by Jo Ann Wendt
"Well, then, grubworm, I guess we're stuck with each other."
She stared at him for an instant, stunned. Then she startled the hell out of him. She threw herself at him, a sprawl of skinny arms and legs. It was catch her or let her drop. But he felt damned foolish standing in the middle of the fort with a sobbing child wrapped around him like a maypole ribbon. To make matters worse, the one-eyed pirate leaped down and barked at him nonstop, making him a complete spectacle. Onlookers gaped. He felt like a street-corner puppet show.
"Stop it," he demanded. "Stop crying. Not one more tear or I'll wallop the tar out of you.. Jericho, do you hear? Stop, damn it."
"Dove," she sobbed, "K-k-keep me? Don't ever s-sell me!"
It pierced him. Sliced into his heart like a knife. His throat thickened, and his own eyes were in danger of growing moist. He thought of her indenture certificate. Worn, soiled, tattered, scrawled with countless signatures. So many masters, so damned many masters. Not knowing how to comfort a child, he thumped her skinny back so hard her sobs rattled.
"I'll keep you," he vowed gruffly. "Hell, I promise."
"T-truly?"
"For God's sake, what do you want, my vow written in blood?"
"N-n-no."
"Well, I should think not!" Chafing under the amused smiles of passing spectators, he bounced her to the ground, yanked out a handkerchief and commanded her to mop up and stop leaking.
"Do you remember how to get to my house?"
"Y-yes, Dove." Tears dried, she returned the soggy wad.
"Then make tracks for it."
"M-my bundle, Dove."
"Hell, yes. Don't forget the crown jewels." Vaulting up onto the platform, he found the dilapidated bundle and chucked it down to her. She caught it, then grabbed her dog.
"Come on, Pax. Dove is going to k-keep us."
"I didn't say the dog," he objected crossly. "I won't keep the dog. Jericho, the dog cannot—"
Either she didn't hear in all the noise, or she was damned selective in what she listened to, for she and the stupid hound went happily leaping into the ship-day throng and disappeared.
When he reached the island, Hildegarde was gone. In her place, on the spot where their love bower had been, he found a neat, tidy little pile of rage. The valentine he'd written her on St. Valentine's day was torn to shreds. The ballads he'd written were ripped to smithereens. She'd left the gold locket and the lace-edged handkerchief, his love gifts. She'd even savaged his hat. The plume had been wrenched off and torn, the silver cockade was smashed, and the crown had been trampled flatter than a Shrove Tuesday pancake.
Yet all of it lay in a neat pile. He grinned. Leave it to the Dutch, he thought, to rage tidily.
Chapter Six
In December, New Amsterdam vanished under a blanket of snow. Overnight, the tiny settlement disappeared. By morning, the world had become a white wilderness. All that remained to be seen of the little colony was the fort, looming stark and bleak in the vast unending whiteness, and a scattering of cheerfully smoking chimneys. Here and there, a roof poked through. There and here, a windswept wall emerged. But everything wore white. Even the wolfheads wore crowns of white.
When New Amsterdam dug itself out, two pigs were found frozen to death in the lane in front of Dieter Ten Boom's tap house. The minor tragedy was converted into a festive winter picnic. The pigs were immediately butchered, spitted, and put to roast over crackling fires in the tap-house yard. All of New Amsterdam was invited to the celebration. In a rare burst of magnanimity, Governor Stuyvesant and the Dutch West India Company contributed a barrel of beer to the outdoor feast. But Dove outdid them. He contributed rum, two casks of it.
In a lighthearted speech to the cheering celebrants gathered around blazing fires in the tap-house yard, Dove toasted King Charles and the duke of York. He urged citizens to eat, drink, and be merry. For the rum, he shouted with infectious enthusiasm, was a gift from Their Royal Highnesses, who highly esteemed the industrious settlers of New Amsterdam and thought them the cleverest, bravest, most intelligent colonists in the world.
"Huzzah!" the crowd cheered, stomping their boots on the frozen, snow-packed ground. "Huzzah!"
At the conclusion of Dove's speech, the governor and the Dutch West India Company directors, who had been standing on the tap-house stoop, exchanged narrow looks.
"Is the rumor true then?" Director Verplanck demanded. The air was frosty. His breath rose like steam. "If the English Parliament restores King Charles to the throne, he will turn on Holland and declare war?" News had come in summer that Oliver Cromwell had died. A worry. It was in Holland's best interest to see England's internal strife continue.
A second director lifted a cynical brow. "True? Do not be obtuse. 'Tisn't true, 'tis as certain as sunrise and sunset. England has lost her sea trade during this foolish civil war of hers. We Dutch have captured it. England's treasury stands empty, depleted. If King Charles is restored to the throne, he must refill England's coffers. He must recapture the trade routes. War is not a possibility, it is a certainty."
Governor Stuyvesant's sour face grew sourer. "England shan't take New Amsterdam. Not while I govern."
"/a, that is certain. New Amsterdamers will fight to a man," Verplanck agreed.
The cynic's brow lifted sardonically. "Will they? With Lord Dove winning their hearts, buying them rum on every occasion, and inferring that Dutch colonial rule is harsh and that England would treat them more fairly? Man, use your head! The duke of York covets our fur trade. He intends to seize this colony and make it a 'new' York. Lord Dove is his agent."
Verplanck burst out heatedly, "We should rid the colony of de Mont. Banish him."
The lines in Governor Stuyvesant's face became etched more sourly. "Do not be a fool, Verplanck. The de Mont family has high connections in Holland. The Company will have our heads if we trifle with a de Mont. My hands are tied. Unless, of course, the young pup does something overt. Then, I can expell him. And with pleasure."
Verplanck burst, "We should put a watch on his house!"
The cynic chuckled, adjusting the lace cuffs of his gloves, preparing to stroll into the festivity. "Were I you, Verplanck, I should set a watch on my own house."
Verplanck reared, nostrils flaring. "And what shall that mean?"
"Take it to mean what you will." The man drifted down the stoop step and into the revelry.
Ruddy color rose in Verplanck's jowls. He swung his head, searching the crowd for Hildegarde. He found her. She was the picture of merriment, a vision of beauty in her red wool cardinal cloak lined with dark mink. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed, nipped by the frosty air. He watched her destination as she made her way through the noisy, imbibing crowd. Though she might pretend to be drawn to the right or to the left, stopping to chat with this group or that, she didn't fool him. She was making a beeline. Straight to Lord Dove.
The day after the feast, slaves and soldiers were sent out of the settlement to shovel the snow off Collect Pond. By midmorning, the frozen pond glowed frostily, cleared of snow, and New Amsterdam's skating season had arrived. By noon, Collect Pond rang with such gaiety that soldiers in the guard towers on the wall watched the distant pond wistfully, wishing they too could go and join the fun. As December deepened and the skating season began in earnest, all of New Amsterdam flocked out to Collect Pond. Those who didn't go to skate, went to watch.
Jericho went to watch, too. She went to watch Dove, her heart in her eyes. She stood at the edge of the pond, shivering in her warm cloak, hoping he would pay her some attention.
In the seven months she'd lived in his house, she'd all but broken her neck trying to please him, trying to gain his attention. But he'd paid her scant notice. She knew he considered her a pest.
Yet he was good to her. When she'd cried at his order to get rid of Pax, he'd given in at once. "Oh, for God's sake, keep him. Anything to prevent the Second Rood." Dove still glared at Pax, but at least he put up with the dog.
He'd a
lso sent her to school, and when the dame school- teacher's drunken husband had caned Jericho black-and-blue, trying to beat the stutter out of her, Dove had been so incensed he'd gone tearing to school, yanked the man up from his dining table and caned him black-and-blue. Jericho had never been caned again. Now, she loved school. She especially loved sitting next to Maritje Ten Boom. Maritje didn't mind her stutter at all. She and Maritje had agreed to be best friends.
Her eyes aglow, she watched Dove skim around the pond as fast as lightning, as graceful as a bounding deer, his steel skate-blades flashing, his long golden hair streaming in the wind. The sixth time he circled the pond he threw a snowball at her. She grinned happily. She didn't care if he threw a whole snowbank at her, so long as he noticed her. The next time around, he looked as if he might skate over and talk to her.
But just then, a group of ladies glided out onto the ice. Instantly diverted, Dove glided up to the laughing, velvet- cloaked ladies. Smiling his bright smile, he reached out and plucked Mrs. Verplanck from the group, taking her gloved hand. Jericho's stomach twisted jealously, as the two of them glided off over the ice like a pair of matched swans.
"Dove? Can-can I borrow your s-skates?"
"No. My skates wouldn't fit you. Hell's bells, Jericho! 1 told you that yesterday."
Thwarted, her chest throbbed. Three days had passed since she'd watched Dove whirl Mrs. Verplanck around the pond, and in those three days, she had grown fiercely determined. She was going to learn to skate. She would skate even better than Mrs. Verplanck. Then Dove would notice her.
"Y-yes, they w-would, Dove. They'd fit me, they w- would."
Ignoring her, Dove stomped snow from his boots. The kitchen door opened again and a gust of cold wind swept John and Leonardo d'Orias in. Mr. d'Orias was Dove's house guest, an Italian who'd arrived in November with letters and trunks of fine things from Dove's mother, Lady de Mont. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he had black hair that hung knife- straight to his shoulders. Jericho liked him. Though he looked fierce as a Mohawk, he was gentle and soft-spoken. And he had a birthmark! On his wrist. Like hers. She'd glimpsed it when she'd taken hot wash-water to his sleeping chamber one morning.
The three of them had just returned from hunting. They'd shot a deer near Collect Pond and dragged it home on a sledge. They'd shot a wolf, too. Its head was already on the privy wall, bloody and grinning. Bundled against the wind and cold, Black Bartimaeus and Samuels were out in the yard now, butchering the deer. D'Orias and John shucked their cloaks and headed for the mulled ale.
"I could w-wear two pairs of-of w-wool stockings, Dove," she argued. "Then-then the s-skates w-would fit."
"No. For God's sake! You'd trip and break your neck."
"No, I w-wouldn't. I w-wouldn't, Dove."
Dove slung off his cloak and coat. Jericho hung them on a wall peg. He drank deep of the steaming tankard cook brought him, then looked around the kitchen with renewed spirit. While other men might sink in exhaustion from such a day, Dove thrived on it. The more vigorous the day, the higher his spirits.
"I-I w-wouldn't, Dove."
He frowned in exasperation. "So that stubborn brain of yours is set on learning how to skate, eh?"
"Y-yes!"
He looked at her for a moment, took a swallow of ale, went to the kitchen money-box, grabbed coins, and slapped them into her hand.
"Run to the fort, pest. Buy yourself a pair of skates."
She stared at the money, overwhelmed. Skates? She'd never dreamed of owning skates.
"Do-do y-you mean it, Dove? R-really?"
"No," he said impatiently. "In fact, pester me one more minute and I'll take the money back."
That was all she needed. She flew for her cloak and mittens. While she dressed, Dove snapped instructions. She was not to get cheated. She was to get value for the money. She was to warn the sutler that Lord Dove would wring his neck if he sold her rubbish.
"Make haste, Jericho," Mrs. Phipps called sharply as she flew out the door. "Run. Tis winter. Twill soon be dark."
She didn't need to be told to run. She was too excited to do anything but run. She ran all the way to the fort, her breath like pipe smoke in the frozen air, her feet slipping and sliding on the icy footbridges. Pax ran with her. By the time she got to the fort, daylight was already draining from the winter sky and tallow candles burned smokily in the sutler's shop.
Excited, she was forced to wait while the sutler served adult customers, serving even a group of three untidy, rough men who tramped in after her. They were newcomers to New Amsterdam and they transacted their business with maddening slowness and asked strange questions. Were there many children in the settlement? Say, of the age ten, eleven, or twelve? Any with dark brown hair? Any with red hair? The men loitered in the shop, warming themselves at the fireplace, sampling the sutler's Madeira.
When it was her turn, she took Pax by the collar and stepped to the counter. "P-plezier," she said politely. "I w-want to buy s-skates."
"Do you have money?"
She showed the sutler the three guilders. He sucked at his curved, long-stemmed clay pipe. The smoke smelled pungent.
"You are in luck. I have just one pair left that will fit you. By coincidence they cost exactly three guilders."
"Lord Dove s-says y-you are not to cheat me!"
He made a sound like air being squeezed out of a pig bladder, glared at her, but clumped off to rummage in his shelves and crates. The three men at the Madeira cask strolled forward, tankards in hand. She didn't like their looks. They made her uneasy. Pax didn't like them either. He growled, but the men only laughed. One of the men had lank, greasy hair. The second had pitted, pock-marked skin. The third was powerfully built, thick-set, like a bull. All three smelled of sweat and strong drink.
"That there one-eyed pirate don't cotton to us, men."
The bull-like one laughed. "One kick o' these hobnail boots and he'll be wearin' his ribs inside out." Jericho tugged Pax close and cuffed him to stop the growling. She glanced over her shoulder. She wished the sutler would hurry.
"How old are you, girlie?"
"E-e-eleven." She didn't want to answer. But she was a bondslave; she was used to obeying. The men exchanged a look.
"Who're your parents, girlie?"
"I-I-I don't have-have any."
"Well, well. You a bondslave?"
She nodded. She didn't like the way they were eying her. It made her nervous.
"Red hair . . . blue eyes . . . eleven years old. Fox said the hair might be red." They looked at each other.
Alarmed, but determined to wait for her skates, she took a firm hold on Pax's collar and tugged him to the opposite side of the room, closer to where the sutler was rummaging through his crates. Pax didn't want to go. He wanted to stay and growl at the men.
"She don't go for our charm, men," the bull-like one said with a laugh.
"Let's check and see if she's got a . . ." Their voices fell to a whisper and she couldn't catch the rest of their words. New customers tramped into the shop, stomping snow from their boots, filling the air with pipesmoke and ordinary conversation. She was relieved. The men made her uneasy with their questions and their talk about a fox.
But she forgot them when the sutler came back with her skates. Awed, she took the skates as if they were holy, holding her cheek to the fragrant new leather, to the cold blade. Oh! She could see herself. Gliding over Collect Pond with Dove, gliding like a pair of matched swans . . .
When she'd paid the sutler and got her change, she tied the coins in her handkerchief and stuffed the handkerchief in her mitten. She picked up her skates, grabbed Pax by the collar, and hurried to the door.
Suddenly, a hairy arm snaked out of the shadows and grabbed her arm. "Is that a birthmark on your wrist, girlie? Have ye two other birthmarks on your body, eh?"
Pax growled and lunged. The man kicked him, and Pax went running out the door, yelping in fright. Terrified, Jericho tore free, cradled her skates to her breast, and ran. Wi
th Pax running along at her side, she ran out of the fort, ran all the way home, casting scared looks over her shoulder, her heart pounding, fear thundering in her ears.
The kitchen was warm and steamy and cheerful and smelled of supper when she slipped in the back door, breathless, trembling. Everyone was at table. Dove, John, Mrs. Phipps, and Mr. d'Orias sat at the head of the table, above the salt. Daisy, Samuels, Black Bartimaeus, Goody, and Cook sat below the salt, eating quietly, listening to Dove and the others discuss the day's hunt. Her heart still pounding, Jericho hung up her cloak, then quickly slipped into her place on the bench beside Daisy. She cradled her skates on her lap. She wished she could tell Daisy about the men. Or Mrs. Phipps. Or Dove. But she couldn't. That would mean talking about her ugly birthmarks. She was too ashamed.
That night, snuggled safely against Daisy's broad, warm back, listening to Daisy's comforting snores, she tried to push the scary happening out of her mind. She concentrated on her beautiful skates. She thought about skating. Sleep came eventually. With it, came dreams. She was Mrs. Verplanck. Dove had his arms around her, and they were gliding over the ice like a pair of matched swans . . .
Jericho threw her heart and soul into learning how to skate. Skating was the answer. The key. If she could skate like Mrs. Verplanck, Dove would notice her.
So she went to Collect Pond as often as she could. Mrs. Phipps forbade her to skate alone, so each time she went she had to stop at the gate in the wall and inquire of the soldiers in the guard tower, asking if there were skaters on Collect Pond. Always, there were. All Hollanders loved to skate. They were always skating. They were good at it. They didn't fall all the time the way she did. They didn't bang their knees or bump their crazy bones so hard that tears sprang up. And they didn't wobble like ducks. They sailed like swans.
But she improved. To her delight, Black Bartimaeus came to watch her progress, standing at the pond's edge tall as a tower, shaking his old head, smiling at what he considered a foolish sport. Daisy and Samuels came to watch her, too. But Daisy and Samuels were in love, and mostly they stood with their hands in each other's cloaks, kissing. Even Goody and Cook came once. Jericho felt loved.