The Wall Will Not Last

By M.E. Parnell

We are in New Amsterdam in the 1600s. These are treacherous times and Johanna, our young heroine, faces many dangers and overcomes them to finally succeed and prosper as the English force the Dutch out of the colony and rename it New York.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.E. Parnell
• Release date: Oct 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311990327

M.E. Parnell

I was born and raised in Manhattan where I visited the Museum of the City of New York and became curious about what life was like in the earliest days when it was a Dutch colony. With the help of the New York Historical Society I found out and I would like you to take the journey back to the 1600s with me.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Byvelt gave Alfonso Congo the signal for the final lash and Daniel’s body slammed against the barn wall. Byvelt closed the distance separating him from his prey. So close his breath brushed across the gaping cuts covering the bond servant’s back, but there was not even a hint of muscles tensing. Nothing. The bond servant had passed out, plucking this moment of triumph from the overseer’s grasp. He ordered the slave to go out to the well and fetch a bucket of water. And be quick about it. Congo dropped the whip as if it were burning his flesh and left the barn.

Seconds later Byvelt heard a rustling sound coming from a haystack in the corner. He went over and kicked it roughly. Dust and hay particles swirled, exposing two terrified eyes staring up at him from a soft, slack skinned face. The overseer raised his hand, and the crouching figure cringed. What are you doing here, eh?

I, I, Joost Wynkoop stuttered.

Speak up.

Daniel’s a good worker. A, a good fellow.

Byvelt glared down at the bond servant. Daniel Jacobson is vermin and he’ll not be doing anymore of his dirty work in Green Valley. Byvelt was about to say more when Congo reappeared. He grabbed the bucket out of the slave’s hand and hurled its contents in Daniel’s face. The bond servant jerked his head away from this latest indignity. So, you’re alive. Byvelt’s fleshy lips curled in a cruel rictus of satisfaction. This better be a lesson to you. Or next time you’ll not live to regret it. The overseer turned away contemptuously and headed out of the barn. Get him to the pillory, Congo. The patroon wants him on display this day.

Daniel’s arms and legs were spread-eagled, his wrists and ankles trapped in iron shackles fixed to the barn wall. Congo unlocked the manacles and the bondsman slumped to the earthen floor, groaning weakly.

Patroon say you must stand in pillory, Congo said, motioning to Joost for help.

Joost sputtered hay out of his mouth and got up unsteadily on his feet. The strapping ebony giant towered over the stubby Joost. Daniel was carried out to the pillory held high on one side, low on the other, his head lolling on Joost’s shoulder. Congo positioned Daniel’s head and hands in the bottom part of the holes with great care, adjusted the top section back in its slots, then locked the two halves together. That done the slave left Joost standing by the pillory; a forlorn figure with an egg shaped body and oversized head, flapping his arms at his sides in a futile gesture of sympathy.

Be gone, Joost, Daniel said with difficulty, refusing to acknowledge the pleading look in his friend’s eyes. Joost hesitated, then shuffled off. Daniel’s head was locked in a hole so low, he was forced to bend down in an excruciatingly awkward stance. He couldn’t rest his wrists in the holes used for hands because the wood was rough, and his wrists had been rubbed raw by the iron manacles. Congo returned with a beaver pelt which he strapped on Daniel’s head. The beaver’s flat tail hung down the left side of his face and a webbed hind leg rested next to his nose. The headdress was an added touch of humiliation.

The hot summer sun seared into the suppurating lacerations covering Daniel’s back, intensifying his agony. And visions of future floggings swirled in his head as time dragged on. His six year contract as an indentured farmhand had a long way to go yet.

* * *

Symon van Maesterland sat at the head of the table, a short, stocky block of a man. Under bushy brows knitted together in a frown, two brown, slightly unfocused eyes rested on his eldest daughter seated to his right. Meals are for eating, Sabina, not for frivolous chatter. Ordinarily he was the most doting of fathers were Sabina was concerned but she was prattling on about something which was giving him an attack of dyspepsia.

Sabina cocked her head provocatively to one side, blonde curls fluttering ever so slightly, and returned his gaze. Really, father, just because it’s the custom not to converse at mealtimes doesn’t mean we’re obliged to obey. Are we sheep? Since he could not bear to incur his beautiful daughter’s disapproval, Symon relinquished his scowl. As I was saying, father, Sabina said, leaning back in her chair well satisfied, there isn’t a single dressmaker in all of New Amsterdam who knows the slightest thing about fashion. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. What choice did I have but to order my trousseau from Amsterdam. It would be unthinkable for me to marry Hugh St. James in clothes which are out of date.

Symon could never force such a rare and lovely songbird into a cage that wasn’t properly gilded. Even though the trousseau scheduled to arrive on the next vessel was well beyond his means, he had ordered it anyway. Symon did not look forward to this wedding. But then he hadn’t wanted to give Sabina away to her first husband either. His attention was diverted from such thoughts when Grietje, his youngest daughter’s maid, reached for the bowl of Indian pudding which her mistress had barely touched.

I will not permit Johanna to waste precious food, he said to the maid sharply. She must show her gratitude for the bounty of my table. As a rule, Symon ignored his youngest daughter. The twelve year old’s swarthy skin stretched over prominent bones wasn’t pleasing to his eye. What he disliked most about her was her chunky build and heavy eyebrows which marked her as his child. Johanna plunged her spoon into the pudding made of cornmeal, ginger and molasses and brought the thick, gluey substance slowly up to her mouth. He turned away in disgust. That one was a real monkey with those hairy brows and dark Mediterranean complexion. There must have been a Spaniard or two in the van der Merve cupboard. Johanna’s mother had been a van der Merve.

Father, I beg to be excused, Sabina said, rubbing her temple. I feel another one of my headaches coming on and have need of a nap. Symon was instantly solicitous, ordering Neelgen, Sabina’s plump, good natured maid, to get his daughter’s bedchamber ready. He then turned to Johanna and berated her for having upset her elder half-sister. Johanna bowed her head meekly.

When the twelve year old entered the kitchen a little while later, Grietje was staring unhappily at a pitcher sitting on a sideboard. What’s in the pitcher? she asked her maid.

A mixture of crushed leaves and flowers of the mullein Neelgen prepared for my Daniel, Grietje replied with a pinched expression. Despite bad teeth, Daniel’s betrothed was pretty, although hers was the kind of prettiness associated with youth, a bloom which would quickly wilt.

Isn’t it any good?

Very good. It’s just that... Her lips quivered and tears started to well at the edges of her eyes.

Don’t cry, Grietje. Johanna’s voice was full of a shared distress over something she did not as yet fully understand.

Neelgen was going to put a poultice on Daniel’s back, but now she has to take care of your sister.

I’ll talk to Sabina. A look from Grietje stopped Johanna. It would do no good. Her sister thought bond servants were less than human and deserved to be ill-treated.

I’d go, but it wouldn’t be proper. We’re not married yet.

I can do it, Johanna said, heading over to the sideboard.

That wouldn’t be proper either, Grietje replied half-heartedly. You’re too young.

Your betrothed needs to be cared for and there’s no one else. Johanna picked up the bowl and the clean strips of cloth lying beside it. Grietje bit her lip and said no more.

A soft breeze brushed Johanna’s cheek and ruffled the grass as she made her way to the pillory. Clutching the pitcher close, she thought nervously of what lay ahead. She had seen Grietje’s young man only from a distance. Although he was quite good looking, there was a surly cast to his features and an insolence in the way he walked. She feared he might bite her head off. Or worse, laugh at her. She squared her shoulders. Long experience of her father’s ill treatment had made her resilient.

Rivulets of sweat rolled down the blood-caked cuts crisscrossing Daniel’s back. A muscle in his leg twitched incessantly. The injustice of his punishment was gnawing away at him. He had dealt in illegal pelts for such a short while. Too short to have realized any profit out of it. What really galled him was the knowledge that his tormentor was doing a thriving business in the illegal beaver trade. The overseer was in a position to get away with it. Daniel wasn’t. The sound of a twig breaking a few feet from the pillory made his heart pound. When Johanna came into view, the pounding slowed and shame replaced fear. There was nothing he could do to hide his embarrassment, the smell of urine and feces soiling his breeches.

Hello, Daniel, Johanna said shyly, I brought something for you.

What is it? he said, eyeing the pitcher suspiciously.

It’s a mixture of crushed leaves and flowers of the mullein. Neelgen made it to help heal your back.

Why didn’t she bring it out herself? Daniel wanted Grietje’s mistress to disappear, but he couldn’t blot out her voice. It was full of concern. More astonishingly, it was absent of any hint of disapproval or ridicule.

She has to attend to my sister, Johanna said, pouring some of the mixture onto a cloth and setting the pitcher down on the ground. Daniel wondered why one of the patroon’s daughters would bother with a servant, but the thought was quickly drowned out by wave after wave of stinging pain so intense it brought tears to his eyes. He gritted his teeth and suffered the pain stoically. He soon began to think the girl had special healing powers.

Are you all right? she asked, soaking another cloth with the mixture. I didn’t mean..., Johanna faltered, Of course, you’re not all right. What I meant to say was I hope I’m not hurting you too much. Just then he flinched and she drew her hand back reflexively.

I’ll survive. You can count on it, he replied fiercely.

Johanna continued to apply the mixture to his back as gently as she could, vowing to herself that if she ever felt sorry for her lot again she would remember the bond servant’s spirit. There, she said at last. I’m finished.

Despite the pain her ministrations had caused him, her words filled Daniel with regret. He didn’t want the girl to go now. He wanted to ask her questions. Not about Grietje. He wanted to know more about the patroon’s twelve year old daughter. Thanks, he muttered instead.

Well, good bye then. Johanna smiled awkwardly.

Daniel averted his eyes until she was well away, then he watched her receding back avidly, continuing to stare in that direction long after she was gone. Life had brutalized him early on. Kindness was something he knew little of.

* * *

What’s this I see? Symon van Maesterland waved a sheaf of bills under his bookkeeper’s nose. Nicolaas Gouw shrank from the patroon’s accusation that he was falsifying the ledgers. He sputtered saliva and wiped his eyes nervously with his sleeve. Years of bending over his master’s books had humped his back. And never seeing the light of day had turned his complexion a sickly grey. But none of that mattered. It was his failing eyesight which was causing him so much grief. Without his ledgers he was nothing. You’re a scurvy dog, Gouw. A petty thief. The patroon’s words rang painfully in Nicolaas Gouw’s ear. How could he tell the patroon that he was unable to see his work? Better to be thought a thief than an incompetent. You’ll be dismissed as soon as I find a suitable replacement, Symon said, flinging the bills back in Gouw’s face. Until then I’m going to have Byvelt keep a close eye on you.

For years Gouw had served van Maesterland loyally. And for what? Now that he was old the patroon planned to send him packing. Where could he go? Who would employ him? He was a man without passions, and yet there was a strange new stirring in his breast. Hate.

* * *

The patroon pushed the door open. Byvelt’s cottage looked like a pigsty. His overseer was slumped across a table, expelling fitful noises through a gaping mouth. Wake up, you good-for-nothing. The overseer jolted back in his chair, his arms shooting out, ready to take a swipe at his tormentor. Byvelt squinted, then squinted again. The sight of his master made him want to snicker, yet even in his beer induced fog he knew enough to keep that urge in check. Symon grabbed the tankard from the table and flung its contents in Byvelt’s face. Sober up and put your doublet on. You’re in the presence of your patroon. Like a clumsy bear, Byvelt got up and stumbled over to where he’d dropped his doublet. He stabbed at the arm holes until he finally succeeded in getting his arms into the sleeves. I’ve just discovered that Gouw has been taking advantage of his position of trust. Byvelt’s eyes bugged at the intelligence. Surprises you, eh? Symon chuckled dryly. I want you to keep a sharp eye on him.

I’ll squeeze the little slug. Byvelt rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"I said keep an eye on Gouw, not a hand!" Symon said, storming out of the cottage. Byvelt went over to the window, his limp more pronounced under the influence, and watched van Maesterland walk back to the main house. Since that anemic little bookkeeper was as faithful as they come, he probably had something on the patroon. Byvelt would have to check it out. Information like that held the promise of far greater profits than he could ever hope to get from trading in illegal pelts. The year was 1640 and Andries Byvelt had been the overseer of Green Valley for four years.

He had reigned supreme until the absentee patroon took it into his head to come to the colony the previous year. Byvelt didn’t like having his power diminished, but he wasn’t likely to secure such a good situation again. His reputation was less than sterling. He’d acquired the ugly scar running down his cheek in the battle at Lutzen in 1632 and his limp in a drunken brawl four years later which had gotten him cashiered from the Dutch West India Company’s private army garrisoned in Fort Amsterdam.

* * *

Instead of minding baby Arabella under the shade of the alder tree, Grietje was dreaming of Daniel. The maid tingled with the thought of the heroic sacrifice her beloved had just made to provide for their future life together. Left to her own devices Sabina’s one year old daughter had crawled out of sight. When she caught sight of her aunt coming out of the house Arabella thrust her little arms up in the air and chortled, Jo, jo. Johanna quickened her pace, scooped the rambunctious little bundle lovingly up in her arms and walked over to her maid, ready to chastise her for the laxness of her supervision.

Look, Grietje whispered, her gaze frozen in the direction of the windmill. An Indian, wearing a simple cloat made from elk hide, was striding in their direction. His naked chest, anointed with fish oil, glistened in the sunlight.

year old over to her maid. I’ll see what he wants.

You’re go, going to talk to him? Grietje stammered with unconcealed horror, clutching Arabella so tightly the child started to wail with communicated fright.

He’s probably a messenger. Johanna shooed her maid off. I’ll be fine. When the Indian approached, she addressed him in halting Algonkian. "Good day, wuski-lenno." The Indian bowed with solemn dignity, displaying a bristly cockscomb running down the center of his bald scalp singed free of hair by hot stones, and retrieved a letter from the pouch dangling from his cloat. Johanna took the letter much relieved that her guess had been correct. Indians made good messengers because of their familiarity with the many narrow trails passable only by foot. The letter was addressed to Sabina. Johanna didn’t recognize the handwriting but knew instinctively that it was something which shouldn’t reach her father’s eye. She gestured for the Indian to wait by the alder tree.

Inside the house all was quiet. Sabina was taking an afternoon nap. Johanna jostled her shoulder. Wake up, Sabina. A letter just arrived for you. Hurry! The runner is waiting. Johanna’s tone of urgency finally penetrated Sabina’s slumber. She snatched the letter and jabbed at the seal. Before you read it, write a receipt to the sender so the runner can get paid for his services. We don’t want father to see the Indian lingering about.

Sabina smiled conspiratorially. You’re such a smart old thing. Quick, get me some paper. Johanna had already gone to fetch her sister’s writing box. She dipped a quill pen in the inkwell and placed it in Sabina’s hand. Seconds later the runner-in-the-woods was on his way. When Johanna returned to Sabina’s room, her sister waved the letter gaily. It’s from my Uncle Francis. He arrived in New Amsterdam from the Netherlands a few days ago and plans to pay us a visit shortly.

Johanna had never set eyes on Francis Fleming but she’d heard about him from the servants in the Keizersgracht house back in Amsterdam and from her half-brother Lauren, the son from her father’s first marriage. Nobody had anything good to say about Fleming. Symon Van Maesterland was a widower three times over. When he married Phillipa Fleming, his middle wife, a poor but very beautiful young English woman, her brother had moved in with the couple, sponging off his new brother-in-law until his sister’s untimely death in childbirth’whereupon their father had promptly kicked the young man out of the Keizersgracht house. What is he doing over here? Johanna asked uncertainly.

He doesn’t say. Sabina’s eyes twinkled mischievously. Father won’t be happy when he hears about this. Uncle Francis is probably running from his gambling debts again.

Does he say how long he plans to stay in the colony? Johanna asked, standing tentatively by her sister’s bed, her hands clasped tightly together.

No. But I imagine he wants to stay with us. So much cheaper than remaining in New Amsterdam. Sabina sighed with sham sympathy, Poor Francis, he loathes country life so.

Father will never permit it.

I shall insist. Sabina said firmly, folding the letter and placing it in her writing box. Life is so dull in Green Valley. Uncle Francis will liven things up.

The thought of having her sister’s unsavory uncle staying with them, not to mention the mood that would put their father in, filled Johanna with dread. For there was no question that he would be staying no matter how much her father disliked Francis Fleming. What ever Sabina wanted, Sabina always got in the end.

Oh, don’t look so worried, Johanna. I’m sure Uncle Francis will soon tire of life away from the gaming tables.

CHAPTER 2

Across the room Johanna saw Neelgen and Grietje peering through the doorway, eager to get a peek at the new arrivals. Francis Fleming had brought protection to Green Valley in the form of a much younger man. The tall, flaccid featured Fleming was a study of the foppish man of fashion. He looked pretty much as Johanna imagined he would. The slashed sleeves of his doublet exposed a fine lace trimmed linen blouse and a jaunty white plume graced the hat he was wearing indoors as custom dictated. From a distance Fleming’s clothes looked expensive. Up close they showed subtle signs of wear.

As for Romen de Wolff, the stranger Fleming brought with him, he didn’t look like the kind of young man who would have anything to do with her sister’s dissipated uncle. Although there was something slightly untamed about him, Johanna sensed that he had a certain nobility of spirit. Or maybe she just wanted to believe that because he was so extraordinarily handsome, the embodiment of her every girlish and unobtainable dream.

I met Romen on the voyage over, Fleming said, a limp wrist wafting in the young man’s direction, and I am most grateful to him for relieving the tedium of such a long journey. His father is a prominent member of the Amsterdam Wisselbank, as well as being a director in the Dutch West India Company’s Amsterdam chamber. And does our humble estate meet with your approval, Mynheer de Wolff? Sabina said. Over a fluttering fan, her high cheek bones and the faintly Oriental cast of her almond eyes could be seen while the lower part of her face remained shrouded in tantalizing mystery. For a split second she lowered the fan, revealing a full, sensuous mouth flirting with the merest hint of a smile.

The whole of this salubrious new land meets with my approval, he replied, gazing intently at Sabina.

Johanna’s heart sank. No man would ever look at her as their visitor was looking at Sabina now. And certainly not such a handsome young man as Mynheer de Wolff. She was fascinated by him, the magnetic expression on his face when he talked, the way he was standing by the fireplace, one arm draped casually over the mantel. She would hold the image of Romen de Wolff as he was at this moment for the rest of her days.

And what about you, Johanna, Romen was saying, do you miss Amsterdam?

Johanna’s gaze darted down to her lap. How embarrassing. She’d been caught staring. Her heart thumped so loudly she was positive everyone in the room could hear it. And yet how her spirits soared. He had remembered her name! I’ve had little time to think about Amsterdam, Johanna replied shyly. I suppose I do miss it at times, her voice trailed off with a hint of wistfulness, forcing Romen to lean in her direction to catch what she was saying.

The motion of Sabina’s fan accelerated with impatience. The way we live today can hardly give you an idea of the way things were, she said, instantly drawing Romen’s attention away from her sister. We had a very grand house on the Keizersgracht.

Grey stone, I believe, with double front doors painted black and varnished to a mirror shine.

You know it, Sabina cried with delight. Then you can understand what a change this is for us. The colony has so little to offer in the way of amusements, although the climate here is better for Arabella.

Is she another sister I may look forward to meeting? Romen said, arching an eyebrow expectantly.

Sister, what made you think that? Sabina tapped her fan against the palm of her hand irritably, trying to think of a way to extricate herself from an awkward truth. I was merely concocting a word for the colony’s climate, something like beautiful air.

Of course, my mistake, Romen said good-naturedly.

Once again Sabina’s fan fluttered airily in front of her face. How could Johanna let her sister go on flirting with the young man so shamelessly when she was about to be married shortly? Arabella is Sabina’s daughter, she said, trying to keep the tremor of fear out of her voice.

My husband died on the voyage over, Sabina cut in quickly, giving her sister a poisonous look.

My condolences. Romen bowed deeply from the waist. Johanna was alert to every nuance, the young man’s disappointment, followed by a renewal of hope. It would be wicked to mislead him a minute more. Even though she knew she was really going to displease her sister now, she told Romen that Sabina was betrothed. As I so recently proffered my condolences, permit me now to offer my congratulations, the young man said with a perfunctory smile, his expression closing.

* * *

What’s all this business about a wedding? Francis Fleming said, gripping Sabina’s elbow and steering her away from the house. I’m a widow with a one year old daughter, she replied petulantly, trying to free herself from her uncle’s grasp. I can’t very well stay under my father’s roof forever.

Oh my, doesn’t that sound romantic. Francis released his niece’s arm and pinched her cheek irreverently.

I don’t care to discuss it any further, Uncle Francis.

Since she was obviously not in love with her betrothed, the man must be rich. One source was as good as another, he always said. But when he inquired, Sabina informed him that Hugh St. James wasn’t wealthy. That just wouldn’t do. And Fleming still had no idea how he was going to pay old Symon van Maesterland back for kicking him out of the Keizersgracht house. What he did know was that Sabina was the key to settling that score. She was Symon’s most cherished possession. And a Fleming to the core. I confess I thought you fancied my young friend. He tapped the side of his nose as if he had just thought of a most marvelous idea, instead of the one he’d been harboring ever since he laid eyes on Romen. You and the dashing de Wolff. Now that would be a real match.

Sabina darted gaily onto a narrow bridge which could only be traversed single file. What can be done? she said once they resumed their stroll under the awning of trees on the opposite side of the stream. If a man breaks off an engagement his cheeks are slashed or one of his ears is cut off and he’s put in the stocks.

Indeed. Breaking off an engagement isn’t to be taken lightly. However, it’s not unheard of for would-be bridegrooms to die before the happy event.

Yes, maybe the climate isn’t as healthful here as everyone claims. Sabina quickened her pace as if to distance herself from the thought which hovered over them. But enough of me, I want to know the real reason you came to New Netherland, she said, stopping just long enough for Fleming to catch up with her.

Heavens, are you suggesting my arrival on these shores was occasioned by reasons less than honorable? Fleming put his hand over his heart in mock horror.

Absolutely, uncle.

Did you know that I’m dead in England?

Dead in England? Sabina shot her uncle a quizzical look.

The first time I landed in Newgate I managed to get my debts paid off and was released. A member of the royal house of Stuart had a nasty little secret which I was privy to. Wasn’t so lucky the last time. The royal was in his box. Newgate’s a foul hole. Easy to get typhus there. The bodies pile up like so many mounds of maggots. You soon learn to stay well away from anyone who starts complaining about severe headaches.

You seem to have practiced what you preach because you don’t look dead to me.

I switched clothes with a dead prisoner whose debt was small and easily paid off.

If you’re dead in England then you don’t have any debts to worry about.

True, as far as the old ones go. But there are a number of not so inconsequential gambling debts on some small tropical islands where I stayed after my escape. Did a bit of blackbirding and smuggling, made some easy money, Fleming shrugged, then lost it. So I went back to the Netherlands, but that didn’t work out either. Got into debt there, too. He looked off into the middle distance. This is a rich land. Maybe I’ll realize my fortune here.

The land may be rich, uncle, but the Dutch West India Company keeps the wealth to itself. If you were to go into the fur trade where the real money is, or just about any other business, you would have to apply for a license first.

I can always add another alias to my list.

Sabina nudged a pebble with the tip of her slipper, scooped it up in her hand and threw it into the stream. Circles formed on the water’s surface, rippled, and slowly faded away. Tell me about Romen de Wolff. How did you get him to come to Green Valley?

"We played thirty-six card roemsteken on the trip over. Alas I lost. Having no money to speak of, I offered to repay him by introducing him to my breathtakingly lovely niece. The young man has an eye for the fair sex. Fleming grinned devilishly. A most satisfactory way to pay one’s debts, wouldn’t you say?"

You sold me? Sabina’s eyes narrowed with disgust.

Now, that is a bit harsh, Fleming bridled. And don’t play saintly with me. When the price is right, you can be bought just as easily as I can. Let me remind you that the de Wolffs are involved in iron, the lucrative herring trade, and just about every other trade you can mention. Romen’s father is rich enough to finance armies and even carry bankrupt states. He’s also a member of the most powerful bank in all of Europe. To put it plainly, they have more money than the van der Merves.

More money than the van der Merves, Sabina said, savoring the thought. It would be nice to possess that kind of wealth. I’m sick to death of hearing about how my mother brought father nothing, unlike his two other wives.

Phillipa’s beauty, my fair Sabina, was a far greater prize than the van der Merve’s fast fortune.

Oh, that does sound pretty, Uncle Francis. Sabina batted her eyelashes coyly for a second, before her gaze turned stony. But you and I both know there is no substitute for money.

* * *

From her window Sabina spied Romen de Wolff sauntering leisurely in the direction of the stables. She felt her pulse quicken in anticipation. Sabina loved playing Delilah, ensnaring Samsons and bending them to her will. The hunt was everything. Reducing men to malleable nothingness was the goal. Others might fall under the spell of this virile young man. His charms meant nothing to her. She studied her reflection in the small Venetian mirror framed in crystal above her writing desk. What she saw pleased her greatly. She fluffed out her curls, pinched her cheeks to add just a bit more bloom to the rose and pouted seductively. It was difficult to pry herself away from the ravishing image reflected in her mirror.

At the front door, Sabina picked up her skirts in defiance of the custom imposed on young ladies of good breeding, and hurried to catch up with the target she’d set her sights on. When she came to a giant oak tree with a wooden bench encircling its massive trunk, a vexatious, Oh, escaped her lips. It was just loud enough to catch Romen’s attention. He turned to see Sabina hobbling over to the bench. Sun filtering through the tree created a lacy pattern of light on the grass and dappled the oyster colored gown she wore. He rushed to her side and offered her his arm. I twisted my ankle, Sabina told him with a pained expression on her face. Leaning into him for support, she sensed that her touch excited him. Tell me about yourself, she said as he helped her onto the bench.

Well, my mother was a Hollander and my father came from Brabant, Romen said self-consciously, putting distance between them on the bench as if her nearness would burn him.

Ah, that explains why you are not as daring as you should be. Sabina smiled suggestively. Too bad you didn’t leave your stuffy northern side back in the Netherlands.

Stuffy? Romen said, putting on a show of indignation. We Amsterdamers are noted for our sense of humor.

I see. Sabina looked off into the distance, tapping her foot impatiently to indicate that she was quickly losing interest in such a pedestrian conversation. In truth she could barely rein in her satisfaction. It was all too obvious just how rattled he was by her, and how much more used he was to having things the other way around. It was best to keep men off balance, frustrated, wanting more. Sabina got up.

I’ll help you back to the house, he said, jumping to his feet.

Please don’t bother. When he persisted, she turned her back on him and strode off without the slightest hint of a twisted ankle.

It looks as if you didn’t want me to be daring after all, Romen called after her. Could it be that you’re afraid of what you might unleash if you stay?

Even though she hungered to crush him with a cutting riposte, she restrained the impulse and continued to walk away.

It’s a lovely day, don’t you think, Johanna said, breaking into Romen’s troubled thoughts a few seconds after Sabina’s departure. Finding it difficult to shake off her sister’s rejection, he greeted the twelve year old with a forced smile. My sister is very beautiful, Johanna said wistfully, sitting down beside him.

Yes she is, he replied grimly.

You mustn’t take her remarks too seriously. She can be very thoughtless at times.

I would not characterize her behavior in that way. If you ask me, she knows exactly what she is doing. It’s just that what she’s up to isn’t so easy for others to figure out.

Life has been hard on Sabina. She’s too young to be a widow.

And you’re too young to have to make excuses for your older sister’s behavior. He could well image how the beautiful and pampered Sabina treated the less favored Johanna. You’re a very wise young lady. I wonder if you have ever been a child.

My mother died when I was young.

Her death shouldn’t have robbed you of your childhood.

No, I suppose not.

We’re alike, you and I, two little old people in young bodies. Romen jumped up, hunched his shoulders and doddered back and forth on the grass. Johanna laughed and clapped her hands in appreciation, looking truly young, probably for the first time in her short life, Romen thought. He bowed and asked for the next dance. Taking her hand with pretended palsy, he guided her around the tree trunk like a gouty kneed oldster who could still find a morsel of fun in life. Johanna minced along, trying to keep pace, and match him mock tremor, for mock tremor. Around and around the tree they went, laughing with dizzying abandon, each round a little faster than the last, then faster and faster, until Johanna stumbled. Romen steadied her and they returned to the bench, both out of breath but content.

You’re not anything like what I’d expect of a friend of Sabina’s uncle.

I’m not his friend. I don’t even like the fellow.

If you don’t like Mynheer Fleming, why did you come here with him? Johanna looked at Romen with amazement.

I didn’t have any pressing appointments in New Amsterdam. And from what my father tells me, Director General Kieft and his Colonial Secretary, van Tienhoven, make an unappetizing pair, Romen said, referring to the men currently running the colony. So you see this side trip was an ideal excuse to delay meeting them.

I suppose now that you’ve met Sabina, you’re glad you came.

Now that I’ve met you, I’m glad I came.

I think you’re making fun of me.

Why would you think that?

A clap of thunder, followed by darkening clouds and a heavy downpour put an instant damper on their conversation. Romen gave Johanna his broad brimmed hat to shield her and they made a quick dash for cover in the stables.

CHAPTER 3

The Beaver Path bustled with activity. Women leaned over the bottom halves of their double doors and chatted animatedly with passers-by in an effort to drum up business. Many housewives in New Amsterdam had turned the front of their neat little houses into shops offering birch brooms and hand-woven baskets for sale. A young maid, juggling two buckets of water dangling from a yoke balanced on her shoulders, scurried past pigs poking around in the rutted road.

Machteld puckered with distaste. An Indian with fierce leathery features was peering through her front window. She went to the double door and stuck her head out of the upper half. Her small dark eyes bore through the Indian, two disapproving dots in a large, fleshy face. The Indian moved from the window and approached the front stoop. His body was smeared with berry juice which dyed his skin a reddish orange. From this custom the colonists had taken to calling Indians redskins.

I have a letter for Lauren van Maesterland. Letter from the patroon of Green Valley, the runner-in-the-woods said in acceptable Dutch. Machteld held out her hand for the letter and studied it closely to make sure the seal hadn’t been tampered with. Satisfied that it was still intact, she went over to her husband’s writing box and wrote out a receipt. It took a while because she wrote poorly, although she was very proud of this accomplishment. Lauren had recently taught her how to read and write.

When she handed the receipt to the runner, he remained rooted to the front stoop. You need kindling wood? he asked. I have brother, he bring you all the wood you need.

We don’t want your firewood, she said scornfully. The Indian’s eyes narrowed but to Machteld’s great relief he turned heal and departed in the direction of the Landing Place. She dared not open the letter before her husband returned. Lauren had gone to the waterfront to pick up the latest shipment of books from Elzeviers Publishing House in Leiden. His job as clerk of the colony’s council wasn’t a full time position. When not attending to his duties in Fort Amsterdam,