His attitude rankled. ‘Success of a sort. Pietersen is there, but he is proving difficult. I am sure Nathan told you of the crowd he raised to chase us out.’
Nicolls pursed his lower lip. ‘You think the Dutch may resist us?’
She glanced at Nathan. ‘From what I could tell, most of them only want to get on with their lives. The people are not just Dutch, Colonel, they come from everywhere, even England. They enjoy their life and they want that to continue. Many of the council seem well disposed towards your terms of surrender. I am guessing they want to avoid bloodshed.’
‘As do I, but this latest dispatch is no help.’ Nicolls waved Stuyvesant’s note. ‘His pride holds steadfast, so my cannons stay trained on his fort, and his guns on my fleet. If he fires, I retaliate. If I give the order, so does he. And then hell breaks loose.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. I shall give his people a few days longer to convince him to concede. Otherwise hell it shall be.’
In the end hell was not called upon. Two days later, when Mercia had returned from braving the New Englanders’ rowdy barricade to visit her son and Lady Markstone on Long Island, another boat approached under a white flag from the town. Within an hour the Guinea’s longboat cast off, carrying a party of delegates to the shore.
Rumour raced around the fleet, flying from ship to ship, bowsprit to mizzenmast, claiming the townsfolk had turned on their leader, renouncing his cause. And for once the bird of rumour spoke true, for news came back that Stuyvesant had yielded, surrendering his town. Looking at the ships’ cannons trained on their fort, at the New England soldiers lined up across the bay, at the images of pillage and despair in their minds, his people had insisted on it.
At dawn the boats were made ready. New Amsterdam, so used to the waves of water rolling in from the bay, now witnessed waves of soldiers rowing across the harbour, hundreds of men, Nicholas amongst them, landing gleefully on the New Amsterdam shore. Mercia, Nathan and the nobility followed, wanting – no, needing – to be part of the triumphant moment. The energy was tangible, the very air resplendent, for the ships’ boys who had won their captains’ permission to go ashore, the most exciting day of their young lives.
So it was that an eager host of men from across the British Isles gathered in the dusty marketplace thousands of miles from home, ready for the gates of the American fort to open to allow them inside. But the moment was not yet arrived. Forming a path across the centre of the square, two ranks of Dutch troops lined up, to the last bearing themselves with stoic pride. Large flags of the United Dutch Provinces and the West India Company rippled at intervals along their line. All around the square, the townspeople stood by, looking on.
A drum sounded, then another, and a blast of horns. The guard of honour presented their muskets. The heavy wooden gates grumbled steadily open. Striding proudly, Governor Stuyvesant marched from the fort at the head of a procession of troops beating drums of their own. As the war hero passed along the line, the light breeze twisting at the strands of hair that fell from beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his soldiers saluted him, and he acknowledged them in return. An orange rosette decorated his immaculate single shoe, his long sword resting in its scabbard beside his renowned wooden leg.
Nearing the end of the line he drew his sword, turned back towards the fort, and held the blade high in tribute to his old home. Then he faced Colonel Nicolls, who was patiently waiting, surrounded by his own troops.
‘The fort is yours,’ said Stuyvesant. ‘Take care of these people and this place. Any man who governs here has a special privilege. The land is fair, the people enterprising and diverse. I commend them to you.’ He saluted. Nicolls returned the salute, and then Stuyvesant walked away, no longer Governor of New Amsterdam.
The lines of Dutch troops dispersed. At an order from a captain, British troops lined up to take their place. In reversal of the previous scene, Nicolls strode determinedly forward through the ranks of his men. He stopped just outside the entrance to the fort, nodding at a small party of soldiers to enter and take charge.
Nicolls turned to face the soldiers, the townsfolk, the hangers-on like Mercia, who were all rapt with awe at the remarkable changeover that was taking place before their eyes. Planting a pike firmly into the earth, he addressed the crowd in a strong and loud voice.
‘I, Richard Nicolls, Colonel in the service of His most excellent Majesty King Charles the Second of England, Scotland, Ireland and France, do claim this place for His noble Majesty. In accordance with His Majesty’s benevolent wishes that this town and surrounding province be invested on his Royal brother, His Royal Highness James, Duke of York, Duke of Albany, Earl of Ulster, I hereby rename them both to be known henceforth as New York, and this fort behind me, Fort James.’
And so New Amsterdam faded into the ragged folds of history, and New York was born. As the people watched, the Dutch flag was lowered on the pole above the fort, and the red, white and blue of the British was raised. A portentous wind rose up, powering through the flag, unfurling it over the town to a great cheer from the soldiers, which Mercia found herself proudly joining. The inhabitants of New York, of all backgrounds, nationalities and religions made less noise, but they were a hardy lot, and doubtless they would adapt.
Nicolls strode into the fort, accompanied by his men. The ceremony was over.
‘So we are now in New York,’ said Nathan, watching the crowd break up into smaller groups, all humming with a frenzy of talk. ‘I wonder how life here will change.’
‘Probably not much,’ said Mercia. She readjusted her hat; once again in black, she had worn the best attire she had brought with her for the public ceremony. ‘I looked over the articles of surrender. It seems the townsfolk will be able to carry on their business much as before. But forget that.’
He grinned. ‘’Tis not just the excitement of the morning making your eyes so bright. Let’s catch our rat.’
The town was bursting with people. It seemed everyone was out of doors on this momentous day, keen to experience the winds of change regardless of how they personally felt. Everyone but Pietersen. They looked all over the New York streets, but of him there was no trace. Emboldened by the morning’s events, they even visited the offices of the West India Company, but there the mood was bleak, and nobody would speak with them, save to divulge the location of Pietersen’s town house, and that only because Mercia threatened them with Colonel Nicolls’ wrath.
But Pietersen was not at home either. A gossiping neighbour told them he had returned after the ceremony but then left. As the hours wore on, Mercia’s excitement turned to despair. It was as she had feared. It seemed Pietersen had fled.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘Come,’ said Nathan, rousing her. ‘Let’s go back to the fort. There may be some record of where he could be. He might own a warehouse, or a plot of farmland, perhaps. He can’t have gone far if he was here earlier.’
She nodded. ‘Very well.’
They trudged across the market square, the dusty space still throbbing with the chatter of a hundred people gathered to gawp at their incoming masters. Two guards at the side of the open gate stood aside to allow them into the fort, obviously briefed on who was welcome and who not.
Like the rest of the town, the fort now seemed a different place. Whereas before defensiveness and anxiety had reigned, now the courtyard was alive with action, teeming with soldiers glad to be on land after so many weeks at sea. The loudest sounds came from Stuyvesant’s old quarters, a fine red-brick house where Nicolls was taking up residence as the first British Governor of New York.
Securing his permission to consult the Dutch archives, they climbed an external stairway to reach a dry, dark room full of impeccably ordered parchments and chests. A number of soldiers were rummaging around, poring over papers with the aid of fidgeting Dutch clerks.
Enlisting the help of a miserable young man who could have been no older than eighteen, Mercia quickly found the register of property. She scanned it for Pietersen’s name.
He shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’ll rename all the streets.’
‘And Smee Straet is in the town, so that’s his town house?’
‘Yes.’ The boy shuffled his feet. ‘I was only posted here a month ago. I was looking forward to it.’
She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why?’ he scoffed. ‘You’re English.’
She did feel sorry for him, but she returned to the document, tracing down its crispness with a finger. ‘Here he is again. Could you tell me what this is, please?’
He leant over her shoulder. ‘That’s the list of properties outside the wall. That one you’re looking at, that’s Pietersen’s bowery. He owns a few morgen of land on the way to the governor’s farmhouse.’ He slumped. ‘The ex-governor’s.’
She gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Is it far?’
‘About a mijl. A Dutch mile, that is. About an hour’s walk.’
She glanced at Nathan. ‘Let’s go.’
‘You seem happier,’ said Nathan as they came back into open air.
‘We’ll see. I just hope he is there.’
‘I wager he will be.’ He smiled. ‘I assume you’ll want my shoulder for any locked doors?’
‘Of course.’
They began to descend the external stairway, but just four steps down she stopped, narrowing her eyes.
‘I see that viper is here,’ she bristled. She jerked her head towards where Sir Bernard was standing in the courtyard clenching his fists. He was staring at the gate; she followed his gaze and gasped, grasping Nathan’s arm and making him wince.
‘Nat, you lost your wager. Look over there. ’Tis Pietersen! Skulking with someone in the shadow of the gate.’ She squinted to see better. ‘By God’s truth, ’tis my uncle!’
She ran down the staircase and across the courtyard, but the soldiers milling around impeded her path. Not paying attention, she bumped into a stocky man carrying in a barrel of food. He lost his balance, dropping his load. The deep thud caused Pietersen and Sir Francis to look up. Catching her eye, Pietersen bade a hasty farewell to her uncle and walked briskly through the gate. Nathan dodged past her and set off in pursuit.
Mercia swivelled on her feet. ‘What were you talking about, Uncle?’
‘What concern is it of yours?’ he snapped. ‘Do you not have a job to do for the King now we are here?’
He stormed off into the residence. Distracted by his words she delayed for a few seconds before going after Nathan, but she had only reached the gate before he reappeared.
‘I lost him,’ he said. ‘There are too many people in the streets. He got on a horse, riding towards the wall. He must be heading to his farmhouse.’
She looked towards the governor’s house. ‘Nat, my uncle let slip he knows I am here on business for the King.’
Nathan followed her gaze. ‘You don’t mean … he knows your purpose?’
‘It may just be Lady Markstone could not keep silent, after all.’ She sighed. ‘We can speculate all we like. Shall we try to find some evidence?’
He nodded. ‘Let’s get some horses of our own.’
They visited the fort stables, but all the remaining horses were allocated. It took twenty minutes of mounting anxiety and nerve-ridden pacing before a disinterested soldier deigned to tell them to go to the wall itself, where a number of shoed horses were standing ready beyond the town. All they needed to do was to convince the man in charge there to lend them some.
‘And who is the man in charge?’ demanded Mercia.
‘Sir William.’ The soldier yawned. ‘Sir William Calde.’
She scowled. ‘It would be.’
Pushing through the crowds in the marketplace, they hurried up the wide street to the wooden palisade built to protect the Dutch from the New Englanders, but which was now safeguarding the British. Its thick wooden stakes were imposing enough, but Nicolls had wasted no time in ordering Sir William to check its solidity. The nobleman was shouting orders from his position at the exit gate, for once out of his fur coat in the late summer’s warmth. He was organising guardsmen along the seven lookout points that ran the length of the wall, two to her left, five to her right. Nicholas stood atop one of the nearest, leaning against a pike, looking bored.
In the headiness of the day she wondered whether now was the time to forgive. While they waited for Sir William she shouted across a greeting; Nicholas leapt erect but relaxed when he recognised her, waving his pike in reply. She nodded and turned away, pondering whether she should ask Sir William to release him from his brief service now the takeover had concluded without the need for arms. But then the nobleman himself appeared at her side.
‘Mercia,’ he said, ‘do not talk with the soldiers. They need to stand guard.’
She looked at the wall. ‘Against what?’
Ignoring Nathan, he put his arm around her shoulder and led her towards the gate. ‘We may have taken New Amster—York, but the Dutch claim much territory far outside the palisade. We must be prepared.’
‘I suppose we must.’ She shifted her neck, feeling the weight of his arm. ‘How are you faring now, Sir William?’
He sighed. ‘Not badly. A widower now, it seems.’ He looked at her. ‘A condition we share in common.’
She resisted the urge to flinch at his insensitive remark. ‘Sir William, I wonder if I might borrow two horses? I have not seen a green field since we left England.’ She affected a smile. ‘A woman’s sentimentality, I know, but I do miss home.’
Frowning, he removed his arm. ‘I am afraid I cannot allow it. Nicolls has ordered no one is to leave the town.’
‘But the stable master said—’ She deepened her fake smile. ‘Sir William, surely that cannot apply to me? I would so appreciate it.’
‘Mercia, I am sorry, but—’
‘I could speak with the governor myself.’ She played with the lace of her bodice. ‘I am sure he would not mind.’
He hesitated. ‘I suppose you can do no harm. But thirty minutes, no more.’ He looked at Nathan. ‘And Keyte?’
Her expression turned serious. ‘You cannot expect a lady to ride out on her own.’ Behind her, Nathan cleared his throat.
Oblivious to her facetiousness, Sir William merely nodded. He called to the guard at the gate.
‘Give these two some horses.’
The guard wavered. ‘But sir—’
‘Is anything the matter?’ Sir William snarled.
‘Just the orders, sir, and we’ve already let—’
‘Stay your insolence! You will do as I say.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The guard saluted, letting them pass through the palisade under Sir William’s inquisitive gaze.
The horses must have been taken from the Dutch, for none had made the long Atlantic crossing with the fleet. They were good steeds, although Mercia felt a trace of nostalgia as she thought of her own horse Maggie. They rode an obvious rain-parched path through well-tended meadows, strange low plants with tiny red berries lining the route to left and right. In the distance, a large stone cottage was pouring smoke from one of its two chimneys – no doubt Stuyvesant’s retreat from the bustle of his official life, somebody cooking within. Mercia wondered if the former governor would be allowed to retain his fine bowery, or whether he would straightaway return to Europe.
After a couple of miles a side path branched off towards a smaller farmhouse showing no similar signs of life. According to the records, this must be Pietersen’s. She spurred on her horse to canter down to it. Aside from the stone farmhouse itself, the bowery comprised a vegetable garden of considerable size, an orchard of newly planted trees, and a sturdy-looking barn surrounded by several outbuildings. Not bad, she thought. Being a corrupt art dealer had its benefits.
They dismounted, tying their horses to a large fence post where two others were already nuzzling grass.
The town wall was not visible from here, nor did any sound travel the short distance across. It was idyllic, the trees rustling in the breeze, the birds chirping their happy music. A couple of wispy clouds crossed the sun-drenched sky. Chickens clucked. If they could have sat under a tree, dozing in the afternoon sun, watching Daniel chase the hens around the fields when they woke, Mercia would have been content.
But not today. Moving quietly, she approached the front of the farmhouse, motioning to Nathan to check the back. The large front door was locked, another horse tethered beside it. She looked up, but nobody was at the windows. A crunching of the dry grass behind her made her jump, but it was only Nathan returning.
‘No luck,’ he said. ‘I could force the door, or we could try one of the windows.’ He looked at the horse. ‘He must be here. I think this is the one he—’
A loud gunshot rang out. They jerked their heads in the direction of the noise.
‘My God,’ she said, ‘That came from the barn.’
She set off at a fast pace towards the wooden structure. Reaching it before Nathan, she heaved open the latticed doors. The musty smell of straw assaulted her nostrils. Cautiously, she advanced into the cool space. A smaller door was swinging open on the opposite side, while two wide beams of sunlight cascaded down through high window slats to illuminate the earthen floor.
‘Oh hell,’ she said.
In the middle of the barn a man in Dutch clothing lay sprawled on his back, his broad-brimmed hat askew across his face. Mercia hurried over the rushes and bent down to him. A deep red puddle was spreading from his side. He was coughing blood, groaning pitiful cries, his hand uselessly clutching his stomach. She lifted his hat, but she already knew who it must be.
‘Who has done this?’ She put her hand to her mouth, appalled.
Pietersen tried to raise his head, but the effort was too great. She rested her arm behind him as support. He stared up at her, a great fear in his darting eyes.
Birthright Page 31
