by Scott Mebus
“Camp out here?” Bridget asked, looking around at the wild surrounding them. “What if there are more coyotes? Or giant squirrels? We’ll be sitting ducks.”
“We can always spend the night at McGown’s Tavern,” Soka suggested.
“Well . . . well . . . that’s not such a good idea,” Finn stuttered. Bridget didn’t understand why he was so flustered all of a sudden, and by the look of her, Soka didn’t understand, either.
“Why not?” Soka asked. “It’s unlikely any of my people have ventured this far north in search of me—not yet, anyway. We’ll be careful to stay inconspicuous.”
“Yes, well, it’s out of the way. We’d have to go an hour’s walk east, which is in the wrong direction entirely. And the customers . . . they’re a bit rough. Old soldiers and trappers and politicians and other unsavory types. We’d be better off camping here.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Bridget said, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s better to spend the night away from animals that are trying to eat us, even if that means a little walk and some weird guys at the bar.”
“She’s right,” Hans said. “Anyway, your grandfather mentioned that he parted ways with Penhawitz there. Maybe someone there knows where the old Sachem went.”
“Fine.” Finn gave in angrily. “We’ll go to the tavern, if it’s so important to you.”
He stomped away, not waiting for the others to follow. Soka glanced at Bridget and shrugged before setting off after him.
“What got into him?” Hans asked from Bridget’s shoulder.
“Maybe he’s got a big bar tab or something,” Bridget guessed before following the others into the darkening forest, Tucket at her heels.
21
A NIGHT AT McGOWN’S
Nicholas woke up suddenly. The room was dark and still. Did he have a bad dream? He turned over to see Lincoln asleep on the other bed. Everything seemed to be fine. So what had awakened him?
A creaking inside the room startled him. He looked sharply to see the door opening slowly to admit a shadow of a man. Nicholas froze, watching the intruder entering his room and knowing in his heart that he’d come to kill them both. Nicholas’s pulse began to race as the shadow crept over to him and reached for his neck . . .
Nicholas’s hand shot up to grab the man’s wrist, and he leaped forward to drive the intruder to the floor. A muffled cry came from beneath him as he landed atop the would-be killer.
“It’s not what you think!” the figure cried. “I’m a friend! A friend! You’ve got the wrong Jimmy!”
“Wasssgoingon?” Lincoln muttered sleepily, sitting up. Nicholas pulled back to see whom he’d tackled. To his great surprise, Jimmy Walker, aide to the mayor, stared back at him, eyes wide.
“What are you doing in here?” Nicholas asked suspiciously. “Lincoln, light a candle.”
“No!” Walker hissed. “They’ll see it!”
“Who’ll see it?” Lincoln asked, eyes narrowing.
“Look out the window,” Walker whispered. “Now!”
Nicholas pushed himself to his feet, wincing as the pain of his injured stomach flared up. He clutched his belly as he staggered over to the window. Gazing out at his parents’ lawn, he didn’t see anything at first. Limping up beside him, Lincoln let out a gasp.
“Look!” Lincoln said softly. Nicholas peered closer and then he saw it: dark shapes moving slowly across the lawn toward the farmhouse. As they came close, he could make out feathers and a flash of war paint.
“B’wry Boys,” Walker said from behind them. “Dressed as Munsees—like they’ve been doing all week. But this time they’ve got murder on the mind. Yours.”
“How do you know this?” Nicholas said, turning back to the man on the floor.
“Because I’m supposed to be opening the front door,” Walker admitted. “I made a copy of your mother’s key the last time when I paid you a visit. Kieft instructed me to let Sly Jimmy and his B’wry Boys in so they can do what they do. They’ll be at the door in a minute, so we don’t have much time.”
“Why are you helping us, then?” Lincoln whispered, confused.
“Because I’m tired of all this!” Walker said, gritting his teeth. “Kieft wants a war, and I don’t like wars! Wars are bad for business! There’s no time for dancing and singing and all the good things in life. There’s rationing and shortages and death! What a party killer!
“Besides, I know the Mayor wouldn’t want this. He’s made a whole mess of mistakes, but he respects Peter. He wouldn’t agree to this if he knew. But Kieft keeps things from the Mayor all the time. I think he sees that Alexander is being slowly consumed with regret. I hate to see it! Such a waste when he could be having a good time! I won’t let your death be another of those regrets. I won’t! So come on, I’ve got some horses out back. We can sneak away with none the wiser.”
“But the house . . .” Nicholas muttered. Thankfully, his father was down at the hospital, still laid up with the awful sickness going around, and his mother was with him. Kieft had probably planned it that way, knowing that Peter Stuyvesant was too powerful to be taken down so crudely. But the farmhouse where he’d grown up . . . he couldn’t leave it. He glanced at Lincoln.
“You know I’m the first one to jump into a fight,” Lincoln told him solemnly. “But even I know there are too many of them. It’s just a house.”
“Come on, you’re wasting time!” Walker warned them, walking to the door. Nicholas glanced back out the window. The fake Munsees were already climbing onto the porch, no doubt waiting for Walker to let them inside. He sighed, his heart aching. He’d make Kieft pay for this, he thought. Then he turned back to Walker.
“Let’s go.”
They staggered out of the room and down the stairs, Walker supporting Nicholas as they ran. As they hobbled out the back door to the stables, they could hear the B’wry Boys beginning to beat on the front door. A crash sounded as something flew through the front window. When they reached the horses Walker had waiting, a smell of smoke began to drift by on the wind.
Nicholas shot Lincoln a look of horror. “They’re burning it down!” he cried, fighting tears.
“We’ll get them back!” Lincoln assured him. “If it’s the last thing we do.”
“Hurry, it won’t take them long to check back here,” Walker said, climbing aboard one of the horses. Lincoln and Nicholas followed suit and they galloped away, over the side and down to the street to safety. Behind them, the wonderful farmhouse where Nicholas had spent the last four hundred years burned brightly in the night. Nicholas could not watch, but he knew the sight would be with him always.
They heard McGown’s Tavern before they saw it. Night had fallen and the weary travelers had to make their way by starlight. They’d passed out of the trees onto one of Central Park’s paved paths, but Manhattan still suffered under the blackout, so the streetlamps were all dark. Bridget spied the shadowy buildings of the city in the distance, just over the trees. She wondered how her brother’s search was going. And their mother, was she still okay? Bridget had to hope so. There was nothing she could do for them now.
Distant sounds of music and laughter floated by on the wind as they approached the hill that marked McGown’s Pass. Finn explained that the pass had been used to hold back the British as General Washington retreated with his men from their defeat at the Battle of Brooklyn. The British claimed the pass—and all of New York—once Washington was well away, and they built forts nearby overlooking the rivers on either side. Eventually, the British would be defeated, and the patriots would triumphantly take back the city. Through it all, McGown’s Tavern had survived, untouched by war or occupation, faithfully serving travelers on their way north. It even survived Central Park; the tavern remained at the same spot at the top of the hill into the twentieth century, becoming a favorite haunt of Tammany Hall politicians, before finally being demolished in the early teens.
Its memory was very much alive, however, judging by the merriment
coming from atop the hill. At last, Bridget and her companions reached the hilltop where the tavern waited, a warm light in the dark. Lanterns hung outside, welcoming travelers. A stable stood nearby, filled with horses waiting for their masters to finish hobnobbing and head home to their beds. Smoke drifted out of the chimney, promising a blazing fire within. The thought of a nice seat by the fire seemed very pleasant to Bridget. She found herself getting excited as they reached the door and pushed through.
Inside, McGown’s Tavern was jumping with the boisterous energy of its customers. Long tables stretched out along the big fireplace, filled with loudly talking—and in some cases singing—guests. And what guests! Soldiers from both sides of the Revolution sat on opposite ends of one table, redcoats near the door, browncoats by the fire. A group of Civil War soldiers took up the corner of another table, eagerly drinking away. Some well-to-do farmers sat eating their porridge next to a pair of nuns who were gingerly sipping wine. And standing by the bar, singing loudly, were three men in old-fashioned tuxedo tails and top hats—Bridget later learned they were corrupt politicians from the turn of the last century who’d died one snowy New Year’s Eve when the horse-drawn sleigh they were riding slid into the lake.
Behind the bar, a woman in a wool dress and apron rushed about, filling cups and passing plates of food from the back kitchen out to her serving maids. She brightened when she spied Finn standing in the doorway.
“Finn Lee!” she cried, and the singing politicians stopped long enough to shout hello. “How is your dear grandfather?”
“He’s getting better, thank you,” he said, stepping up to the bar. He turned to the nuns, who smiled up at him. “And thank you, Sisters, for your help with his leg. He told me that you saved him, sure as I’m standing here.” The nuns blushed and waved him off. Bridget had to admit, the boy knew how to work a room. Finn turned back to the woman behind the bar. “Catherine, do you have room for my friends and me?”
“Of course!” Catherine exclaimed, pointing to three chairs in the corner. “Sally will be by to see what you’ll be having. That is if Megan or Molly don’t beat her to it.” She winked. Finn looked away, as if embarrassed, and led Bridget and Soka (but mostly Soka, Bridget noticed) over to the table. Hans popped his head out of Bridget’s pocket.
“What do they have? Pie?”
“Stay out of sight,” Bridget told him. “We’re not supposed to be memorable.”
“Really?” Hans said. “I noticed that Finn just slips into a room like a ninja, doesn’t he?”
“You know what I mean,” Bridget said.
“Well, I can’t sit in your pocket all night, I’ll suffocate,” Hans said. “I’m going outside for a moment to breathe some fresh air while I can. I’ll be back.” He dropped down to the floor and raced toward the door. He just narrowly missed being stepped on by one of the serving maids, who gave a stamp as the battle roach passed by. She stepped up to their table.
“Did you see that?” she asked. “Little vermin get bolder every year.” She turned to Finn. “Hello, Finn. It’s so nice to see you around these parts again.” Finn smiled slightly and nodded. Another serving girl stopped by.
“I bet he’s happier to see me, right, Finn?” she said. The third serving girl popped by as well.
“I think we all know who he likes best, right, Finn?” She winked as Finn turned red. Catherine bellowed over from the bar.
“Leave him be, girls! There will be time enough for courtin’ when the place is closed for the night!”
The girls frowned, batting their eyes at Finn. Soka turned to the handsome guide, her eyes narrowing.
“You know all these girls?” she asked evenly. Finn blanched.
“Not really. I mean, I do!” he hastily added as the girls shrieked with indignation. “But it’s not . . . I’m not . . . I told you we shouldn’t have come.” He sank back in his chair, defeated. Bridget smirked; no wonder he’d wanted to keep Soka away from this place. He’d dated everyone in here. He was a man-tramp.
“How’s your grandfather?” the first girl asked as the others moved away now that they realized there’d be no courting tonight.
“He’s getting better, Sally, thanks,” Finn replied, not looking her in the eye.
“Did he ever find out what happened to his Indian friend?”
“You mean Penhawitz?” Soka asked, her interest caught.
“I guess. The two of them stopped here on their way out to the Great Hill, and a day later, your granddad showed up alone with his leg a complete mess. I guess he parted with his Indian friend on the road after they survived the squirrel attack. I’d wondered what ever happened to the Munsee fellow. He seemed nice.”
“Penhawitz didn’t stop in here, then?” Soka asked. “I was hoping to find news of him.”
“Sorry, miss,” Sally said. “I haven’t seen him.” She gave Soka a second, sharper look, her eyes going from the Munsee girl to Finn and back. “And try to remember your place in line, honey. Last.” She walked away as the other girls gave Soka mean looks from the bar.
“Well, I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep!” Finn declared, desperately trying to change the topic. “I’ll be happy knowing that that Askook guy isn’t right behind us.”
“Why?” Bridget asked innocently. “Did you two used to date?” Soka erupted into laughter and Bridget joined her while Finn looked on, red-faced.
“There’s nothing wrong with knowing a few lasses,” he said.
“It is true, you are a comely man,” Soka replied. “I don’t fault you. If I looked as fine as you, I’d probably be unable to walk into a tavern without being accosted by an ex-dalliance, either. Or three.”
Finn pursed his lips, looking away as his face turned red. Bridget suddenly felt a whole lot better about Rory’s chances.
She sat back in her chair, listening in on some of the conversations around her. One was quickly becoming quite heated. Two groups of soldiers, from different eras, to judge by their uniforms, began to argue by the fire.
“At least we saw combat!” one solder said.
“That was a retreat,” another soldier across the fireplace replied. “Washington was on the run. It’s not called ‘seeing combat’ if you run away.”
“You never even fired a single shot,” the first soldier said. “You built all the pretty forts and cannons and then the British never even showed up!”
“Hey, we were ready!” the second soldier said. “It was the War of 1812, right? It’s not our fault we were so good that we finished it up in twelve months. It took you Revolution boys years!”
“And still we almost beat you!” a British soldier called out, and his mates cheered, clinking glasses.
“‘Almost’ only counts in horseshoes and cannonballs!” the Revolutionary soldier shot back. “Cannonballs these boys never got around to firing!”
“I’ll show you cannonballs!” the other American solder cried, reaching for a musket.
“That’s enough!” Catherine shouted, stomping between the two groups. “Ned, you know the rules. I think you need to take your friends home for the night.”
“He started it,” the one called Ned said, but Catherine would have none of it. She watched over the soldiers from the War of 1812 as they gathered their muskets and staggered sheepishly outside.
The evening passed quickly, with Finn trying not to talk to the serving girls and Bridget thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. When it came time to hit the sack, Finn seemed relieved to be leaving the common room. The few rooms of the tavern were filled, so Catherine agreed to let them sleep in the stable. They headed outside, and Bridget spied Hans lying beneath a bush beside the front door, his helmet under his head, fast asleep. She nudged him awake to tell him where they were sleeping, but he only murmured and turned over. She decided to let him rest and followed the others into the stable.
A few horses still stamped in their stalls. A ladder led up to the loft, and Finn seemed to know exactly where to go, which caused Soka t
o raise an eyebrow; he shrugged sheepishly before climbing up. Soka and Bridget followed, and Bridget waved good night to Tucket, who curled up at the base of the ladder, as they all turned in for the night.
22
THE SQUALL
The wind had picked up greatly around the Adventure Galley , sending the sails flapping. Shouts rose from the sailors as they scurried around, securing the lashings. Kidd emerged from below and shot them a grim smile.
“Squall,” he said. “You should get below—”
He hadn’t even finished his sentence when a violent gust of wind slammed into the ship, sending them reeling. Rory was flung from his feet, landing heavily on the deck. Alexa had somehow kept her footing, but she flailed about for something to hold on to. Rain began to fall through the darkening mist—first a drizzle, then quickly a downpour. Within moments, Rory was soaked to the bone.
Alexa stumbled to the railing, which she clung to tightly. Rory crawled over to her side, thrusting an arm around the rail to hold on.
“Are you okay?” she shouted. Alexa had to yell to be heard over the wind.
“I’m fine,” he answered, wiping water from his face. The sailors raced to and fro, battening down anything loose. Kidd ordered his men to bring down the sails so the wind wouldn’t capsize them. The ship began to rock violently as the waves swelled larger and larger, and the rain beat down harder. Rory had visions of it breaking into pieces before sinking to the bottom of the sea.
“Let’s get belowdecks,” Alexa yelled in his ear, pointing to the open hatch. Rory wasn’t so sure he wanted to be down in the bowels of the ship as it was tossed about like a toy, but he started to crawl toward the door. A huge wave broke over them, drenching them. Rory spat out salt water.
“Where did this come from?” he screamed back at Alexa.
“My father used to tell me these squalls could kick up out of nowhere,” she yelled back, barely audible over the roaring wind. “Come on!”
“Where’s Fritz?” he yelled back. “Did you see him come down?” She shook her head, fear coming over her face. They both peered at the crow’s nest far above, almost invisible through the sheets of rain. Another wave crashed over the side of the ship and Rory reached out for the rail to keep from being swept overboard.
