Chapter 14
Residence of Hansje de Lang
January 8, 1637
“What part of ‘we might let you choose between a gallows and a headsman’s block’ did you not understand, Mijnheer Hartgers?” Dominie Brouwer tried to keep his tone simply sarcastic, but was pretty sure that the underlying anger—no, fury—was very close to the surface. Fine for Dirck Hartgers to be willing to chance the “justice” of the papist new governor, but Karl had no doubt at all that he’d be the first in line if a gallows were to be erected or a headsman’s block be brought out into the city’s square.
He rose to his feet, in order to add extra weight to his words. And then spent several seconds in silence, just gazing out over the small crowd gathered in the main room of de Lang’s house and staring down anyone who tried to glare at him.
“We will accept the governor’s proposal. As soon as the weather permits, we will sail to this ‘Charleston’ place in the south. It is by all accounts a more pleasant part of this continent to live in than the New Netherlands anyway. What’s more important is that it will place hundreds of miles between us and these papists and their lackeys.”
“But . . . ” Hartgers hadn’t given up yet. “By those same accounts, many of the people now infesting Charleston are no better. Worse, even. Some of them are pirates, they say.”
By now, though, the Dominie had swung most opinions his way. One of the newly arrived colonists—Brouwer couldn’t remember his name—stood up and said: “And so what if they are? There are more than enough of us to deal with any such ruffians. I am with the Dominie.”
“And I!”
“And I!”
Dominie Bogardus’ church
January 10, 1637
It seemed natural to hold the wedding here, thought Wolfert, after all that had happened. As he stood waiting for Brechtje to make her entrance, he gave the area a quick check.
The wishing tree was on a table in a corner, already festooned with wishes written by the guests. Next to it was a wedding box, inside of which was a bottle of wine and letters which he and Brechtje had written to each other. The box would remain sealed until such time—perhaps, even hopefully, never—when they fell upon hard times and needed a reminder as to why they had gotten married.
“She’s coming in,” murmured Eduart. “Try not to make a fool of yourself.” That seemed . . .
Inappropriate and disrespectful, certainly, especially coming from a former employee. But he decided it was probably the best advice he’d gotten all year.
He looked, then. Dear God, the woman was beautiful.