Before the lad could answer, he was interrupted by a loud crash at the door. "Step away from Jake, or you will be filled with more lead than the weight of the clock in the governor's palace."
"I thought I told you to wait outside," said Jake indignantly as Alison waved her gun in the shadows.
"An ungrateful attitude," she replied. "But then, I have come to expect it, having saved your life so many times before."
"You've spent too much time with van Clynne," said Jake. "You're starting to sound like him." He turned back toward Bebeef s nephew. "We are all on the same side here. Light a candle and I will show you a sign your uncle would recognize."
"Why should I trust you?" said the lad, still holding his sword at Jake's side. "Anyone could claim to be his friend, and Mr. Gibbs is well known in several circles. His father's firm supplies many of the items in this very shop."
"Your uncle has a scar over his left eye that he got while escaping a Turkish prince who held him for ransom in his youth," replied Jake. "If you have not heard that story ten thousand times, you are not related to the professor."
"Everyone living in the province of New York has heard that story ten thousand times," answered the nephew. Nonetheless, he lowered his sword and retreated to light a candle.
Jake reached under his clothes and undid the money belt at his waist. The back of the belt was stamped with a Masonic symbol that the nephew quickly recognized. The symbol was shared by all members of the Secret Service, but the esoteric marks above it were a mnemonic Bebeef himself used as the abbreviation for a remedy for the Portuguese ailment-a disease King George was reputed to suffer from. The formula connecting the king with the disease and the cure with the Revolution was among the old professor's favorite if somewhat obscure jokes.
"I am sorry," said the nephew, who recognized the marks immediately. "I am Timothy Hulter, as you surmised. The Tories and British are envious of my uncle's potions, and there have been several attempts at break-ins."
"Where is he? I need his help urgently. There is a potion only he can concoct."
"With my mother in Brooklyn," said the lad. "He won't see anyone. He won't talk, not even to her. He seems to have fallen into a deep spell, sitting day and night in the back garden, staring at a madstone."
"A madstone?" Jake squinted, as if suddenly presented with the unlikely object. Many people — including, it must be admitted, a few scientists — believed the special rocks able to cure fever and madness. Despite this, Bebeef had long dismissed such stones as mere superstitions.
"It is, sir, a rock such as one has never seen before. Until now, I thought such things were superstition. But there is much in this shop that I would not believe except for my uncle's demonstrations."
Jake was just wondering whether he might alter his plan for dealing with Bauer when the young man suddenly took hold of his arm. "Please, sir, come with me to the farm. You must find a cure for the spell that has taken him."
"I don't know," said Jake. "I have pressing matters to attend to. And I know nothing of magic."
"Nor does my uncle. There must be science to it. There is no such thing as magic, only formulas yet to be discovered, as my uncle puts it. He has spoken of you before this illness; surely he would help you if the places were turned."
Jake owed Bebeef much. Not only had his concoctions rescued him from many difficult situations, but the professor had sheltered him in the dark days of the British invasion. If it were not for him, Jake might well have suffered the same fate as Nathan Hale.
But the journey to Long Island was fraught with danger. Nor would it directly assist his mission; unless, of course, he was able to cure the professor. In that case, it would be more like an investment toward the solution, and not a delay at all.
"Tell me more about this ailment," said Jake. "No, wait — tell it to me on the way to the ferry."
"I have a small boat that is much safer," said the lad, starting toward the door.
"Alison, you go back to Daltoons," Jake ordered, "and tell him I will return in time for the duel."
But before she could go or open her mouth to argue, a pair of shadows passed by the front window. Jake grabbed both Alison and Timothy and threw them to the floor.
The figures who had cast the shadows were members of the Black Watch, too intent on the tavern across the street to bother glancing inside the shop. Nonetheless, Jake decided Alison was safer coming along with him. She might even provide him with some cover, or at least a way of getting a message back to Culper if he ran into difficulties. In any event, he could not let her wander the city alone.
"Alison is a strange name for a boy," said the nephew after Jake told them they could rise.
"It will seem stranger still when I flatten you," she promised.
Timothy's boat was far along the road to Corber's Point, in a discrete yard where no questions would be asked no matter who came or went, day or night. The trio trekked north all the way to Division Street, making sure their intentions were not known and they were not followed. In truth, these precautions were overzealous, but considering the circumstances, understandable. Two hours later they were rowing as quietly as possible across the East River. Jake and Timothy had each taken an oar to use as an Indian paddles a canoe. Alison lay in the bow, acting as lookout as the skiff worked across the bay in the manner of mist stealing into a valley. By the time they reached the small, tree-lined cove on the Long Island shore, it was well past midnight. Jake helped Timothy pull the small boat into the bushes. He and Alison followed the lad up to a dusty road and across a large, uncultivated field.
Alison was beginning to show the signs of fatigue. She had given Jake the pistol she'd "borrowed" from Daltoons, and left the lieutenant's heavy cloak at the rowboat. But her pace dragged nonetheless, the fatigue of the past few days starting to take their toll. In truth, even Jake's famous constitution was beginning to show signs of wear as the trio hiked across a country road and found another shortcut through a pasture. The warm summer day had given way to a cool night, and the chilly air rubbed at Jake's shoulders like a carpenter works a fresh tabletop.
"Just four or five miles from here," said Timothy as they climbed over a stone wall and found another road.
"Can we rest?" asked Alison, setting her hands on the wall.
Before Jake could answer, she plopped over on the ground.
"Mouthy for a girl," said Timothy, leaning over her to make sure she was merely sleeping. "But pretty, even with the short hair."
"I'd be careful what I accused her of," answered Jake. "She insults very easily. And would most likely be more than your match in a fight."
"I should like to wrestle her sometime and find out."
For all his protests against her behavior, Jake was starting to feel just a bit protective — and even fatherly. He scowled toward young Timothy, then hoisted Alison over his shoulder. "Come on, lead the way."
The Hulter farm was a fertile holding of nearly twenty cleared acres given over to the cultivation of corn. Indeed, it had been used for that purpose for several generations, spanning back to its original native owners. The house itself was not more than ten years old, a replacement for a structure that had caught fire one winter night when the fireplace was carelessly over-stoked. A story-and-a-half, with finely decorated eaves and handsomely carved shutters, it was typical of the humble farmhouses that dot the island, save in one regard. This was its elaborate garden, which ranged on all four sides at some depth surrounding the building. All manner of bushes and flowers crowded together in an elaborate though specially ordered jumble. Each had its own medicinal purpose; more than a few were rare to these shores, nurtured by Timothy's mother's careful hand.