The Golden Flask

Chapter Five

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While Jake and Alexander Hamilton continued south, Claus van Clynne headed in the same general direction. But even though he took every shortcut he knew and urged his horse forward with epic entreaties and a few unvarnished threats, his progress was not half as sharp. Indeed, as the sun dawned, it found him just seven or eight miles south of the spot where Jake had left the dead Englishmen, on a dusty but sturdy road whose dips and turns ran somewhat in harmony with the nearby river.

His lack of speed was partly caused by the fact that he had to stop every so often and search for signs of his friends and their direction; their trail was difficult to trace. But a more substantial portion of his problem was due to his horse's slow gait, which was in direct contrast to its advertised attributes. This was especially annoying as van Clynne had paid dearly for the animal. Under ordinary conditions the Dutchman would not have allowed himself to be so ill-used, nor would he have concluded a deal without several minutes', if not hours', worth of haranguing. He did not wish this taken as a sign of weakness, as he explained to the beast in great detail as they rode. Only the prospect of seeing General Washington and presenting his case made him accept the outrage as the price of doing business.

Van Clynne's tongue was no less prolific because he was traveling alone; indeed, he found it easier to give full range to his feelings, as he was not constantly being interrupted by a companion. After he finished complaining of the high price of transportation, his topic naturally moved to the injustice of Jake's flight southward without him. Occasional jabs at the patrons, who unlike him had managed to keep the vast land holdings he was riding through, led to the subject of injustice in general, whereupon the British bore the brunt of the complaint.

He soon turned to the Esopus Wars, the great conflicts of the seventeenth century during which the Dutch had tamed the native inhabitants near Kingston, only to find themselves tamed in turn by the English invaders. Without following the entire path of van Clynne's logic, let us say that it left him in a sympathetic, nay, charitable frame of mind when he came upon a dusty, Indian fellow traveler sitting astride a horse on the river road not far from Murderer's Creek.

The traveler was Egans, who had restored both his strength and his anger during the several hours that had passed since encountering Jake and Colonel Hamilton. He had also recovered sufficient composure to cloak his business in the guise of a semi-innocent wanderer.

"Good morrow to you," said van Clynne. "Which way are you going?"

"To the river," replied the man.

"Not far to go, then." Van Clynne stroked his beard a moment and attempted to puzzle out the man's ancestry. Though his skin was white, his wardrobe was just the sort of mixture an Iroquois might consider his Sunday best. Obviously this was a European adopted by natives at some point in his past.

Such men had an unsurpassed ability to slide between the two worlds and were invaluable in business. They were generally easy to enlist, and rarely understood the nuances of European exchange rates. Van Clynne hated to miss an opportunity that might lead to future profits. But his beard scratching brought him back to his true priority: finding Jake and winning an appointment with Washington.

"I wonder if you have seen a man about six foot tall and heading south on horseback," he asked the stranger. "An early riser two towns ago thought he caught sight of him hurrying this way. He has blond hair, a fine Continental uniform, and a habit for getting involved in difficult situations, from which I inevitably rescue him."

"I have seen no one," claimed Egans.

"He would have been in the company of another man, a Colonel Hamilton. My friend's name is Gibbs — a remarkable individual. I have no doubt posterity will learn a great deal about him, though the edges of his story will have to be rounded for easier consumption. Modesty prevents me from describing my role in his adventures, but it has been considerable. The times I have plucked him from Hades' vestibule are too many to count."

"You look familiar," suggested the white Indian. "What is your name?"

"Claus van Clynne, at your service," said the Dutchman. "You, too, seem familiar," he said. Now that he'd had a chance to think about it, he placed the man's signs and jewelry definitely among the Oneida. There were not many white men who would wear the simple stone and symbolic tree, and fewer still who would have been accorded the honor of the eagle feather tied to his scalp lock. He searched the cubbyholes of his brain and retrieved the name: "You are Egans, are you not?"

Despite a secret hatred of the Dutch — van Clynne's ancestry was easily deduced from his clothes, to say nothing of his name and accent — Egans's stoic mask dropped for a moment. "How do you know me?"

"You are quite famous," said the Dutchman. He slipped off his horse and approached, holding out his hand. "You were a white child kidnapped by the Mohawk, and then adopted by the Oneida during the troubles thirty years ago. Your white family came from land not far from mine, and your adopted uncle and I have made one or two suitable arrangements regarding furs and corn in the past, before the war. I believe you were baptized Christof-"

"My Seneca name is

Gawasowaneh."

"Yes, yes, Big Snowsnake," said van Clynne, waving his hand as if he knew a thousand men with the Indian name. The Oneida were a touchy lot, and he did not want to provoke even an adopted son. Van Clynne was temporarily weaponless, his customary tomahawks left behind in Albany and his unloaded pistol resting comfortably in his saddlebag. "You have earned it for your role in the ceremonies."

"I have earned it for my role as a warrior," said the Oneida. Indeed, his ceremonial names could not be uttered except at the council fire.

"Just so, sir, just so. Would you prefer I use

Gawasowaneh

in addressing you? I myself am known by many Indian names." Van Clynne did not add that most of these might be translated loosely as "Big Tummy and Longer Tongue."

"Call me what you will."

"Thank you, sir, thank you. I know your entire life story; I congratulate you on your endurance. What brings you here?"

Egans did not answer his question, but van Clynne was undaunted.

"One of your native uncles and I had quite an arrangement three summers ago," continued the Dutchman, the memory of the profitable deal warming his heart. "I delivered certain blankets to the great chief Corn Planter, in exchange for wood carted down the mountain path. An unusual arrangement, but favorable to both sides. With your connections to the Iroquois Federation-strong friends of mine, I might add. I have recently spent much time among the Mohawk, turning them from the English path into more profitable areas. Perhaps we have mutual acquaintances?"

"As it happens, I am to meet my uncle at the river," suggested Egans. "Ride with me."

Van Clynne wondered what a seventy-year-old Indian whose home was far to the northwest would be doing near the river. A belated if sharp sense of danger hastened him to postpone further talk of a business arrangement indefinitely.

"I have urgent business further south," he noted, bowing and then reaching to pull himself back onto his horse. "Perhaps in a few days we can meet in some local inn."

"I think you will come with me now," said Egans, pushing aside his coat to reveal a secreted pistol.

"I should think it cold without a shirt beneath your coat. There is a fine tailor not too far from here. Perhaps if we took that road, I might be able to shave a few pence from the price."

"I think not," said Egans. "We are almost at the river now."

"Does your uncle know that you have allied yourself with the English?" asked van Clynne, steadying his horse as it climbed down the obscure, rock-strewn path. They were far from the main roads, approaching a wooded bluff overlooking the Hudson. The water was so close the Dutchman could catch glimpses of the gently rocking waves through the trees. "I would think he would have something to say about it."

"I have not seen my uncle in many years, fat man."

"I would think, sir, that personal insults will not forward our relationship in the least. But let me mention that your uncle still grieves your family's loss."

"No other man has lost two fathers," said Egans suddenly, turning on van Clynne. "And now I suggest that you keep silent, or I will fill your mouth with lead."

"As you wish, sir," said van Clynne. "Though, I would think you much wiser to align yourself with the patriotic cause, as it is one that argues for freedom and should be most compatible with the native lifestyle. These English — "

"Enough! It was a Dutchman who killed my second father. Do not tempt me to take revenge."

With great effort and a strong glance at the pistol lodged against his nose, van Clynne stopped his tongue. Egans's red father had in fact been killed by a German — the story was well known in the inns near the family's old homestead-but his friend was not in a mood to be corrected.

Egans was a wily fellow, and he made sure to stay several yards behind van Clynne. He had also taken the precaution of removing the squire's pistol from his saddlebag, as well as confiscating his four purses. The pistol was of little account, as it hadn't been loaded, but the purses had a certain sentimental value — the Dutchman nearly cried over the bills they contained. True, he had taken the precaution of leaving nearly all his coins with Sarah Thomas's father for safe keeping before attending the ball, and had a good supply of New York pounds and a few British notes besides hidden in his heel. But this he considered emergency money, and of dubious authenticity besides.

What van Clynne really wished for was a tomahawk. He was well known as one of the best ax chuckers in the province; were one in his hand right now, Egans would be wearing his hair much differently.

"Stop," said the white Oneida as van Clynne's horse reached a high point in the trail. The trees immediately to the east had been cleared, giving them a good view of the Hudson below. The river was a bright expanse of blue, gleaming with the sparkle of the midday sun. Only a few boats were about.

With Egans's attention turned toward the water, Escape was flapping her wings and heading for greener pastures. But the Dutchman needed a weapon to gain tactical advantage, and only one thing presented itself — his large and well-treasured silvery-gray beaver hat. Desperately, van Clynne flung it, startling Egans as he turned, and causing him to misfire his gun. In the same motion, van Clynne kicked his horse sharply. The animal leapt forward, but stumbled after only three steps, sending the Dutchman in a heap into the hillside brush. The considerable slope of the terrain added momentum to van Clynne's tumble, and the Dutchman was soon rolling down the hill with the force of an avalanche, throwing all manner of debris and dust in his wake. He was just barely able to steer himself by shoving his arms in front of him, managing to avoid several large rocks but crashing over a number of smaller ones.

Egans started through the brambles at the top of the bluff, then realized he would have to find an easier passage. He jumped atop his horse and rode down the path, toward an abandoned step-back trail leading to the river bank.

With a great groan, van Clynne bounced against a stone wall that stood a few yards from the edge of the water. He could hear the struggles of Egans's horse just to the south and knew he would not get very far on the ground in that direction before the Indian arrived. The way north was blocked by a large patch of overgrown blackberry sticker bushes; escape in that direction was likewise improbable.

Indeed, the only path open was the river a few yards away. Not only did its waters beckon with a disarming calmness, but a canoe had been placed on the bank to make his exit child's play.

Except that Van Clynne was deathly afraid of water. Given the choice, he would have walked barefoot through a field of burning corn before being berthed in the captain's quarters of a fine sailing ship.

The sound of Egans's horse crashing through the woods vanquished his fear. Or rather, it gave the Dutchman courage enough to close his eyes as he dove into the canoe, his weight helping to move it out onto the water as the current caught hold and pushed it toward midstream.