New York - The Novel

if, he showed evidence that he had joined the community of the godly. With perfect truth, Eliot informed his brother: “I am disobeying our father by giving you this.”
    “Blessed are the merciful,” said Tom, solemnly.
    “You refuse to return to England?”
    “I do.”
    “This letter, then, will give you credit with a merchant in Hartford, Connecticut. They are more tolerant,” Eliot said drily, “of people like you down there. The condition is that you are never, ever to return to Massachusetts. Not even for a day.”
    “In the Gospels, the Prodigal Son returned and was welcomed,” Tom remarked pleasantly.
    “He returned once, as you have already done. Not twice.”
    “I shall need money for the journey. Your letter gives me nothing until I reach Hartford.”
    “Will that be enough?” Eliot handed him a quantity of wampum and a purse containing several shillings. Some of those shillings would pay the girl in the tavern and the rest, Tom reckoned, would be enough for his journey.
    “Thank you.”
    “I fear for your soul.”
    “I know.”
    “Swear that you will not return.”
    “I swear.”
    “I shall pray for you,” his brother added, though evidently without much conviction it would do any good.
    Tom rode away early the next morning. Before he left the house, he slipped into his brother’s office, and stole the silver dollar in the box. Just to annoy him.
    He had taken his time, riding westward across Massachusetts, staying at farms along the way. When he came to the Connecticut River, he should have turned south. That would have brought him to Hartford. But it irked him to take orders from his brother, and so, for no particular reason, he had continued westward for a few days. He was in no hurry. The money, which he kept in a small satchel, would last him a while. He’d always heard that the great North River was a noble sight. Perhaps he’d go as far as that before turning back to Hartford.
    Leaving Connecticut, he’d passed into Dutch territory. But he saw no one and, keeping an eye out for Indians, proceeded cautiously for a couple of days. On the evening of the second day, the land began to slope down, and soon he saw the sweep of the big river. On the terrace above the riverbank he came to a Dutch farmstead. It was small: a single-storycabin with a wide porch, a barn on one side, a stable and a low outbuilding on the other. A meadow ran down to the riverbank, where there was a wooden dock and a boat.
    He was met at the door by a thin, sour-faced man of maybe sixty, who spoke no English. When Tom made clear that he was seeking shelter for the night, the farmer grudgingly indicated he might sup in the house, but that he must sleep in the barn.
    After stabling his horse, Tom entered the cabin to find the farmer, two men he took to be indentured workers, and a black man he assumed was a slave, all gathering for supper. The mistress of the house, a short, fair-haired woman a good deal younger than the farmer, ordered the men to table, and pointed to where he should sit. He didn’t see any sign of children. Tom had heard that the Dutch farmers ate with their slaves, and certainly everyone sat together at this table.
    The woman was an excellent cook. The stew was delicious, washed down with ale. It was followed by a large fruit pie. Conversation, however, was limited, and since he spoke no Dutch, he could contribute nothing himself.
    He wondered about the woman. Was the farmer a widower who’d married again? Could she be his daughter? Or was she a housekeeper of some kind? Though small, she was full-breasted, and there was something decidedly sensual about her. The gray-haired farmer addressed her as Annetie. The men treated her with respect, but between the farmer and herself there seemed to be a kind of tension. When he addressed the men, he appeared to ignore her. When she brought the bowl of stew toward him, Tom noticed that he leaned away from her. And though she sat quietly listening to the conversation, Tom noticed a look of suppressed irritation on her face. Once or twice, however, he had the impression that she’d been watching him. Just once, when their eyes met, she gave him a smile.
    When the meal was over, the hired hands and the slave retired to the outbuilding to sleep, and Tom went out to the barn. Dusk was falling, but he found some bales of straw in the barn and spread his coat on them. And he was about to settle down when he saw a figure with a lamp coming toward