Balty woke to the sound of his cell door opening. He’d only just dozed off. It was early, judging from the faint light coming through the barred window. The blaze of pain in his ankle had dwindled to a small fire. Luckily, no bones protruded from the skin.
Deputy Koontz entered. He looked unslept.
“How is your angle?”
“Bit throbby. Thank you for asking.”
“The Heneral has been informed.”
“I should bloody well hope so.”
“Can you walk?”
“No.”
“I will arrange for a chair to carry you.”
“A sedan chair? I’ve always wanted to have a ride in one of those. My mother—never mind. I must say, you’re being very civilized, considering what a night we’ve all had.”
Koontz sat on the stool by Balty’s pallet bed. He looked haggard.
“The Heneral must go up the river. To Fort Oranje.”
“Oh? What’s in Fort Oranje?”
“There is another trwabble with the Mohawks. Always they are making slaughters.”
“Doesn’t sound at all pleasant. I don’t envy the General, having to cope with all that.”
“Let us speak about last night. Your accomplice, Mr. Uncks—”
“Associate, if you please.”
“He speaks very well Dutch. And what variety, his accenting of English.”
“Yes. He’s quite versatile, Huncks. You rather have to be, in his line of business.” Balty quickly added, “Manhunting, that is.”
Koontz grinned slyly. “Do you know what was his mistake? What made alerted my men? When he made me to say that I would buy them drinks. Never would my men beleef that I would buy them drinks.”
“Alas for me you’re not nicer to your men. It wasn’t very sporting of you, pulling the trigger on Huncks. You’re lucky he wasn’t more severe with you. He doesn’t take kindly to people trying to kill him.”
Koontz took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
Balty groaned. “Not another drawing. Who’s this by? Rembrandt?”
“No, no. It’s a . . . declaring.”
“What?”
“A stating of . . . schuldgevoelens . . . confessioning . . .”
“Is ‘confession’ the word you’re groping for?”
“Yes. Thank you. Concerning about the true reason for you coming to New Amsterdam.”
“Koontz, really, you’re being a bore. We’ll discuss all that with the General.”
“Mr. Balthasar. I am tired. You are tired. And you are injured. And the Heneral is going up the river. So please.”
“I’ll discuss it with your General.”
Koontz sighed. He stood and put the confession on the table.
“You must sign. When the Heneral returns, then will come the meeting with him.” He turned to leave.
“I say, Koontz?”
“Yes?”
“Since you’ve introduced the subject of confession, tell me: You and Jones, are you doing business together? That the General doesn’t know about?”
“What a question, Mr. Balthasar.”
“You Dutch do have the reputation of being rather eager when it comes to commerce.”
“I will ask for the surgeon to come. To see about your angle.”
“Too kind.”
* * *
Huncks sat wrapped in a blanket by the stove in the Breuckelen farmhouse serving as headquarters for Dr. Pell and his Westchester Trained Band of four hundred men. His swim across the East River had left him shaking from exhaustion.
Captain Underhill was present. The Cincinnatus of Long Island had finally been unable to resist the drumbeat of Mars. Mrs. Underhill had done everything in her power to bar his way: lecturing him on his obligations as a Quaker, hiding his boots, even physically barring the door. After a dialogue that would have exhausted Socrates, Underhill wore her down, swearing that he had no intention, himself, of bearing arms, or of playing any “direct role”—as he put it—in the coming engagement. His sole intention, he averred, was to be present in Breuckelen—to observe. To offer such advice as he might in order to mitigate the spillage of blood. And bring about peace as quickly as possible. What was Quakerism, if not that?
Mrs. Underhill finally capitulated to her husband’s dissembling and trundled off to her bed, muttering darkly about the all-observing eye of God. The Cincinnatus of Long Island was out the door in a shot, making for the barn—by the long way, to avoid being seen from their bedroom window. He dug out his old war chest from its hiding place and got his pistols, helmet, sword, and cuirass. Thus equipped, he mounted his horse and made his way once more onto the beach.
The old warrior’s departure was observed by another member of the household, who threw a shawl over her shoulders and quietly slipped out of the house and followed.
In Breuckelen, Underhill found himself all these years later face-to-face with his ancient nemesis, Dr. Pell. Theirs was a shaky truce. But as the atmosphere in the farmhouse grew more martial by the hour, old animosities fell away.
Winthrop was on his way from Hartford. Underhill had received a communication from him. He said they would find the Governor in “no good humor.”
After landing at Boston, Colonel Nicholls dispatched word to New England’s governors, informing them of his majesty’s intention to wrest New Netherland from the Dutch. His majesty’s further intention was a dagger between Winthrop’s shoulder blades.
In 1661, Winthrop returned from London with a royal charter giving him authority over the New Haven colony. His majesty had confided in him his future intention to seize New Netherland. Moreover, the king promised Winthrop rule of the former Dutch possessions, including all land south of the Massachusetts border, extending west all the way to—the Pacific!
For three years, Winthrop had smacked his lips in anticipation of becoming lord of such a vast tract of land. All the way to the Pacific—wherever that might be.
Now came word from Nicholls that his majesty would grant this immensity of territory not to Winthrop, but to the king’s own brother, the Duke of York.
Perfide Albion! Winthrop was left to curse and mutter. How unhappy those who entrust their faith to the promises of kings! Viewed less moralistically, it was a case of the fox being outfoxed. At any rate, there it was.
Winthrop’s fury was justified. But holding a grudge against one’s king is usually bootless and always risky. Fortunately, Winthrop’s cunning was stronger than his pride. He swallowed the latter and deployed the former, sending his compliments to Nicholls and offering his services to him and his majesty in the forthcoming action in New Amsterdam. Smart move.
All this Winthrop relayed to Underhill in his letter, which Underhill now relayed to the assembled parties in Breuckelen. Underhill strongly suggested that under the circumstances, when Winthrop arrived, japery on the theme of the empty promises of princes would be “inappropriate.”
* * *
Huncks had done his job. He had only one concern now—Balty. From the moment he staggered into the Breuckelen farmhouse, drenched, shivering, half dead, he agitated with Pell and Underhill to secure Balty’s release.
Pell and Underhill were adamant that nothing must be done that would give away the game. Any attempt to get Balty released, even a request framed diplomatically, might make Stuyvesant suspicious and put New Amsterdam back on a war footing. That could only result in greater casualties when hostilities commenced. Huncks must understand. Anyway, they told him, why would Stuyvesant hang an Englishman, a Crown agent, knowing that a squadron of English warships was approaching? If he was truly convinced Balty was a spy, he’d hold him as a surety.
“Surety?” Huncks said. “Speak plain. Hostage.”
“What would you have us do, Huncks? Start the war now? Patience, man.”
“So your position,” Huncks shot back, “is Stuyvesant won’t hang him now. He’ll wait until Nicholls arrives and then hang him.”
Pell and Underhill looked at each other. Huncks served under Winthrop. He’ll listen to him.
“Hiram. Winthrop will be here any moment. Hold fast. Let’s hear what he has to say. There’s a good fellow.”