Captive Splendors (32 page)

Shortly after dawn, when only the earliest rising inhabitants of Saybrook were stirring, Caleb rowed ashore in the jolly and made his way around the back of the rustic Company building to the stables. One glance at the poorly fed, ill-kempt horses filled him with contempt for Conrad's inefficient handling of Company property.

After watering and feeding the three mounts, he finally chose one he thought would withstand the trip to New Amsterdam without mishap. After saddling his horse he led it from the stable and called to a small boy who was playing in the street. He reached in his pocket tossed the youth several coins and told him to curry the other two horses and lead them around the stable yard for exercise.

The boy, whose name was Sammy, was delighted with the coins and bobbed his head agreeably as he looked up at the tall man with the shiny boots. “I'll have to tell my mum, sir, and hand over the coins. Will that be all right?”

Caleb smiled. “It will be fine. Do a good job and you can do it every day. How old are you, son?”

“I'm seven, sir, but I'm big for my age and strong, too!” he said enthusiastically. “Could I be your ostler? My da' taught me everything about horses. And my family would be real pleased if I had the job. My da' has just about used up all our savings, and the store won't be giving out credit to the farmers. Governor's orders.” The small face darkened with the injustice of the order and then brightened as he saw Caleb give his request deep thought.

“Governor's orders, is it? You're hired as long as you can do the job and your family gives permission. When I get back, we'll settle on a wage agreeable to your dad.” So there was another matter to settle with the new governor. What right had he to claim that no credit be given to farmers?

 

Caleb sat tall in the saddle, urging his mount forward with a gentle hand and a firm pressure of his knees. He handled the animal with the same confident persuasion with which he mastered the
Sea Siren.
The steed surrendered to its rider, followed the well-traveled road out of Saybrook and turned west along the shoreline of the Sound.

Caleb squinted up at the sky and estimated he would find himself at the ferry landing well before dark. There he would take a ferryboat across the river to Manhattan Island. As he rode his mind wandered away from the governor and dwelled more and more upon Wren. No matter how he tried to discipline his thoughts, they kept returning to her. At times he could see her so clearly in his mind's eye that he believed he could reach out and touch her.

Traveling along the tree-lined roads, he felt the salt breeze from the Sound freshen his cheeks. And always he thought of her, felt her amber-lit eyes following him, imagined he could hear the sound of her voice, low and husky as she called his name. Wren would always be with him wherever he journeyed. And always his heart would cry out for her and his arms would be empty without her, and for the rest of his life, and possibly beyond, he would know he had met his destiny and lost it.

Two hours before dusk found Caleb disembarking from the ferry which had taken him across the water to Manhattan Island. He thought of Peter Minuit, the first director general of New Netherland. Now that good man was building colonies in New Sweden, along the Delaware River to the southwest.

Regardless of his quarrel with Governor Kiefft's policies concerning the outposts and the Indians, Caleb could find no fault with his attentions to the burgeoning colony of New Amsterdam. The streets were in the process of being paved with the cobblestones many ships used for ballast, and the people looked well fed and prosperous. Construction had been accomplished at an alarming rate, and Caleb had to ask for directions to the Governor's Manse.

Skirting around the center of New Amsterdam to avoid the clutter of carriages and people, Caleb took a side road, prodding his nearly exhausted mount with his heels and encouraging it with his voice. Coming around a bend, Caleb saw a group of men riding toward him, accompanied by a two-wheeled cart into which was built a cage. He immediately recognized the yellow cockade of Dutch militiamen and was curious to see whom or what they had caged in the cart. As he passed them, he glanced into the cart and saw two Indians who were rail-thin from lack of food and had suffered a severe beating, no doubt from the hands of the militiamen.

“What've they done?” Caleb asked the leader of the party in an offhand manner, careful to keep any note of pity from his voice. He was aware of his own vulnerability, being alone on a back road with eleven or more men who were apparently proud of having captured the unfortunate Indians.

“Thieves is what they are!” came the fast reply, accompanied by a bitter, self-satisfied smile.

“We had reports of poaching and stealing from several farmers, and we caught the devils in the act!” another offered.

“What were they stealing?” Caleb asked.

“What else? Grain and food, and they were poaching the sheep and cattle. There was a band of 'em, and all got away except these two. We'll make a fine example of them, we will. When their friends see their heads on pikes, they'll begin to think twice about coming over here to do their dirty work.”

Caleb again looked into the cage and was saddened by the apathetic expressions on the captives' faces. These red men were a far cry from the dignified, proud and noble Indians he was familiar with, and little wonder why. They were half starved and more than half dead from their beating.

“What's their tribe?” he asked, unable to distinguish any markings on them.

“Wappinger! And a fine bounty they'll bring.”

“Wappinger! I've heard they were a friendly tribe.”

“Maybe. But there's about a hundred of 'em stowed out on Staten Island, running away from marauding Mohawks. The governor don't care much about that, but canoeing over here and poaching is something else again. Indeed, these are the first we've captured, and we'll receive a nice purse for them, I can tell you that.”

Rage against this sort of injustice filled Caleb, and he kneed his horse sharply and continued down the road, eager now to come face to face with Kiefft.

The long, tree-lined stone drive leading to the expansive Governor's Manse was well tended and landscaped. Politics must be paying well, Caleb told himself as his weary mount plodded up the drive at a slow pace. Huge tubs of flowers and evergreens dotted the wide veranda, and lanterns were strategically placed near the potted plants. Caleb knew it would be a magnificent sight at night. Whom did the governor welcome that he needed all these expensive trappings? The house and everything inside and out belonged to the Dutch West India Company. Things had certainly improved from the profits, just as he knew they had the moment he had opened the ledger he had found in Saybrook and poured over the spidery column of almost nonexistent figures.

Caleb tethered his horse and stomped to the front door. He smirked. Solid mahogany. Must have cost a king's ransom in this part of the world. He gave the silver knocker a vicious tug and stood back, waiting to be admitted.

He wasn't surprised when a liveried footman opened the door, making Caleb think for a moment he was back in England, where pomp and ceremony were a daily occurrence. “Captain Caleb van der Rhys to see Governor Kiefft,” he said curtly.

“The governor retired early. His office in town would be happy to make an appointment for you, Captain. His lordship never sees anyone until after lunch.” The footman's tone was haughty, and with the firm, no-nonsense hand of a practiced major-domo, he began to push Caleb out the door.

“Is that so?” Caleb snarled as he gathered the startled man's starched shirt front in one hand and lifted him off his feet, setting him down at the side of the door. “Now point out the governor's rooms and then go about your business. I come here representing the Dutch West India Company, and it will go hard on you if you don't do as you're told.”

“I understand,” the footman said, wiping his perspiring brow. “However, sir, the governor has . . . there is . . . the governor is a man of . . .”

“Lusty tastes and he has a whore in his bed,” Caleb finished shortly. “Stand by so you can usher the lady out.”

Caleb didn't bother to knock at the governor's bedroom door but thrust open the carved structure. The sight that met his eyes was so ludicrous he guffawed loudly. Twin gelatinous globes of alabaster flesh pumped furiously at something hidden from Caleb's eyes. The dual mountains quivered and then collapsed, accompanied by deep, guttural moans.

“I hope that is the end of it,” Caleb laughed as he strode across the room and threw a cover over the fish-belly white flesh. He looked down at Willem Kiefft and hated him on sight. Bald, completely hairless, he reminded Caleb of an egg. The governor was without eyebrows or lashes, and his beady eyes glittered at the intrusion. His full, pouting mouth drew back, revealing tiny white teeth.

“Out!” The one word was a command aimed at the woman, who was already gathering her clothes together.

“Bellamy!” the governor shouted in outrage.

“If you're calling for your footman, save your breath. He has been informed who his employer is. Now, get your fat ass out of that bed before I do it for you. Put on some clothes and we'll talk. By the way, I am Captain van der Rhys, representing the Dutch West India Company.”

Fear momentarily glassed the governor's eyes and then was replaced with arrogance. “Now, see here, I'm the governor! Duly appointed! And that was my woman, and what right do you have to come barging in here?” His sensibilities returning, Kiefft assumed his usual bravado.

“By this right.” Caleb tossed a scroll of parchment onto the bed. “You are correct about one thing, though. She was a woman. Somehow I would have thought a man of your position would be more discriminating than to employ the services of a common whore. And you are governor only as long as I wish. And I don't wish! So get the hell out of that bed. Now!” A dark crimson color stained Caleb's face, his mouth drew into a bitter, cruel line, and there was no denying the authority he exuded.

Kiefft reached for the parchment Caleb had tossed him and scanned the message. “I have not received a dismissal order from Holland. Until I do, I am the acting governor, and neither you nor any stiff, crackling paper is going to say otherwise.”

“How much would you be willing to wager?” Caleb asked, reaching down and throwing back the coverlet. He moved slightly and pressed his knee into the man's groin. “That whore will never have to worry about being pounded to death again. Now, I want to know what's going on, and I want to know now.”

The governor gasped for breath, his face tinged blue from the pain Caleb was inflicting.

“You're using up precious time and you're also turning blue. A fat man like you shouldn't take such chances with his health. Why is the warehouse empty? Where are the furs that were to be ready for me to take to England? If you try to lie, I'll kill you here and now.”

“Take your knee . . . take it off and I'll tell you whatever you want to know,” the governor croaked. Caleb eased the pressure somewhat but didn't remove his knee. The fat man gulped air and drew in a deep breath. “The goddamn warehouse is empty because the goddamn Indians stole the furs. Now, will you get the hell off me before you kill me?”

“Why did they steal the furs? The Pequots were a peaceful tribe when I was last here. Their chief is a man of honor and peace.”

“The old chief is dead. Sassacus is the chief now. He's no old man. He's a savage bastard, is what he is. He'd sooner cut out your tongue than look at you. He stole the furs.”

“You aren't telling me why he stole them. I met Sassacus and I smoked the pipe with him and broke bread. If Sassacus has turned savage, then you made him that way. Tell me about the levy you fixed on his tribe.”

The governor rolled his head. “A small matter to bring them into line. All they had to do was spend a few more hours trapping and they could come up with the furs. They want everything handed to them on a silver platter. That's what happens when you teach them our language and try to make them civilized. They're like mad dogs and they turn on you every chance they get. They're savages. They're not fit to polish my boots.”

“What you mean is, they're too good to polish your boots. Were they good enough to lay that long, circular driveway and tend your lawns and flowers? What else are they good enough for? How do they work that off, you fat bastard?” Caleb gritted through clenched teeth.

“Someone had to do it!” Kiefft protested sharply, his heavy jowls quivering with tension. “For the pride of the Company! It's expected. While the Indians worked, they were fed. If extraordinary measures were needed to bring about their cooperation, then so be it!”

Caleb's lip curled into an ugly line, his distaste and contempt for Kiefft evident. “And a promise of food and a whip could insure their cooperation! Is that it?” he boomed. “Get up and get dressed. We've a long night ahead of us to discuss these ‘savages,' as you call them. When I return to Holland, I want to be able to tell the burghers what an excellent choice they made in selecting you governor of New Netherland.”

Kiefft bounded out of bed and ran to the adjacent dressing room in search of his clothes. He was frightened of van der Rhys, frightened of his authority and his contempt. A report from him to the right person in Holland would mean the end of his own governorship here in New Netherland. Kiefft knew he would have to watch his markers; if reform was necessary in this Dutch West India Company territory, it would behoove his own political career to see that he was the one who brought it about, instead of an upstart fresh from Holland in pursuit of grandeur and glory here in America.