Birthright

by David Hingley

  Mercia sighed. ‘It seems everyone is motivated by wealth.’

  ‘Not everyone.’ Lady Markstone took her hand. ‘I have not said anything, but I think people are beginning to wonder about your true purpose here. We all saw what happened between you and Wildmoor. Perhaps it would be better to confess the truth and leave the work of finding the paintings to others. I have worried on it since you came to see me in the Tower.’

  ‘You know I cannot give in.’ She forced a smile. ‘Besides, the King is expectant.’

  ‘And why let a man take on what a woman can do better?’ Lady Markstone winked; the action seemed quite bizarre. It made Mercia laugh, for the first time in days.

  ‘Lady Markstone, I must thank you for your discretion these past weeks.’

  ‘Part of me wishes you would set up a new life here with me, but I am just being selfish. I hope you do find the paintings. It always vexed Edward he could not. And thank you, Mercia, for your company. When this is over, and I am settled, you will visit me before you return?’

  ‘I will, if I can. But I fear there is a way to go yet.’

  It was a day fit for glory. The weather was fair, the crew ebullient. All four ships were back together, the swift-sailing Guinea having awaited the rest near a long, sandy promontory that jutted north into the sea. After a final council of war on board the flagship, the captains ordered their crews to ready the sails, and in formation the fleet moved off. In just a few hours they would arrive in New Amsterdam.

  At the raised stern of the Redemption Mercia had her eye to a telescope, leaning back on the rail to watch the other ships ahead. With the lower sails furled everyone was staring forward, straining for an ever closer glimpse of the land fast approaching. The tension was tangible. Would the Dutch fire on them as they came within sight? Would the soldiers on the warships get the battle they were aching for? Mercia felt the thrill of what was about to come, but apprehension too, ready to snatch her son from danger if she needed.

  Certainly Nicholas had regained his spirits, shifting left and right beside her to see. Taking the telescope to pass to Daniel, Nathan eyed him with mistrust. The noblemen with Lady Markstone stood ahead on the quarterdeck, Sir William amongst them. The tips of his brown hair flapped beneath his ostrich-plumed hat, his gaze fixed on the bay ahead.

  The tip of Long Island was now close to the right, a spectacular golden sheen to its coast as the sunlight reflected off the weapons of the dozens of local militiamen Nicolls had managed to recruit. It was almost certain the combined forces of the British outnumbered those of the Dutch, but nobody knew how events would unfold, whether the upcoming days would herald the formation of a continuous sweep of British territory from Jamestown in the south to Boston in the north, or merely keep things as they were, the Dutch consolidating their wedge in between.

  The land came to meet them on either side as they sailed further in, reducing the sea to a small gap that gave into the New Amsterdam harbour beyond. As the ship powered on, Nathan pointed about him, reading from one of the captain’s charts. Mercia glanced over his shoulder, but the map was not a detailed one. Aside from the coastal areas much of the land mass was blank. Even their destination, the small island of Manhattan, was largely bare: New Amsterdam was highlighted at its southernmost tip, and a pinprick called Haarlem to the north.

  ‘Look, Daniel,’ said Nathan. ‘Staten Island. See, to the left.’

  ‘It does not look like an island,’ said Daniel, and Mercia laughed, for no, it did not.

  ‘Well that is what they call it. And there to the right is Gravesend. Mercia, do you recall Lady Moody? The captain says she founded that village.’

  ‘From long ago. But I did not know she was living in Dutch lands.’

  ‘Many English folk live that way. Some of them were not welcome in New England, I believe. I wonder what they will think, when they are forced back in the fold?’

  Mercia smiled. For those on board it was not about if they were victorious, but when. As if to prove the point, the sailors on the Elias upfront released an impromptu cannonball towards a Dutch merchant ship operating in the bay. But the shot splashed into the sea, no others were fired, and the fleet continued on.

  They were now moving through the middle of the narrow harbour entrance way, one ship behind the other as they came out into wider waters beyond. The wind was concentrated at this point, whipping through Mercia’s hair and stinging everyone’s eyes as they peered forward, waiting for their first glimpse of New Amsterdam itself. And there, as the ship tracked right, Mercia could just make out a settlement at the very tip of a hazy sliver of land. She reached for the telescope.

  ‘Is that …?’ she asked, holding the instrument to her eye. The town was still a way off, but she could make out a low fort, a windmill behind it, and a number of ships in the harbour in front. She passed the telescope to Nathan, who leant it against the rail, holding it steady. Daniel pulled at his breeches, eager to look for himself.

  ‘I think so,’ said Nathan. He threw the telescope to Daniel, who caught it deftly. ‘I think so! New Amsterdam, Mercia. Right there in front of us. We have made it!’

  The fleet edged further into the harbour. As they got closer, there was no warning gunfire from the fort she had seen. Some of the faster Dutch ships moved off as they saw the Union flags of the British approach, but otherwise all appeared tranquil. It was a radiant day, if humid.

  ‘It is staggering,’ said Mercia, enraptured by the ever-approaching view, individual red-brick houses now visible at the water’s edge. ‘That a town can be built in such a place as this, yes, but look beyond the town, just look, the forests going on and on, the intensity of the green, the deep blue of the rivers on either side, the flashes of sunlight on … what is that, over there?’ She took back the telescope. ‘A waterfall! And these islands across the harbour, like miniature versions of what lies beyond. It is as though they are sentinels, come to welcome us in.’ She shook her head, feeling emotional. ‘What a setting.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ agreed Nathan, smiling at her.

  Between the little islands they sailed, deeper into the harbour that the captain called simply the Bay, until the Guinea up ahead dropped anchor just outside reach of the fort’s guns, and the other ships lined up alongside it.

  ‘Right,’ said Mercia, as the Redemption took its place opposite the fort. ‘Now we start the hard work.’

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The maddening order came down from fleet commander Nicolls: movements on and off ship were to be strictly regulated. Sir Bernard returned to the Elias, Sir William and her uncle to the Martin, but Mercia was confined to the Redemption, prevented from interrogating Nicholas’s contact Jerrard or from going ashore to locate the agent Pietersen. After three days of worrying he might flee, she lost patience. The cannons had not fired on the town, the troops had not invaded, and the Dutch were equally intransient. When Nicolls came on board to review the state of the ship, Sir William and Sir Bernard imparting their experience of the vessel in his wake, she seized on the chance to intercept. Nicolls agreed to talk – once he was finished with his task.

  She observed him concluding his inspection from her station at the stern. Dressed to intimidate in gleaming helmet and breastplate, he peered into everything, running his hand over rails and ropes, asking brief questions of Captain Morley, nodding curtly with each response. Behind him followed Sir Bernard, in turn pursued by Sir William: the pecking order, comprised of strutting cocks. The inspection over, Nicolls dismissed them and strode directly towards her. She could see Sir Bernard following him with his eyes, irritated at being abandoned for a woman, and an impertinent one at that.

  Colonel Richard Nicolls was a man with natural authority. What he told people to do they invariably did, not surprising from a man hand-picked by the Duke of York to be the first British Governor of the town across the bay. He marched in a perfectly straight line, deviating only to avoid an open hatch or a coiled rope, not
moving for any man – they all gave way for him. Despite his armour he bounded up the ladder to the stern, where he removed his helmet and bowed. He stood straight and tall, his face expressionless, his demeanour demanding brevity and intelligence.

  ‘You wished to speak with me, Mrs Blakewood.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And from what I have been told, I certainly want to speak with you. Sir William tells me his wife is dead, that your man tried to save her when she fell overboard.’ He roved his eyes across her face. ‘What happened?’

  She held his gaze unblinking. ‘It is of that tragedy that I wished to speak. But I am afraid it is worse than you fear. I think she was pushed.’

  He frowned. ‘Pushed?’

  She persevered despite his evident doubt. ‘We were right to suspect that the man who contrived to steal the Oxford Section would sail with the fleet. Someone on board persuaded Lady Calde to write a note designed to scare me from my purpose. But then it seems her suspicion of him deepened. I think he killed her to protect his identity.’

  A brief shadow of disgust fled across Nicolls’ face, but the inherent seriousness returned at once. ‘You have proof of this?’

  ‘Her journal.’ She sighed. ‘There is no mention of a name. But I am certain I saw someone running from her as she fell.’ She let her hood, already loose, slip back in the breeze. ‘Colonel, now we have arrived, I must locate the agent Pietersen and discover the name of this man who has betrayed the King. I must ask your permission to go ashore.’

  Nicolls clicked his tongue. ‘A fiery sentiment. But even if you are right that this man is amongst us, all these here are in the Duke’s trust. I cannot simply question them, nor will I risk your safety.’ His left eye narrowed slightly; she could sense his mind working on a course of action. ‘Yet I do not want to involve anyone else. That companion of yours – Keyte. He has been a soldier?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled, appealing to Nicolls’ traditional views. ‘Nathan provides the strength, and I the finesse. Which I think is called for in this affair.’

  Nicolls stared at her. ‘The King spoke true when he called you an impressive woman.’ He gripped his helmet to his side. ‘Very well, Mrs Blakewood. Although it is against my inclination, you and Keyte may pursue this matter, but after we have taken the town.’

  ‘Colonel, I fear that may be too late. Could I not row to shore in secret?’

  He shook his head. ‘It is too dangerous.’

  ‘But if Pietersen flees,’ she persisted, ‘or is killed during an attack?’ She swept her hand out at the harbour. ‘You have boats rowing between the ships and the soldiers on the Long Island shore. What if whoever is behind this takes the opportunity to sneak into the town to warn him? Colonel, if the Oxford Section has come to America, Pietersen brought it. If I do not go now, we may lose our best chance to save the paintings for the King.’

  Nicolls drummed his fingers on the rail. ‘By heaven, this is a distraction from the Duke’s business, but you have kindled his brother’s passion, Mrs Blakewood. You know one of those pictures is a portrait of his family, painted when he was just a boy?’ His forehead wrinkled the tiniest amount. ‘He seems to want that more than the town itself.’

  It was hard not to know: The Royal Family of Stuart was encircled in deep black ink at the head of the King’s list. She pushed a ringlet back into place. ‘So I may take a boat?’

  Finally Nicolls smiled. ‘You are a brave one. Somewhat unnatural, but brave.’ He ran his tongue round his upper lip, thinking. ‘I have dispatched another demand of surrender to Governor Stuyvesant. The obstinate fool returned my first because I had neglected to sign it.’ He looked out towards the fort. ‘I am minded to send someone to discuss terms in person. Maybe Winthrop. He knows better than I how these butter-boxes think. Perhaps you can go with him.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Butter-boxes?’

  He waved a dismissive hand. ‘’Tis what the sailors on the Guinea have been calling the Dutchmen. Because they are spreading themselves all over the globe.’

  She laughed. ‘The crew here call them Froglanders.’

  ‘After their wet homelands, I suppose. Very well. If Stuyvesant has not replied by tomorrow I may send for you. You are right, ’tis time for action.’

  He marched back down the ship. Mercia watched him go, impressed.

  Pleased with her conversation, Mercia returned to her cabin to find Nathan crouched on the floor playing Daniel at draughts. She looked at the board. Nathan had an obvious winning move, but he made a different play instead. She squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘We may finally be getting off this ship. Colonel Nicolls might send me over tomorrow.’

  Daniel looked up. ‘To Mad Hatton? Can I come?’

  ‘Manhattan, Daniel, and not just yet. The soldiers will make it safe and then you can go.’

  He pulled a face, but Nathan tickled him in the stomach and he laughed. ‘Your move,’ said Nathan, getting up. ‘Think about it carefully while I speak with your mamma.’ Taking Mercia to one side, he lowered his voice. ‘Is he seriously sending you there before we’ve even invaded?’

  She shrugged. ‘He sees the sense of not waiting for Pietersen to flee. He wants you to come with me, clearly.’

  ‘But how will we avoid the townsfolk wondering—’

  Impatient, she interrupted his question. ‘You said yourself there are plenty of English in these parts. We will claim to be fugitives who fled to America when the King returned to his throne. We are worried by his fleet’s arrival and have come into town for news.’

  ‘I see you have thought this through.’

  ‘Of course.’ She glanced at her son shuffling around the draughts board, pondering his move. ‘Did you find out about Lady Markstone?’

  ‘Yes. The captain finally got permission for her to leave the ship. But Danny won’t like it.’

  ‘He won’t have a choice. I want him away with her as soon as possible, well behind those troops lined up on Long Island. ’Tis only for a few days, until this is over.’ She smiled as Daniel made a happy cry, leaping several of Nathan’s pieces in one move. ‘He is getting good at that. Let us hope I am as effective in New Amsterdam.’

  There was a knock on the door. They turned to see Nicholas on the threshold, his expression subdued.

  ‘I’m sorry to come in,’ he said, his eyes flitting downwards. ‘But I wanted to tell you … I’ve agreed to join the soldiery for the invasion.’ He fiddled with his sleeve. ‘Or rather Sir William has just pressed me. I would have argued, as I did before, but I thought it might be best.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Mercia.

  ‘If there is cause, I will fight.’ He looked up, attempting a weak smile. ‘And perhaps I can listen for anything that might reveal your enemy.’

  Nathan folded his arms. ‘Anything you don’t already know.’

  Nicholas looked at him. ‘I know you don’t trust me, but I swear on my daughter’s life I know no more than I’ve said. If I get to the Martin, I’ll try to get some answers.’

  ‘That is a point,’ Nathan acknowledged. ‘Mercia, why didn’t you tell Nicolls about this Jerrard?’

  She sighed. ‘Because, Nathan, if Nicolls arrested him and secured a confession, it would be he who uncovered the nobleman and the paintings and the King would be beholden to me for nothing. I have not come all this way merely for his benefit, have I?’ She turned to Nicholas. ‘Our enemy will not be pleased you have confessed your part in this. Be careful a rogue musket shot is not fired your way.’

  ‘I’d best find a good helmet, then.’ Nicholas arched his eyebrow, but although her lips twitched she refused to allow herself to react. Instead she inclined her head, and he left.

  It did not take long for the summons to come. The following day a soldier arrived with a terse message: Come with this man, you depart at noon.

  She watched as Nathan swung on a flimsy rope ladder, dropping into a small boat waiting alongside the ship. Placing one foot over the side to follow him, she stopped to l
ook at the deck of the Redemption, her home for the past three months. More than anything she felt an intense excitement, but her eagerness was mingled with the nerves of anticipation. Still, it was with enthusiasm that she began to descend.

  As she lowered herself down the ladder, Daniel appeared directly above, shouting farewell. She paused, her head level with his scuffed shoes.

  ‘Goodbye again, Danny. I promise it won’t be long.’

  He bent to kiss the topknot of her hair, triggering a swell of love inside her – love, and a great responsibility. If she failed here, she could lose Halescott for her family for ever.

  She resumed her clumsy descent, gripping on to each rung, spray splashing her face as she approached the bottom. Her brown woollen dress bunched up more with each step: she was no longer in her mourning clothes for fear they might attract attention. As she jumped the last foot into the boat, a gust of wind nearly toppled her into the water, but Nathan caught her, a suppressed smirk on his face.

  ‘I hope he will be safe,’ she said, waving at Daniel as they were rowed away. Beside him Lady Markstone was pointing out the boat, encouraging him to wave back.

  ‘He will,’ said Nathan. ‘They will leave as soon as she is ready.’

  ‘Good. There are snakes about.’ As they glided across the harbour, she saw her uncle and Sir William on the Martin, watching them depart.

  The short trip brought them directly to the Guinea, its nineteen formidable starboard cannons pointing straight to shore. The ship was massive, able to ferry five times the cargo of the Redemption. Hundreds of soldiers were awaiting the invasion order on board. But there was no time for a tour: not two minutes after Mercia had embarrassed herself clambering up another rope ladder to the huge main deck, Nicolls appeared in his military regalia. Next to him walked a grey-haired man of around sixty years of age, his clothing somewhat more restrained. In spite of the day’s heat, he wore a dark frock coat over a buttoned waistcoat, a white cravat encircling his neck. A group of similarly dressed followers trailed a reverent distance behind.