The Golden Flask

Chapter Thirteen

Having released his anger in disposing of his guide and driver, Major Dr. Keen mounted his coach and took stock of the situation. Once launched on a mission, a member of the secret department must carry it to completion. In this case, Gibbs's escape was doubly vexing, as the doctor had already sent a dispatch to his master, General Bacon, indicating the spy's demise. Should Bacon learn of the error, he would be well within his rights to punish Keen for his premature optimism.

There was only one punishment meted out to members of the secret department, no matter the offense: death, as untimely and unpleasant as possible.

Keen had not yet received an acknowledgment from Bacon, and so there might be a short opening for him to ransom the situation, assuming he could do so without Bacon finding out.

In any event, there seemed no other option. He whipped his horses southward toward the largest settlements, reasoning that it would be the most likely direction for Jake to travel, as he must by rights have come from the north. Still, the British assassin knew from experience that finding the spy would not be an easy task.

At least, Keen thought to himself, he would no longer have to deal with Gibbs's vexing sidekick, the obnoxiously rotund and endlessly talkative van Clynne.

Thus, when he reached the small village where Jake had eaten and clothed himself, he stopped more to discover the lay of the land than in actual hope of apprehending the patriot spy.

Keen's fancy coach, to say nothing of the fine buckskin breeches and embroidered coat he wore, marked him as a man of wealth. In certain Whig circles, this would immediately arouse suspicions, and so when he climbed down near the public house, the doctor began promulgating a cover story to any who would listen: He was a private citizen appointed to a committee of inspection by Governor Clinton, and was looking for a friend said to be traveling with a Colonel Hamilton.

"And who might that be, sir?" asked the tavern owner when they were introduced.

"A man with blond hair, an inch or two over six foot," said Keen. He placed his weight on his walking stick, picking the pocket watch from his vest as if concerned about the fact that it was already well past seven p.m.

"Fella like that was in around dinner, midday or so," said the keeper. "Said Colonel Hamilton directed him here. Ate like a horse."

"That would be him," answered the doctor. "We were to meet in town, but I was delayed. I wonder where he's gone to?"

The keeper shrugged. "Seemed in a hurry. Asked after the weaver, if I recall."

Keen thanked the man, left a shilling on the table, and walked down the weedy, dust-strewn street to the weaver's shop.

Candles were lit in the small building, which was factory, home, and sales floor all in one. The doctor rapped his stick on the side of the old Dutch-style split door before opening it himself and stepping into the large front room. He was greeted by the steady whisking sound of a loom.

The large, wood-framed machine took up nearly a third of the room. Its levers and pedals were being worked with great concentration by Kristen Daley, the daughter whom the weaver had strenuously tried to protect earlier in the day.

The girl was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice her visitor at first. Keen likewise was transfixed, for here was a perfect American beauty, bundled in mobcap and baggy smock, but no less beautiful for these plain coverings. In London, the doctor had been quite a partaker of feminine charms, and if the world might be said to be filled with connoisseurs of female beauty, he could rightly be accorded a place of honor among them.

The doctor doffed his hat — rare was the Colonial who earned this honor — then tapped his stick on the floor, tilting his head at an angle calculated to give off a good perspective on his jaw.

The girl looked up with a start."Excuse me," said the doctor. "I am looking for a friend." He stepped forward and bowed. "Allow me to introduce myself: Dr. Harland Keen. I am on a mission for Governor Clinton."

"Oh," said the girl. She started to get up from the loom, but caught her dress on the bench; the frame, pedals, and cloth mechanisms formed a kind of cage for the operator, making it difficult to exit quickly. Keen flew across the room, catching her in his arms. He lifted her up as if she were a princess, twirling her away from the machine and then setting her down, bowing with all the flourish he had once used on the floor of the king's palace.

Under other circumstances, Keen would have been sorely tempted to pursue his interest in her. Indeed, he had to fight severely against his nature, reminding himself that Gibbs's existence was a threat to his own life. "I hope you are all right, my dear," he told her, stepping back. "I am searching for a friend of mine, a Colonel Gibbs. He is tall, well-built, with blond hair. I believe he came here searching for a suit."

"A stranger bought clothes from my father this afternoon," said the girl. "He was tall and more handsome than any man I have ever seen."

"Some women find Mr. Gibbs pleasing," allowed Keen, suppressing a reaction to her flutter. "Though I could not say but his nose seems over-large for his face, as well as his health. We were supposed to meet in this town, or I thought we were."

Keen walked to a table near the side, where some fine polonaise gowns were displayed. It took little imagination to picture the girl in one.

"He said he was going to New York," she told him.

Keen barely heard. It had been too long since he partook of beauty, and the temptation to satisfy himself on this morsel was overwhelming. Whether the girl understood the look in his eye as he turned or not, she took a step backwards. Keen advanced arms forward, his body literally shaking in anticipation.

"Another step toward my daughter and I will blow your head off."

Keen stopped dead, then looked up with a contrite smile at Kristen's father in the doorway.

"This is an interesting way of greeting customers."

"What business have you in my shop?" demanded the weaver, unimpressed. "State it quickly."

"I am looking for a friend," said Keen. Walking stick in hand, he took a tentative step toward the man. His gun appeared to be one of the colonists' infamous Pennsylvania rifles, though at this distance, its legendary accuracy was hardly essential.

"You have no friend here," said the weaver. "Out with you."

"Now, now, my good man. We are all friends in one way or another," said Keen.

The weaver's answer was cut short by a sharp jab of the doctor's cane in his stomach. The gun fired harmlessly into the ceiling; Keen smacked the side of the man's skull and sent him to a deep but unrestful sleep against the cabinet.

"And now, my darling," said the doctor, turning back. "Perhaps you would like to come with me to New York? Have you seen the sights there?"

"She will not see them today," said a sharp female voice.

Surprised, Keen turned to his right. Standing in the doorway to the back of the house was a woman holding a musket.

"I don't know who you are," declared the girl's mother, "but if you do not walk backward from this building this instant, you will sing with the angels in heaven."

"As you wish, madam."

Keen was a man of science, but he considered that there are certain times in life when Fate herself may be playing a hand, and it is best not to interfere. He could always return here at some future date, once his job was complete.

He paused at the door, and reached inside his vest for his purse.

Mrs. Daley brought the musket up and steadied her aim.

"Permit me, madam, to pay for your troubles," he said mildly. "And a little extra."

He threw thirty crowns on the floor, a princely sum in this, and indeed most, households.

"I hope that you will spend a portion of it on that beautiful gown," he told Kristen, pointing it out. "It would look most beautiful on you."

He did not pause to hear the reply.