throne.
A glorious time to be alive. A few months later, England’s spymasters sent Raeger out as an agent-innkeeper to keep an eye on Dutch doings in New Netherland. Now, as host, the man laid out roast chicken, sliced venison, potatoes, fat chunks of smoked salmon. Drummond stared down at the spread, disbelieving the size of an oyster offered to him, nearly a foot long. New world bounty.
On the table also, two small lengths of rope, one from Raeger and one from Drummond, both tied in an elaborate wall-and-crown knot. Drummond had placed his down, and Raeger answered with his. Their code, the pass-sign, the emblem of the Sealed Knot.
The Society of the Sealed Knot devoted itself to the English monarchy. During the Civil War, to be caught with a wall-and-crown on your person meant immediate hanging. The knotted rope indicated Drummond was present to meet Raeger on the king’s business.
Raeger brought out the good Canary sack, in order, he announced, “that we need not drink the vile Holland gin.” Which, from the sound of drunken voices, the louts and bullyboys in the taproom downstairs were pouring down their throats as though the world might end.
“So, I’ll have to go to Connecticut for the regicides,” Drummond said, resignation in his voice, weary from tracking the king-killers all over creation. “But first I must head north to Fort Orange and Beaver Town, to establish this ridiculous incognito I am hauling around.”
“Last few years, the wheat business is booming,” Raeger said. “Maybe you could take a profit from it.”
“To Fort Orange, then overland to, where, Hartford? Then finally New Haven and the regicides? What would that trip be like?”
“A horror. The Boston Post Road. Easier to come back here, and sail up the coast by boat,” Raeger said. “Unless…”
Drummond eyed him. “Unless what?”
“Last July, the river indians made some kind of mess up north, and the Dutch are blaming the English. Anytime the Sopus act up, we catch the fault.”
“And what could I do about it?”
“I was instructed that at the present time we are to avoid another indian war,” Raeger said.
“Now I’m a preventer of wars? Whenever someone wants me to perform a miracle, I tell them, no, thank you, sainthood is much too dangerous an occupation, I’ll stick to the safety of soldiering.”
“Well, somebody should make a visit. I’d do it, but I have a public house to run.”
“A visit. What are we talking about?”
“There’s the Hendrickson plantation where the thing happened, on the east side of the river, opposite Wildwyck. Grisly sort of killing, we heard about it all the way down here, it’s got everyone spooked. There’ve been pamphlets distributed around the colony with the bloody details.”
He took a folded sheet of foolscap from his vest and slid it across the table to Drummond.
He came prepared
, Drummond thought.
“They’re talking devils in the woods,” Raeger said. “Ghosties and goblins.”
Two texts, one English, one Dutch, written side by side. T HE L ATE M ASSACRE AT P INE P LAINS , read the headline. “A faithful account of a bloody, treacherous and cruel plot by the English in America, purporting the total ruin and murder of all the Dutch colonists in New Netherland.”
Drummond scanned the lurid prose. Blood spilled in the wilderness. Aboriginal demons, eaters of flesh. Esopus indians, English subterfuge to blame.
And this: “To God alone has the fearful tragedy been revealed.”
He put the pamphlet back on the table and lifted his tankard. He felt the need to wash out his mouth.
“A ghost story,” he said.
Raeger nodded. “The whole colony has an indian hobgoblin on the brain.”
“I don’t understand,” Drummond said. “We English are said to enlist some sort of flesh-eater?”
“People are too scared to think clearly,” Raeger said. “One of the Hendrickson brothers is downstairs right now. Do you want to talk to him?”
Drummond demurred.
A glorious time to be alive. A few months later, England’s spymasters sent Raeger out as an agent-innkeeper to keep an eye on Dutch doings in New Netherland. Now, as host, the man laid out roast chicken, sliced venison, potatoes, fat chunks of smoked salmon. Drummond stared down at the spread, disbelieving the size of an oyster offered to him, nearly a foot long. New world bounty.
On the table also, two small lengths of rope, one from Raeger and one from Drummond, both tied in an elaborate wall-and-crown knot. Drummond had placed his down, and Raeger answered with his. Their code, the pass-sign, the emblem of the Sealed Knot.
The Society of the Sealed Knot devoted itself to the English monarchy. During the Civil War, to be caught with a wall-and-crown on your person meant immediate hanging. The knotted rope indicated Drummond was present to meet Raeger on the king’s business.
Raeger brought out the good Canary sack, in order, he announced, “that we need not drink the vile Holland gin.” Which, from the sound of drunken voices, the louts and bullyboys in the taproom downstairs were pouring down their throats as though the world might end.
“So, I’ll have to go to Connecticut for the regicides,” Drummond said, resignation in his voice, weary from tracking the king-killers all over creation. “But first I must head north to Fort Orange and Beaver Town, to establish this ridiculous incognito I am hauling around.”
“Last few years, the wheat business is booming,” Raeger said. “Maybe you could take a profit from it.”
“To Fort Orange, then overland to, where, Hartford? Then finally New Haven and the regicides? What would that trip be like?”
“A horror. The Boston Post Road. Easier to come back here, and sail up the coast by boat,” Raeger said. “Unless…”
Drummond eyed him. “Unless what?”
“Last July, the river indians made some kind of mess up north, and the Dutch are blaming the English. Anytime the Sopus act up, we catch the fault.”
“And what could I do about it?”
“I was instructed that at the present time we are to avoid another indian war,” Raeger said.
“Now I’m a preventer of wars? Whenever someone wants me to perform a miracle, I tell them, no, thank you, sainthood is much too dangerous an occupation, I’ll stick to the safety of soldiering.”
“Well, somebody should make a visit. I’d do it, but I have a public house to run.”
“A visit. What are we talking about?”
“There’s the Hendrickson plantation where the thing happened, on the east side of the river, opposite Wildwyck. Grisly sort of killing, we heard about it all the way down here, it’s got everyone spooked. There’ve been pamphlets distributed around the colony with the bloody details.”
He took a folded sheet of foolscap from his vest and slid it across the table to Drummond.
He came prepared
, Drummond thought.
“They’re talking devils in the woods,” Raeger said. “Ghosties and goblins.”
Two texts, one English, one Dutch, written side by side. T HE L ATE M ASSACRE AT P INE P LAINS , read the headline. “A faithful account of a bloody, treacherous and cruel plot by the English in America, purporting the total ruin and murder of all the Dutch colonists in New Netherland.”
Drummond scanned the lurid prose. Blood spilled in the wilderness. Aboriginal demons, eaters of flesh. Esopus indians, English subterfuge to blame.
And this: “To God alone has the fearful tragedy been revealed.”
He put the pamphlet back on the table and lifted his tankard. He felt the need to wash out his mouth.
“A ghost story,” he said.
Raeger nodded. “The whole colony has an indian hobgoblin on the brain.”
“I don’t understand,” Drummond said. “We English are said to enlist some sort of flesh-eater?”
“People are too scared to think clearly,” Raeger said. “One of the Hendrickson brothers is downstairs right now. Do you want to talk to him?”
Drummond demurred.
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