The Golden Flask

Chapter Twelve

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 were pushing it rapidly downstream, toward the British and their ships. Alison struggled, but her exhausted body was no match for the strong current. She felt her grip slipping; suddenly, she fell headfirst into the waves. The patriot spy grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her up over the floating log.

"All right," he said. "I suppose I'm stuck with you. Let's not visit any sea rays along the way."

Alison was too winded to celebrate. Jake kicked hard, pushing the log before him as he aimed toward the dark shadow of Manhattan island.

The Hudson is no simple stream. Like a great lady, she moves back and forth as much according to whim as the edicts of the moon. Between her various eddies and flows, she is constantly changing direction, and often goes three different ways at once. Tonight she was feeling particularly capricious; Jake had no sooner found a suitable spot to aim at on the eastern shore than the Hudson took it into her head to send him back west.

In seconds, Jake found himself floating a mere dozen yards from the British fifth-rater, a frigate-sized warship retired from the line but still a considerable power in these waters. The deck was awash with light, and reflections leapt across the waves, the shadows dancing in a wild, silent procession. He had no choice but to drift; furious kicking might raise all manner of unwanted attention.

Fortunately, the British eyes were drawn to the Jersey shore, where word had just come of a major land battle near a rebel bridge. Rumor had inflated the encounter that had claimed Paul Brown's life; had the wind been different, Jake might have heard whispers of two battalions of rebels encountered, with George Washington himself at their head. Such are the strange fortunes of war; the same skirmish that made an orphan of Alison now allowed them to pass unnoticed by a considerably larger and more dangerous British force.

The Hudson now pushed the two patriots toward the Manhattan shore. Jake felt the current take him as if he were a feather on the wind; the log lifted nearly out of the water, and in a trice they were speeding toward land, within sight of the former Fort Washington just to the north.

The rushing current and riptide threatened a fresh disaster for Jake and Alison. The way before them was filled with large and treacherously sharp rocks, plunging their nasty beaks into the night air like the mouths of the Furies themselves.

"Watch out!" Jake yelled as the log rode forward. Alison slipped to the side, barely saving her arm from the craggy jaws of a boulder. The maneuver took the last of her energy, and in the next second, she fell off the tree trunk.

Jake dove face-first over the log after her. The moonlight was by no means bright enough to illuminate the depths, and he flailed blindly with his hands and feet, trying to feel for the poor girl. His right shin struck so hard against a rock that he involuntarily cursed; this led him to take a huge gulp of water into his lungs, and he fought to the surface coughing.

Her father's dying plea sounded through the sharp rap of the water against the rocks, and as he cleared his chest of water, Jake cursed himself for stopping at the inn, cursed himself still harder for suggesting that the pair guide him to the river.

For a brief moment the torrent around him seemed to cease and the din fall away. Jake heard a faint burble to his right, more animal than human. He dove toward it, catching Alison as she slipped downward for the third time.

He grabbed her under the arm and pulled her to the surface, tossing her limp body into the air with all his strength. Eliciting a hopeful cough for his efforts, he tightened his grip and spun back to face the rocks — and just barely managed to get his free hand before his face as the tide slammed him into a large, moss-covered crag.

The entire world might be coming to an end around him, but Jake could see nothing but black granite, feel nothing but the young girl clamped in his arm. His fingers pounded against the rock as if to hold it off, while the current took his feet and shot them to his right, upsetting his balance. But this proved fortuitous, for they landed against a sandbar, and in the next moment Jake was able to lever himself and Alison into a protected pool of water and get to his knees.

The shoreline proper was still some yards off, but the way now was easy. With his last bit of strength, he hauled Alison over his shoulders and crawled onto dry land, collapsing just as the first rosy fingers of dawn poked through the east.