by Jo Ann Wendt
Once, she thought she saw the three men who'd frightened her so badly that time in the sutler's shop. Were they watching her? Maybe not. Maybe they were just watching the skaters. But it gave her a scare, and immediately she'd taken off her skates and walked home with Black Bartimaeus, stealing nervous glances over her shoulder.
Dove had promised to take her skating on Christmas Day. She'd badgered him into it and had her heart set on it. She wanted to surprise him, show him she could skate backwards, just like Mrs. Verplanck.
As usual, he forgot his promise and forgot her. When Christmas Day worship service ended in the fort, Dove went springing after Mrs. Verplanck, gave her his arm, and escorted her to Governor Stuyvesant's quarters to eat the Christmas feast.
Betrayed, let down, Jericho tramped home from church in an angry mood, walking well behind the others, unwilling to share their Christmas gaiety. Muskets were shooting all over New Amsterdam, saluting the Christchild. But Jericho took no joy in it. He'd promised! For a moment, she hated him so ferociously that tears stung her eyes. Feeling cranky, mulish, she broke into a run and caught up with John. He was walking behind Mrs. Phipps and his two brothers, who'd come down from Fort Orange.
"John, take me s-skating today!"
"No. I said no at the church, now, didn't I? Jericho, I'm losin' patience with you. I'm sorry Dove forgot. But that's the way he is, and you know it. He'll take you skating tomorrow." "I don't w-want to go tomorrow. I w-want to go today."
"Now you're bein' a brat."
"Then I'll go by m-myself."
"Nay. 'Tis Christmas Feast Day. Collect Pond will be empty. All New Amsterdam will be feasting." The air was so cold that the snow squeaked underfoot. Their breath steamed.
"I can s-skate alone. I can."
"Nay, Jericho. There's always the chance of wolves."
"W-wolves never come in the daytime."
"No. 'Tisn't safe."
"Th-then I'll take Pax. Pax isn't afraid of wolves."
John lost patience, turned around in the lane to block her and rammed his gloved hands on his hips.
"I said no, now, didn't I."
To show him she hated him too, she stayed where she was and let him walk on alone and annoyed.
I'm goingl she decided.
Christmas Feast was a lengthy merry affair, starting at noon. There was an abundance of food and drink, and as the merriment went on and on, Jericho quietly slipped away from the table. No one noticed. Or if they did, maybe they thought she was going to the privy.
Her cloak, wool coif, and mittens hung from a peg near the door. Earlier, she'd tucked her skates and her fur-lined moccasins under a bench. She dressed quietly, then eased up the door latch, and let herself out. At the table, the laughter and happy talk went on. Pax slipped out with her. When she closed the door without being caught, she drew a gleeful breath. Then, she ran like the wind, flying down the empty Christmas Day lanes to Wall Street. Only a few hours of light remained. She mustn't skate long.
At the wall, soldiers in the guard tower were celebrating Christmas in their own way, passing a flask amongst themselves, laughing, singing. With a scarcely a glance, they waved her through the gate. Pax went bounding ahead. She ran fast, her skates under her arm.
When she reached Collect Pond, she had a moment of anxiety. She'd never been here alone before. She'd never seen Collect Pond so deserted. So empty. So silent. It was eerie. The only sounds were the distant singing of the soldiers and the occasional plop of snow dropping from tree branches. The tall pines that encircled the pond stood silent and dark. Out on Collect Pond, the ice lay like window frost, its surface etched by skate blades into whorls, swoops, lines, slashes.
It was so . . . quiet.
If Pax hadn't been with her, she would've turned tail and run home. For she felt as if the trees had eyes, as if they were watching her. But that was silly.
Determined to skate—that would show Dove she didn't need him!—she sat on the log where ugly old Mrs. Verplanck always sat, and she shed her warm moccasins and shoes and pulled on her skates. She stuffed her belongings into her big, roomy cloak pockets. Pax could be wicked with shoes. When she skated out onto the ice, she felt better. The sound of her own skate blades cutting ice was a familiar sound, and Pax's loud, cheerful bark as he romped was familiar, too. She forgot her uneasiness. Still, she kept one eye on the wall. As soon as the soldiers lighted a lantern in the guard tower, she would stop skating, take off her skates, and run for home. Nightfall came quickly in winter.
While Pax barked and romped, clumsily chasing a rabbit across the pond and into the pines, she practiced skating backwards. One, two, three, four strokes. She fell.
"Fiddlesticks." She picked herself up, brushed the ice crystals from her skirts and tried again. One, two, three, four, five—a bump on the ice foiled her and she fell hard, banging her knee. She sat a moment, holding her knee, then pushed to her feet and tried again.
Off in the pines, Pax went on barking. But his bark sounded different now, wilder. Had he trapped the little rabbit? She hoped not. She didn't want him to hurt it.
"Pax," she shouted toward the woods. "Pax, you come back here. You leave that rabbit alone."
He didn't pay any attention. He went on barking. She concentrated on skating backwards, holding her arms and her head the way Dove did when he skated backwards. In the midst of a furious tirade of barking, Pax gave a sharp yelp. Then he was suddenly silent. She stared at the motionless pines.
t4Pax?" she shouted.
She waited for him to come bounding. When he didn't, her heart started to pound. Sometimes trappers set out steel traps. But not near Collect Pond. People skated here. She sat down on the ice and tore off her skates, then swiftly pulled on her shoes and moccasins. Jumping up, she ran across the pond toward the trees, slipping, sliding. Bunching up her skirts, she plunged through the snowbank and into the pines. Icy snow spilled into her moccasins, melting into her wool stockings.
"Pax?" she shouted. "Where are you? Where—"
A pine branch moved.
"Pax!" she started to scold, furious with him for scaring her. But it wasn't Pax. A man jumped out and leaped at her. Too startled to cry out, she whirled to run, but a man jumped from the other direction, too. They were the men from the sutler's shop. The third man leaped forward with a leather sack, as if he were going to sack her like a market hen.
"Don't!" she cried out, but the cry went nowhere, trapped in the thick, suffocating sack. Terrified, she blindly fought and struggled. She lost her mittens and clawed. But rough hands caught her wrists and bound them. She was picked up and thrown over a shoulder. Her neck snapped. The hard shoulder jounced her stomach, knocked the wind out of her.
She couldn't breathe! She panicked. She kicked and fought. The men cursed her. Somehow she dropped free, dropped into the snow, and found her feet. But when she tried to run, she couldn't. Her legs were bound too. She couldn't see! She pitched wildly.
And then, amidst their curses, a fierce blow cracked her head. She gasped at the shock of it. For a moment her head rang like a bell. Then, her head seemed to separate from her body and float away. Uttering a soft, surprised sigh, she drifted down into the soft snow. Inside her head, the world whirled and grew dark. She faintly smelled blood. And then she smelled . . . nothing at all.
Chapter Seven
"Dove, Jericho is missing," John said.
"I know she's missing. She's missing a few brains, she's missing tact, she's missing decent manners. Do you know what the brat said to Hildy the other day? At Collect Pond? Hildegarde told me she said—"
"I mean it, Dove. She's missing."
Dove swung around abruptly. He'd just arrived home from Stuyvesant's Christmas feast. He was in high spirits. Though Stuyvesant and his cronies had been as dull as Dutch cheese, he'd sat across from Hildegarde at dinner. During the dull conversation, they'd sent messages with their toes: one tap for Ay two taps for B, three for C and so forth.
He glared at John. "W
hat do you mean, 'missing'?"
"Just that. We can't find her."
"Then find her stupid hound. Find Pax, or whatever it is she calls him. Wherever he is, she is. They stick closer than oats to the bottom of a cookpot."
"Pax is missing, too. Dove, I'm not joking. I'm worried."
Dove glanced out the kitchen window. He rubbed his jaw uneasily. "Hell, it's almost dark! She belongs at home. The grubworm belongs at home. When she gets here I'm going to wallop the tar out of her. Scaring us like this. Did you check with her fat friend? The Dutch butter-box she's so crazy about?"
"Maritje Ten Boom," Mrs. Phipps put in in a worried voice, bringing Dove a hot posset drink. "Yes. We sent Samuels to the Ten Booms'. He just returned. The Ten Booms haven't seen her."
Dove's heart began to pound. She was a nice little girl, a good little girl. He hadn't paid her much attention, but he liked her. He did.
Daisy came rushing down the hall stairs and into the kitchen, her heavy step thumping, her plump breasts bouncing.
"Lor' Dove? Her skates are gone! Always when she be done skatin' for the day, she cleans 'em up pretty and puts 'em on the shelf. She's that fond of 'em, she is, sir. They're gone, Lor' Dove, gone."
He and John exchanged a worried look.
"She wouldn't," John said. "Dove, I forbade it. I told her she could not go to Collect Pond today. She wouldn't."
"Oh, wouldn't she!" Dove grabbed the cloak he'd just shucked. "Black Bartimaeus! Get muskets, pistols, powder, shot. Load the guns. Samuels? My sword and buckler. Get it. Goody? Goody, you prepare lanterns. Then run to Governor Stuyvesant's quarters. D'Orias is there."
"Ay, Lor' Dove. Ay, Lor' Dove." Everyone sprang into action.
"Will you quick change your suit, sir?" Daisy asked, her eyes big and weepy. " 'Twill be the ruin of it. In the snow."
"The hell with it. It's almost dark."
Hauling on his clothes, John put in quietly, "Daisy, get blankets. Cook? Get us a flask of rum. If she's hurt herself, she may be half-frozen in the snow." Daisy stared at him, then burst into tears, and ran to her task.
"Hurry, John, hurry." Mrs. Phipps dispensed mufflers, wool caps, mittens. "Master Dove, hurry."
John put his arms around her and hugged her. "We'll find her, Mother. Don't worry."
"We'll find her," Dove vowed, "or we'll not come back."
Dove and John led the way, sprinting through the darkening lanes, running for Wall Street. Firelight glowed in cottage windows as they sped past. Black Bartimaeus and Samuels trotted behind, encumbered with gear and lanterns. Dove reached the gate just as the soldiers were pulling it shut for the night. With a shove, he went charging through while John halted to explain, panting.
"Did you—see a—little—redhaired girl?"
The soldier tugged at his ear. "She what comes skatin' every day?"
"Ay! Lord Dove's bondslave."
"Neen. Ain't seen her today. But I only come on watch this very hour. There be nobody on Collect Pond. The pond, she's clean as a whistle. You can see it plain from the guard tower."
John clattered up the wooden steps to have a look. Nothing. Collect Pond lay as empty and frozen as glazed glass. The only figure on the rocky path was Dove's. Running. He clattered down the stairs.
"Leave the gate unlocked," he shouted as he ran.
"Neen. Cannot," the soldier called. "Governor Stuyvesant's orders."
"There's five guilders in it," John promised in a shout, thundering down the path after Dove. The soldier's response echoed in the cold, frosty air.
"In that case, the gate, she's unlocked all night!"
"Jericho!" Panting, Dove stood on the edge of the frozen pond and shouted into the silent emptiness. "Jericho, are you here? Answer me! It's Dove!" As he listened fruitlessly to the echo of his own shout, his throat constricted. "Jericho, answer me! Answer me, damn it. Answer me, or I'll wring your neck!"
His threats rang out over Collect Pond and echoed in the silent pines. But nothing returned to him. Nothing but silence. Dusk was fast deepening. The dark pines were growing darker, the fresh snow brighter, more luminous. A frigid winter night would soon descend. His heart gave an uneven beat. Where in hell was she! Out upon the ice, out in the middle of the pond, something glittered and caught his eye. Slipping, sliding, he went sprinting over the ice.
When he reached the middle of the pond and saw what it was, his innards twisted. Her skates. He stooped. Picked them up. She'd loved her skates. She would never leave them behind. Not willingly. He swallowed rising panic and sprinted back toward the bank where John was beating the bushes, searching in the pines for her.
"Dove," John shouted. "Did you find anything?"
Dove brandished her skates aloft as he came running. John paled. They wasted no time in talk. They plunged into the stands of silent pines, searching frantically. Dove kept swallowing back the words, swallowing back what had to be asked. Finally he forced it out.
"Wolves? Did wolves get her?" As he uttered the words, the old horror flashed so vividly in his skull that he had to shoot out a hand and steady himself against a tree. His father's blood, spurting, spurting, covering everything with red . . .
John grabbed him, shook him. "Nay, Dove. Nay! Don't think it. There's no blood. No blood! Not wolves. And not dogs. It's not what happened to your father. Dove! Not wolves."
After a moment, the sick dizziness passed. Gritting his teeth, he cursed himself. It was so damned unmanly! Angry at himself, he shook off John's steadying hand. They plunged on through the dark silent pines, through the snow. They searched side by side, cursing in frustration. The snow was trampled with footprints and told nothing. All of New Amsterdam had tramped around Collect Pond. Beyond the pond, toward the wall and the settlement, lanterns came swinging down the steep path, the bright candlelight trotting through the darkness. Black Bartimaeus. Samuels. He beat the bushes with John, his jaw taut, tight.
"I promised to take her skating today. I promised."
"Dove. Don't blame yourself. Jericho wouldn't. There's not a resentful bone in her body. She's salty sometimes, but she don't mean it. She adores you."
"I know that! Damn it, shut up. I know how sweet she is."
John shut his mouth and searched silently. When Black Bartimaeus and Samuels trotted down to them, out of breath, panting, their black faces glistening with sweat in the lantern shine, Dove snapped orders. Then he sprinted back to the middle of the pond, back to where he'd found the skates.
The clue had to lie here. The ice glaze lay brushed in swirls, as if swept by a gown. She'd sat down on the ice to take off her skates. Why? Why would she take off her skates in the middle of the pond?
Because she'd heard something. And wouldn't it be natural to sit facing the sound? Which way had the skate tips been pointing? He racked his brain. He swiped a mitten over his hot brow. East. The tips had pointed east. He scanned the east bank. It was thinly populated with trees, except for one thick copse of dark pines. Had she heard something in the copse?
He sprinted toward it, cursing his slippery leather boots. He reached the bank and plunged into chilling, waist-deep snow. He flung himself through it. Even before he reached the copse, he heard the faint whimper. His heart slammed into his ribs.
"Jericho?" he shouted. "Jericho?" He bellowed to the others and gestured frantically. They came running from all directions. Samuels reached him first. "Give me the lantern." He wrenched it from Samuels's hand. "This way! Over here!"
He went crashing into the stand of pines. Samuels followed. The pitiful mewling grew louder, and suddenly he was upon the sound. He pushed back a pine branch and held the lantern forward.
"Pax!" Pax lay under the tree. He raised his head, the fur dark with congealed and frozen blood that had oozed from a wound. He tried to stand, but toppled. Dove rid himself of the lantern, knelt in the snow, and strained to lift the heavy, shivering dog into his arms.
"Easy, boy, easy," he comforted. "Where is she, Pax? Where's Jericho, boy? Where's Jer
icho?"
But Pax only whimpered and pitifully laid his wounded head on Dove's shoulder. When the others came charging through the snow, Black Bartimaeus draped the dog in a blanket and took him into his big arms.
"Savages, Lor' Dove?" Samuels asked, breathless.
"No." Too upset to say more, he pointed at the trampled snow, the tracks left by three men.
"Boots," John murmured. "White men."
"Let's get going! Whoever did this—I'm going to kill them."
With grim swiftness, Dove grabbed the lantern and sprinted on, setting the pace, following the trail of boot tracks. The others followed. Dove steeled himself, prepared himself to find her body along the trail, dumped, discarded, like so much garbage. A clot the size of his fist rose in his throat as he remembered his broken promise to her. "Take me skating, Dove?" I promise. Pansy Eyes . . .
Sometimes they trotted, sometimes they tramped. But they remained silent, the snow crunching underfoot, their boots squeaking on ice. The only voice was Pax's. He whimpered in pain, though Black Bartimaeus carried him as gently as possible. The boot tracks led away from Collect Pond, and sloped downward to the East River. They cut an icy, soggy, miserable half-mile through a frozen hunting marsh where ice-encased cattails jutted up, tearing the men's clothes. They followed the tracks down to the river and halted on its frozen shore, cursing in frustation. Skid marks of a rowing boat were plainly imprinted in the snow, the keel-rut shining in Sam- uels's. lantern light.
"Do you think they took her across the river? Into the wilds?" John panted, lungs heaving for breath. Dove had set a killing pace.
"Possibly. But they might be in New Amsterdam. They may have used a boat to avoid the gates, to avoid being seen from the guard tower."
"Then it was planned?"
"I don't know." Dove flared, "Christ, who would plan a thing like that! A child who never did anyone harm—a grubworm who—" His throat muscles constricted violently. "Let's get going."