THE BARGAIN WITH STUYVESANT
It seemed a long march. We had aroused a single fort--a northern
outpost of the city. They took us past that; following a crude corduroy
road. A noisy, blustering cortege we made in the woods. Some fifty
Dutchmen, armed with fowling pieces and swords; carrying torches.
We came to other outposts. Our party augmented. We passed through a
long, armed stockade and were in the little city.
It was well toward midnight now. But the city needed no arousing. The
houses were all lighted. Crude log houses, most of one story, but some
with two. The winding streets, bounded by picket fences and the houses
with little gardens and vegetable patches, were thronged with excited
Dutchmen. For this was a momentous night. The English were coming.
Nichols, emissary of the Duke of York, already had sent his demand that
Peter Stuyvesant surrender this little Dutch Empire to English rule.
His fleet now had been sighted; it would anchor in the bay tomorrow.
All day, and now far into the night, the little city had been in a
turmoil. The streets were littered with groups of jabbering patroons
firing up their great pipes and vowing that the thing was dastardly.
How dare the English duke demand their surrender! They rushed at us;
stared open-mouthed; but our captors fended them off, and vouchsafed
nothing.
I seized upon this fellow who spoke English.
"Where are you taking us?"
"To the Governor. He is in Council now."
Down by the Bowling Green, near where the main fort displayed its flag
and menaced the bay with its cannon, Peter Stuyvesant sat in the upper
story of his home deliberating with his Council upon this crisis. But
we never reached there. We went only a block or two from the northern
edge of the city. The Dutchmen on the street corners gazed up at their
tin weathercocks and prayed for a storm that would blow Nichols's fleet
to perdition. They came running out from their gardens to regard us,
and jabbered some more. The city was flooded with words this night.
An argument broke out among our captors. We were faced about, taken
north again.
"What is it?" I demanded.
"Keep you here," said our interpreter. "The good Peter will come up to
see you."
We were taken back. Out beyond the stockade, a little blockhouse stood
on a rise of ground. The woods were thick around it.
"Leave you here," the fellow told us. "There is enough trouble in the
city tonight. Peter will come up to see you." He chuckled. "Tomorrow
they will bargain with Nichols's emissary at the Bowling Green--unless,
as I hope, the Council decides to have our fort blow up these cursed
English ships as soon as they appear. But if there is a bargain, by the
gods it is nice to have you English out here secluded in the woods as
hostages."
He evidently thought we were strangely dressed, important personages
connected with the English invasion. Sent ahead, perhaps, to stir up
the Indians in the northern woods. He said something like that; and how
could we contradict it?
The log fort was a heavy-set structure. Two rooms in the lower story
with an open space like an attic under the peaked roof. We were flung
into one of the rooms. Its windows were barred with solid planks. The
Dutchmen bound us with lengths of rope and laid us like bundles on the
floor.
"Lie there--keep quiet."
* * * * *
They slammed the oak door upon us. We lay in the darkness. In the next
room when most of them departed, we fancied some half a dozen had been
left to guard us. We heard their voices; the light from their candles
showed through the chinks of the interior log wall.
We whispered to each other. We were worried about Nanette but she was
unhurt.
"Yes, all right, Alan. But I'm so frightened."
"At least it's better than being in Turber's hands, Nanette." If we
could escape now, there might still be time to get back to the tower.
If not--well, we might be stranded here to live out our lives in New
Amsterdam. But at least, these Dutchmen probably would not murder us.
But could we escape? It seemed impossible. We lay in the darkness on
the log floor, bound securely.
An interval went by. There was a stir outside. Thumping. More voices.
The door opened. Peter Stuyvesant came in. He stood, balanced upon his
wooden leg and regarded us in the light of a candle held aloft. Eyed us
as though we were some monstrosities; poked at us with the peg of his
leg; and turned and stumped back to the doorway.
And in the doorway then, I saw Wolf Turber standing! Turber, in his
black cloak, his white shirt gleaming beneath it. His sardonic gaze
upon us.
The thing struck us with such surprise and horror that neither Alan nor
I moved, or spoke. The door was left open. Turber and Stuyvesant sat at
a table. The candlelight showed them plainly. There seemed now only one
other man in the room--some trusted patroon, no doubt.
Turber spoke this contemporary Dutch. They conversed. We could hear
them, but could not understand a word.
What they said, never will be disclosed. Unrecorded history, this!
A furtive, hidden incident--who was there ever to record it? Did
Stuyvesant think Turber some magician? Or just a rich adventurer?
A bargain was struck. From a bag Turber produced jewels. And coins,
and chunks of gold. He piled them on the table in the candlelight.
He and Stuyvesant drank from their goblets to seal the bargain.
Stuyvesant gathered up the treasure and stuffed it in the pockets of
his great-coat.
[Illustration: _A bargain was struck with Peter Stuyvesant._]
Turber came in to us. He bent down. "If you speak or move, I'll have
them kill you now." He chuckled. "Say good-by to Nanette--quite a
little fortune I paid for her, but she's worth it."
He lifted up Nanette. He untied her thongs. She cried out--just once.
"Don't be frightened, child. I won't hurt you."
Alan and I were straining at our bonds.
"Quiet, you fools!" We had helplessly tried to menace him with words.
He led Nanette from the room. The door closed upon us. We could hear
Stuyvesant leaving. And then Turber taking Nanette away. His voice
reached us:
"Don't be frightened, child."
There was silence.
Another interval passed. There were again guards in the room outside. I
whispered: "Alan, it must be nearly dawn."
We had no idea. There were spaces in the outer log walls where the
morticed filling had fallen away. But only blackness showed.
In the adjoining room there was candlelight, and the drowsy voices of
the Dutchmen.
"Alan, what's that?"
A thud had sounded; something striking the roof over our heads. Then
another. Off in the woods there was a shout. A war-whoop! And other
thuds. A rain of arrows falling upon the roof and the side of the
little fort.
An Indian attack! The Dutchmen in the adjoining room made short work
of getting out of this isolated building. They did not come in even
to look at us. They decamped into the woods, running for the village
stockade.
We were left alone. Helpless!
The rain of arrows kept on. We could hear the Indians shouting, but
they did not advance.
The dawn was coming. Or was it the dawn? A red glow showing through the
log walls. Red and yellow. I smelled smoke! Alan coughed with a sudden
choking.
The little log blockhouse was being bombarded with flaming arrows. It
was on fire, filling up with smoke which already was choking us!