For almost six months, we lived in our unreal world of learning and luxury. Our meals were prepared by Grandfather’s aging Negro cook, Shirley, and her husband, Peter. In the evenings we were entertained by musicians and singers Grandfather invited to perform the latest scores from London. He was particularly fond of George Frideric Handel, who was King George’s court musician. Clara found the music thrilling. She could not hear enough of it. I listened to it, but my mind traveled up the Hudson to Albany and imagined agonizing deaths for my parents’ murderers.
On other nights Grandfather entertained us with the story of his life. It was full of narrow escapes from death in the northern forests and on the sea. Listening to him, I concluded that the hidden power who ruled the world had decreed long ago who would die and who would live to grow old.
Almost as astonishing were the bitter disappointments Grandfather had known in his long life. “There was another Catalyntie, for whom you’re named, Pettikin,” he told me. “She was my first wife. We were married less than a year when I took her with me on a voyage to Holland. In the English Channel we were struck by a great storm. A wave rolled over the entire ship, flinging her on her beam ends. My darling wife was swept from our cabin into the sea.”
His voice grew so choked, his breathing so labored, we were alarmed. “I found another good woman to love. But nothing can replace the love that awakens the heart. Hold fast to that love if you can, dear girls. Though life often seems determined to fling difficulties in your path.”
Dark thoughts, deep thoughts. But we were too young to value them. As we mastered the customs and language of New York, we grew more and more impatient to join the world that was swirling past our windows each day. On a sunny Sunday afternoon in October, while Grandfather was taking a nap, we each put on one of our expensive gowns and strolled down Broad Street arm in arm, as we had often walked along the shore of Lake Ontario.
On the green lawn known as the Bowling Green, beside the looming walls of Fort George at the tip of Manhattan Island, we gazed in astonishment at the swarms of people promenading in brightly colored silks and satins, the men flourishing canes, the women parasols. Was everyone in New York as rich as Cornelius Van Vorst?
Suddenly a sharp voice cried, “This won’t do!”
It was my aunt, Gertrude Van Vorst. She was dressed in the highest style, a silk kerchief over her lace-edged cap, a taffeta cloak with wide ruching at the waist, elbow sleeves with deep cuffs—and an enormous hoop. With her was her glowering husband, Johannes, and the man everyone had called “Judge” at the peace council. He flourished a gold-headed cane and gazed at us as if we were poisonous snakes.
“This won’t be tolerated in New York,” Aunt Gertrude shrilled, pointing to Clara. “That Negar should walk ten steps behind you, her head meekly bowed, as befits a servant! You must never allow so much as a finger to touch her in public. Where did she get this dress? It must have cost twenty or thirty pounds! Do you want us all to have our throats cut some dark night? I shall speak to your grandfather about this, straightaway!”
“Aunt,” I said in somewhat halting English. “I’m sure Grandfather will tell you what I tell you now. It’s none of your business.”
“It’s the business of every white person in New York, as you will soon discover,” Uncle Johannes said. “Don’t you agree, Judge Horsmanden?”
“I certainly do,” said Horsmanden. “In my opinion, the Common Council should pass a law to be enforced under a penalty of thirty lashes for each offense, forbidding such displays. Nothing but firm unwavering authority can control these people.”
He glared at Clara as he said this. A dozen other women—and several men—were staring at us with the same angry disapproval on their faces. Flustered, I withdrew my arm from Clara’s—and saw for the first time—but not, alas, for the last—pain and reproach gather in my Seneca sister’s brown eyes.
The Van Vorsts and Judge Horsmanden proceeded on their way. In the crowd of hostile spectators I saw a familiar face: the blond giant who had rescued Clara from Bold Antelope. Malcolm Stapleton—I had made a point of learning his full name—sauntered over to us, accompanied by his hunchbacked friend, Adam Duycinck.
“Is what my aunt and uncle tell me true?” I asked. “I can’t treat Clara as my friend in public?”
“It might be better to walk a few paces apart,” Malcolm said. “But side by side is all right. I don’t make Duycinck here walk behind me. Though he’s so ugly I probably should.”
“If I did, it would be only to plant my foot up your backside,” Duycinck said.
I liked the little hunchback; he talked like an Indian. “What’s wrong with me putting my arm around Clara?” I asked.
“People want to keep the Africans in their places,” Malcolm said. “They’re worried about an insurrection. I think it’s all stuff.”
“Why do you bring them here if you fear them so?” I asked.
Malcolm shrugged. “A lot of people say it’s a mistake. But the mechanics and the farmers need the labor. White men don’t come to New York much since our trade dropped away these past five years.”
He fell in step beside us. Duycinck walked a few paces behind us, bawling, “Is this far enough, Master?”
“Is he a slave?” I asked.
“He’s an indentured servant. That means he’s signed a contract to work for my parents for a certain number of years in order to pay off the cost of his passage across the Atlantic.”
“Why was he unable to pay for it?”
“He was a convict. The British accused his mother of being a witch. They burned her at the stake and deported him. Now he wants revenge on every Englishman under the sun.”
“That’s not true,” Duycinck howled. “I’m perfectly willing to let all the Englishmen on the islands of Bermuda, Jamaica, and Barbados die in their own good time—of sunstroke. It’s the rest I want to kill.”
I hesitated, confused. “Aren’t you English?”
“He’s American,” Duycinck bawled. “Though the booby can barely admit it. He’d rather kiss English asses until they pretend he’s one of them.”
American. It was the first time I had heard the word. It made perfect sense. This continent was called North America. Why not call the people born on it Americans? It was silly to call them English. England was three thousand miles away.
Malcolm did not seem to like being called American. He raised a fist which could demolish the hunchback with a blow. Duycinck danced away, pretending to cringe.
“Miss Van Vorst!”
Strolling toward us in a brilliant blue coat, green silk waistcoat, and snowy white breeches was Rob-ert of the foxy face. “How lovely you look,” he said. He gave me a sweeping bow and kissed my hand. I had learned his full name too: Robert Foster Nicolls.
I felt my face grow hot. The man was attractive. By now I had learned that his father was the royal governor of the province. Mr. Nicolls knew how to compliment a woman. Malcolm Stapleton seemed to have none of his graces. He did not even talk in the same liquid voice.
“I’ve been wondering what happened to you and your pretty little Negar,” Nicolls said, smiling at Clara. “How quaint of you to dress her in such high style.”
“Clara is my friend,” I said. “We don’t regard her as a slave. My grandfather intends to free her as soon as possible.”
“A noble sentiment,” Nicolls said. “Worthy of a lover of liberty. May I call on you, now that you have mastered our language so well?”
“Of course,” I said, immensely flattered.
In the middle distance, I glimpsed Malcolm Stapleton gazing on us with a glum expression on his face. Did he wish that he was charming me in Nicolls’s suave style?
Back at Grandfather’s house, we found a fuming Cornelius Van Vorst saying good-bye to Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Johannes and their friend Judge Horsmanden. “The notions these people are acquiring. Aping British attitudes,” he roared, as soon as the door closed. “We Dutch have never treated our A
fricans as lower beings. We eat with them at our tables. We consider them part of our families.”
As his anger mounted, the dark red color flooded into Grandfather’s cheeks again. His breath came in short heavy gasps. He collapsed into a wide-bottomed armchair and pulled on his grey side-whiskers. “But I fear you’d better follow your aunt’s advice,” he said to me. “Twenty years ago, in the year 1712, the blacks attempted to revolt and seize the town. They killed twenty-eight white men. One of them was your Aunt Gertrude’s father. Ever since, many people live in fear of another insurrection. You must accept the fact that you and Clara are of different races and act accordingly in public.”
“What a hateful idea!” I said.
“To get safely through the world, you must often wear a false face,” Grandfather said.
“False faces are evil!” Clara said. “Only shamans, people with special powers, can wear them and keep their hearts pure.”
“You must try to discover that power in your own heart,” Grandfather said.
“How do you keep your heart pure?” I asked.
“By loving people,” he said. “Love cleanses the heart of the world’s filth and shame and sorrow.”
“I met a man today who loves me,” I said. “I sensed it from the moment he first looked at me.”
“Who is he?” my grandfather said, alarm in his voice.
“Mr. Nicolls, the royal governor’s son.”
“My dear, that fellow—”
A choking sound erupted from Grandfather’s throat. The purple color crowded into his cheeks until they were almost black. With a groan he toppled from his chair, striking his head on the claw foot of a nearby couch.
“The doctor,” he whispered. “Dr. Hopper.”
I sent our butler Peter rushing into the street to find Dr. Hopper. His wife Shirley, Clara, and I tried to lift Grandfather onto the couch but he was much too heavy. We put a pillow under his bleeding head and Shirley gave him some brandy. The liquor seemed to revive him briefly, but he soon sank into a dazed torpor.
A tall, dry-lipped man with a withered neck, Dr. Hopper was almost as old as Grandfather. He ordered Clara to summon the coachman and with the help of two husky Africans recruited from the street, they carried the old man upstairs to his bed. He vomited up black blood, which Dr. Hopper said was a very bad sign.
“We must bleed him immediately,” he said.
Opening a vein in Grandfather’s arm, the doctor extracted an astonishing amount of thick dark blood. Clara and I watched, wondering what good this sort of treatment could possibly do. The Seneca’s false faces, the chants and spells to banish the Evil Brother, seemed a better way to challenge death.
Nevertheless, the bleeding revived the old man. He recovered from his daze and reached out for my hand. “Stay with me, Pettikin,” he murmured.
I sat on the bed holding his big rough hand throughout the night. Clara made him as comfortable as possible, bathing his forehead with cold water, giving him brandy mixed with eau-de-vie, at Dr. Hopper’s suggestion.
Grandfather’s mind wandered. At times he talked to the other Catalyntie. “Oh Pet, Pet,” he whispered. “If I could have you in my arms again I’d live like the poorest sailor on Dock Street. Are you waiting for me on the far shore? That’s my only prayer.”
He returned to the present and smiled at me. “Pettikin,” he murmured. “You’ve come back to me. Doesn’t that prove God is good? Don’t blame Him for the terror and grief of this world. He’s doing the best he can with His mercy. He gives us just enough to trust in His goodness. None of us deserve more.”
“You deserve all the mercy in this world and beyond it!” I cried.
“Yes,” Clara said. “You have nothing to fear. The room is full of good spirits. I can feel them pressing around us, their arms open to you, saying come, come.”
The reassurance seemed to give the old man strength. He spoke to me in a calm clear voice. “My will leaves you everything I own. It’s not a great deal of money. When I retired from business, I gave most of my wealth to Johannes and his family. I thought you were dead. Much will depend on the price they can get for this house and my Long Island estate. I’ve urged Johannes to add to it the value of the Mohawk lands, which are rightfully yours, as well as a share of the New Netherlands Trading Company. Whatever you get, be careful with it. Go into business in a small way at first. Open a store. Never risk everything on a single investment. If you need to borrow money, go to Nathan Franks. Don’t worry about him being a Jew. He’s an honest man.”
Tears trickled down his cheeks. “I had hoped I could stand behind you and protect you for a while. But you must make your own way. It will be difficult at first but don’t lose heart. Remember who you are—a Van Vorst. We triumph over our mistakes. Always look to the future, foresee it—and you’ll grow rich.”
He closed his eyes and struggled for breath. “That’s not the whole of life. I hope you’ll find a husband who loves you and gives you healthy children. A loving family is the only real source of happiness in this world. But sign nothing that limits control of your money. Remember you’re Dutch, which means you value liberty above all things.”
Love. The dying old man was flooding the room, the house, the whole city with his love. “Always believe, no matter where I go or what I become, if I can reach out and protect you, I’ll do it,” he said. “Now I must begin my voyage. Hold my hand until I cast off.”
Tears streaming, I pressed his hand to my lips, then clutched it to my breasts. Grandfather closed his eyes and his breathing grew slower and slower. Then came a last shuddering sigh and his big head fell to one side on the pillow. Clara reached over and closed his eyes.
“Let us sing a death song for him,” Clara said. “To make sure his spirit is not assailed by the Evil Brother.”
We began wailing the chants we had heard since girlhood in our longhouses on the shore of Lake Ontario. The songs were full of magic phrases that had protected the souls of warriors for hundreds of years. Again and again we repeated them, our young hearts swelling with a near frenzy of love and sorrow.
“What the devil is this? Stop that infernal racket!”
Johannes Van Vorst stood in the doorway of the bedroom. With him was his frowning wife and a tall solemn man in black, who looked equally angry about our Indian behavior.
“Can’t we pray for his spirit?” I said.
“That’s precisely what we’ve come to do—with the Reverend Van Dam,” Gertrude Van Vorst said. “Christian prayers, not heathen howling from the bowels of Great Satan.”
“Kneel down,” Johannes Van Vorst said. Clara and I obeyed him, though we found the idea of kneeling to pray absurd. How could the Manitou respect someone who crawled to him like a dog?
Crowding into the room behind them came the Van Vorsts’ daughters and a half dozen strangers, all men around my uncle’s age. They knelt and the Reverend Van Dam called on God to forgive Cornelius Van Vorst for his sins as he approached the seat of divine judgment.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “What sins has this man committed?”
“Be quiet! No one has the slightest interest in your opinion,” Uncle Johannes said.
The Reverend Van Dam departed after another ten minutes of morose pleas for mercy on the soul of Cornelius Van Vorst. Uncle Johannes rose to his feet and began doing business. “Under the terms of my father’s will, this house and his Long Island property are left in trust to my niece,” he said. “As the executor of the estate, I’m prepared to take bids on them at my office tomorrow morning. Be good enough to let your friends know about it. I wish to convert the estate into cash as soon as possible.”
The men murmured their assent and followed the Reverend Van Dam into the night. “Why must you sell the house?” I asked. “Clara and I would prefer to live here. I plan to open a store on Pearl Street with whatever money Grandfather left me.”
“Under the laws of the province of New York, eighteen-year-old girls cannot inherit la
nd or money,” Johannes said. “Much less open stores. The best thing to do is convert everything into cash and invest it in the New Netherlands Trading Company. That way your money will grow and when you reach the age of twenty-one you’ll inherit twice as much as you have now.”
“I’d rather loan it out at interest,” I said.
“It’s a good thing you have a wise uncle,” Gertrude Van Vorst said. “Otherwise you’d be penniless within a year. Pack your things. You’re moving to our house in the morning and don’t argue about it.”
“What about Clara?” I said. Clara was standing to one side, fear of these people all too visible on her face.
“She’ll have plenty to do—in our laundry room,” Aunt Gertrude said.
“Is this what my grandfather intended in his will?” I asked Uncle Johannes.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s all being done in strict accordance with the law.”
“Is that what is known as a clever lie?” I said.
Gertrude Van Vorst slapped me in the face with the flat of her hand. “You will learn to control your Indian mouth, young woman. You will learn a great many things in my house. Now get upstairs and pack.”
I rubbed my burning cheek. “Come, Clara,” I said, “We’ll pack our things together.”
Johannes shoved Clara back against the wall. “There’s nothing she needs to pack. We’ll sell her finery at auction tomorrow, with the house.”
I heard Grandfather saying the way might be hard for me. Already it was harder than he had foreseen. How much harder would it be for Clara? “You’re still my sister,” I said. “You’ll always be my sister, no matter what they do.”
“How can you say such a thing!” Gertrude Van Vorst cried. “I’m beginning to think you’re possessed by the devil.”
BOOK
TWO
ONE
SO BEGAN OUR SOJOURN IN THE Van Vorst household. Clara was consigned to the servant quarters in the basement. Her bedroom was windowless, airless, more like a cave or a prison cell. I was given a comfortable room upstairs. We saw each other daily but it was dangerous for us to speak. Clara was threatened with a whipping if she said a word to me. I was told I would be locked in my room without food for the rest of the day. I slipped her a note, urging her to have patience. I would do my best to extricate us from this nightmare.
Remember the Morning Page 6
