Chapter 5

Nieuw Amsterdam

29 Jun  SEAGULL INN

In another day of travel, the Prins van Oranje came to some rocky cliffs on the arrow-arm side of the river. Immense, brown‐reddish rocks rose up straight up from the water. Looking at the large cracks in the rocks, I struggled with a vague memory. I remembered my brother telling of “Rocks‐Like‐Trees” that he passed on the way to “Water‐With‐No‐End.” This place had to be what he described. He told my sisters and me about …

[Editor: Clearly, some pages of the memoirs are missing here. The previous page appears partially singed. Gladys Eddy]

With directions from the ship-skipper I found my way to the Herberg de Zeemeeuw, named for the screeching seagulls that hovered around the port. I was received graciously by the tavernkeepers. The Hoevenberg house resembled the buildings of Fort Oranje, but was bigger, containing a giant fireplace, several long tables with wooden benches and chairs. In this room, the “groggery,” men gathered at night to drink strong ale. The space behind the fireplace was used for cooking. The Hoevenbergs slept in a room beyond that.

I remember my platform bed with pleasure. I no longer had to sleep on the floor, as I did in the Van Stroomer house. The warmth from the fireplace below made cold nights tolerable, whilst a small window made warm nights more refreshing. Oh ja, there was always a place in the loft where a few saylors slept off an excess of ale or rum drinking, two saylors to a bed. Happily, they slept on the other side of the loft where they never bothered me except for occasions of thunderous snoring.

30 Jun  DUTIES OF A HOUSEMAID

A housemaid expected to be provided with a place to sleep and something to eat in return for her services. And so it was here. When the rooms were all cleaned up and the blankets aired and folded, Mevrouw Hoevenberg had me help in the ale‐making shed. There was always a huge bubbling batch of malt to keep stirred or milk to be churned into butter. My duties included making certain that everyone who stayed overnight in the loft paid for his half of the bed.

Evenings, when the groggery was most active, I served ale, mostly to seaman dressed in rags. Traders wearing fine garments came too, but not as many. Men came from places far away and spoke languages unknown by me. When a ship first arrived, the inn became filled with smoke, noise, and the stench of unwashed bodies. A wilder, noisier lot of men one could barely imagine.

There was always an air of celebration when ships arriving from the islands of the tropics brought their cargo. The brewers needed the molasses to make rum, and bakers tooke the grain for breadmaking. Mevrouw Hoevenberg sold the fresh fruit at a handsome price to grateful neighbors, always keeping an orange or pineapple for our table.

Mijnheer Hoevenberg had learned of my way with numbers from Master Hendriks. Before long he asked me to look over account books of the groggery and the ale‐making shed. It meant working out the daily needs for the groggery: malt, yeast, sugar and how many blankets, candles, and sundries were sold. Here was my new life as a tavern keeper and even earning two guilders a month!

1 Jul  GROGGERY

Neerely every night great commotions broke out in the tavern by ale‐drinking saylors from newly arriving ships. Quarrels led to fisticuffs and too oft, a bleeding nose, a broken tooth or hand. Mostly, the men of ships were kind to me, though they did enjoy teasing. The tavernkeeper said good things about my calming effect on the men. Whatever I did or said to them seemed to help quiet them down, at least for a tyme.

Mevrouw Hoevenberg saw to it that I was fed well. She offered me meats and fish of many sorts and diverse fruits and vegetables, always urging me to eat more. She knew what would make my spirit soar: maple syrup on black bread that she had just taken from the oven. It was a treat savored after the most wearisome of days.

A pretty pond lies neere the tavern. Many years ago it was a source of good water but over tyme, rotting animal parts and waste of all sorts made it dirty. Everyone, including me, had to depend on weak beer. There was no other choice. At first, I admit, giddiness came over me on first tasting it. It was the only tyme in my life that I felt the nip of that demon, alcohol. After some weeks of drinking the ale, it no longer had the power to befuddle my reason. So, I know, safe fresh water is the best, but if none, weak ale drunk only in sips can be a temporary substitute.

2 Jul  WINDMILL

My duties increased whenever a ship was readied for departure to Holland. There were busy days, indeed, as we prepared accounts for ordering needed items and paying for ones received. Pewter plates, glass goblets, nails, oil, dried meat, paper, salt, and candles were much in need to operate the tavern. Mijnheer Hoevenberg thought himself blessed if these supplies arrived within four months. Meanwhile, more English ships carrying mostly blankets and linens were arriving.

After work in the noisy tavern I was glad simply to walk. It was a good time to look around at the people who were still about. Usually I would see the white faces of brickmakers or tradesmen, but often I would pass black errand runners or even people whose skin color matched mine. Sometimes late into the night I would hear the distant bark of a dog or the grunt of a pig underfoot. Once I heard a different noise. It was a faint rattling and whirling sound which, of course, aroused my curiosity in the extreme, drawing me closer and closer to the source. Thump, thump, it went with nary a stop. At last, I came upon the racket-making monster. I had to laugh. I had seen a similar one in Fort Oranje. ’Twas a windemolen or what I learned much later, the English called a windmill.

Many days passed before I could visit the windmill in daytime for a better look. ’Twas a sight most extraordinary. Its sayles of cloth spread over gigantic, crossed arms that spun madly in a strong breeze. The noise was overpowering! Through a small doorway, I saw the miller standing atop a stairway. I waved to him, but he was too busy to greet me. He dumped a basket of grain into a great trough and, far downe below finely ground flour poured out into a collecting trough. And all accomplished by taming the wind in the way that a horse was tamed to pull a cart! So clever are these Dutch people!

Over tyme, the late-night steady thumping of the windmill came to be the heartbeat of my new Dutch home. Neither happy in Nieuw Amsterdam nor sad, I slowly felt it was my heartbeat as well, grinding out my days in the groggery.

3 Jul  ALONG THE “STRAND”

The nights when I would walk along the strand, or beach, were tymes of magical beauty. It felt good to be far removed from clatter and commotion. The moonlight cast its glitter across the boundless, watery space. There were always ships at anchor. Once, I counted eleven.

Oft, I would look beyond the town, at the far side where I could see the steep cliffs of Rocks‐Like-Trees. I cherished such tymes, following Grandmother Moon slowly drifting behind the far cliffs, turning them into a wide band of wondrous darkness.

These walks were also tymes of insufferable loneliness. Despite the many people around, a good companion remained my strongest need. My sisters and Katrina came to mind more and more. At tymes I found myself talking to the grunting pigs that rooted about.

4 Jul  LANGUAGES

Always there was something lively happening at the inn. Even the constant teasing by the saylors about my Wilde appearance was tolerable. I came to accept their rude comments about my scarred face. They assoon found out, however, that laying one hand on me resulted in a sharp kick in the shin or a cuff over the side of the head. More than one saylor went to bed with a throbbing leg or a strong ringing in an ear as price for his boorish manner. Mijnheer Hoevenberg supported me in these actions. It was in his interest that no one annoyed me to excess.

From these coarse people, I learned much about the world. They talked—although “ranted” may be a better way to say—of voyages to lands and oceans far away, of whales and pirates, of storms and of terrible punishments for a wayward saylor. I quickly learned useful words in the many tongues spoken. In tyme, I was able to quiet the raucous Portuguese who drank too much rum. I could separate a Norwegian from an Irishman locked in fisticuffs, speaking to each in a few words of his own language. I knew that behind all the squabbles were powerful feelings festering inside a man who had endured many months of brutal life on a ship – and likely, gruesome sea battles with pirates.

5 Jul  AN UNUSUAL GUEST

The past days have been dreadful from heat. Much appreciated was the woven mat that Jacob brought me for the entryway. It keeps out the bothersome insects yet allows air to pass through. But this day is cooler. I feel as if the burden of breath‐stifling heat has been lifted. Easier it is now to write about my life in Nieuw Amsterdam.

Amidst the everyday activities at the tavern, a man came who would change my life forever. At first, he appeared as just another guest, though differing from most by his fine clothing and appearance: a small well‐trimmed beard, a broad‐brimmed hat, a long black coat, and a white‐laced collar that reached halfway up his cheeks. He spoke little and then in halting Dutch. Each evening for more than a week he sat in a corner chair, rapt in page after page of a thick book that covered most of his tabletop. There was barely enough room for a small oil lamp. By its flickering light, he devoted full attention to his pages, ignoring the uproar surrounding him. He sipped at one small pitcher of ale, and never more, for the entire evening.

6 Jul  MASTER JONES

One after‐noone, the patron with the high‐laced ruff returned to the tavern, this tyme without his papers. He came to speak to me, speaking hesitantly in Dutch. Calling me by name, he inquired about Fort Oranje: how many people were there? what did they do? how oft do ships arrive? Mostly, though, he wanted to know about the gathering of furs. I told him what I knew. My people, the Mohawks, now supply pelts to Fort Oranje from far inland along the River‐Between‐the-Mountains. This man from the land of England said that he wished to trade at Fort Oranje, …to exchange blankets and woolen clothing for furs. Somehow, I knew that the Dutch would not kindly receive an English ship seeking pelts.

The stranger told me that his name was Aubrey Jones. He surprised me by saying that he had noticed how quickly I had learned to speak the words of the many lands. Also noticed was my cleverness with numbers. Why, I wondered, was he giving praise to a pox-marked Wilde girl?

He went on to say that he believed a tavern was not a good place for me to be. His words were close to what I can write now: “Here,” said he, “uncultured ruffians come to turn their coins into rum. I know a family of means in England that might use a quick‐witted helper. The Lord of an estate neere the city of London is a good buyer of things I send to England. There,” he added, “you can learn how people who are well‐bred live, how they speak, and, most of all, how to better yourself.” Of course, I had little idea of what he meant but shrugged agreeably.

Master Jones let me know that he would leave New Amsterdam in the morning to return to England. With my permission, he would arrange a position. He promised to send instructions on a returning ship. We exchanged some words. “God be with you,” said he. Returned I, “Behouden vaart” (Have a safe journey). I saw him rocking from side to side as he walked away, the way a ship rides at anchor in a storme, as if one leg were much shorter than the other. About our conversation I thought thereafter little more.

7 Jul  LETTER OF INSTRUCTIONS

Three or four months after the encounter with Master Jones, a letter found me. Printed boldly on the envelope was my name, Sky Flower; underneath it was the name Herberg de Zeemeeuw. The letter came from a newly arrived ship, The Black Swan, from England. I stared dumbfounded at its beautifully scrolled writing in English. An officer from the ship read it to me.

The letter was from the long‐forgotten Aubrey Jones. In it, he instructed me to board The Black Swan when the ship left New Amsterdam to return to the city of London. There, I was to go to a certain bathhouse called the “Sea Lion.” At the wharf I was to ask about its location. Once there, I was to present this letter to a woman named Emily. “All arrangements have been made,” the letter went on. I would find a good home with a family by the name of Walsingham living in the town of Littleton neere the River Thames.

Master Jones further advised that I should try to learn as much English as I could before my arrival. He ended by writing that this opportunity would serve me well, signing it “Your respectful benefactor, A. Jones.” And so, there was little hesitancy on my part. The tavern owner neither supported nor discouraged me from leaving his employ. His wife, I believe, was sad about my decision. She gave me a long hug, saying repeatedly, “Succes. Goede reis!”

8 Jul  READY

Within a fortnight, The Black Swan had unloaded its barrels and bales and had been refilled to the brim with an assortment of goods. Carrying my worldly possessions stuffed into a small bag sewn from canvas, I soon found myself crowded into the tweendeck with eleven other persons.

9 Jul  “THE BLACK SWAN”

The ship’s anchor lifted at high noon on the fourth day of July in the year 1629. With the sayles filled by a westerly breeze, the ship drifted slowly from the wharf. Now with New Netherland slowly vanishing behind me, I turned to look ahead. A refreshing, almost chilly wind whipped through my hair and a splash of water tickled my face. I felt more than ready to see the English world.

Thrilling was my first sight of the vast ocean. Complete was my escape from the gossip in Tahawus and the chaos of the groggery. With spirit soaring, I knew a world of adventure awaited me on the far side of the ocean. Yet, little was I forewarned of the rigors of an ocean journey, and little could I imagine what my fate would be like.

10 Jul  IN THE BILGE

The journey to England, lasting four and ten weeks, was most unpleasant. I was one of twelve passengers required to live in an evil smelling hole, the bilge, where galley refuse spilled on top of dead rats and human waste. It seemed that I was back in the Prins van Oranje. The pitching and rolling action of the ship was so much that it caused us all to retch for days on end. The misery is more charitable to imagine than to describe.

My fellow travelers were— to the last one—miserable, some returning to England in ill health: a broken leg here, a limp arm there, and two struggling for every breath. Five others, all thin and sad, were no longer willing to endure the deprivations of life in the colonies and were returning to their homeland.

Most wretched of all were the two prisoners. They were at the bow end of the bilge in almost complete darkness. One wrist of each prisoner was chained to a lower beam so that standing was impossible. They were barely able to move a spoon to their mouths. One of them, a trader of middle age, was accused by the Dutch of selling muskets and gunpowder to “River Wilden.” The other prisoner was a much younger man, an English seaman turned planter. Not a word came from his sad face during the first days of our journey. Some whispered that he was found to be overly fond of another man. According to Dutch laws both prisoners were accused of serious offenses.

If any horror could be made worse, all the little windows alongside the ship were shuttered closed with heavy planks. A few wax‐burning lanterns hanging from above eased the oppressive darkness, but only a bit.

11 Jul  WEATHER DECK

A dreadful experience, to be sure, was living in the bilge for such a long tyme. In faireness, I must write that the shipmaster allowed the people in the tweendeck onto the weather deck--but only on calm days, two at a tyme, and then only between bells. On ships, that meant every four hours. How wonderful then to feel the sea air blowing against my face! It was also the tyme to bathe, accomplished by casting a pail into the ocean and bringing it back up with a rope. A bath was just a cold, salty dunk.

12 Jul  ENGLISH LESSONS

For learning English, the journey proved favorable. My fellow travelers, save one, were too immersed in their own dour thoughts to help with my requests. Yet, I learned something of their language from overhearing their continuous gossip and never‐ending complaints.

I dedicated myself through pity to taking water or weak beer to the prisoners. The younger one, whose name was Bertrand, started to talk to me but always in a mournful way. He even agreed to teach me English. He later admitted that the effort became a welcome distraction. Always, he spoke with a slow, soft voice that rose up from a sad heart.

For much of each day, Bertrand went over English words, much as Katrina did with Dutch words. I found the lessons easier this tyme since many words in English sounded like words in Dutch. By arrival day in London City I was able to carry on a simple conversation. The double meaning of some word‐sounds in English did confuse me. To this point, we “see” the “sea.” Or, “Here,” you can “hear” the lapping of the waves. The Mohawk tongue is not two-ways in any such a fashion.

13 Jul  THE YOUNGER SON

Although Bertrand was “well-born,” coming from a family with abundant means, he received little affection from his parents. His father was quick to punish him, and his mother was slow to show him love. Whereas his older brother expected to gain the entire estate on the death of his father, he, the younger son, would be left penniless and without land. None of this custom did I understand. Bertrand rather liked to spend his days reading books mostly about faraway places and dreaming of long journeys. His choice of a life at sea was that of a madman, his parents raged. One day, the boy of ten and nine years left home without a word.

14 Jul  STORM

No rain has fallen on this mountainside in two months. Yes, the streame neere my longhouse is about to dry up. I worry very much.

Would that The Black Swan be lucky enough to cross without a storme, but it was not. For three days everyone in the tweendeck was tossed from one side of the hull to the other as the ship pitched downe and rose againe on giant waves. Passengers wept and screamed, expecting death at any moment. Waves crashing onto the deck flowed downe, whilst wastewater under our feet splashed up. No one fared without being sick in stomach and bruised.

A day or two after the storme, word spread that The Black Swan was approaching the coast of England. Excitement spread quickly below deck. Many sets of eyes, long empty of expression, now showed a spark of life.

Not all eyes sparkled. My chain‐bound teacher confided that he would assoon appear before a court in London. Bertrand told me in a whisper that—were it not for his shackles—he would gladly plunge into the sea, preferring to end his life under water than at the end of a rope. I understood not why the elders of the English nation would take away the life of this sensitive and clear‐thinking person. Is any crime so terrible? The thought, too gloomy to dwell on.

15 Jul  REST

I will rest today and think. I grieve for Bertrand. London will wait until tomorrow.