The Golden Flask

Chapter Twenty-six

While Jake had seen Claus van Clynne heading anxiously for the exit, it could not be said with any veracity that the squire made a very quick departure. He did, indeed, head straight for the back door, proceeding through the kitchen into the rear hallway and back rooms with all the haste commonly associated with a windstorm. Alas, upon his arrival at the rear of the building he discovered the passage had been given over to storage — and his escape was blocked by a broad cubbyhole stuffed with all manner of maps.

Cursing, he picked through the papers to see if the way beyond them might be cleared. It could not, but as he loudly cursed his frustration, his eyes happened upon the drawing in his hand, and he immediately retracted his angst. He pulled a second map out and examined it with great interest, temporarily losing all concern for the world around him.

Only one thing could divert the Dutchman's attention from the danger Keen posed — the prospect of retrieving his purloined estate. For the maps in his hands were copies of ancient Dutch documents, and clearly showed his birthright. The name was misspelled, with an extra "e" at the end, but here finally was perfect and legal proof of his family's ownership.

There is no describing the joy that enveloped the Dutchman at that moment. He felt as if every one of his ancestors had gathered round and begun pounding his shoulders while preparing the most glorious brown ale for celebration.

The loud growl of Keen's voice in the foyer brought him back to his immediate predicament. He took the maps and returned to the kitchen, searching for a way out. Here he found the windows filled with provisions for the lord's supper and snacks. Only a small portion of the top quadrant remained of each, not enough to allow van Clynne's dream of escape to take flight.

He picked up a large butcher's knife from the table, then with a firm resolve, shouldered open the door and proceeded toward the front, determined to fight his way clear to his land and destiny.

Miraculously, the front hall was empty. Keen had rushed upstairs, looking for Alain. Though not overly religious, the Dutchman began saying a prayer beneath his breath even as he passed the stairway.

"Mind you, I would have boldly faced him," the squire added after a humble amen. "A man such as Claus van Clynne is not frightened by the Keens of this world."

It was at that moment that Keen spotted him from above.

"You!"

The single word, hurled at him from the top of the stairs, struck van Clynne just as he reached for the elaborate brass doorknob. Like a tangled, prickly vine, it grabbed at his head and shoulders, slapping itself to his body as Keen's South American leeches had once done.

"You!" repeated the doctor, as stupefied and stunned at seeing the large shadow flitting before him as if the archangel himself had appeared to bring him to heaven. "I disposed of you weeks ago! Yet both you and your companion Gibbs have survived! How?"

Van Clynne swirled in an elegant turn as he answered — not by voice but by the long-bladed knife, which flew from his fingers with a well-practiced flick.

Alas, the squire had not had much experience throwing kitchen knives. The blade sailed forward through the dim space of the stairway, missing the doctor's head by a good foot, and lodging in a large and overdrawn portrait of King George II that stood on the wall.

The projectile did have a positive effect on van Clynne's situation, however: Keen lost his footing as he ducked back out of the way. He tumbled over in a cursing heap, thrashing his head against the railing as he fell down the steps.

"I will forestall a proper discussion of your ineffective potions until we meet under more leisurely circumstances," declared van Clynne as he pulled open the door. "Lord Peter, your ale was most satisfactory. You must introduce me to the brewer."

Clayton, Lady Patricia, and her husband had recovered from Jake's insults, and were just knocking at the front door. The Dutchman bowled them over as completely as the front pins in a skittle game. He reached the street as Keen emerged from the house, pistol in hand.

Van Clynne had unholstered his own gun, and waved it back toward Keen as he headed around the corner of the building. The guards who had accompanied Clayton Bauer and his relatives hesitated at first, unsure precisely what side they should take in the conflict. Finally, their commander brought his horse forward, arranging his men in a protective cordon around Bauer and the others. This had the effect of leaving van Clynne and Keen temporarily to themselves, an arrangement neither cared to change.

"You won't escape me this time," said Keen, advancing to the alley. "I had not thought to find you here, but it is most convenient."

Van Clynne just managed to duck behind the large barrel Jake had used earlier as Keen fired from the street. In truth, the wood of the barrel would not have provided much of a stop for the well-muscled bullet. Pig fat, on the other hand, did quite nicely: One of New York's many fine pigs, running loose in the street and angry that its favorite resting place had been usurped, chose that moment to take a run at van Clynne — and thus met a premature end.

Now it was Keen who retreated as van Clynne rose and cocked his pistol. The doctor ran back toward his coach, intending to grab another weapon. The Dutchman called out, but failed to fire; the doctor feinted to one side then dove to the other. Once more the squire took aim, but paused. Keen took advantage of the interlude to dive behind the coach. Van Clynne once again missed his chance to fire.

Actually, his failure to shoot was due to a problem with the pistol. So often in tales such as these, weapons go off right on schedule. But pistols fail much more often in real life than in literature, and this one was no exception, responding to van Clynne's vigorous pulls and curses with the nonchalance of a deaf elephant.

Sensing the problem, Keen opened the door of his coach and hastily climbed inside. Retrieving a wide-barreled blunderbuss from its compartment beneath the seat, he crept close to the door, listening for a moment to the Dutchman's loud complaints.

"You are quite correct," said Keen, kicking the panel open. "They ceased making proper pistols years ago." Keen steadied his gun, not wanting to take any chance of missing again. Though of ample girth and now less than twenty feet away, the Dutchman had shown a remarkable propensity to dodge bullets and Death himself. "Fortunately, they have not forgotten how to make weapons such as these."

"Just so," said van Clynne. "Just so."

Keen mistook the squire's comment and confidential nod as being directed toward himself, a typical show of empty rebel braggadocio. In actual fact, it was meant for the figure who had secreted herself on the coachman's bench atop the vehicle, taking the horses' reins in hand. For we had not seen so much of Alison's bravery to think she would leave a fellow soldier in need, had we?

The carriage lurched forward as Keen pulled the trigger, and the jolt — together with the squire's expedient flop to the ground — resulted in all fifteen balls sailing far wide of the mark. The horses decided the loud report had been meant for them, and began thundering down the street.

The dragoon captain now decided to spend some of his resources, dispatching two men to chase down the vehicle while the others kept up their guard on Bauer and the house. In truth, the redcoats' most difficult job at the moment was keeping straight faces. Keen's earlier curses had not inclined them toward helping him, and the Dutchman's antics were more than a little comical. From the safety of their horses they thought the dispute purely personal and not worth their intervention.

Keen cursed to high heaven as he rolled in the interior of the carriage, dust and smoke clouding his eyes and the door flapping back and forth in a great succession of crashes against his face. Several times he struggled upwards, intending to climb out and control the horses, only to be smacked down harder than before.

When she noticed the redcoats starting to pursue, Alison jumped from the bench and tumbled into the dirt, where she was plucked by van Clynne as he beat a hasty retreat back to the Sons of Liberty's sanctuary.

"You have your father's sense of timing," said the Dutchman as he led her up an obscure but convenient alleyway. "Another two seconds and my chest would have been weighed down with lead. Really, why does your race dally so when time is of the essence?"