Read Online New York - The Novel by Edward Rutherfurd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
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creaked and a pale, cold light fell across them.
The old farmer was standing in the doorway. He had a flintlock. It was pointed at Tom.
Annetie was gazing at the old man blankly. But the farmer was intent upon Tom. He indicated to Tom that he should get up. Pulling on his clothes, Tom did so, picking up his coat and his satchel. The farmer motioned him toward the door. Was he going to shoot him outside? But once in the yard, the farmer pointed to the track that led back up the slope. His message was clear: Get out.
Tom in turn pointed to the stable where his horse was. The farmer cocked his gun. Tom made another step. The farmer took aim. Would the old Dutchman really shoot him? They were miles from anywhere. Who would do anything about it if he disappeared? Reluctantly, Tom turned toward the track and made his way up into the woods.
But once out of sight, he paused. After waiting a while, he crept back toward the farmstead. The place was silent. Whatever had passed between the farmer and Annetie, there was no sign of any activity now. Skirting the house, he stole toward the stable door.
The bang almost made him jump out of his skin. The shot passed over his head and smacked into the stable door in front of him. He turned and saw the old farmer. He was standing on the porch, reloading his flintlock.
Tom looked for an escape. He started to run down toward the river. He made for the little dock and the boat. It was only the work of a moment to untie it. Thank God there was a paddle in the boat. But he’d hardly clambered in before another shot rang out, and a splash in the water told him that the old man had only missed him by a foot or two. Seizing the paddle, he pushed off and paddled furiously downstream. He didn’t pause or even look back until he’d gone a quarter-mile. He’d gone downstream with the tide after that, pulling into the bank and resting when it turned.
During his rest, however, it had occurred to him that he still didn’t know whether Annetie was the old man’s wife, daughter, or had some other relationship entirely. Only one thing was certain. The farmer had his horse, which was worth a lot more than the boat he’d taken.
The thought had bothered him.
Van Dyck let Tom eat in silence. But after a while he asked him whether he’d seen the English fleet in Boston. At this, Tom seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then allowed that he had. “And what’s the fleet doing, exactly?” van Dyck asked. Again the young man hesitated, then he shrugged.
“They were busy in Boston when I left.” He took a corncake and chewed on it for a few moments, staring down at the ground. But van Dyck had a feeling he knew more than he was telling. The Indians asked him if the stranger was a good man. “I don’t know,” he answered in Algonquin. “You should watch him.”
The Indians told van Dyck he should return to them when the summer was over, to join in the hunt. Van Dyck had hunted with them before. The big hunts were enjoyable, but ruthless. Locating the deer, a huge party would fan out in a great arc—the more people the better—and come through the forest beating the trees, driving the deer toward the river. Once the deer were slowed up in the water, it was easy to kill them. So long as there were deer, these Algonquin lived well. Van Dyck promised he would come. And he continued to talk and laugh with them for some time.
It was clear that his obvious friendship with the Indians intrigued the young Englishman. For after a while he asked van Dyck if it was usual for the Dutch to be so friendly with the natives.
“You English do not care to know the Indian customs?” the Dutchman asked.
The young man shook his head.
“The Boston men are busy getting rid of their Indians. It isn’t difficult. They just need one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Wampum.” The young man gave a wry smile. “The Boston men make the Indians pay tribute in wampum, according to how many men, women and children
The old farmer was standing in the doorway. He had a flintlock. It was pointed at Tom.
Annetie was gazing at the old man blankly. But the farmer was intent upon Tom. He indicated to Tom that he should get up. Pulling on his clothes, Tom did so, picking up his coat and his satchel. The farmer motioned him toward the door. Was he going to shoot him outside? But once in the yard, the farmer pointed to the track that led back up the slope. His message was clear: Get out.
Tom in turn pointed to the stable where his horse was. The farmer cocked his gun. Tom made another step. The farmer took aim. Would the old Dutchman really shoot him? They were miles from anywhere. Who would do anything about it if he disappeared? Reluctantly, Tom turned toward the track and made his way up into the woods.
But once out of sight, he paused. After waiting a while, he crept back toward the farmstead. The place was silent. Whatever had passed between the farmer and Annetie, there was no sign of any activity now. Skirting the house, he stole toward the stable door.
The bang almost made him jump out of his skin. The shot passed over his head and smacked into the stable door in front of him. He turned and saw the old farmer. He was standing on the porch, reloading his flintlock.
Tom looked for an escape. He started to run down toward the river. He made for the little dock and the boat. It was only the work of a moment to untie it. Thank God there was a paddle in the boat. But he’d hardly clambered in before another shot rang out, and a splash in the water told him that the old man had only missed him by a foot or two. Seizing the paddle, he pushed off and paddled furiously downstream. He didn’t pause or even look back until he’d gone a quarter-mile. He’d gone downstream with the tide after that, pulling into the bank and resting when it turned.
During his rest, however, it had occurred to him that he still didn’t know whether Annetie was the old man’s wife, daughter, or had some other relationship entirely. Only one thing was certain. The farmer had his horse, which was worth a lot more than the boat he’d taken.
The thought had bothered him.
Van Dyck let Tom eat in silence. But after a while he asked him whether he’d seen the English fleet in Boston. At this, Tom seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then allowed that he had. “And what’s the fleet doing, exactly?” van Dyck asked. Again the young man hesitated, then he shrugged.
“They were busy in Boston when I left.” He took a corncake and chewed on it for a few moments, staring down at the ground. But van Dyck had a feeling he knew more than he was telling. The Indians asked him if the stranger was a good man. “I don’t know,” he answered in Algonquin. “You should watch him.”
The Indians told van Dyck he should return to them when the summer was over, to join in the hunt. Van Dyck had hunted with them before. The big hunts were enjoyable, but ruthless. Locating the deer, a huge party would fan out in a great arc—the more people the better—and come through the forest beating the trees, driving the deer toward the river. Once the deer were slowed up in the water, it was easy to kill them. So long as there were deer, these Algonquin lived well. Van Dyck promised he would come. And he continued to talk and laugh with them for some time.
It was clear that his obvious friendship with the Indians intrigued the young Englishman. For after a while he asked van Dyck if it was usual for the Dutch to be so friendly with the natives.
“You English do not care to know the Indian customs?” the Dutchman asked.
The young man shook his head.
“The Boston men are busy getting rid of their Indians. It isn’t difficult. They just need one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Wampum.” The young man gave a wry smile. “The Boston men make the Indians pay tribute in wampum, according to how many men, women and children
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