For a small town, New Amsterdam had an alarming number of taverns, although many were closed with the threat of invasion. The few whose doors swung open were mostly empty. It seemed the inhabitants were preferring to gather with family and friends at home, occasionally sending one of their number into the streets for the latest news. On every corner, small groups of people were talking hurriedly – men, women, Africans, Europeans. Most spoke Dutch, but Mercia recognised Spanish too, and there were a host of other languages she did not know, unsurprising in a trading hub such as this.
She was beginning to despair of finding anyone with whom they could have a meaningful conversation, her phrase book not being up to much more than asking where the inn was, or whether she should turn right or left, when outside a large warehouse they came across a pair of traders arguing in English over a pile of crates labelled Beverwijck. After some curt pleasantries she asked whether they knew Pietersen.
‘Course we do,’ one said, a thickset middle-aged man. ‘You want to do serious business here, you have to deal with Pietersen at some point.’ He glanced towards the harbour. ‘At least you used to.’
Her breathing quickened. ‘I need to speak with him. Is he in town?’
‘No idea. But he’s probably nearby, with all this going on.’
‘I see.’ She sucked at her lip, thinking. ‘Then … do you know James North, by any chance? He was a carpenter here.’
‘English, was he?’ He shook his head. ‘I never met him. But try Marta’s tavern down Bridge Street. Davids should be there today.’ He winked. ‘He knows everyone.’
‘What did I say?’ said Mercia. ‘The tavern.’
‘Why did you ask about North?’ said Nathan, as they were walking in the direction they had been shown.
‘Why not? If he lived here, then people will know him, and they may know about his past. Such as, what happened to certain paintings.’
He nodded. ‘Just – be careful. Presumably nobody here knows he is dead.’
‘No, but—’
‘Wait!’ A shout rang out behind them, making them halt. They turned to see a man running up, jerking back with his thumb.
‘Those two,’ he said. ‘They told me you were looking for Pietersen.’
His accent revealed him for English, although it was hard to discern his features. His head was enveloped in a large grey hood, darkening his face.
Nathan frowned. ‘Who is asking?’
‘I know where to find him, is all. If you want, I can take you.’
‘That would be welcome. But why the hood? ’Tis very warm to cover your face.’
The man leant in. ‘I don’t want to be seen,’ he murmured. ‘Some of the Dutch are starting to take a dislike to anyone English with the fleet out in the bay. You might want to conclude your business and leave town yourself.’
Nathan glanced at Mercia. She considered a moment, sharing his suspicion. The man was wearing English clothing, for one thing, rather than the more local fashions they had observed. But he may just have brought them from back home, and they needed to find Pietersen.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We will go with you.’
The man shifted on his feet. ‘As I said, I don’t want to be seen. Perhaps you could compensate me for the trouble.’
She sighed. ‘I am sorry. I have no local coin.’
‘Not even a bit of wampum?’
She disguised her ignorance of what that was with a simple no.
The man tutted. ‘Never mind. I’ll take you anyway.’
They set off, soon halting outside a white door in a nearby street. A dusty sign painted with some sort of crest rattled above. Satisfied nobody was watching, the man knocked and beckoned them enter.
Inside it was dark and hot with a strong smell of hops. The gloom made it hard to make anything out, but a well-established fire was burning further in. The sound of bubbling liquid penetrated the darkness. As Mercia blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust, the door slammed shut, a bolt hastily drawn. She heard a heavy object being scraped across the floor, and then the smashing of pottery. Beside her, Nathan crashed down with a surprised cry.
She whirled around. Now able to see, she could tell they were in a brewhouse, beer bubbling in a large copper pot above the fire, a mash tub full of soaking malt alongside. But she was more interested in their supposed guide, who was standing over Nathan with his hood drawn back. He fished inside his pockets before turning to face her. He was a young man, dark-blonde hair flowing down to his eyes. The dagger in his right hand looked sharp.
‘Who are you?’ she stalled, almost certain she already knew.
‘It does not matter.’ His voice was confident now, all but mocking.
‘Then let me guess. You work for whoever is pursuing me. Don’t you – Jerrard?’
‘Maybe.’ The man smiled, his youthful cockiness spreading over his smug face. ‘You will never know.’ He brandished the dagger, taunting her with it, turning it deftly in his hand. His arrogance gave her the second she needed to dash behind the mash tub. She dared a quick glance at Nathan’s prone body. Shards of a pot were scattered around him, but his chest was rising and falling rhythmically. The young man slid around the tub, forcing her towards a corner. His hand was steady on the dagger.
‘You cannot do this,’ she said. ‘Colonel Nicolls knows I am in the town. Tell me who ordered you to attack us, and I will forget you were here.’
He scoffed. ‘I will never betray my master, not like that bastard Wildmoor did. If he hadn’t gone soft, you would’ve been scared away by now and this would not be needed. Believe me, my master does not want you dead. But he cannot allow you to find the paintings.’
She edged against the wall behind her. ‘So they are here.’
‘If you say so.’ He took a deliberate step forward, grinning with provocative relish. ‘You won’t soon care, lying dead in the brewmaster’s outhouse ’til I can throw you in the river.’
‘Wait.’ Amidst his threats, his voice seemed somehow familiar. Of a sudden she realised from where. ‘It was you who attacked me in London.’ She looked at his ungloved hands. ‘But … your fingers?’
‘Four and a thumb?’ he jeered. ‘’Tis easy to pretend you are one finger short.’ With his dagger-free hand, he lowered his index finger and made a squeezing gesture. ‘You were meant to think I was North. If only you had given up then.’
He moved closer. Fearful, she looked around. On a table beside her lay a hooked pole, some sort of beer-making instrument. With no other option she grabbed it and thrust out. The pole was much longer than his dagger, and she managed to twist the hooked point into his clothing, penetrating to his skin. With a sharp jerk she wrenched the pole right. He cried out as the hook ground into his belly, making him drop his knife.
While he doubled over she tried to dart past, but his wound was not severe. He recovered to grab at the folds of her dress, stopping her short in front of the copper pot. The heavy vessel was wavering on its chain, suspended off a point above the fire. Praying she would be agile enough she pushed forward on the pot as hard as she was able, and with an outraged howl dragged herself from Jerrard’s grasp before it began its backwards swing. The pot disturbed the air as it flew past her arm, colliding with Jerrard’s shocked face. Some of the boiling water splashed out, and he fell to the ground, screaming.
She rushed to Nathan, rubbing his cheeks in an attempt to rouse him. His eyes were flickering to life when she was hauled back by the shoulders, her assailant once more on the attack. This time he threw her against the mash tub and she fell to the floor with a cry. But the force of the copper pot had dazed him, and when he bent for his knife he stumbled, staggering into the side of the tub.
Out of the corner of her eye Mercia saw Nathan sit up, confused, but the sight of her in trouble must have given him strength, for he rose to his feet, lurching towards the tub as Jerrard scooped up his dagger. Nathan drew back his fist, punching Jerrard’s face hard, while on the floor Mercia lashed out at his legs. He swung at her with the knife, but Nathan struck his wrist, sending the blade flying into the fire, and for a moment the two men were locked together, hands around each other’s necks.
Jerrard’s fingers clenched as he squeezed tight, but Nathan thrust up with his elbows, flinging his arms aside. Unrelenting, Jerrard returned to the attack. A fierce anger in his eyes, Nathan pushed down on his opponent with a powerful strength, forcing his head into the mash tub. Jerrard flapped his arms, making weak, muffled groans, but in his rage Nathan persisted, suffocating him in the viscous malt until his trembling abruptly ceased.
‘Stop!’ shouted Mercia. ‘You will kill him!’ She grabbed at Nathan’s shoulder. ‘Nathan, stop! We need him to tell us who he works for!’
Nathan looked at her, a horrified expression on his face. He pulled the limp man from the tub and dropped him to the floor. Mercia bent down to revive him, but it was already too late. His breathing had stopped. Jerrard was dead.
Nathan collapsed against the barrel, clutching his neck. ‘Mercia, are you hurt?’
‘No, but – are you?’ She looked at their assailant in shock.
‘I will be fine.’ He gasped, taking in deep breaths. ‘I should have pulled him out sooner, I know I should, but I could not let him harm you. By God’s truth, Mercia, he wanted to kill us.’
She stood for a moment, calming herself. ‘Whoever is behind this has moved on from trying to frighten. He knows now we are here we will not give up.’ She glanced again at the dead man, feeling sick. ‘He must have found this place empty and gambled the brewmaster would not soon return.’ She paused. ‘Unless …’
He looked up. ‘Unless what?’
‘Unless he chose this place beforehand. He spoke of an outhouse where he was going to … put us. He must already have known about it.’
‘You think he arranged it, with the brewmaster?’ Nathan sidled over to the body, checking Jerrard’s chest. ‘Definitely dead.’ He swallowed, wincing in discomfort. ‘What should we do with him? We cannot carry him into the street.’
‘We will have to do to him what he planned to do with us. Hide him in the outhouse and presume nobody will look. If the brewmaster is involved he will hardly alert the guard that there is a dead Englishman in his yard. And if he is not, well …’ She sighed. ‘When all is over we can tell Nicolls what happened. If we explain now, he will say there is too much danger and order me to stop.’ She picked up a nearby cloth and bent down.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Cleaning him.’ She rubbed the cloth over Jerrard’s face, tidying his smooth features of traces of malt. ‘He was so young. So confident in himself.’ She clenched the cloth hard. ‘Come. The outhouse must be round the back. And once that is done, let us find this Davids and hope he can help us.’
Bridge Street, where they had been told to look for Davids, turned out to be the same street they had first walked down on coming ashore. That was just two hours ago, but it seemed like two days had passed. Mercia’s mood was grim as she pushed open the door to Marta’s tavern. She walked straight to the serving hatch and asked for Davids. But the woman behind spoke no English, and simply shook her head.
Unlike the taverns they had scoured earlier, Marta’s was relatively bustling, if still only half-full. A large group was clustered around a table on the right, poring over a clutch of documents. Many were enjoying that quintessential American commodity, the tobacco weed; most were drinking ale, reminding her of the brewhouse, but she put the awful image from her mind.
As they approached, the buzz of the group’s animated conversation ceased. Mercia put on a smile, but she received black looks in return.
‘Wie bent U?’ asked a balding man, setting down his tankard.
‘Who are you,’ she whispered to Nathan. ‘I do not need the phrase book to translate that.’
‘Ik herken U of deze man niet. Wat doet U hier?’
‘And that?’ said Nathan.
‘Hmm.’ She held up her hands in a supplicatory gesture, addressing the seated group. ‘I apologise. I do not speak Dutch. I am English, from a village on Long Island. We have come on the ferry from Breuckelen.’
The man who had spoken folded his arms. ‘I’ve spent time on Long Island,’ he said, switching to English. ‘Which village are you from?’
Mercia probed her memory, but under the stares of the townsfolk the only village she could remember offhand was Boswijck, and that was Dutch. She ignored the question.
‘I am looking for a man named Davids,’ she said. ‘I was told I could find him here.’ When nobody spoke she dared a different tack. ‘It seems he might know an old acquaintance of mine. A carpenter named James North.’
An older man in the midst of the group jerked his head up sharply at the mention of North. Next to him a red-headed woman rose, brushing down her grimy apron.
‘We know no James North,’ she said. ‘Nor do we know you. But we do know there is a strange fleet at our door.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t be come to spy on us now?’
Her companion stood. He was of an age with Winthrop, his thinning hair grey above a proud face. ‘I know who she means, Marta. She means Jamie Thorn.’
Mercia stood very still, making sure she did not react. Jamie Thorn was the exact pseudonym for North the customs clerk had spotted in London.
‘But Jamie’s not been seen for months,’ said Marta. ‘Greet’s starting to think he’s found another woman.’ She turned to Mercia. ‘Your friend, is he? Special friend, no doubt.’ The group laughed, sharing some private joke.
Nathan’s gaze did not stray from the grey-haired man. ‘And you are?’ he asked, more blunt than usual. ‘Your words have a Kentish note.’
‘Keenly observed, sir. But the question is rather, who are you?’ The man’s eyes roved Nathan up and down. ‘English, certainly. About thirty, thirty-five years old. A soldier’s past judging by your demeanour. Too young to have fought in the war, unless perhaps at Worcester?’
‘My elder brother was at Worcester. When he died I joined the army in his place. You fought in the war yourself?’
He nodded. ‘Who did you serve under?’
‘William Packer.’
‘Packer, by God.’ He looked slyly at Nathan. ‘You will recall that incident, then, at the Christmas feast?’
As he was talking, Mercia studied his face. There was something familiar about it, although she was sure she had never met him before. That said, until today she had not known she had ever met Winthrop.
‘There was never any feast,’ said Nathan. ‘Packer wished Christmas abolished.’
‘Of course.’ The man smiled, deepening the creases surrounding his eyes. He turned to Marta. ‘I think these two are trustworthy – to a point. But I will talk with them some more.’
‘As you want.’
Marta resumed her seat, and the group their discussion. The proud-faced man led Mercia and Nathan to an empty table by the door. A sunbeam fell through the narrow window above, illuminating the dust in the air.
‘So,’ he said, once they had sat. ‘I am Davids, as you may have guessed. I call Long Island my home for now, but you two, I think you do not, whatever you say. You will forgive my suspicion, but as Marta pointed out there is an English fleet in the harbour. Charles Towne, is that what this place will be called?’ He leant in. ‘If you are part of this, I will feed you to the dogs.’ He looked at Mercia. ‘But you are not a soldier. Why are you here?’
He spoke forcefully, but there was a frisson of worry behind his words. Mercia decided to adopt a strident tone herself.
‘I have nothing to do with any designs the King might have on this town. But tell me more of yourself. You clearly have a past back home.’
‘We all have a past, my dear.’
‘Does yours involve James North? Your hearing pricked when I spoke his name.’
Davids stroked his chin. ‘Nobody has called him North for years, at least not in these parts.’ He ran his eyes down her face. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘North has some … information I want. I had hoped to meet him to discuss it, or maybe talk with an acquaintance he had confided in.’ She smiled at Davids, but he remained unmoved. ‘But you are right. I am not from Long Island. I have travelled down from New England, where he used to live.’ It was a guess, but a likely one if North had sailed to Boston as the customs clerk had supposed. ‘I did not want to alarm people who may be his friends into thinking I was pursuing him out of malice.’
‘I see.’ Davids sounded anything but convinced. He rested his elbows on the table, never shifting his gaze. ‘And I wonder.’ He peered at her still closer, staring at every inch of her face; she was about to turn away when he sat back, his lips creasing into a sudden smile. ‘And you have nothing to do with the ships that have coincidentally arrived this week? Or with a clandestine entry into the town from an English longboat?’
Her eyes flicked to Nathan and back again. ‘What boat?’
Davids laughed. ‘In any case, North is not here any more. As I think you may well know, my English rose.’
It was obvious he had an advantage over her, but she could not think what. Uncertain how to react, she pressed on. ‘If you will not speak of North, then you should be able to tell me about Joost Pietersen. He is important here, I understand. I need to know where he is.’
‘Pietersen?’ Davids frowned. ‘Why ever would you … but very well. I should say he is with the rest of the council, waiting for Stuyvesant to return from his meeting with Winthrop.’
‘Where is this council?’ asked Nathan.
Davids turned to him. ‘You have not said much since we sat, my friend. What is your role in this little game?’ He smiled. ‘But no matter. They will be in the Stadt Huys, the town hall to you and I, the tall building facing the water on the other side of the bridge.’ He tilted his head. ‘Perhaps you saw it when you circled the town? It is very close to the pier.’
Mercia pushed back her chair and stood. The conversation was making her uncomfortable. ‘Thank you. We will go there at once.’
‘Please do.’ Davids gestured towards the door. ‘I will see you again, no doubt.’
As she exited the tavern, Mercia looked back. Davids had his hands clasped together, his fingertips balancing his chin. His eyes were almost aflame with curiosity as he watched them retreat.