by Anya Seton
"I believe in the established church of my own country," said the old man querulously, "and so were you raised, son John. I'll thank ye to remember it."
"I do, Father," said John Bowne gently. "But I remember too that our Flushing Patent gives every mother's son the right to worship as he pleases—unmolested. 'Tis a wondrous thing, and rare enough in this world."
"Aye—" said Will. "Liberty of creed and conscience. What marvel if it could be had in all the colonies!"
"You'll not wallow in such laxness long under Stuyvesant," grumbled the old man unconvinced. "He's getting stricter every year, and a good thing too, I think. New Netherland is becoming a worse sink-hole than Rhode Island. Why, they've got Jews now in New Amsterdam, I saw some t'other day. Jews, Baptists, Catholics, Lutherans, Mennonites, Separatists—even a heathen Turk I saw, and I call it disgusting!"
Will and John Bowne exchanged a glance of sympathy and agreement but they said no more. Elizabeth was too weary to follow this discussion, she uttered the last goodbye, and turned back into her kitchen where Anneke and Lisbet were cleaning up. Hannah had gone back to Flushing with the Bownes, to spend a few days with her John's family.
"Rest!" said Anneke firmly, as Elizabeth picked up a dish towel. "Ve finish here. It vas a lovely fête, only I vonder vy Toby hasn't come. Must have been delayed in Amsterdam. I asked him not to go to town today—but you know Toby! There vas a shipment of sugar in from Jamaica, and he afraid of losing his share."
"I think he's coming now," said Will, walking into the kitchen. "I hear a horse on the lane. You look spent, hinnie," he said. "Go to bed." She frowned a little and said "Presently." I look spent, she thought. And haggard and old, no doubt. Susannah Thorne had not been spent, she had danced all afternoon, odd conduct for a widow. She had danced with Will, too, a lively hay. He had looked as young as she did, as they twirled and capered.
"It is Cousin Toby," said Lisbet, looking out the window. "I see the silver buckle on his hat."
Will opened the door, and Toby lumbered in. "Folks all gone?" he said. "I hope you've plenty food left. Fetch me a drink, Anneke—couldn't get here sooner. Those stupid niggers took an age t' unload the ship."
"Any news in the city?" Will asked, stretching out his long legs, and smoking placidly. "Have they heard how Stuyvesant's campaign against the Swedes is doing?"
"No news yet," said Toby. "But it should be easy to mop 'em outa the Delaware, there's only a few Swedes and Stuyvesant's taken seven hundred men. Nay, the town was quiet today, barring some talk about that blackguard Van Dyke."
Elizabeth looked up. Hendrik Van Dyke had been the third officer with Underhill and de la Montagne in the long ago attack upon the Siwanoys. Since then he had risen to be Schout-Fiscal, and fallen again, having quarreled with Stuyvesant as everybody seemed to.
"What's Van Dyke done now?" asked Will with mild interest.
"Oh, last week he shot dead an Indian squaw who was stealing his peaches," said Toby. "The Manhattans are sulking, want some kind of reparation made, but there's nobody much left at the Fort to deal with 'em."
"Van Dyke should be severely punished!" said Elizabeth with sudden energy.
"Aye, in truth," said Will. "And the Governor doubtless will, when he returns. Toby, a lot of canoes went by at dusk this afternoon. Did you see more Indians than usual on the river or at Amsterdam?"
Toby shook his head. "Didn't see any at all." He took a laden plate from Anneke and began to eat. "Is that cobbler Wickenden still with you here? M'boots need stitching."
Will nodded. "But he's leaving in the morning. To stay in Flushing for a while. Some men that were here today asked him—and I think Bess has had enough of him." He quirked his mouth in her direction, and she felt a prick of compunction, mixed with relief.
"We've had so much company," she said defensively. "'Twould be pleasing to be alone a while. No visitors at all," she added thinking of Susannah.
Will sighed. He loved her and was slightly concerned about her health. But recently he had for the first time felt her to be demanding and unsympathetic. Not so much her lack of interest in Wickenden's religion—though to himself the little cobbler had brought much illumination—nor her increased dependence either exactly, he had always responded to her need for cherishing. But she showed a new suspicion and restlessness when he was away, there were questions as to what he did each minute of the day—a subtle feeling of confinement or restriction, which their relationship had never had before. He could not understand it and it made him uncomfortable.
He would have liked to stay up a little longer, chat with Toby, visit Wickenden again in his bedroom in the stable loft, but he knew that Elizabeth would not go to bed until he did, exhausted though she looked.
"Come on—" he said to her. "Time for sleep."
She heard the faint undertone of exasperation, and was hurt. She spent another night of tossing and dozing fitfully, while Will slept the heavy sleep of a hard-working healthy man.
Eight miles down the East River from the Hallets' isolated farmhouse the dawn of September 15 brought dismay to New Amsterdam. One by one as the citizens awoke they were perplexed to find that the streets were crowded with prowling Indians. Indians from many tribes, all men, able-bodied, armed with spears, tomahawks, and some of them with muskets. They were stripped to the breechclouts. Their faces and chests were gaudy with red paint, but the burghers were not at first alarmed, because the Indians were quiet and seemed to have no special purpose. They milled through the streets, and occasionally knocked upon some door to inquire from the startled householder whether any Mohawks had been seen. There was, said the Indians, a rumor that a Mohawk band had stolen into Amsterdam, and was concealed about the town.
The story did not seem so thin at first, since all the New Netherland tribes were allied with the Dutch against the terrible Mohawks, and many of these Indians who were slipping through the silent streets were familiar to the burghers—Manhattans, and Hackensacks who came often to the city with their trading goods.
It was the physician and one-time General, Jean de la Montagne, who first discovered the Indians' true designs. He was still one of Stuyvesant's Councilors but he had been appointed Schoolmaster and lived quietly with his daughter next to the schoolhouse. No Indian rapped on his door, but he heard the unusual bustle outside and investigated. He had not covered many blocks before realizing that an alarming number of Indians were deployed through the town. At least eighteen hundred of them; far more than the adult male population remaining in New Amsterdam since Stuyvesant had withdrawn all troops to the Delaware.
The Indians did nothing, they drew silently aside as he passed, he received the impression that they were awaiting some signal. He hurried to the entrance of the Fort, and saw there an old sachem whom he knew well—Minettah, chief of the Sapokanicans, one of the local Manhattan tribes. "Good day, Minettah," said de la Montagne, bowing gravely. "What is the meaning of this invasion? So many Indians!" He spoke in Dutch and Minettah answered him fluently in the same language.
"We search for Mohawks, we are protecting you."
"Absurd!" said the Councilor sternly. "Tell me the real reason; we've always been friends, I thought."
The old sachem hesitated. Between wrinkled lids he gazed steadily at de la Montagne. "Where is Van Dyke?" he said at length. "Give us Van Dyke."
Nom de dieu! de la Montagne thought. That sacré Van Dyke! I told them he should make instant reparation. "I don't know where he is," the Councilor said. "He much regrets that anger made him shoot the squaw, yet she had no right to steal his peaches. Was she of your Sapokanicans? He'll pay you much seewant." Which was unfortunately incorrect. Van Dyke had several days ago refused any discussion of the squaw's murder—let alone compensation.
"Seewant no good now," said Minettah. "We want Van Dyke. All these tribes want revenge, they have been waiting a long time for it."
"What do you mean by that?" de la Montagne said sharply. "You've no grievances except against Van Dyke."
"Many grievances," said the sachem. "Through the years. Many. Not forgotten."
De la Montagne felt fear. While he talked with the sachem the Indians had been silently gathering. Three-deep now, they were quietly ringing the Fort; more of them had muskets than the Councilor had first realized, and his backbone prickled.
"Wait!" he cried to Minettah. "Tell them we'll parley! You know you've been fairly treated by this governor. As soon as he returns, you'll have your rights."
The old sachem gnawed on his lip, and finally nodded. He raised his voice and spoke to the encircling, wary Indians. De la Montagne entered the Fort.
All day the hordes of Indians stood quietly outside the Fort, while their sachems parleyed with the Councilors and Burgomasters, hastily summoned by de la Montagne. He posted guards around the Governor's mansion—where Judith and her boys were sent to the cellar for safety—praying that the Indians were not fully aware of how weak the Dutch forces were. They primed in readiness the cannon on the Fort.
In the Council Room, the dissolute Fiscal van Tienhoven and de la Montagne led the conference with the sachems. The white men were secretly appalled to find how many of the Indian tribes were represented. Even though not all the sachems identified themselves, there were certainly Mohicans, Wappingers and Tappans, and even Montauks from Long Island.
These chiefs were glum and uncommunicative. They would not smoke, they would not sit, they demanded Van Dyke, and for some hours resisted all the frantic white men's offers of seewant, of tobacco, and even—at last in desperation—of mm and ammunition.
It was then, with this last offer, that a gaunt, hideously tattooed sachem spoke up in passable Dutch, and said, "How much rum, and how many pounds of musket balls and powder, General?"
De la Montagne, who was addressed, started and stared hard at the Indian. "'Tis Nawthorne..." he murmured to Van Tienhoven. "The Siwanoy who led us to the Massacre in Greenwich, betrayed his people."
"He might again," whispered back the Fiscal. "Draw him off, and let's talk to him alone."
Nawthorne was willing. The other sachems murmured and watched while the erstwhile Tomac chieftain palavered, making exorbitant demands. He readily explained that since leaving Greenwich he had been living with the Corchaugs on Long Island's far eastern tip. He further said that this situation was very grave, the tribes' long smoldering sense of wrong had burst to flame, but that he—Nawthorne—always the Dutchmen's friend—he would save New Amsterdam. While Nawthorne and the Councilors conferred, a short stocky Indian watched impassively from a corner of the room. He had a face tattooed with black and red dots, and he wore heron feathers tipped with copper in his roach of greasy hair.
Nawthorne came back to the other sachems. He was grinning slyly. He grinned all the time he spoke to them in the Mohican language which the Dutchmen could not understand at all. When he had finished, the listening Indians grunted and a few of them laughed.
Nawthorne explained then to the Councilors that the Indians were ready to come to terms. The casks of mm and barrels of ammunition should be heaped for them in the courtyard, and in the meantime the various chiefs would go outside and pass the result of the parley on to their tribes.
"I wonder if we should let them go—" said de la Montagne uneasily. "This seems too simple."
"Bah!" said Van Tienhoven. "They're fools. We'll water the rum kegs, and put sand halfway up the powder barrels. They'll not find out until they've all dispersed. There'll be no more trouble."
But Van Tienhoven was wrong. After the chiefs had left the Fort, not twenty minutes passed before the Councilors heard agonizing shrieks splitting the twilit air. And a terrified lad came running to the Fort. "They've got Van Dyke!" he screamed. "They chopped his hands off, and then they bashed in his head! They're killing some other man now!"
The burghers and what guards there were grabbed up their guns. They ran and shot and ran, in panic, but the Indians were scattered through the streets and far too numerous.
Then the Dutch fired the cannon of the Fort—a rusty disused cannon, but the Indians were frightened by the noise, and a few of them were felled by the cannon balls. So they took to their canoes, and paddled swiftly out of range. Some went down the Bay to Staten Island, where there were ninety colonists. The Indians killed them all, and burned their bouweries. They laid waste Hoboken and Pavonia, killing or capturing the inhabitants. And two war canoes sped up the East River, back towards Hell Gate.
The Hallet family supped on the lawn that evening, since the air was summery, and Elizabeth ever preferred to be outdoors when she could.
She was not so tired today, even though she had slept badly. She was rested by the absence of all guests. Little Wickenden bad driven off to Flushing with Toby and Anneke. There had been no sign of Susannah Thome.
Elizabeth had Will to herself, and her family around her. The big boys, Johnny and Robin, were whittling horn spoons, which were to be a wedding present for Hannah when the Dominie Polhemus married her to John Bowne in the spring. Willie lay on his stomach and tickled Don the watchdog's nose to make him sneeze. Lisbet sat a little apart from the group netting a purse with nimble fingers and humming softly.
Sammy lay on his mother's lap, drowsily watching the fireflies light their tiny sparks in the syringa bushes.
Will was finishing his last nightly mug of ale, and admiring the trim lines of his house. He had built it all himself, with the boys' help. And it was as much like his old Dorset homestead as he could manage when the only easily available material was wood. Later, he thought I'll build a solid brick one here—like the Dutch. If the crops continued as good as they had been, he would not need to wait long. Or—he thought with pleased excitement—I might build me a kiln. I'm sure the venture'd be profitable. Folk'd drive from Maspeth and even Flushing for the bricks. Be much cheaper than hauling them from Amsterdam.
As he started to tell Elizabeth of this idea, they heard the distant booming from the Fort. "Now what's that for?" said Will, sitting up and listening. "Sounds like cannon, but I didn't think those moldering old relics at the Fort could possibly be fired."
She listened too, vaguely perturbed. The cannon boomed again.
"Oh, I know what it is," said Will. "Stuyvesant's returned. He's trampled down the Swedes, and is master of the Delaware. New Amsterdam greets its conquering hero."
Elizabeth smiled, and Lisbet said primly, "Stuyvesant is a rogue and scoundrel, no matter how many Swedes he's vanquished."
"Oh, come now, Lis," said Will, eying his stepdaughter with amusement. "I hear through your silvern tones the strident voice of Captain Underhill. And perhaps he's right in part. But you must give your mother and me leave to think more kindly of the Governor, at least in one respect."
"Aye—" said Elizabeth on a long fervent note. "And of his sweet lady, Judith."
They were silent, each with private thoughts. Lisbet resumed her humming. The big boys sheathed their whittling knives and stood up.
"'Tis getting dark," said Will smothering a yawn. "We'd best go in, and you to bed, Bess. I want you to be sensible until you're quite rested up."
"I'm not weary," she said. "Let's sit inside a while and talk, when I've put Sam and Willie to bed. Or read to me, Will, please, the way you used to? 'Tis long since you've read to me. I'd like to hear 'L'Allegro' again."
He repressed impatience. He wanted to cast up his accounts, see if this year's profit could possibly justify the brickyard, as well as the purchase of another seven acres that he meant to add to the eastern field. "Oh, Bess, I can't read tonight," he said. "I'm busy."
The quick hurt tears stung her eyes. She bit her lips, and when they went into their kitchen, she walked in stricken silence, which made him feel guilty and consequently cross. He spread his papers out on the table, sharpened his goose-quill pen, and began his figuring.
She put the little boys to bed upstairs in the room they shared with their half-brothers. Robin and John presently went up also. Lisbet retired to the pa
rlor where she slept.
Elizabeth came back and sat down between the kitchen fire and the light of the one candle which Will was using. She riffled idly through the calfbound volume of Mr. Milton's poems, but none of them caught her interest. She looked at Will with longing which very soon would change to anger, or any weapon which might shatter his imperviousness. He continued to write with his head bent, making neat figures on the paper. Amongst his calculations was one for the procuring of a bondservant for Bess who would need more help when Hannah left. But this Elizabeth did not know. Feeling excluded, unconsidered—she sat staring at his back.
She had cleared her throat for the saying of something sharp when the watchdog lifted his head and began to growl.
Will put down his pen and turned. They both looked at the dog, who growled again and got up, the hairs rising along his backbone.
"Can't be wolves," said Will. "There aren't any this part of the island. Some prowler, maybe." He rose and started for the pegs where his guns and powder horns were hung.
The dog whined, growled again, then precipitated himself against the outside door.
"Steady, Don. Steady, old fellow. We'll see what it is," said Will. "Sure the back door's bolted, Bess?" She nodded. He poured powder in the flash pan of his musket, pulled the hammer back in readiness, and opening the front door said, "Shan't be a moment. I expect it's only a fox.
She nodded again, not frightened. Her under thoughts were still churning with the angry longing and the need to force him to respond to her.
He opened the door and stepped out. The instant he was off the stoop she heard a sound like the hooting of an owl, then a short high bark like a fox, mixed with the growling of their dog. She got up, still more puzzled than alarmed, and froze with her hand on the chair arm as she heard Will's voice raised in a wordless shout, as of surprise. Then there was silence for an instant, before the night exploded into pandemonium. Sobbing yells, howls, ululating and inhuman. A lion, she thought, like in Ipswich—there's panthers out there; her hand clenched tighter on the chair arm, while the uproar outside swelled into hoots and caterwaulings in which she now distinguished spurts of devilish laughter.