New York - The Novel

boat hit a tiny wave, rising and smacking down on the water, causing him to lean forward. He straightened up, and as he did so, the pouch on his belt tapped lightly against the top of his thigh. He glanced down, thought of the silver dollar in its box, safely secreted in the pouch, and realized with a shock: they were almost at Pale Feather’s village. This unexpected business with Stuyvesant had caused him to forget his daughter. The tap on his leg had been a reminder.
    Pale Feather. What was he going to do?
    Stuyvesant was still watching him intently. He dare not pull across to the village now. For all he knew, the governor would turn and drag him downriver by force. The man was quite capable of such a thing.
    Minutes passed. The two boats, held in place by the invisible force of Stuyvesant’s will, sped together down the stream. They were coming past the village now, away on the eastern bank. Van Dyck could see the Indians with fishing nets in the shallows. Other figures, women probably, were watching from higher up the bank. Was Pale Feather among them?He could not tell. Was she looking at him now? Did she know he was going past her, not stopping even for a moment, despite his promise? Would she suppose her father had turned his back on her?
    He stared across the river, then looked away. If his daughter was there, he did not want her to see his face. A foolish gesture. Even with her keen eyes, she could not see his face from there. He lowered his head, gazed at the pelts at his feet, and felt ashamed. Away on the far bank, the little Indian village began to fall behind. He glanced back. He could still see the line of women, but they were becoming blurred and indistinct.
    They slipped downstream another hundred yards. Then another.
    “Pull across stream.” He gave the order. The oarsmen looked astonished.
    “But, Boss—” said one.
    “Pull across.” He pointed to the eastern bank. He was the Boss, after all. Unwillingly, they obeyed him.
    As the boat began to turn, Stuyvesant saw at once.
    “What the devil are you doing?” he shouted over the water.
    Van Dyck hesitated. Should he reply? He thought quickly.
    “I’ll follow,” he cried, in a voice which, he hoped, suggested that his only desire was to be with the governor. “We’ll catch up shortly.”
    “Maintain your course,” Stuyvesant bellowed back. A second later, Stuyvesant’s voice came over the water again. “Never mind your Indian bastard, van Dyck. Think of your country.”
    How did he know about Pale Feather? Van Dyck cursed the governor under his breath. It had been a mistake to take the girl to New Amsterdam. He should never have done it.
    “Follow me, Dirk van Dyck,” Stuyvesant’s voice rang out again. “Forget your half-breed and follow me, or your wife shall hear of this, I promise you.”
    Van Dyck cursed again. Had the governor and his wife discussed the girl? What was the relationship between Stuyvesant and his wife anyway? Who knew? But the threat to tell Margaretha was serious. It was one thing to leave her in doubt about where he was. But to have her know that he’d defied the governor, failed to protect his family—for that was what she’d say—all for the sake of his half-breed daughter … Such an accusation would be a serious matter. Margaretha wouldn’t let this go. God knows what it would do to his business, and his family life. Curse Peg Leg. Damn him. He nodded to his men.
    “We’ll follow,” he said, resignedly.
    The prow of the boat swung round, pointing once again down the flow of the stream.
    Van Dyck stared ahead. What an exercise in futility! Was he condemned to follow Peg Leg all the way, now? The very thing he had been trying to avoid.
    His hesitation had caused quite a distance to open up between his boat and the governor’s. He thought of the English fleet ahead, of the determined, wrong-headed governor, and of his wife’s hurt and angry face. He thought of his innocent, defenseless little daughter who had waited for him. The gray palisade of rock above him seemed to echo with a soundless lament as the water rushed by. He glanced back again. The village was out of sight, hidden by the trees. He had come to his daughter, then passed by on the other side.
    “Turn back.”
    “Boss?”
    “We’re going back. Turn round,” he ordered them. The men were looking at each other, hesitating. “Do you want to fight the English, then?” he cried. The men glanced at each other again. And obeyed.