The Golden Flask

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,' suggested 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 promised 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 determination, 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 liability.

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.

Claus 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 receive 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 business.'

'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 several 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 longtime companion, but no self-respecting Dutchman considered 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 miscreants 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 present when he asked General Washington for consideration in the matter of his land. The general, and afterwards the Congress, would consider the great trials van Clynne had overcome and see justice served. And who could doubt that the Dutchman, as resourceful 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?' demanded 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 agreement.

Jake spat a mouthful of water from his throat as he grabbed onto the tree trunk. The strong tides of the river