The Golden Flask

Chapter Seven

While Hamilton led him south of Suffern's Tavern to a small village to see to a disguise, Jake worked his brain around a plan to enter New York.

The spy had last trod the city streets a month and a half before. His coming and going had created such a stir in the Westchester environs that he felt it would not be wise to enter from that direction again. Likewise, taking the river south, which would be the quickest route, was too dangerous. Jake had almost been hanged on the deck of the

HMS Richmond, which Washington's men said was patrolling off Dobbs Ferry; its master bore him a serious grudge and would not be easily fooled by any disguise. And the men on at least one other ship — the galley

HMS Dependence — would like to see him displayed high on their yardarm, or perhaps launched in pieces from the massive cannon they carried at their bow. Prudence dictated that his best course was by land south through New Jersey; there were any of fifty places where he might sneak into the river, take or rent a boat, and steal across to the city.

A few papers forged in Benjamin Franklin's son's name would come in handy if he ran into problems. Though a stout patriot himself, Franklin's son William was royal governor of New Jersey. He had been turned out the previous year and arrested, but his signature still impressed British authorities and Tories. It was also readily available to the Americans, and Washington's staff often amused themselves by duplicating it.

As they came to the village, Hamilton bade his friend farewell.

"I assume we will see you in a few days," said the aide. "And we'll be singing your praises again."

"Have some strong ale ready," suggested Jake.

"With pleasure."

Jake's first stop was an inn, where he had a quick breakfast — for such it was, even though the clock was past midday — of apple pie and fresh pheasant. The fowl was well prepared and left him in good spirits as he walked down the street to a weaver named Brian Daley, reported by Hamilton to be an especially hot friend of the Cause. The scouting proved accurate, though a bit more information might have prevented the misunderstanding that followed Jake's mentioning the colonel by name.

"Colonel Hamilton sent you, did he?" asked the man, setting aside the bolt he was working and rising from his loom.

Jake nodded in the affirmative, turned to take note of a fine piece of cloth, and suddenly found himself threatened by a sharp and rather nasty poker, its business end dusted with hot ashes.

"Stay away from my daughter, do you hear?" said the man. "All you macaronis in your fancy suits — if you attempt to sweet-talk her the way that West Indies bastard did, I'll have you skinned alive."

Jake managed to nudge the pointer from his face and delicately assured the man that his interest was in clothes, not daughters.

"It will help our cause a great deal," the spy added. "And you will be paid properly by General Washington's men, as these letters show."

The warrant allowing funds to be drawn — initialed by General Washington himself — helped clear up matters, and the weaver took him into the back room, where material was piled in haphazard fashion.

"I don't have time for a suit to be made," said Jake.

"I wasn't proposing to delay you," said the man, pushing aside several blankets to get to a store of knee breeches prepared for other clients. He looked back at Jake. "You're a tall one, though. It won't be easy to find something suitable. Although. . Kristen, fetch me the trousers I set aside for Master Sullivan."

"Trousers? You're going to make me into a sailor? I am bound for New York, and must fit in there."

The weaver was unmoved by this confidence, much less the complaint. "You weren't aiming for any high society balls, were you?" he asked gruffly.

Indeed, he might be, thought Jake. The British in New York were famous for their parties, and it was quite easy to pick up important command gossip at their celebrations. But he had no time to argue. The pants soon made their entrance in the hands of the weaver's daughter Kristen, who entered from the stairs. Hamilton's interest in her was well justified; the girl's smooth, unblemished face was as round as a ripe tulip, and even in plain working clothes and apron, she added light to the room upon entering. Jake endeavored to keep his mind on his business. Excusing himself, he went behind a small screen and changed. The white trousers were a little tight in the thigh, but serviceable.

"How do they look?" Jake asked, stepping from behind the screen.

Kristen had barely time to blush before her father ordered her out of the room.

"Back to work with you," he yelled at her, chasing her up the stairs. "And you, sir — "

"I'll keep my pants on, I assure you. Have you a waistcoat and jacket?"

"I have a hunting shirt, though it has seen better days," said the weaver. "It should be about your size."

"That would be fine," said Jake. The shirt proved somewhat large at the stomach, but Jake donned it gladly. His clothes were more than a bit mismatched, even for these desperate times, but virtue often comes from necessity, and it did so here. The costume would make it easy for Jake to pass himself off as a poor militia deserter; the woods and swamps of north Jersey were full of them, and none would be wearing the latest fashions.

As the weaver adjusted Jake's coat, he suddenly fell back in pain.

"The damn gout has my shoulder." The man's face was white and drawn.

Jake eased the man around and pulled up his shirt, looking at his back. His nimble fingers, so used to grappling with enemy soldiers, found a knot below the weaver's shoulder blade. With gentle but steady pressure he poked it down, and the man's color returned.

"Are you a doctor, sir?" asked Daley, with obvious relief.

"Of sorts," said Jake. "Is there an apothecary in town?"

"A liar and a thief, as are the entire breed."

Jake smiled. "I want you to obtain a cure from him called the Gibbs Family Remedy. It contains an extract from the Caribbean sea whip. A teaspoon when this flares up, and you will feel a new man."

The weaver looked at him suspiciously.

"If he tries to charge you more than a dollar for the bottle, tell him you know he paid but ten pence."

Jake's father had discovered the properties of the fish from an aboriginal doctor and sold it at close to cost, determined that it would be his lasting contribution to the science of cures.

The weaver was so pleased that he produced a pair of boots and a large beaver hat with a hawk's feather, adding them to the bill at half-price. Jake's next stop was at the stable owned by a certain Michael Eagleheart, a farmer and smithy who had helped find horses for several of Washington's officers. Eagleheart, a bluff fellow with a quick hand and ready laugh, allowed as how Jake had come just in time; the day before he had taken possession of a mount ridden only by an old woman to church on Sundays.

To say that Jake was dubious of the tale is to say a donkey has four legs. Nonetheless, the claim was backed up in the flesh, as a three-year-old filly in fine mettle was soon found standing atop fresh shoes and shouldering a gentle disposition. Her price, at fifty pounds, was half the going rate, and Jake had her saddled, boarded, and galloping for the road south within a few minutes, the farmer having thrown in a small sword to seal the bargain.