New York - The Novel

been dispossessed by the white man, had been reduced to selling their bodies at the trading ports for small sums of a currency they did not understand, his wife could believe that every Indian woman was a common whore.
    “Not all,” he said quietly.
    “She’s a pretty little thing.” Margaretha blew smoke out of the side of her mouth. “It’s a pity their looks never last.”
    Was she right? Would his little daughter’s looks fade away even in his own lifetime?
    He saw that Pale Feather was staring ahead, looking numb. Dear God, had she understood what they were saying? Or had she divined their meaning from their tone of voice?
    Dirk van Dyck loved his wife. Not as much as he should, perhaps, but she was a good woman in her way, and a fine mother to their children. Hesupposed that no marriage was perfect, and whatever the shortcomings of his own, they were as much his fault as hers. He had been faithful to her, mostly—apart from Pale Feather’s mother, whom he regarded as a special case.
    Anyway, there was no reason why Margaretha should guess that Pale Feather was his daughter. No reason, except her woman’s instinct.
    “Don’t bring her to the house,” said Margaretha quietly.
    “Of course not,” he heard himself say.
    She’d guessed. He was almost certain of it. Was she going to accuse him when he got home? Was she going to make a scene? Perhaps. But then quite likely he’d deny it, and that would leave her looking like a fool. She was too proud for that.
    He wished he had not hurt her though.
    “Send her away,” said Margaretha firmly. “Your children are waiting for you.” She turned to go.
    He certainly couldn’t blame her. Indeed, he admired her. She was behaving with dignity, holding her family together. But then he looked at Pale Feather.
    She was still staring ahead, but the blank shock on her face said it all. She did not need to understand their words. Their tones and their looks said it all. The magical time he’d promised her was turning into hurt and misery. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d betrayed her. A great wave of remorse washed over him. He couldn’t leave her like this.
    Margaretha was moving away. Whatever pain he’d caused his wife, it was already done. Besides, she was a grown woman, and strong. Whereas the girl at his side was an innocent child. He thought quickly.
    “I still have business to finish, Greet, after the Indians go,” he called after her. “I have to go up to Smit’s bouwerie. You remember, a quarter of the pelts are for him.” It was quite true that he had to ride up to see the farmer, though he hadn’t been planning to go today. “Tell the children I shall be home tomorrow.”
    “And when do you plan to leave again?” She had turned.
    “Leave?” He smiled. “Not for months.”
    Margaretha nodded. Was she mollified?
    “Until tomorrow, then,” she said.
    For a little while, neither he nor Pale Feather spoke. He wanted to put his arm round her, to comfort her, but did not dare. So they walked along the street in silence, until she asked: “That is your wife?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is she a good woman?”
    “Yes. A good woman.”
    They went on a few paces.
    “Are you sending me back now?”
    “No.” He smiled at her. “Come with me, my daughter,” he said.

    It took him less than an hour to get ready. He sent one of his men to get his horse. He also bought some food, and two blankets. Then, after giving the Indian men their instructions, he and Pale Feather set out.
    The main route out of New Amsterdam was a broad thoroughfare that began at the market in front of the fort and ran up the western half of the town to the wall.
    Van Dyck rode slowly. Pale Feather was content to walk along beside him. The Dutch houses soon gave way to pleasant allotments and orchards. They reached the town’s wall and went out through the gate with its stone bastion. The broad way continued straight for a few hundred yards, past a cemetery and a mill. The track then led to the right. On the East River side they passed a small tobacco plantation and a swamp. Soon after, on their left, they came to a big pond. And from there the track led north all the way to the top of the island.
    Manhattan Island was a strange place: only a mile or two across, but thirteen long miles from top to toe. A wilderness of marsh, meadow and woodland, dotted with hillocks and outcrops of bedrock, it had been a magnificent Indian hunting ground. Indeed, the very track they were