He looked up. ‘Unless what?’
‘Unless he chose this place beforehand. He spoke of an outhouse where he was going to … put us. He must already have known about it.’
‘You think he arranged it, with the brewmaster?’ Nathan sidled over to the body, checking Jerrard’s chest. ‘Definitely dead.’ He swallowed, wincing in discomfort. ‘What should we do with him? We cannot carry him into the street.’
‘We will have to do to him what he planned to do with us. Hide him in the outhouse and presume nobody will look. If the brewmaster is involved he will hardly alert the guard that there is a dead Englishman in his yard. And if he is not, well …’ She sighed. ‘When all is over we can tell Nicolls what happened. If we explain now, he will say there is too much danger and order me to stop.’ She picked up a nearby cloth and bent down.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Cleaning him.’ She rubbed the cloth over Jerrard’s face, tidying his smooth features of traces of malt. ‘He was so young. So confident in himself.’ She clenched the cloth hard. ‘Come. The outhouse must be round the back. And once that is done, let us find this Davids and hope he can help us.’
Bridge Street, where they had been told to look for Davids, turned out to be the same street they had first walked down on coming ashore. That was just two hours ago, but it seemed like two days had passed. Mercia’s mood was grim as she pushed open the door to Marta’s tavern. She walked straight to the serving hatch and asked for Davids. But the woman behind spoke no English, and simply shook her head.
Unlike the taverns they had scoured earlier, Marta’s was relatively bustling, if still only half-full. A large group was clustered around a table on the right, poring over a clutch of documents. Many were enjoying that quintessential American commodity, the tobacco weed; most were drinking ale, reminding her of the brewhouse, but she put the awful image from her mind.
As they approached, the buzz of the group’s animated conversation ceased. Mercia put on a smile, but she received black looks in return.
‘Wie bent U?’ asked a balding man, setting down his tankard.
‘Who are you,’ she whispered to Nathan. ‘I do not need the phrase book to translate that.’
‘Ik herken U of deze man niet. Wat doet U hier?’
‘And that?’ said Nathan.
‘Hmm.’ She held up her hands in a supplicatory gesture, addressing the seated group. ‘I apologise. I do not speak Dutch. I am English, from a village on Long Island. We have come on the ferry from Breuckelen.’
The man who had spoken folded his arms. ‘I’ve spent time on Long Island,’ he said, switching to English. ‘Which village are you from?’
Mercia probed her memory, but under the stares of the townsfolk the only village she could remember offhand was Boswijck, and that was Dutch. She ignored the question.
‘I am looking for a man named Davids,’ she said. ‘I was told I could find him here.’ When nobody spoke she dared a different tack. ‘It seems he might know an old acquaintance of mine. A carpenter named James North.’
An older man in the midst of the group jerked his head up sharply at the mention of North. Next to him a red-headed woman rose, brushing down her grimy apron.
‘We know no James North,’ she said. ‘Nor do we know you. But we do know there is a strange fleet at our door.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t be come to spy on us now?’
Her companion stood. He was of an age with Winthrop, his thinning hair grey above a proud face. ‘I know who she means, Marta. She means Jamie Thorn.’
Mercia stood very still, making sure she did not react. Jamie Thorn was the exact pseudonym for North the customs clerk had spotted in London.
‘But Jamie’s not been seen for months,’ said Marta. ‘Greet’s starting to think he’s found another woman.’ She turned to Mercia. ‘Your friend, is he? Special friend, no doubt.’ The group laughed, sharing some private joke.
Nathan’s gaze did not stray from the grey-haired man. ‘And you are?’ he asked, more blunt than usual. ‘Your words have a Kentish note.’
‘Keenly observed, sir. But the question is rather, who are you?’ The man’s eyes roved Nathan up and down. ‘English, certainly. About thirty, thirty-five years old. A soldier’s past judging by your demeanour. Too young to have fought in the war, unless perhaps at Worcester?’
‘My elder brother was at Worcester. When he died I joined the army in his place. You fought in the war yourself?’
He nodded. ‘Who did you serve under?’
‘William Packer.’
‘Packer, by God.’ He looked slyly at Nathan. ‘You will recall that incident, then, at the Christmas feast?’
As he was talking, Mercia studied his face. There was something familiar about it, although she was sure she had never met him before. That said, until today she had not known she had ever met Winthrop.
‘There was never any feast,’ said Nathan. ‘Packer wished Christmas abolished.’
‘Of course.’ The man smiled, deepening the creases surrounding his eyes. He turned to Marta. ‘I think these two are trustworthy – to a point. But I will talk with them some more.’
‘As you want.’
Marta resumed her seat, and the group their discussion. The proud-faced man led Mercia and Nathan to an empty table by the door. A sunbeam fell through the narrow window above, illuminating the dust in the air.
‘So,’ he said, once they had sat. ‘I am Davids, as you may have guessed. I call Long Island my home for now, but you two, I think you do not, whatever you say. You will forgive my suspicion, but as Marta pointed out there is an English fleet in the harbour. Charles Towne, is that what this place will be called?’ He leant in. ‘If you are part of this, I will feed you to the dogs.’ He looked at Mercia. ‘But you are not a soldier. Why are you here?’
He spoke forcefully, but there was a frisson of worry behind his words. Mercia decided to adopt a strident tone herself.
‘I have nothing to do with any designs the King might have on this town. But tell me more of yourself. You clearly have a past back home.’
‘We all have a past, my dear.’
‘Does yours involve James North? Your hearing pricked when I spoke his name.’
Davids stroked his chin. ‘Nobody has called him North for years, at least not in these parts.’ He ran his eyes down her face. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘North has some … information I want. I had hoped to meet him to discuss it, or maybe talk with an acquaintance he had confided in.’ She smiled at Davids, but he remained unmoved. ‘But you are right. I am not from Long Island. I have travelled down from New England, where he used to live.’ It was a guess, but a likely one if North had sailed to Boston as the customs clerk had supposed. ‘I did not want to alarm people who may be his friends into thinking I was pursuing him out of malice.’
‘I see.’ Davids sounded anything but convinced. He rested his elbows on the table, never shifting his gaze. ‘And I wonder.’ He peered at her still closer, staring at every inch of her face; she was about to turn away when he sat back, his lips creasing into a sudden smile. ‘And you have nothing to do with the ships that have coincidentally arrived this week? Or with a clandestine entry into the town from an English longboat?’
Her eyes flicked to Nathan and back again. ‘What boat?’
Davids laughed. ‘In any case, North is not here any more. As I think you may well know, my English rose.’
It was obvious he had an advantage over her, but she could not think what. Uncertain how to react, she pressed on. ‘If you will not speak of North, then you should be able to tell me about Joost Pietersen. He is important here, I understand. I need to know where he is.’
‘Pietersen?’ Davids frowned. ‘Why ever would you … but very well. I should say he is with the rest of the council, waiting for Stuyvesant to return from his meeting with Winthrop.’
‘Where is this council?’ asked Nathan.
Davids turned to hi
m. ‘You have not said much since we sat, my friend. What is your role in this little game?’ He smiled. ‘But no matter. They will be in the Stadt Huys, the town hall to you and I, the tall building facing the water on the other side of the bridge.’ He tilted his head. ‘Perhaps you saw it when you circled the town? It is very close to the pier.’
Mercia pushed back her chair and stood. The conversation was making her uncomfortable. ‘Thank you. We will go there at once.’
‘Please do.’ Davids gestured towards the door. ‘I will see you again, no doubt.’
As she exited the tavern, Mercia looked back. Davids had his hands clasped together, his fingertips balancing his chin. His eyes were almost aflame with curiosity as he watched them retreat.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Well,’ said Nathan as they crossed the bridge. ‘There is a fellow who knows more than he says.’
She waited for a trio of shouting children to barge past. ‘He was playing some sort of game, that is obvious. And his face, I don’t know. I seemed to recognise it somehow. He was with the army, an officer perhaps – did he seem familiar?’
They rounded a corner to reach the waterfront. ‘Lots of people were in the army, Mercia. How should I know who he is?’
She looked at him. ‘I suppose not.’
He sighed. ‘But he clearly knows of James North. When we have spoken with Pietersen, we should find him again.’
‘I intend to. Ah, this must be it.’
She stopped in front of a five-storeyed brick building set slightly back from the waterfront. Its facade was pitted with symmetrical windows, its gabled roof bisected by a small, domed structure jutting up to the sky. A set of gallows stood nonchalant in the small courtyard in front, but nobody was swinging today.
Two guards at the entrance looked over. Giving them a quick nod, Nathan walked Mercia towards an alley running down the building’s right side.
‘We cannot just stroll in,’ he said. ‘We will have to wait for Pietersen to come out. And I have just thought of a problem. We do not know what he looks like.’
‘Hell’s teeth.’ She cursed herself. ‘Why did neither of us think to ask Davids?’
‘Too busy trying to work out what he was saying.’
‘True. Well, we will find him out some other way.’ She leant against the alley wall, gazing at the riverfront in silence.
Nathan bit his lip. ‘Mercia, what happened in the brewhouse—’
She twisted her head to face him. ‘It is disturbing you.’
‘Yes.’
‘It was as you said. He wanted to kill us.’ She sighed. ‘But no. I wish he could have lived.’
‘I am sorry. I should have controlled myself, but—’
‘It does not matter now.’ She rested her hand on his arm. ‘You were protecting me.’
‘I know. ’Tis just that, I wish you did not have to see.’
‘Do not think badly of yourself, Nat.’ She tried a smile of reassurance. ‘We are alive. Let’s just stand here and wait.’
Twenty minutes later a commotion from along the canal made Mercia peek from their hiding place. A group of men were walking towards the Stadt Huys, Winthrop and his followers amongst a larger number of well-dressed townsfolk. In the midst of the Dutch contingent strode a sober man in a large feather-plumed hat, a wide orange sash decorating his breastplate of shining bronze. He was moving awkwardly, his gait off-centre, surrounded by his men.
‘That must be Governor Stuyvesant,’ she said. ‘By the Lord, that is a huge nose. ’Tis bigger than Winthrop’s.’
Nathan put his head round the corner but they hastily withdrew as the group approached. Once the men had passed and halted in front of the town hall, they looked again.
‘We will leave you here,’ Stuyvesant was saying. ‘My council is assembled inside. I will talk with them, but I do not think much needs to be said.’
‘Think before you act,’ said Winthrop. ‘You have our terms in writing. Let us know your answer by civilised means.’ He bowed, leading his party towards the boat on which they had arrived.
‘If they leave now,’ whispered Nathan, ‘how are we going to get back?’
‘Hopefully they will delay.’ Mercia was still looking at Stuyvesant’s group. ‘They will find some excuse – and if not—damn, will those soldiers not move?’
‘Forget escaping. You just want to see his leg.’
‘Of course.’ She slipped as she stretched too far out, but she caught herself on the wall in time. ‘Captain Morley mentioned it enough times on board ship. Ah, finally.’
Dismissing his soldiers Stuyvesant marched towards the town hall, his bearing as imposing as Nicolls’, testament to a long history of command. Now he was fully visible, Mercia could see his long sword hanging down his right side, its tip sitting snug against a fine wooden leg that came up to his knee. The scuffed stump spoke to years of use.
‘That must shape a man,’ said Nathan. ‘To survive an amputation – I have seen men lying on tables, their limbs shot through, choosing to die rather than face the surgeon’s brutal cut.’
‘He is impressive, I will say that.’ She ducked her head back inside the alley. ‘Now what do we do?’
‘Wait here.’ Nathan pulled his hat down low and disappeared round the corner. She peered out to see him walking at a brisk pace towards the nearby pier. He nodded at the boat where Winthrop and his men had now embarked before continuing on. Seconds later one of the men left the boat to follow him, but they soon passed out of her sight. Minutes later, when she was beginning to worry, she felt a hand tap her shoulder. She jumped.
‘I’m sorry.’ Nathan was standing behind her.
‘Where have you come from?’
‘All the way round this group of buildings. I thought the guards might notice if I was constantly walking in front of them.’
‘Very sensible. What were you doing?’
‘Finding a way to talk with one of Winthrop’s men. I asked him to wait for us, but he’s worried if they stay too long the Dutch will be suspicious. They will give us what time they can. Now follow me. I noticed the town hall extends right down here.’
He led her down the alley and leapt over a low wall into a large backyard, startling an old woman passing by. Mercia smiled at her, shrugging her shoulders, but the woman frowned and continued on her way.
‘You should be more careful,’ she said, joining Nathan on the other side of the wall. ‘That woman kept looking back. I had to wait for her to turn the corner.’ She looked around. They were in a dirty yard littered with the detritus of construction, a number of semi-mature trees doing their best to disguise the mess. ‘Why are we here?’
‘This is the back of the town hall.’ Nathan pointed upwards. ‘Winthrop’s man said the council usually meets in the central room on the second floor. If Davids is right, Pietersen is there. We can look through the window to try to pick him out.’
She craned her neck. ‘What, up there? ’Tis too high.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’ He shook the trunk of a leafy tree growing directly beneath. ‘But it won’t take my weight.’
He smiled at her.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘In this dress?’
‘Steady,’ said Mercia, climbing near the top of the quivering tree. She edged along a thick branch that extended below the second-floor window. Nathan was holding the trunk, but the stability he provided was minimal. Gripping the sill above, she inched up her head to see into the meeting room, hiding her face as much as she could.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Nathan.
She wobbled on the branch. ‘They’re in there, but ’tis hard to see. Stuyvesant is in the middle, surrounded by several others. They look unhappy. He is shaking his head, gesticulating.’ She swayed a little, trying for a better position. ‘Now he is waving a piece of paper at them. Probably the terms Winthrop gave him. It looks like they want him to hand it over, but he is keeping it close to his chest. No, they are definitely not happy. Oh!
’
‘What is it?’
‘Stuyvesant has torn up the paper and thrust the pieces in his pocket.’
‘Why?’
‘Nicolls said he was obstinate. Maybe he wants to reject the terms. But now the others are really upset. One of them is screaming so loudly I can hear. Not that it helps, ’tis all in Dutch.’
‘Any idea which one is Pietersen?’
‘Not yet.’ She risked a look down. ‘Why don’t you come up?’
‘Too heavy.’ A bird settled on the tree, shaking the smallest branches. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll catch you if you fall.’
‘Thank you so much.’ She went back to looking through the window. ‘This is better than the theatre. Stuyvesant is standing with his arms folded, refusing to listen.’ She winced. ‘That must hurt. Someone is shouting right in his ear. Now he is backing away. He is taking the scraps of paper from his pocket. He has handed them to one of the others. Who is coming towards a table by the window—Hell!’
She ducked down, making the tree shudder unnervingly, but after a few seconds she risked looking back up.
‘I can see two men at the table. One is trying to put the pieces back in order. The other has turned to the rest. He is asking a question. Stuyvesant looks livid.’ She waited. ‘I think they are taking a vote. Yes, someone is shouting out names.’ She listened closely, repeating the names as they were called. ‘De Decker. Steenwick. Van Cortlandt. Pietersen.’ She nearly fell from the tree. ‘Nat, I know which is Pietersen.’
‘Then come down.’
‘No, I want to see how this ends.’
But the meeting did not last much longer. The vote was concluded, Stuyvesant clearly in the minority. He brooded in a corner, furious. The council began to file from the room. Mercia followed Pietersen with her eyes, registering his unassuming clothes, his dark hair, his hooked nose.
Birthright Page 28
