The Golden Flask

Chapter Seventeen

Rivington, as any reader of our country's journals will know, is the notorious editor of the lying rag proclaiming King George Ill's vicious slanders against his former subjects. He is the same printer who published the infamous notes from the Westchester farmer at the beginning of hostilities, and a man who has done much to proclaim the word of tyranny throughout the continent. While it will be admitted that Rivington has also printed the occasional reply from the patriot party — including one penned by Alexander Hamilton — there are few in America and none in England who doubt his loyalty to the king.

Yet how to explain that, in opening the coffeehouse, he has entered into a partnership with Culper? How to explain that it is one of the best gathering places for the patriot spy network, and that even as Jake entered, three different pairs of patriot eyes noted his presence?

Some questions are better left unanswered, at least for now. Suffice to say that Jake quickly found himself approached not by a mere waiter, but by Culper himself. The spymaster wore a reddened mask of gouty displeasure, and sailed at Jake as a crusader descending on the Saracens.

"You, sir," he announced in a voice that scattered the pigeons nestling on the roof outside, "out of establishment this instant! We will serve none of your kind here!"

"I always pay my bill promptly," sniffed Jake in return, not sure entirely what way the game was to be played.

"Not so readily as you claim. Out — and take the servants' entrance. I wouldn't want people of repute to see you."

"I resent the insult."

"Do you deny that you owe me past ten pounds?"

Jake glanced past Culper and saw Mark Daltoons standing near the side of the back hall. Daltoons, a young officer assigned to assist the city spies, was undoubtedly waiting to conduct him to a safer place.

"Perhaps we could make an arrangement," Jake offered, glancing around the room. "I am to come into money soon."

His glance had the effect of warning off a few of the more easily embarrassed patrons. "I must take the boy with me," said Jake in a whisper. "The lad in the tan vest without a hat just now coming through the door."

"I will retrieve him," promised Culper beneath his breath. "If you have coins," he said loud enough for the room to hear, “you may meet me in the kitchen. If not, do not darken my hallway any longer."

Jake was already heading for Daltoons. Tall and thin, with stained apron and unsmiling countenance, the fake waiter gave the most discreet of nods before disappearing into the back. Jake followed moodily; inside the hallway, he discovered an open panel and slipped through, landing uneasily on a twisting staircase.

Closing the door behind him meant enshrouding himself in a thick, dank darkness. He descended slowly, and counted five steps when he was suddenly grabbed from behind.

Just as he was ducking to flip his assailant over his back, he realized it was Daltoons.

"We have installed a new passage," said the young man. "Come quickly.”

When they had last worked together, Daltoons had confessed to Jake that he had lied about his age when enlisting in his Massachusetts company two years before. At the time, he was barely fifteen, though he said he was nineteen. The fiction was carried off so perfectly that the others in his group elected him their officer. In their defense, it must be said that Daltoons generally carried himself as a man in his late twenties or early thirties, possessed of a bravery that knew no age limit. Barely seventeen when General Howe's army advanced on New York the previous fall, he had volunteered to remain in the city and help establish the spy network.

Jake had to duck to proceed through the passage, which burrowed beneath the building in the manner of a Roman catacomb. It narrowed so severely that at one point he and Daltoons turned and walked sideways.

"Quite a snug little nest we've made under the British, no?" Daltoons said as he reached a large chamber. "Wait now and we will have a little light."

A lamp filled with whale oil lay near the entrance. Daltoons took it up, and with some trouble succeeded in getting it lit. The walls and ceiling of this dug-out room had been boarded over with wide pine boards, but it could not in any sense be called comfortable; many a dungeon seemed more handsome.

"The British have turned their screw wheels tighter of late," said Daltoons as Jake took a seat on an empty barrel. "The Tory bastard Elliot has been given broad powers, and anyone so much as criticizing the king is subject to arrest."

"An exaggeration, surely."

"Not at all," said Daltoons. "The British put a good price on your head after your last sojourn. Fortunately, they seem to have come up with a very faulty description."

The young man reached to a nearby chest and picked through some papers. He handed Jake a sheaf of circulars offering 100 pounds for the apprehension of "one of His Majesty's most pernicious subjects, Jake Gibson. Standing five-foot-three, with dark black hair and a scar above his nose, he has a French accent gained from his years of service in the maritime, where he lost partial use of his leg."

Jake's laugh shook the ceiling boards. "This is me?"

"I know a dozen men who would swear it."

The men's laughter stopped abruptly as they heard a noise above. The lieutenant took his pistol from his belt and steadied it at the narrow doorway, lowering it only when Culper pushed through with a grunt.

"You took a great chance meeting me here," said Culper gruffly.

"I asked for you at the governor's palace, but you weren't at home," returned Jake.

"There's a price on your head. It's fortunate we have friends willing to describe you so minutely, or half the company upstairs would have fallen on you."

Jake was just about to tell Culper why he had come when Alison burst through the opening with the joy of a newborn colt.

"Father!" she cried.

"It's all right, Alison, we're among friends," said Jake, holding her at bay.

She gave him a strange look.

"Father? Why are you calling me Alison? Do you think I've suddenly changed into a girl?"

"If you want, I'll let our friend Daltoons examine you." Jake ignored her scowl and turned to Culper. "Her father helped me find an easy passage to the city, but was killed by marines. We only just survived by swimming the river."

"You swam?" asked Daltoons incredulously.

"Not by design," said Jake.

As was her habit, Alison had adopted her own view of the situation. "I've come to New York to join the Sons of Liberty," she told Culper. "And to help General Washington.

Culper frowned. "You can't help him here. Where is your mother?"

"I have none. And no relatives either. I am a fresh recruit, without strings."

Culper was already shaking his head by the time Jake suggested a place might be found for Alison at the coffeehouse.

"She cooks very well," said Jake.

"I don't want a job as a cook or servant," said Alison. "I want to join the army — or be a spy like you."

"Alison, I think perhaps you should go and get something to eat. And get changed," said Jake.

"I want to stay here."

"No," he said firmly. "Lieutenant Daltoons will help you."

"Gladly," said Daltoons. Not only could he now see through the disguise, he was beginning to see more than a bit beyond it.

"Take her to Miss Tennison's," said Culper.

Daltoons started to object, but his commander would hear none of it.

"Tennison's. You could probably use a good supper yourself. Meet us at the infirmary when you are done."

Daltoons appeared nearly as reluctant as Alison now that the destination was given, but nodded and led her out through an entrance that led up the stairs of an adjoining house.

"Can we trust her?" Culper asked Jake.

"Without doubt, though she's the most rambunctious girl I've ever met. But give her her due: she just helped me lie my way off Clayton Bauer's estate."

"Bauer? He captured you?"

"No. I had the bad luck to wash up on his shore. Alison passed herself off as a boy there, and talked Bauer's sister-in-law into helping us."

At last Culper was impressed. "How old is she?"

"I believe fifteen, perhaps a year more."

"I don't know that we can keep her here. Things are far too dangerous now. The entire city is turned against us."

"General Washington was afraid' you might be dead."

"Not yet. But many of our people have been forced into hiding — or jail."

"The general needs to know Howe's plans," said Jake. "He has intercepted a message that claims he's attacking Boston."

"Very possible," said Culper. "His whole staff has disappeared from Manhattan. They're not on Staten Island either. Apparently everyone Howe values has been placed aboard ship and is sitting just over the horizon, whether waiting for the winds to change or some portent from heaven, it is impossible to say. Boston may be his target."

"Why would he go north? Why risk another defeat there?"

"If it were Philadelphia, why not just continue across the Jerseys?" answered Culper. "We have heard every city on the continent as a destination. I have sent a number of our men to try and discover Howe's plans, with nothing to show for it. My best hope was Robert Anthony, who infiltrated General Clinton's headquarters. Clinton has been left behind, though whether Howe trusts him with his plans seems to vary from week to week."

"Where is Anthony?"

"Sitting in one of the city jails, waiting to be taken to the prison ships or hanged, whatever they decide."

"We must rescue him and see what he has found." Jake said.

"I'm glad you feel that way," said Culper, a bit of his more usual spirit reviving in the twinkle of his eyes. "We have an operation planned this very afternoon. Tell me, how is your German these days?"