The atmosphere at the Breuckelen farmhouse had changed, martial camaraderie giving way to the quiet that precedes engagement. Braggadocio and tankards of ale were put aside. It was time now for inspecting weapons and writing farewell letters.
Winthrop had arrived.
As Underhill had warned, the Governor of Connecticut was in no good humor but his self-control was admirable. Not a word of denunciation of his majesty or the Duke of York for reneging on their promise. He’d drunk his bitter cup in silence and put himself at the disposal of the Crown.
Winthrop and Stuyvesant had a long history. When it came to the negotiation, Winthrop would be the one to conduct it. If it succeeded, Winthrop would be at the table to catch the crumbs, if not all the land to the Pacific.
Underhill was in a foul frame. No strutting and backslapping and declaiming the dawn of a new St. Crispin’s Day. No once more-ing onto the beach. The Cincinnatus of Long Island was reduced to muttering at his wife for sending a Quaker chaperone—a girl, a girl in a damned apron!—to see that he abided by his pledge of nonviolence.
Thankful followed him everywhere. She wouldn’t leave his side. Sweetly, she asked if the Captain would care to join her in silent Quaker worship. No! The Captain would bloody well not care to join her in silent bloody Quaker worship! Captain John Underhill, hero of Fort Mystick, hero of Pound Ridge, the Achilles of New England, scampered after and tsk-tsked at by this . . . this child, wagging a finger at him in full view of the men. Intolerable!
To add a further note of humiliation, the girl had somehow acquired a parrot. It perched on her shoulder and screeched. Where, in God’s name, had it come from? And what, in God’s name, was it doing here, amidst a council of war?
It had taken to mimickry: “Wheyyyyrrrr’s Cappunnn Nunnnnderrrrr-illlll! Oaccck!” Underhill tried to have it banished from the farmhouse, but no, the men wouldn’t hear of it. They’d adopted the bloody thing. It must stay! They vied with each other for the honor of feeding it. Underhill issued an ultimatum. Choose: himself or the bird. The vote went to the bird.
Why didn’t Huncks do something about it? He and that imbecile, St. Michel, were responsible. It was they who’d brought the wench to Killingworth, providing his wife with a deputy to harass him.
Where was Huncks?
* * *
The answer was: a few hundred yards away, peering through an eyeglass trained on Stuyvesant’s signal post.
Afternoon was getting on toward evening, shadows lengthening over the fields. Huncks had been here since returning from the parley. He tried to conjure the scene in the Governor’s House. Had he convinced Stuyvesant of Koontz’s complicity with the regicides? Had Stuyvesant thrown Koontz into jail? Or had Koontz persuaded Stuyvesant he was innocent? Was Stuyvesant reconciled to forfeiting his precious bird and keeping his English prisoner? And had all this aroused suspicion about the impending visit by the English naval squadron?
Huncks heard something behind him. Thankful approached. Johann perched on her forearm. The bird had taken to her. She seemed to have some gift.
Johann’s eyes narrowed, seeing the man who’d plucked two of his feathers. He lowered his head and hissed.
“Shh, Johann,” Thankful said, stroking its forehead. “It’s all right. The Colonel won’t hurt thee.”
Johann wasn’t convinced. Thankful held her forearm to the branch of a tree. Johann hopped on. She tethered his leg to the limb and sat on the ground beside Huncks, who resumed his eyeglass invigilation.
“Anything?”
“No. What’s going on in the farmhouse?”
“One of Captain Underhill’s scouts came. Four ships were seen, off a place called Moriches.”
“He’s close. If the wind holds, he could be here tomorrow.”
They sat silently. The sun was low over Manhatoes, silhouetting the taller buildings, the fort, windmill, gallows.
“What will happen to Balty if he’s still prisoner when the English ships come?”
Huncks put down his tube and rubbed his eye.
“Difficult to say. Stuyvesant won’t be pleased when he learns Nicholls isn’t here to kiss his—when he realizes he’s here to seize the colony. Whether his anger will extend to . . .” Huncks checked himself again. He smiled. “Well, he’s got himself a prize hostage, doesn’t he? A Crown commissioner. Brother-in-law of an important Navy person. Makes him a valuable commodity. No harm will come to him.”
“But the English Colonel, he would not give up his mission for one English hostage.”
“No.”
“What then?”
“You sound just like Balty. Always asking, ‘What now?’ ”
“How badly did they torture him?”
“I doubt it went far. Our Balty’s not one to play the hero.”
“But he did. For both of us.” Thankful began to cry.
Huncks put an arm around her. “How am I to keep watch with you like this?”
“Sorry. It seems I am always crying now.”
“How’s Cincinnatus? Communing with the Holy Spirit?”
Thankful laughed. “It’s why I left with Johann. He was threatening to cook him for the supper.”
They looked over at Johann, gnawing on a pinecone.
“He’d be tough eating.”
Thankful pointed. “Look.”
Huncks raised the eyeglass and saw the four pennants.
* * *
Koontz’s defiance was gone now. He looked like a whipped dog. Stuyvesant was on edge: hands fidgeting, eyes darting about, avoiding contact.
They’d made their agreement. Stuyvesant would overlook Koontz’s treachery, and Koontz would keep quiet about Stuyvesant’s exchanging an English spy for a parrot.
Stuyvesant asked if Huncks cared for a schnapps. Huncks saw the old boy wanted one himself, so he accepted. Stuyvesant did not offer a schnapps to Koontz.
“So,” Old Petrus said, “after discussings with Deputy Koontz, it seems there has been a misunderstanding. From which has consequented this unfortunateness between us. I propose that together we make an overcoming.”
“I salute your excellency’s wise judgment.”
“Are you desiring first to discuss the matter of these English persons who, it seems”—Stuyvesant shot a sharp glance at Koontz—“have made a refuging here?”
“My immediate concern is for the release of Mr. Balthasar. And of course, the return to you of your property.”
“This, too, is my wishing.”
“How does your excellency propose to proceed?”
“Well, here is a difficulty. We are a fort.”
“So I have observed.”
“A fort with many persons. And these many persons now cognize that Mr. Balthasar has confessed to be a spy. Here is the difficulty.” Stuyvesant continued, removing his skullcap and mopping sweat from his bald dome. “The other difficulty is that these many persons are also cognizing about the disappearing of . . .”
“Johann.”
“Yes. So we have two difficulties. Which together are making one big difficulty. But there is a solving for this.”
“I am eager to hear it.”
“Of course this must be only among ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
“Sometimes prisoners escape. This happens.”
“Yes,” Huncks said cautiously. “And sometimes prisoners are shot while escaping. That would make a very big difficulty.”
“This will not happen.”
“No. The consequences for Johann would be unfortunate. I insist the escape take place tonight.”
“And the return of my property also.”
“Agreed.”
Stuyvesant said, “At four of the clock comes the change of the watch. This will be the time. Koontz will make the arrangings.”
“And the exchange?”
“We are both men of honor, Mr. Huncks.”
“You flatter me, sir. But we’re exchanging hostages, not compliments. What do you propose?”
“The Deputy and your Mr. Balthasar will be at the Pearl Street dock. Some minutes after four of the clock.”
“A dock? On your island? Hardly neutral ground. No. Midriver, due east of the dock. I’ll be in a small boat, with one other person to handle the oars. I’ll expect to see Koontz and Mr. Balthasar. No one else. Afgesproken?”