the building, walking up in the general direction of the reservoir. Sure enough, his fleeting glance revealed a figure in the shadows behind him.

The buildings lining the street were butted against one another too closely to give him a hiding place. He continued walking, his step brisk and deliberate but not panicked, making it seem as if this were his direction all along.

A shed that had been converted to a sales office for barrels of pitch sat on the next block, just on the outskirts of the tanning yards. A porch stood over the front of the building, guarded by two large, rough-hewn posts. The posts had an assortment of barrels and coils of rope hauled around them; whatever function these were meant to serve, they provided an excellent hiding place for the patriot spy as he ducked behind them and crouched down.

The man following him turned the corner onto the empty street. Not seeing his quarry, he broke into a
trot, his full-length cloak flapping as he ran to catch his
prey.

Jake slipped the knife from his boot and ran his thumb along the sleek steel blade. Just as the fellow
passed him, Jake leaped over the barrel, grabbing the
villain by the throat.

"Why would anyone wear a heavy coat in the sum
mer heat?" the patriot asked his prisoner.

"Father!"

"Damn you, Alison," said Jake, spinning her around
but not releasing her. "You almost had your throat slit.
Why aren't you with Daltoons?"

"I told him I was going to the privy. He's very brave, but easily fooled. His coat is handy, though. It comes
equipped with many pockets for weapons and such."

Jake scowled. If his knife had frightened her for even
an instant, there was no trace of it on her face. "What you need is a good caning."

"Are all patriots treated this way?"

"Ones who don't obey orders. Where's Claus?"

"Sleeping like a baby, and snoring like a hound in
heat."

"That's something, at least." Jake thought of sending
her back alone, but dismissed the idea on two counts: one that it was too dangerous, and two that she was
unlikely to follow such an order. "Come along."

The moon had continued her climb through the
clear sky during Jake's brief detour, and now Night was
serenading the city with her bright starlight and gentle bird songs. The building he sought had a large, mul
tiply paned glass window that covered most of its front.
Several of the panels were made of thick, brightly
colored glass similar to that found in the most lavish
churches. Other than this obvious sign of prosperity, there was no hint of the building's owner or his busi
ness. Jake stood before the closed doorway for a mo
ment, waiting as two men walked into the tavern across
the way.

"Stay right here," said Jake to Alison. "Do not
move. And do not go into that tavern. It is owned by a
friend, but the sailors will have you aboard their ship
before he spots you."

"I am not afraid of them."

"But I am," warned Jake.

He reached inside his vest pocket and retrieved a
narrow, wedge-shaped piece of metal which he wielded
like a skeleton key. In a second, he pushed the door
inwards and slipped inside.

"Bebeef, are you awake?" he asked, walking toward
the back. "Professor Bebeef?"

The only answer was a soft thud from the back room.
Jake stepped gingerly along the wide, painted pine
planks; the floor was littered with glass jars, boxes, and
canvas bags. Only half contained what one might call the customary wares of an apothecary.

Nominally a druggist, the proprietor had a severe weakness for oddities and machines of all kinds. If the
truth be told, he was a soft touch for any inventor or
salesman who wandered in. On the floor and shelves were such items as an authentic Egyptian spyglass, a steel spring said to cure consumption better than
Bebeef’s own potions, and a large, winged contraption
with which, under the proper circumstances, a man
could fly. That such circumstances had not yet been
discovered did not prevent the gray-haired chemist, philosopher, and veritable wizard from cheerfully try
ing to sell the device to anyone who strayed into his store.

"Bebeef?"

Jake knocked at the door to the rear room, where the proprietor customarily slept.

"Professor?"

There was a sound inside, louder than before. Jake pushed the door open, then fell flat against the jam as a large white ball exploded toward him.

The cat, Mister Spooky.

"I am being assaulted by all sorts of animals today,”
Jake complained to himself. His self-deprecating laugh
was interrupted by a gentle but nonetheless obvious poke at his ribs.

"Do not move or this sword will pierce your flesh,"
said an unfamiliar voice. "It is tipped with a poison
that will kill you only after the most painful seizures
imaginable."

Chapter Twenty-nine

Wherein, Professor Bebeef’s situation is found to be desperate.

I
have no desire
to be poisoned," said Jake softly. In the dim light of the shop, he couldn't tell who might be
holding the sword on him. It certainly wasn't Bebeef.

"Walk slowly with me, to the door. Too quickly, and I
will plunge the sword in your side. Remember, I need
only prick the skin for the poison to take effect."

"I need to see Professor Bebeef," said Jake, who
realized the voice and shadow belonged to a boy, not a
man, and thus dismissed his original theory that he had been surprised by a British soldier guarding the confis
cated stores. Still, he was in no position to relax. "I am a friend of his."

"Move this way or you will die."

The question was not so much whether the blade was truly covered with poison, but which poison it
might be; the nearby shelves contained quite a variety.

"You're not the apprentice who was here six weeks ago," said Jake. "You would remember that I borrowed
a noise bomb."