By nine o’clock in the morning, the 27th of August, Anno Domini 1664, had blossomed into a glorious late summer day of sunlight sparkling on water, clouds scudding across a cerulean sky, and a breeze to snap and flap the Dutch flag above the fort.
Even the gulls seemed aware that this was a day to soar in the zephyrs above rather than scavenge for wharfside orts. A day all residents of New Amsterdam could congratulate themselves on their excellent good fortune to be here, specifically here, on their island amid such a lush and providing new world.
The breeze, from the west, carried the sound of drums across the East River to the Breuckelen shore, where Huncks and Thankful had been keeping watch.
Through his spyglass, Huncks saw the procession emerge around the corner of the fort and make its way toward the gallows at the tip of the island. Thankful, watching through her own glass, was first to spot Balty, hands tied, walking between the two lines of soldiers.
Balty’s head was covered in white. Bandages. Huncks lowered his spyglass.
“It didn’t work,” she said.
“No,” Huncks said. “Appears not.”
They heard shouting behind them. Men were running out of the farmhouse, pointing.
“There!”
* * *
Stuyvesant stood on the rampart of the fort watching the procession below. Reaching the gallows, the two columns of soldiers formed a square around it. The Englishman didn’t falter. His bearing was dignified. Stuyvesant wondered if it was the laudanum.
The hangman led the Englishman by the arm to the foot of the ladder. The drumming ceased.
Stuyvesant heard shouting. The crowd below had turned from the gallows toward the harbor. He saw the four ships. He raised his eyeglass, saw the English colors.
The Englishman was mounting the ladder. The captain of the guard looked up at Stuyvesant, waiting for his signal.
What to do? He had authority to execute a spy. Not only a spy, but one whose attempt to escape had resulted in the death of a guard. This Colonel Nicholls had no right to intervene in a lawful execution.
Stuyvesant sighed. But there was the question of manners.
Greeting a foreign dignitary by hanging one of his countrymen—within view—was not, however one might justify the thing, particularly good manners. And greeting a foreign dignitary with four warships of thirty-six guns each and five hundred men-at-arms was not particularly wise.
Old Petrus stood on the rampart and considered. The Englishman had now reached the top rung of the ladder. The noose was around his neck. The hangman awaited the Captain’s order; the Captain awaited the General’s order.
Stuyvesant said to his adjutant, “Stoppen.”
The adjutant relayed the order to the Captain, who conveyed it to the hangman. The hangman said something to the Englishman, who collapsed. A frantic scene ensued as the hangman and soldiers tried to lift the Englishman, the noose still around his neck.
They put him on the ground. Was he dead? Stuyvesant groaned.
The hangman slapped the Englishman on his cheeks. The Englishman’s eyes opened.
Stuyvesant gave the order to get him out of sight. When Colonel Nicholls weighed anchor and sailed for New England to conduct his review, then the execution would proceed.
Stuyvesant handed his spyglass to the adjutant and stumped off to see about welcoming his latest English hests.
As he descended the ramp, a solider ran up. He handed him a piece of paper.
“Heneral,” he said, “urgent message, from your Mevrouw.”
Stuyvesant growled, “Urgent?” This was no time for domestic messages. He stumped on, clutching it in his fist. Halfway across the parade ground he considered: Judith had never sent him a message marked “Urgent.”
He unfolded it and read.
“Johann is terug!”
* * *
Mevrouw Stuyvesant’s message that Johann had returned was to be the Governor-General’s sole happy moment on August 27th and all the days to follow, for the next message he received was from Colonel Nicholls, commander of the squadron of warships now anchored within cannon range of his town.
Nicholls was not inquiring what time dinner was served, or what dress was appropriate. Neither was he complimenting the Governor on the tidiness of New Amsterdam. No. The message informed Stuyvesant that “in his Maj.ties Name, I do demand the Towne, Scituate upon the Island commonly knowne by the Name of Manhatoes wth all the forts there unto belonging, to be rendered unto his Maj.ties obedience, and Protection into my hands.”
It stressed that the King had no desire for an “effusion of Christian blood,” but made clear that failure to comply would result in “all the miseryes of a War.” He signed it, “Your very humble Servant.”
While Stuyvesant fumed about the perfidy of Ambassador Downing and the credulity of the West India Company, a boat set off from the Breuckelen shore, where a thousand men could be observed mustering: Pell’s Westchester Trained Band and various associates of Captain Underhill’s. Cincinnatus had put aside his plow.
The boat flew a white flag. In its bow was a man Stuyvesant knew well: Winthrop of Connecticut. Accompanying him was a man Stuyvesant also knew—the Englishman who had been his dinner guest at Bouwerie Number One, who’d come to his chambers at the fort to present terms for an exchange of prisoners.
England’s terms were unusually, indeed astonishingly, generous. Nothing would change for the inhabitants of New Amsterdam other than their flag. The town’s name would now be New York, in honor of the King’s brother, James, Duke of York and Albany, Lord High Admiral. All that had been New Netherland was now his.
Stuyvesant tore up the letter. This precipitated an uproar among the people he called his “subjects.” They desired no miseryes of a war or effusion of blood, Christian or otherwise. They felt no fealty toward the West India Company. What had it done for them? Even Stuyvesant’s own son declared against him. The fifteen hundred inhabitants of New Amsterdam confronted the prospect of English rule with a collective shrug.
In a rage at this betrayal, Stuyvesant stumped back up to the rampart of his fort, where cannons were loaded and aimed at Nicholls’s flagship, fuses hissing.
Old Petrus had no fear of death. If another war with England was to be inaugurated, then why not here, why not now? He looked out on the harbor, his harbor, and contemplated his next move.
Time stopped. The citizens of New Amsterdam held their breath as their leader decided whether to let slip the dogs of war.
Stuyvesant wondered—a war for what? For a people who had now openly declared against him? The consequences of firing the first shot would be dire. Horrific. An English siege against the town would succeed, inevitably. The cobbles of New Amsterdam would run red with blood. How would history judge a governor who brought about sack and carnage for . . . nothing other than his own pride?
If these people of New Amsterdam, this rabble, were not, after all, his subjects, why subject himself to infamy, for their sake? This was no band of brothers, only a congeries of mixed races and religions. This is what came of Holland’s policy of tolerance: weakness and irresolution. They were not worthy of death on the field of Mars. To hell with them. To hell with the West India Company. It was over.
* * *
The negotiations would continue for weeks, but for now the moment of maximum danger had passed. There would be no war.
New Amsterdam exhaled. Cheers went up. The taverns did brisk business the night of August 27th, 1664.
Reaching home that evening, Stuyvesant was greeted by Judith. She’d heard nothing of the events in town. She told him of her strange encounter that morning, shortly after he’d stormed off. She heard a screech in the conservatory, and going in to see, had a fright. It was the Englishman who’d come to dinner, and a woman, Johann perched on her arm.
She didn’t recognize the woman, who was young and fair, with golden hair, just like a Dutch girl. Knowing her husband’s views, Judith did not mention her apron and cap, typical of Quakers.
The man’s manner was courteous. He said they’d found Johann on the Breuckelen side of the river, and having seen him here at the dinner, recognized him. And brought him home.
When the man and woman went to leave, Judith said, Johann made a terrible screeching and tried to fly to the woman but was thwarted by his tether.
What kind of day had her husband had? Was it not a glorious day the Lord had given them? Such weather!