by Scott Mebus
“You’re surprisingly active for such a sick girl, Bridget,” Peter Hennessy said, smiling wryly.
“Dad . . . ? ” Bridget couldn’t have described the avalanche of emotions crashing over her if she tried. Instead, she began to babble in a whisper. “I’m sorry I didn’t say hello back at the shell pit. You look a lot like Rory. I’m not really sick, I’m just stuck in this paper body. I’m really good at hopscotch. Are you here to help us? My favorite ice cream is all of them mashed together. Do you have a sword? I just made myself a new one. It’s called Buttkicker 2. I like sports, do you like sports? Are you going to leave again?”
“Bridget, please, slow down,” her father said. The look on his face made her want to cry. “I’m just happy to see you.”
“Me too,” she said, hopping in place. “I knew you’d come back, someday. I knew it!”
“Yes, well.” Her father looked away. “Thank you for believing in me.”
“Why did you grab me like that?”
“Because your friend Alexa is about to have an unpleasant confrontation, and I don’t want you to get caught up in it.”
“But we’ve got to save her!”
“Bridget?” Her brother’s voice whispered from outside the corn. “Are you in there?”
Her father stepped out of the corn and quickly pulled in Rory and Soka. “Keep quiet!”
“Dad?” Rory looked thunderstruck. “What are you doing here?”
“Alexa’s in trouble!” Bridget announced. “And we’ve got to save her.” Pulling out her sword from under her belt, she began marching through the corn toward the house. Her father ran up alongside her.
“No! Those are dangerous men. We need to get away while we can.”
“That’s not what heroes do, Dad,” Bridget informed him. “You should know that by now.” They reached the far edge of the corn and peered out. Alexa was stepping out of her house just as a group of riders came galloping down the drive.
“Hey!” Alexa exclaimed. “I told you to get off my property !”
“What were you doing in there, Alexa?” the head rider asked her, pulling up his stallion in front of the house. “You went in and out awful fast.”
“None of your business, DeLancey,” Alexa retorted, though she was backing up to the door. The one she called DeLancey urged his horse closer as his men fanned out beside him
“I think that it is,” he said. “Mine and Mr. Kieft’s.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Bridget whispered.
“It’s too dangerous,” both Rory and her father said at the same time. Rory gave their dad a look that bordered on horror. Ignoring them, Bridget stepped out of the cornfield.
“Hey, bozos!” she yelled, and the horsemen all turned. She waved her sword in the air. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size!”
The minute DeLancey’s head was turned, Alexa ran forward and swung her arm around, knocking the rider clear off his horse. In a flash, she leaped atop the horse and flicked the reins, riding for the center of the horsemen. She pulled the musket from the saddle and fired it in the air, causing the other horses to rear back and sending their riders tumbling to the ground. She grabbed a suddenly riderless horse’s reins, guiding it toward the field where Bridget and her friends were waiting.
As Alexa reached the corn, the horsemen finally regained their feet and reached for their muskets. White smoke erupted as musketballs whistled around them, sending chunks of cornstalk flying into the air. Bridget was thrown back as one hit her in the shoulder, sending her stumbling into the stalks.
“Are you all right?” her father shouted, catching her.
“No problem!” she yelled back. “Just a paper cut!”
“What is he doing here?” Alexa demanded, spotting Mr. Hennessy. “Never mind. I’ve got the first package. It’s what I was hoping for. Soka, can you ride a horse?” The Munsee girl nodded and Alexa tossed her the reins of the other horse. “We’ve got to get out of here, and fast, before they reload and mount up.”
She pulled Bridget up behind her as Soka helped Rory up onto the other horse. The sound of galloping hooves grew louder as Mr. Hennessy stood helpless on the ground. Bridget reached down and grabbed his hand.
“I won’t leave you behind, Dad!” she yelled. “You can ride with us.” Alexa looked like she wanted to argue, but there was no time as Bridget helped pull her dad onto the horse. They barely had time to urge their horse into motion before their pursuers were upon them.
“Where are we going?” Bridget yelled as they struggled to outrace their pursuers.
“The river!” Alexa called back over her shoulder. “There’s a small marina down there where we can borrow a boat.”
Alexa raced the horse back through the alley and down the side streets of the Bronx, trying to go as fast as they could without tossing someone from the saddle. DeLancey’s Cowboys were gaining, and soon musket fire was erupting behind them. Musketballs whizzed by as Alexa and Soka weaved their horses back and forth around the parked cars along the sidewalk. Finally, they turned a corner and galloped into the parking lot of a small marina. A few sailboats sat bobbing at a dock next to a brick boathouse.
They rode right up onto the dock next to the boathouse, where Alexa slipped down off her horse with a grunt. The rest of them followed suit as she handed her gun to Rory.
“Hide behind the boathouse and shoot at anyone who comes into the parking lot.”
Mr. Hennessy took the gun away from Rory. “I’ll do it. I don’t want my son to get shot.”
“Fine,” Alexa said, giving him a hard look, as if warning him to watch his step. “Then, Rory: you, Soka, and Bridget can help me with this boat!”
Alexa pointed to the nearest sailboat, a small vessel with a single sail. Alexa dropped into the seating area, untying the ropes and hoisting the sail, as Soka, Rory, and Bridget worked on freeing the lines from the dock. A shout alerted them to their pursuers, who, led by a bloodied and angry DeLancey, were galloping into the parking lot with guns held high. Mr. Hennessy immediately opened fire on them, causing them to scatter.
“You’re not going anywhere!” DeLancey called out, his handsome face twisted into a bloody sneer. “You’re surrounded!”
Alexa climbed back out of the boat. “Do any of you know how to sail?” Mr. Hennessy piped up from his spot by the boathouse. “I do.”
Alexa hesitated, then ran over to Mr. Hennessy. “Take the boat and sail them to the north shore of Queens, just south of Rikers Island. I’ll make sure that Simon Astor will meet them there.” She grabbed the gun from him and quickly reloaded it.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Bridget asked as her father quickly hopped into the boat and sat down by the tiller.
“I don’t have the blood to enter Queens,” Alexa called back. “So I’m going to draw away as many of them as I can. Rory!” She tossed a package to Rory, who fumbled as he caught it from inside the boat. “I found that behind the Beloved. It’s from my father’s lost journals. I knew they existed somewhere! But it’s not complete—it stops midstory. I think you’re trying to find the rest of the pages. When we meet up again, you’ll have to tell me what the rest of them say. Now go!”
She ran over to one of the horses, pulling herself up as the Cowboys began to fire on her. Miraculously unhit, she galloped away, firing at the horsemen as she made her break out of the marina and down a side street.
Bridget watched her go as Rory threw the last line into the little boat and pushed it off the dock. She noticed some of the horsemen riding after Alexa, but DeLancey seemed to sense that the more important prize was escaping in the boat.
“Forget Van der Donck and stop that boat!” he cried, leading his men toward the dock.
“Get down!” Mr. Hennessy cried, ducking himself as he guided the boat out of the marina. The Cowboys lifted their guns and fired, their bullets cutting into the sail and digging into the side of the boat. But soon their target was out of range as the small boat floated away,
leaving behind the smoke of battle as they sailed on down the river.
6
INTO HELL GATE
Nicholas sat on the grass, staring out at the park he’d never seen before. It was beautiful—and he hoped it would stay that way. He was in the wilderness known as the Ramble, in the center of Central Park not far from the Munsee village. He sighed. He wasn’t feeling hopeful, not after the meeting he’d just witnessed.
Tackapausha had refused to speak to Alexander Hamilton—he still hadn’t forgiven his former friend for his betrayal. So the Mayor sent Peter Stuyvesant to negotiate an alliance against Kieft. Nicholas loved his father, but negotiating was not his strong suit. The minute he had sat down with the Munsees, the old man started stepping on toes. He insulted the food, he disparaged their courage, he made it sound like they needed protection. If it wasn’t for Abigail reassuring Tackapausha that Stuyvesant was only ignorant, not malicious, any hope for a Munsee-god alliance would have ended there. Peter Stuyvesant seemed to think that he was doing the Munsees a favor by offering his help. He didn’t seem to understand that Kieft would never stop with the Munsees. They were just the first domino to fall. The black-eyed god was picking up speed now, and who knew how far he’d go.
“Quite a meeting.” Buckongahelas stepped out of the trees. Nicholas didn’t know Tackapausha’s son very well, but what he’d seen he liked.
“Yeah, well, my dad knows as much about diplomacy as he does about dancing. Which is to say, the old man is not graceful.”
Buckongahelas smiled. “My father is not much better. I think the two of them will be growling at each other for the next few days. But we don’t have days. Would you mind walking with me?”
Nicholas pushed himself to his feet and fell in beside the lithe Munsee. They made their way through the trees, and Nicholas marveled at how easily the sachem’s son moved through the foliage. The branches kept whacking Nicholas in the face, but Buckongahelas just flowed past them untouched.
“I wish you could teach me that trick,” Nicholas muttered as another branch smacked him in the cheek. “I’m getting banged up back here.”
“It comes from belonging,” Buckongahelas replied with a slight smile. “I feel the way you do now when I walk through your city streets. That was why I took to the ocean. I didn’t feel as battered there. Here we are!”
They stepped out of the trees into a small clearing. To Nicholas’s surprise, the space was filled with Munsee Indians, both young and old. Buckongahelas’s wife, Abigail, stood at the back, and by her side, to Nicholas’s further surprise, were Wampage and Sooleawa. Nicholas glanced at Buckongahelas in confusion.
“What is this?” he asked.
“My people are worried,” Buckongahelas told him. “Soon Tackapausha will come to us with a plan of action, but it is not our way to blindly follow our leaders. We want to know why we should ally ourselves with those who so recently wished for our destruction.”
“Should I go get my father?” Nicholas asked, turning. Buckongahelas grabbed his arm.
“No,” he said. “There is too much bad history there for my people to listen to his words. We don’t trust your people. But you worked to bring down the Trap and Wampage says you are a good man. You are no god, so you have nothing to gain by our extinction. So tell us . . . why should we risk any alliance with your people?”
Nicholas looked out at the crowd. It wasn’t his place to speak to them. He was no god. But someone had to step up. “You cannot afford not to,” he said, turning to the crowd. “And neither can we.” He began to explain about Kieft and his army and what needed to be done to stop him. As Nicholas spoke, he heard murmurs of agreement run through the crowd. At one point he thought he saw Sooleawa smile, though Wampage stared at him as inscrutably as ever. He hoped the Munsees would listen, because he needed them. They needed one another. That was the only way they would survive.
Rory, Soka, and Bridget sat silently watching Mr. Hennessy guide the boat down the Harlem River. Rory didn’t know what to say to his dad, who had suddenly shown up out of nowhere. He thought the dark mood in the air was due to the chill between him and his father, but then Soka spoke up.
“I don’t know what is going wrong,” she said miserably. “I tried to cast a spell back there . . . it was supposed to create a black cloud that would blind those riders and help us escape. I have seen my mother do it a thousand times. But it would not work for me at all . . .” She looked miserable.
“It’s okay,” Bridget said, reaching behind her to pull a small musketball from her back. “We made it, right? You’ve saved me plenty of times!” She began to hiccup. “You . . . hic . . . you just need to . . . hic . . . believe in yourself!” She gave onelast hiccup, which turned into a dry heave, and then quickly leaned forward. A few small musketballs flew out of her mouth and landed on the floor of the boat with a clatter. She made a face. “Well . . . that’s gross.”
Rory couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Why did you come back, Dad?”
His father sighed, lightly steering the boat to the center of the river. “I owe you. You’re in a lot of danger and I don’t want you to get hurt. I couldn’t stop you from seeing the Fortune Teller, but maybe I can protect you from whatever you’re trying to do now.”
“You don’t know the half of it!” Bridget exclaimed. “Rory saw the Fortune Teller and guess what she told us—”
“Bridget!” Rory cut her off. “I’m sorry, Dad, but some trust has to be earned.”
“Rory, don’t be mean,” Bridget told him, shocked, but their dad only nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “I won’t pry.”
“We’re trying to find Willem Kieft’s treasure so we can save Mom and the whole city!” Bridget yelled. Rory gave her a furious look, but she only shrugged. “I don’t want to lie to my father! He’s helping us and he deserves to know.”
Mr. Hennessy looked away, toward the shore, and Rory thought he saw the sunlight glisten off a tear on his cheek. Rory sighed. “Alexa said this was a piece of Adriaen’s lost journal. So let’s see what it says.” He pulled out the package Alexa had given him and opened it up. On the cover he read the word one.
“I wonder what that means,” Bridget asked.
“Alexa said something about this being incomplete, so maybe it’s the first section,” Rory guessed. He turned the page and began to read aloud.
I stare out my window on the second floor of my farmhouse, watching Kieft disappear into the corn. I cannot trust him, I know this. He was evil in life and remains evil in afterlife. But I cannot deny the truth of what he says. We are fading, we newcomers, even as the Munsees remain strong. The land is rejecting us, dwindling us, and our mortals are suffering for it. The Munsees belong here, and have always belonged, but we . . . it pains me to say it, but Kieft is right. We must find a way for the land to accept us or we will be but memories of ghosts, soon to be forgotten.
I was surprised to hear Marta urge me to listen to Kieft. She hates him as much as anyone. But my wife is shaken by how weak we are becoming, even the old ones like Verrazano. Peter Minuit has disappeared, and we fear he is gone forever. Anyone could be next. We float along atop Mannahatta like a ship on a current. We need an anchor to hold us fast. Kieft believes he has found that anchor. His suggestions do not sound like him—he speaks of rules we must all follow. No god can go where he or she was not remembered to be. No god can kill another god, even by proxy. Any god abandoning the responsibilities that the mortals have given him will be stripped of his power. As rules go, these are not too onerous. Restricting where a god can go binds that god closer to the place where he dwells. Preventing gods from killing one another shows respect for the mortals who created us. They are rules meant to show the land that we honor it. But Kieft never cared for rules, at least not ones he must follow. I worry there is some loophole he will slip through. But his ideas . . . they are sound. If I can but trust the mind that offered them up.
Marta waits downstairs to argue for the plan
. She approves of these new rules and sees no other option. Perhaps she is right. But something in the back of my mind is screaming “Do not trust him!” What shall I do? Time runs short and I grow weak. What will become of us? We must decide quickly before we all drift away into nothing . . .
Rory finished reading and looked around in confusion. “What is this?”
“I don’t believe it . . . ” Mr. Hennessy began, looking shaken.
“What?” Rory asked, leaning in. “Do you know what this is?”
Mr. Hennessy hesitated. “It sounds like the story behind the Agreement.”
“What agreement?” Soka asked, her face dark. “An agreement to oppress my people?”
“Not really, though that was sort of how it turned out. It was more of a pact between the land and the newcomers, to help the land to accept them.”
“Accept them?” Soka sounded incredulous. “But they were invaders!”
“Everyone is an invader,” Mr. Hennessy replied, his voice weary. “The Munsees didn’t spring to life on Mannahatta. They traveled here from far off, finally settling here a thousand years ago. We’re all newcomers in some respect. But to stay, everyone has to play by the house rules. Even the Munsees made their own agreement, centuries upon centuries ago. It was that pact that they called upon to survive when their own people were driven away. And when the newcomers arrived, they had to negotiate their own contract.”
“So those rules, like the blood and the fact that no god can kill another god, those aren’t natural laws?” Rory asked. “They were negotiated?”
“Sacrifice,” Mr. Hennessy said. “Everyone has to sacrifice something. No one is immune, not even the gods. Of course, the Agreement is a big secret among the gods, now. None but the oldest who were there even know of its existence, and they have pushed the memory out of their heads. It is much more comfortable to think of these rules as natural laws, rather than a burden that is accepted for being allowed to exist. I doubt if you asked even Peter Stuyvesant that he would admit to it.”
