Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘Pietersen is leaving,’ she hissed. ‘We have to get to the front in case he comes out.’

  She slid down the trunk, a jagged twig ripping a tear in her dress as she streaked her hands on the rough bark. Once on the ground she raced through the yard to hurdle the low wall. But then she pulled up short, colliding with Nathan as he halted in the alley, an unimpressed guard blocking their way.

  The guard raised his long musket. When he spoke it was in English. ‘Come with me.’

  They were marched to the courtyard in front of the town hall. Mercia glanced at the adjacent pier where Winthrop was still holding off his departure. Remarking their predicament, he turned his head towards them before looking quickly away.

  ‘How are we going to get out of this?’ whispered Nathan. ‘Winthrop will have to leave.’

  ‘Quiet,’ growled the guard, one of the two who had been stationed at the town hall entrance. The old woman from the alley was hovering nearby, talking with his colleague – or rather at him. The harassed man hurried over as soon as he saw his fellow return.

  While the soldiers were talking, Mercia mumbled at Nathan from the corner of her mouth. ‘Should we run to the boat?’

  ‘The guards seem worried. I don’t think they know what to do. They may panic and—’

  ‘Nat,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s Pietersen, leaving the building now.’ She nodded to where a quartet of men were exiting the hall. ‘The man with the ribbons on his waistcoat. Look.’

  The man she recognised as Pietersen broke off from his group as he noticed what was happening in the courtyard. He peered at the two prisoners, taking a tentative step in their direction, staring at Mercia in particular. Then his eyes widened and he looked down, speeding away on his original course.

  ‘Meneer Pietersen!’ shouted one of the guards. ‘He, Meneer Pietersen!’

  The sentry’s voice rang out clear in the small space but Pietersen walked still faster, pretending not to hear. By the time he rounded the corner, his walk had become a jog. The guard went back to muttering with his companion.

  ‘Did you see that?’ whispered Mercia. ‘He looked at me and ran off.’

  Nathan nodded. ‘Someone must have warned him about you. Perhaps that Jerrard—’ He fell silent as a musket was poked into his back.

  ‘No talk!’ said the guard who had brought them there. ‘Now wait.’

  He lowered his musket and entered the town hall. The remaining soldier stayed with them, holding his gun vertically, the barrel pointing up from the ground. Mercia looked at him more closely. He was wearing a breastplate and helmet, but would it be possible to overpower him? She glanced at his musket. His grip was firm – if she grabbed it and pulled, it might throw him off balance, allowing Nathan to attack. But before she could catch Nathan’s eye to suggest they attempt it, one of Winthrop’s party appeared from the boat. She smiled to herself. This would be some ruse of Winthrop’s.

  The approaching envoy nodded, addressing the guard. ‘Before we return to our ship, Governor Winthrop wonders whether any answer is yet available from Governor Stuyvesant.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said the guard. ‘You want the governor?’

  ‘No, I want to know if there is any message.’

  The guard shook his head, unable to comprehend. He shouted a question towards the town hall entrance. From the shadows someone disappeared inside, re-emerging moments later with a freckled clerk.

  ‘I speak English,’ the clerk said to Winthrop’s man. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know if there is any message from the governor.’

  The Dutchman smirked. ‘So you try to find out from me what is happening, now your friends here have been caught?’ He jerked his head at Nathan. ‘Spying on the council is not a good idea.’

  The envoy blinked. ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  ‘They were looking through a window. They are English. We know you sent them.’

  ‘Oh, come now. Do you think we would employ a woman to do a soldier’s work?’ He glanced at Mercia and scoffed. ‘Well then. I shall leave you to your duties.’

  He walked back to the boat. Mercia watched him go in disbelief.

  She was still reeling from Winthrop’s abandonment when the sentry reappeared with a more grandly uniformed guardsman, evidently his superior. The time for a quick escape had gone. The guards debated energetically, gesticulating at the captured pair, looking at Winthrop’s boat, staring back at the town hall. The officer in charge considered what to do, clearly as uncertain as his subordinates. Finally he barked out an order and returned inside.

  The guards raised their muskets. ‘Move,’ said one, jabbing Mercia in the back. The other fell in behind Nathan, forcing him to walk alongside her towards the canal. As they passed the pier, she saw the boat had already cast off and was being rowed back to the fleet. She looked for Winthrop, but he was facing the other way.

  At gunpoint they were marched along the New Amsterdam streets, over the stone bridge, past Marta’s tavern, out into the large marketplace in front of the fort where the murmuring locals ceased their chatter to stare. One of the guards shouted a command, and the fort’s hefty gate grumbled open, scattering a cloud of dust.

  Another musket prod nudged Mercia through. She stumbled with Nathan into the Dutch stronghold, triangular bastions topped with fearsome cannons at each corner, ramparts manned by dozens of soldiers along each edge.

  The gate clanged shut, trapping them inside.

  Chapter Thirty

  The fort was not large. They were thrown into the same windowless storeroom.

  Nathan heaved his body against the locked door. ‘No use. But we need not worry. If we cannot free ourselves, the invasion will.’

  ‘Except our own guns are aimed directly at us. If Nicolls fires on the fort, we do not have much chance.’ She looked at him. ‘Can you believe Winthrop just left us here?’

  Nathan was still fiddling with the door. ‘It does not help to dwell on it. Let’s think how to get out.’

  She slumped against a crate of horseshoes. ‘What, through the locked door, past all the guards and then storm that massive gate?’

  He circled the musty room, feeling at intervals along the walls. ‘There is a way out of every prison. The old King himself managed to escape from Hampton Court when Cromwell locked him away.’ He pulled at a loose plank, but it held firm.

  ‘Yes, but as I recall, the old King was promptly recaptured. And the next time he tried it at Carisbrooke, he got stuck in the bars of his cell.’

  He came to crouch beside her. ‘Do not be despondent. We will get out.’

  She blew out her cheeks. ‘I am just feeling sorry for myself. Besides, I have been in prison once this year already. I should be used to it.’

  The door swung open. Lit up by the bright August day, a guard entered, placing a tray of food and drink on the straw-covered floor before reaching behind him to retrieve a pisspot. He smirked as he placed the earthenware bowl right next to the tray and then left, relocking the door.

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ said Mercia. ‘I need that.’

  ‘Go ahead. Eat. Eat it all if you want.’

  ‘I was talking about the pisspot.’ She stood up. ‘Now please, look away. It takes a while in all these clothes.’

  It was several hours more before the door next opened. The store was full of horse equipment, reminding her of her own grey Maggie, and they sat on the straw reminiscing about life back in England, about family and friends they had left behind. The talk was intended to distract her from their plight, but underneath she grew more and more concerned about Pietersen. Now he knew they were in the town, what would he do?

  The answer surprised her. By now it was night, and the cloaked man who entered was brandishing a flaming torch. Balancing it in a wall sconce, he shut the door and upturned an empty crate. He sat astride the splintered box, the flickering torchlight exposing his angular face.

  ‘Mercia Blakewood and Nathan Keyte.’ He sp
oke in a broad Dutch accent. ‘I was warned you would be coming, but I did not think we should meet in such an elegant room as this.’ He rocked on the crate, pulling at the sleeves of his cloak. ‘I would introduce myself, but I think you know who I am.’

  Mercia drew up her own makeshift seat. ‘Meneer Pietersen. I am pleased to finally meet you. Although I am surprised you are here.’

  Pietersen smiled. ‘The governor wishes to know of his enemy’s plan. I am here to interrogate you on his behalf.’ He flicked a ruffled wrist. ‘What is your commander’s intent, how he hopes to achieve it. Those sorts of questions.’ He removed his black hat, resting it in his lap; its brim was broader than any Mercia had seen.

  ‘We know nothing of that,’ said Nathan.

  ‘And if I ask you the same of the Oxford Section?’ Pietersen studied them, but neither reacted. ‘I know why you are here. You have a strange delusion that you will find what was thought lost.’ He let out a mock sigh. ‘But it was lost. It burnt to nothing in your own fair land on its way to Cromwell’s Great Sale. My clients were so … disappointed.’

  ‘Then they must have been cheered indeed when the paintings came back out of thin air,’ said Mercia. She leant forward. ‘We know the Section still exists, Meneer Pietersen. Your one-eyed smuggler friend admitted as much.’

  Pietersen stroked his trimmed moustache. ‘What else do you know, Mrs Blakewood?’ He smiled. ‘Should I be … concerned?’

  ‘I will find the paintings with or without you.’ She felt a warmth on her face as the torch flared in a draught. ‘We will not be locked in here for ever. If you help us now, Colonel Nicolls will not be displeased.’

  Pietersen scoffed. ‘You think to bribe me, Mrs Blakewood? Maybe threaten? But let us play this game the other way round, no?’ He made a circular motion with a finger. ‘Why should I not go to Stuyvesant right now to demand your execution?’

  Behind her, Nathan made a sudden, unseen move. Pietersen jumped from his crate.

  ‘I do not think so, Mr Keyte. There is a guard outside with orders to run in and shoot you if I so much as cry out. Yes, that is better.’ He waited for Nathan to retake his position. ‘Good. Now, Mrs Blakewood, you were about to tell me what you know.’

  She toyed with a ringlet of her hair. ‘You are very agitated, Meneer Pietersen. I assume this means we have been right all along, and the paintings are close?’

  A brief flash of uncertainty flew over his face, but he quickly composed himself. ‘You know nothing, do you?’ He laughed, but his uneasiness was clear. ‘Not who stole them, not who bought them, not where they are. Except there is no Oxford Section, Mrs Blakewood. It is nowhere.’

  ‘You said yourself you were told we were coming. Someone has put considerable effort into warning me from a collection that does not exist.’ Riled by his demeanour, she decided to test his response. ‘Who did you buy the paintings from, all those years ago? Was it Bernard Dittering? William Calde?’

  Pietersen turned to leave. ‘Whoever you think you are after has clearly overrated you. And, Mrs Blakewood, a word of advice. I am valuable in this town. There are men in your fleet who would kill to retain my services. I know all the local trade routes, the value of the goods for sale, the principal Indian tribes. I have nothing to fear.’ Replacing his hat, he reached for his torch. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Blakewood. I trust you will sleep well.’

  She stared at the back of his departing cloak. ‘I will discover the truth, Meneer Pietersen. I have come too far to give in.’

  He stopped with his hand on the door. ‘Perhaps you should. Sometimes ’tis better to stay ignorant.’

  Nobody else visited them that night. As the hours passed they tried to sleep, but the air became too close. Every time she dozed Mercia woke within minutes. Nathan succeeded no better, so they sat and talked in the nocturnal heat, worrying what Pietersen would do, hoping the next time they spoke with him the odds would be more in their favour. Otherwise they just sat. Once, Nathan looked at her in a certain way, and she feared he might use this chance to confess what she knew he must feel, but he remained as silent as ever.

  She looked at him as he tried to sleep. He was compassionate, loyal – and handsome. He owned lands. Her son loved him. So why was she afraid? Did she feel she would be betraying her husband by replacing him with his friend? Did she prefer their relationship the way it was, not wanting it to change? Did she worry he would want more children, putting her again through the pains of childbirth? Did she panic she would lose her independence, surrendering her freedom to a husband’s will? Usually she chose to ignore such thoughts. But she was finding it harder to do so, much harder, than it had been just weeks before.

  Striving to occupy her mind, she reviewed the contents of the store: bridles, horseshoes and the like. When Nathan next stirred, they briefly discussed using it to break down the door, but they gave up the idea, aware they would not get far. Maybe, she thought as she tried again to sleep, she could convince Stuyvesant it was in his interests to let them go. And what had Pietersen meant, when he had hinted she might be better off ignorant?

  Tugging straw from her hair she wriggled into a more comfortable position, thinking now of Nicholas. She understood why he had acted against her, but it still saddened her, mostly because she just liked the man, and she did not allow herself to get too close to people as a rule. Thoughts of Nathan floated back. She shifted her head, looking at his silhouetted body. Yes, she liked their friendship the way it was. And yet …

  She closed her eyes. This time she slept.

  A grey light swam under the door as dawn broke over America. Waking, Mercia yawned as she stood to brush clean her crumpled dress. Her mouth felt dry, so she took a sip of ale from the jug on the tray the guard had left, but it tasted rancid. Banging and clattering from the fort drifted in, but like her, it had not slept much last night, too alert to the threat in the bay.

  The light under the door grew steadily brighter. Soon the bolt was thrown back and the door flung open. Two guards walked in, shaking Nathan roughly awake. He sat dazed for a while, massaging his neck where a red mark had since appeared from his struggle in the brewhouse. Then the guards clicked their fingers, and out they marched into the golden morning sun.

  They were taken up a crumbling staircase to one of the cannonaded bastions. As they climbed, the whole town was laid out before them: the broad street running from the square below, the gabled rooftops, the wooden palisade glinting with weaponry. Beyond that wall, settlers had begun to plough farmland and the beginnings of estates, but mostly the far view was an endless green, a whole nation of trees encircled by the rivers’ embrace.

  At the top a fine panorama of the bay opened up, the gleaming waters adorned by the three little islands under a vibrant blue sky. Closer to shore, Mercia noticed the fleet had moved much nearer, while across the rampart the governor himself stood gazing out at the ships, his patriotic orange sash taunting the British gunners even as the feather on his black hat seemed to dance in the wind. He stood for a while then turned to look over his town, resting his peg leg in the space between two bricks. Seeing the prisoners approaching, Stuyvesant pulled himself up straight, dismissing the guards with a curt nod.

  ‘Look out there,’ he said in English. ‘Your fleet is ready to attack. But I will not allow it. I cannot.’ He pointed at the flag flying over the fort, its orange, white and blue stripes, the insignia of the West India Company at its heart. ‘This is Dutch land. Company land. It is my home.’

  ‘We are not with the fleet,’ began Mercia, but Stuyvesant held up a hand.

  ‘Do not pretend with me, my lady. I know every person in this town, every person in Breuckelen, in Haarlem, in all the villages around. It is my business to know them. I am their governor. Do not try your falsehoods here.’

  She nodded, respecting the intelligence of the man. ‘You have worked for the Company a long time.’

  ‘I have. I acquired this in its service.’ He kicked his wooden leg lightly against the wall, look
ing again at the ships. ‘It was a moment like this, two foes facing each other, only that time it was the Spanish I was fighting, and they controlled the fort. During the assault my leg was blown away. Yet I survived, and twenty years later am now governor here.’ He turned to her. ‘And your commander wishes me to give this up?’

  ‘I fear,’ she ventured quietly, ‘that many more will suffer the same fate if you do not. Many of your own men.’

  ‘Ha,’ he exclaimed. ‘You know nothing of battle, so do not speak of it.’

  ‘But I do,’ said Nathan. ‘I have watched men die, seen our commanders make terrible decisions valuing pride over sense.’ He came closer. ‘You will not be betraying your men if you surrender this place. You will be saving your people.’

  Stuyvesant stared. He gestured at them to follow him to one of the cannons, where a soldier stood waiting.

  ‘If I give the order, this man will light the taper and touch it to the cannon. We will step back, watch as the ball flies across the water until it crashes into one of your ships. And then we will be at war.’ He looked at Nathan. ‘Why should I surrender? This place was a hovel when I arrived, a den of prostitutes and thieves. It was nothing. I have made it succeed.’ He choked out a bitter laugh. ‘There has been opposition, oh yes, and I have had to pretend the Company knew what it was doing when at times it did not. But I have made this place strong, a victory for my people. Do you see those colours?’ He nodded again at the flag. ‘I am proud to serve under them. I would sooner die than betray them.’ He looked at the gunner. ‘Just one word.’

  ‘If you light that cannon,’ said Nathan, ‘all the guns on our ships will roar in response. They will destroy this town, all that you have built. Those men waiting on the Long Island shore, they will rush into the town, they will loot your wealth, they will defile your women. Everything you have accomplished will be lost. Our places were ravaged in our recent wars, castles destroyed, homes burnt, families and friends broken. And for what? The King is back, much the same men in charge now as before. If you fire that cannon all you will achieve is your own annihilation.’