“Welcome back, General!”
Stuyvesant returned the salutation with a grunt that a bear might make on awaking from hibernation to find that smaller beasts had consumed his entire store of food. He clomped to his desk, shaking the timbers as he went. He hurled himself into his chair and sat glowering, as if trying to remember which drawer in the desk contained the blank death warrants.
His gaze turned to the mound of paperwork awaiting him—correspondence, dispatches, reports, the quotidian stuff of administration. His eyes fastened on something odd, out of place—a long, blue, iridescent feather.
He picked it up. A ribbon was tied around the feather, at the other end a small scroll of paper.
Koontz looked on. Where had this come from?
* * *
Despite his laudanum bliss, Balty started as the door to his cell clanged open and several men marched in. He pulled his blanket up against him protectively and peered. Not a reprise amputation? Hands lifted him into a chair and carted him out the door.
Koontz waited on the parade ground, pacing. His face was crimson. Had he fallen asleep in the sun? Should he offer him some laudanum?
Koontz led the procession across the parade ground to the Governor’s House. Balty found being carried in a chair very pleasant.
Up the steps and through the various doors and into Old Petrus’s den. His bearers deposited him brusquely and departed with alacrity suggesting eagerness to be gone. Koontz remained, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
Old Petrus looked like the volcano that destroyed Pompeii. Any moment now lava would bubble out his nose and ears and mouth. What on earth had made him scowl so? Balty’s confession?
Then it dawned—Nicholls must have arrived! Well, thank God for that. Balty imagined the scene: Nicholls hoisting his colors, gunports opening. The English Navy, here at last. And surely its first order of business would be to demand the release of his majesty’s commissioner, wrongly seized and abominably treated.
Old Petrus was holding something up. A feather? Bright blue. Odd. Was this some Dutch protocol, a blue feather to sign the instrument of surrender? Balty felt a lovely warm surge of satisfaction. Lovely stuff, laudanum.
The old boy continued to glare. What fearful looks. Probably furious over being tricked by Downing. Serves the old buzzard right.
Balty could make no sense of what Stuyvesant said next. It came out in a torrent of rage. Then beefy jailers were summoned and dragged him off. No sedan chair for the return trip to the cell. Balty’s foot going clump clump clump down the front steps. They hauled him across the parade ground and threw him back into his cell. The bottle of laudanum snatched from his hands.
What was that about?
* * *
“Heneral, the Englishman has arrived.”
Huncks was admitted. He respectfully removed his hat and stood, waiting for the Governor to commence the parley.
Asser Levy had bribed one of the fort maids to put the feathered ransom note on Stuyvesant’s desk. If Stuyvesant consented to parley, four pennants would be run up the fort’s signal tower: blue, yellow, and red (Johann’s predominant colors), and a white one, guaranteeing safe passage.
Old Petrus sat back in his chair, affecting imperturbability, but inside the lava was all abubble. On his desk before him was the Englishman St. Michel’s signed confession.
Was he tortured? Huncks asked.
Certainly not! He wounded himself during the escape attempt. The fort surgeon tended to him. More than a spy deserved. Stuyvesant sniffed.
He cared not a penning for the Englishman. English spies were a ducat a dozen. This one was notable only by virtue of his manifest stupidity. This story of theirs about searching for regicides—it was an insult to his intelligence. There were no English regicides in New Amsterdam. He would know. This was just another campaign to stir up mischief and foment more anti-Dutch hysteria back in London.
He wanted his parrot back.
He would exchange a dozen English spies for Johann. But here Old Petrus found himself in a difficulty. What would his superiors at the West India Company say if they learned he’d exchanged an English spy for a bird? And word would reach Amsterdam. Koontz would see to that. Koontz had been maneuvering behind his back with Amsterdam for his job. What a neat way to get it, this.
Old Petrus had no illusions. No one here liked him. He wasn’t likable. He was autocratic, disciplinarian, gruff, stern, dogmatic, unyielding, temperamental, and humorless. But these were traits he viewed as assets essential to managing a colony an ocean away from home, surrounded on every side by enemies, many of them actual savages, as opposed to the Christian variety in Europe.
Thus the Governor of New Netherland found himself hobbled as he stared across his desk at the man who had abducted his one true friend. Who’d plucked one of his beautiful feathers. Who now threatened to pluck another every day that his accomplice remained in custody. And when no feathers remained, he said, he would start removing other parts of Johann. Liefhebber! Fiend!
Koontz looked on with an air of studied froideur. But he, too, was churning inside—not with rage, but fear.
Since the arrival of the ransom note, Koontz had desperately tried to persuade the Heneral to make an example of St. Michel and hang him immediately. How else to deal with English spies?
Koontz knew St. Michel wasn’t a spy. And Huncks knew Koontz’s dirty little secret. If Koontz could get Stuyvesant to hang St. Michel, then his friend would retaliate and kill the bird, and that would be the end of parleying.
“So?” Stuyvesant began.
“You have my terms,” Huncks said.
“What makes you to think that I would exchange a spy for some bird?”
“The fact you agreed to this meeting.”
“Perhaps you should consider that maybe my only intentioning was to lure you to come. Hm? So to put you in my jail along with your fellow spy.”
“You wouldn’t violate a white flag. And even if you were willing to forfeit your honor, you wouldn’t forfeit Johann along with it, just for the satisfaction of adding me to your long list of English guests here in New Amsterdam.”
“What hests?” Stuyvesant said.
“Whalley and Goffe. And their minions, Jones and the Indian.”
Stuyvesant slammed his fist on the desk. “You continue these accusatings! There are no rehicides in New Amsterdam!”
“I believe that you believe that.”
Stuyvesant stared, confused.
Huncks said, “Perhaps you should ask your Deputy if he has made some private arrangement.”
Koontz drew his sword. “How dare you!”
“Koontz!” Stuyvesant growled. “Onthoud waar u bent!” Remember where you are!
“He has insulted me, Heneral!”
Huncks said, “If a duel would settle the matter, I am amenable.”
“There will be no dueling!” Stuyvesant growled.
The seed of doubt was planted. Huncks said, “If there is nothing further to discuss, I’ll take my leave. In the meantime, may I have your assurance Mr. Balthasar is being well treated?”
“Yes,” Stuyvesant said.
“I should like to take you at your word, sir, but there’s been a report, you see.”
“What report?”
“Of torture.”
“We do not do torture here.”
Koontz was sweating. Looking at him, Huncks thought: He tortured Balty without Stuyvesant’s permission. While the old boy was upriver dealing with his Mohawk trwabble.
Stuyvesant meanwhile was wondering why it had been necessary to bring the Englishman before him in a chair.
Koontz blurted, “He injured himself. In the escaping.”
Huncks said, “That doesn’t account for screams heard from his cell.”
Stuyvesant asked Koontz, “Klopt dit?” Is this true?
Koontz replied, “Hij had nachtmerries.” He was having nightmares.
Huncks said, “Ik denk, mijnheer, dat u binnenko
rt met nachtmerries.” I think, sir, that you will soon be the one having nightmares.
Huncks reached into his vest and drew out a feather. This one was smaller, brilliantly yellow. He placed it on Stuyvesant’s desk next to the other, then stepped back, made a nod of courtesy, and turned, leaving the two Dutchmen, one florid, the other pale.
– CHAPTER 43 –
Cincinnatus Agonistes
The atmosphere at the Breuckelen farmhouse had changed, martial camaraderie giving way to the quiet that precedes engagement. Braggadocio and tankards of ale were put aside. It was time now for inspecting weapons and writing farewell letters.
Winthrop had arrived.
As Underhill had warned, the Governor of Connecticut was in no good humor but his self-control was admirable. Not a word of denunciation of his majesty or the Duke of York for reneging on their promise. He’d drunk his bitter cup in silence and put himself at the disposal of the Crown.
Winthrop and Stuyvesant had a long history. When it came to the negotiation, Winthrop would be the one to conduct it. If it succeeded, Winthrop would be at the table to catch the crumbs, if not all the land to the Pacific.
Underhill was in a foul frame. No strutting and backslapping and declaiming the dawn of a new St. Crispin’s Day. No once more-ing onto the beach. The Cincinnatus of Long Island was reduced to muttering at his wife for sending a Quaker chaperone—a girl, a girl in a damned apron!—to see that he abided by his pledge of nonviolence.
Thankful followed him everywhere. She wouldn’t leave his side. Sweetly, she asked if the Captain would care to join her in silent Quaker worship. No! The Captain would bloody well not care to join her in silent bloody Quaker worship! Captain John Underhill, hero of Fort Mystick, hero of Pound Ridge, the Achilles of New England, scampered after and tsk-tsked at by this . . . this child, wagging a finger at him in full view of the men. Intolerable!
To add a further note of humiliation, the girl had somehow acquired a parrot. It perched on her shoulder and screeched. Where, in God’s name, had it come from? And what, in God’s name, was it doing here, amidst a council of war?
It had taken to mimickry: “Wheyyyyrrrr’s Cappunnn Nunnnnderrrrr-illlll! Oaccck!” Underhill tried to have it banished from the farmhouse, but no, the men wouldn’t hear of it. They’d adopted the bloody thing. It must stay! They vied with each other for the honor of feeding it. Underhill issued an ultimatum. Choose: himself or the bird. The vote went to the bird.
Why didn’t Huncks do something about it? He and that imbecile, St. Michel, were responsible. It was they who’d brought the wench to Killingworth, providing his wife with a deputy to harass him.
Where was Huncks?
* * *
The answer was: a few hundred yards away, peering through an eyeglass trained on Stuyvesant’s signal post.
Afternoon was getting on toward evening, shadows lengthening over the fields. Huncks had been here since returning from the parley. He tried to conjure the scene in the Governor’s House. Had he convinced Stuyvesant of Koontz’s complicity with the regicides? Had Stuyvesant thrown Koontz into jail? Or had Koontz persuaded Stuyvesant he was innocent? Was Stuyvesant reconciled to forfeiting his precious bird and keeping his English prisoner? And had all this aroused suspicion about the impending visit by the English naval squadron?
Huncks heard something behind him. Thankful approached. Johann perched on her forearm. The bird had taken to her. She seemed to have some gift.
Johann’s eyes narrowed, seeing the man who’d plucked two of his feathers. He lowered his head and hissed.
“Shh, Johann,” Thankful said, stroking its forehead. “It’s all right. The Colonel won’t hurt thee.”
Johann wasn’t convinced. Thankful held her forearm to the branch of a tree. Johann hopped on. She tethered his leg to the limb and sat on the ground beside Huncks, who resumed his eyeglass invigilation.
“Anything?”
“No. What’s going on in the farmhouse?”
“One of Captain Underhill’s scouts came. Four ships were seen, off a place called Moriches.”
“He’s close. If the wind holds, he could be here tomorrow.”
They sat silently. The sun was low over Manhatoes, silhouetting the taller buildings, the fort, windmill, gallows.
“What will happen to Balty if he’s still prisoner when the English ships come?”
Huncks put down his tube and rubbed his eye.
“Difficult to say. Stuyvesant won’t be pleased when he learns Nicholls isn’t here to kiss his—when he realizes he’s here to seize the colony. Whether his anger will extend to . . .” Huncks checked himself again. He smiled. “Well, he’s got himself a prize hostage, doesn’t he? A Crown commissioner. Brother-in-law of an important Navy person. Makes him a valuable commodity. No harm will come to him.”
“But the English Colonel, he would not give up his mission for one English hostage.”
“No.”
“What then?”
“You sound just like Balty. Always asking, ‘What now?’ ”
“How badly did they torture him?”
“I doubt it went far. Our Balty’s not one to play the hero.”
“But he did. For both of us.” Thankful began to cry.
Huncks put an arm around her. “How am I to keep watch with you like this?”
“Sorry. It seems I am always crying now.”
“How’s Cincinnatus? Communing with the Holy Spirit?”
Thankful laughed. “It’s why I left with Johann. He was threatening to cook him for the supper.”
They looked over at Johann, gnawing on a pinecone.
“He’d be tough eating.”
Thankful pointed. “Look.”
Huncks raised the eyeglass and saw the four pennants.
* * *
Koontz’s defiance was gone now. He looked like a whipped dog. Stuyvesant was on edge: hands fidgeting, eyes darting about, avoiding contact.
They’d made their agreement. Stuyvesant would overlook Koontz’s treachery, and Koontz would keep quiet about Stuyvesant’s exchanging an English spy for a parrot.
Stuyvesant asked if Huncks cared for a schnapps. Huncks saw the old boy wanted one himself, so he accepted. Stuyvesant did not offer a schnapps to Koontz.
“So,” Old Petrus said, “after discussings with Deputy Koontz, it seems there has been a misunderstanding. From which has consequented this unfortunateness between us. I propose that together we make an overcoming.”
“I salute your excellency’s wise judgment.”
“Are you desiring first to discuss the matter of these English persons who, it seems”—Stuyvesant shot a sharp glance at Koontz—“have made a refuging here?”
“My immediate concern is for the release of Mr. Balthasar. And of course, the return to you of your property.”
“This, too, is my wishing.”
“How does your excellency propose to proceed?”
“Well, here is a difficulty. We are a fort.”
“So I have observed.”
“A fort with many persons. And these many persons now cognize that Mr. Balthasar has confessed to be a spy. Here is the difficulty.” Stuyvesant continued, removing his skullcap and mopping sweat from his bald dome. “The other difficulty is that these many persons are also cognizing about the disappearing of . . .”
“Johann.”
“Yes. So we have two difficulties. Which together are making one big difficulty. But there is a solving for this.”
“I am eager to hear it.”
“Of course this must be only among ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
“Sometimes prisoners escape. This happens.”
“Yes,” Huncks said cautiously. “And sometimes prisoners are shot while escaping. That would make a very big difficulty.”
“This will not happen.”
“No. The consequences for Johann would be unfortunate. I insist the escape take place tonight.”
“And the retu
rn of my property also.”
“Agreed.”
Stuyvesant said, “At four of the clock comes the change of the watch. This will be the time. Koontz will make the arrangings.”
“And the exchange?”
“We are both men of honor, Mr. Huncks.”
“You flatter me, sir. But we’re exchanging hostages, not compliments. What do you propose?”
“The Deputy and your Mr. Balthasar will be at the Pearl Street dock. Some minutes after four of the clock.”
“A dock? On your island? Hardly neutral ground. No. Midriver, due east of the dock. I’ll be in a small boat, with one other person to handle the oars. I’ll expect to see Koontz and Mr. Balthasar. No one else. Afgesproken?”
Stuyvesant nodded. “Afgesproken.” Agreed.
– CHAPTER 44 –
Well Done, Koontzy
Balty awoke with a gasp. The guttering candle cast a flickery, spectral light. What now? The hangman, with some sourpuss Dutch pastor in tow, mumbling quotes from the Book of Lamentations?
No. Koontz and the night-duty guard. Koontz spoke to him in Dutch. Whatever he said seemed to confuse the guard. Koontz’s voice rose, insistent. The guard, shaking his head in perplexity, began to undress.
“I say, what’s all this?”
“You are making an escape.”
“What?”
“Don’t you want to be free? Get up.”
“Why is he taking off his clothes?”
“For you to put.”
“Look here—”
Balty found himself staring into the muzzle of Koontz’s pistol.
“All right, steady on.” Balty threw off the blanket and got up. His ankle hurt but he was able to stand.
Koontz handed Balty the guard’s uniform piece by piece. Balty dressed.
Koontz pointed and said to the guard, “Wat is dat?” The guard turned to look. As he did, Koontz drew a knife and slit his throat. The guard fell forward onto the floor, gurgling and gasping. Balty stared in horror.
The Judge Hunter Page 24
