Read Remember the Morning Online
Authors: Thomas Fleming
Remember the Morning (7 page)
Nevertheless, the bleeding revived the old man. He recovered from his daze and reached out for my hand. “Stay with me, Pettikin,” he murmured.
I sat on the bed holding his big rough hand throughout the night. Clara made him as comfortable as possible, bathing his forehead with cold water, giving him brandy mixed with eau-de-vie, at Dr. Hopper's suggestion.
Grandfather's mind wandered. At times he talked to the other Catalyntie. “Oh Pet, Pet,” he whispered. “If I could have you in my arms again I'd live like the poorest sailor on Dock Street. Are you waiting for me on the far shore? That's my only prayer.”
He returned to the present and smiled at me. “Pettikin,” he murmured. “You've come back to me. Doesn't that prove God is good? Don't blame Him for the terror and grief of this world. He's doing the best he can with His mercy. He gives us just enough to trust in His goodness. None of us deserve more.”
“You deserve all the mercy in this world and beyond it!” I cried.
“Yes,” Clara said. “You have nothing to fear. The room is full of good spirits. I can feel them pressing around us, their arms open to you, saying come, come.”
The reassurance seemed to give the old man strength. He spoke to me in a calm clear voice. “My will leaves you everything I own. It's not a great deal of money. When I retired from business, I gave most of my wealth to Johannes and his family. I thought you were dead. Much will depend on the price they can get for this house and my Long Island estate. I've urged Johannes to add to it the value of the Mohawk lands, which are rightfully yours, as well as a share of the New Netherlands Trading Company. Whatever you get, be careful with it. Go into business in a small way at first. Open a store. Never risk everything on a single investment. If you need to borrow money, go to Nathan Franks. Don't worry about him being a Jew. He's an honest man.”
Tears trickled down his cheeks. “I had hoped I could stand behind you and protect you for a while. But you must make your own way. It will be difficult at first but don't lose heart. Remember who you areâa
Van Vorst. We triumph over our mistakes. Always look to the future, foresee itâand you'll grow rich.”
Van Vorst. We triumph over our mistakes. Always look to the future, foresee itâand you'll grow rich.”
He closed his eyes and struggled for breath. “That's not the whole of life. I hope you'll find a husband who loves you and gives you healthy children. A loving family is the only real source of happiness in this world. But sign nothing that limits control of your money. Remember you're Dutch, which means you value liberty above all things.”
Love. The dying old man was flooding the room, the house, the whole city with his love. “Always believe, no matter where I go or what I become, if I can reach out and protect you, I'll do it,” he said. “Now I must begin my voyage. Hold my hand until I cast off.”
Tears streaming, I pressed his hand to my lips, then clutched it to my breasts. Grandfather closed his eyes and his breathing grew slower and slower. Then came a last shuddering sigh and his big head fell to one side on the pillow. Clara reached over and closed his eyes.
“Let us sing a death song for him,” Clara said. “To make sure his spirit is not assailed by the Evil Brother.”
We began wailing the chants we had heard since girlhood in our longhouses on the shore of Lake Ontario. The songs were full of magic phrases that had protected the souls of warriors for hundreds of years. Again and again we repeated them, our young hearts swelling with a near frenzy of love and sorrow.
“What the devil is this? Stop that infernal racket!”
Johannes Van Vorst stood in the doorway of the bedroom. With him was his frowning wife and a tall solemn man in black, who looked equally angry about our Indian behavior.
“Can't we pray for his spirit?” I said.
“That's precisely what we've come to doâwith the Reverend Van Dam,” Gertrude Van Vorst said. “Christian prayers, not heathen howling from the bowels of Great Satan.”
“Kneel down,” Johannes Van Vorst said. Clara and I obeyed him, though we found the idea of kneeling to pray absurd. How could the Manitou respect someone who crawled to him like a dog?
Crowding into the room behind them came the Van Vorsts' daughters and a half dozen strangers, all men around my uncle's age. They knelt and the Reverend Van Dam called on God to forgive Cornelius Van Vorst for his sins as he approached the seat of divine judgment.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “What sins has this man committed?”
“Be quiet! No one has the slightest interest in your opinion,” Uncle Johannes said.
The Reverend Van Dam departed after another ten minutes of morose pleas for mercy on the soul of Cornelius Van Vorst. Uncle Johannes rose
to his feet and began doing business. “Under the terms of my father's will, this house and his Long Island property are left in trust to my niece,” he said. “As the executor of the estate, I'm prepared to take bids on them at my office tomorrow morning. Be good enough to let your friends know about it. I wish to convert the estate into cash as soon as possible.”
to his feet and began doing business. “Under the terms of my father's will, this house and his Long Island property are left in trust to my niece,” he said. “As the executor of the estate, I'm prepared to take bids on them at my office tomorrow morning. Be good enough to let your friends know about it. I wish to convert the estate into cash as soon as possible.”
The men murmured their assent and followed the Reverend Van Dam into the night. “Why must you sell the house?” I asked. “Clara and I would prefer to live here. I plan to open a store on Pearl Street with whatever money Grandfather left me.”
“Under the laws of the province of New York, eighteen-year-old girls cannot inherit land or money,” Johannes said. “Much less open stores. The best thing to do is convert everything into cash and invest it in the New Netherlands Trading Company. That way your money will grow and when you reach the age of twenty-one you'll inherit twice as much as you have now.”
“I'd rather loan it out at interest,” I said.
“It's a good thing you have a wise uncle,” Gertrude Van Vorst said. “Otherwise you'd be penniless within a year. Pack your things. You're moving to our house in the morning and don't argue about it.”
“What about Clara?” I said. Clara was standing to one side, fear of these people all too visible on her face.
“She'll have plenty to doâin our laundry room,” Aunt Gertrude said.
“Is this what my grandfather intended in his will?” I asked Uncle Johannes.
“Yes,” he said. “It's all being done in strict accordance with the law.”
“Is that what is known as a clever lie?” I said.
Gertrude Van Vorst slapped me in the face with the flat of her hand. “You will learn to control your Indian mouth, young woman. You will learn a great many things in my house. Now get upstairs and pack.”
I rubbed my burning cheek. “Come, Clara,” I said, “We'll pack our things together.”
Johannes shoved Clara back against the wall. “There's nothing she needs to pack. We'll sell her finery at auction tomorrow, with the house.”
I heard Grandfather saying the way might be hard for me. Already it was harder than he had foreseen. How much harder would it be for Clara? “You're still my sister,” I said. “You'll always be my sister, no matter what they do.”
“How can you say such a thing!” Gertrude Van Vorst cried. “I'm beginning to think you're possessed by the devil.”
TWO
S
O BEGAN OUR SOJOURN IN THE Van Vorst household. Clara was consigned to the servant quarters in the basement. Her bedroom was windowless, airless, more like a cave or a prison cell. I was given a comfortable room upstairs. We saw each other daily but it was dangerous for us to speak. Clara was threatened with a whipping if she said a word to me. I was told I would be locked in my room without food for the rest of the day. I slipped her a note, urging her to have patience. I would do my best to extricate us from this nightmare.
O BEGAN OUR SOJOURN IN THE Van Vorst household. Clara was consigned to the servant quarters in the basement. Her bedroom was windowless, airless, more like a cave or a prison cell. I was given a comfortable room upstairs. We saw each other daily but it was dangerous for us to speak. Clara was threatened with a whipping if she said a word to me. I was told I would be locked in my room without food for the rest of the day. I slipped her a note, urging her to have patience. I would do my best to extricate us from this nightmare.
That proved far from simple. Each day I was sent to a school with my two Van Vorst cousins, where young women were taught to read French, dance minuets, and serve teaâthe three accomplishments a wealthy young New York female was expected to acquire before marriage. The school was run by a fat bustling Englishwoman named Madame Ardsley, who also devoted a good deal of time to scouring any and all traces of a New York accent from our vocabularies. New Yorkers were inclined to say “tree” instead of three and “dem” instead of themâa tribute to the numbers of Dutch in the city. We were all required to talk through our noses like highborn Englishwomen.
Clara, meanwhile, was toiling as a washerwoman below stairs, under the eyes of Fat Alice, the African who ran the house, along with her somewhat feckless husband, Thin Tom. Fat Alice and her daughter, Hester, who was her mother's size, regarded Clara with undisguised dislike. My grandfather's cook, Shirley, had told them about our comfortable life in his house and they had also heard about our stroll to the Bowling Green in our London-style gowns.
Fat Alice called Clara “the Princess” and gave her all the dirtiest jobs in the houseâemptying the chamber pots each morning, scrubbing the floors, doing the heaps of wash that Aunt Gertrude, a fanatic about cleanliness like all Dutch
vrouws,
6
required each week. While Clara labored, she was subjected to a running chorus of abuse. “What was you doin' for old Cornelius?” Fat Alice would ask. “He was too old to fuck. You
do Indian dances with nothin' but candlelight on your pretty little chocolate ass?”
vrouws,
6
required each week. While Clara labored, she was subjected to a running chorus of abuse. “What was you doin' for old Cornelius?” Fat Alice would ask. “He was too old to fuck. You
do Indian dances with nothin' but candlelight on your pretty little chocolate ass?”
“I did nothing. He was kind and good,” Clara said.
“How come he sired a son of a bitch like Master Johannes?” Fat Alice said.
“Why don't you ask Mrs. Van Vorst that question?” Clara said.
“You watch your tongue, girl. Or you'll get de whippin' of your life,” Fat Alice said.
Her daughter Hester overheard this exchange and told Aunt Gertrude that Clara called her husband a son of a bitch. Clara was locked in her basement room and deprived of dinner.
I could see that the situation was building toward an explosion. On Saturday afternoon, I went off to the Bowling Green and found Malcolm Stapleton talking to a broad-chested freckle-faced young man in a stylish blue coat and yellow waistcoat. He was introduced as Guert Cuyler.
“My God!” Mr. Cuyler exclaimed. “You're far more lovely than this tongue-tied lout said you were. I'm honored to meet you, Miss Van Vorst.”
“Guert's a direct descendant of Peter Stuyvesant,” Malcolm said, winking at me. “He thinks you should have nothing to do with Robert Nicolls. If you fall in love with him, he'll consider it treason.”
“I'm afraid I have a much more serious matter to discuss with you, Mr. Stapleton,” I said. I described Clara's unhappy life in the Van Vorst householdâand my own unpleasant one. I begged him to ask his father or someone else for help.
“I'll talk to my father,” Malcolm promised. “I'm not sure what he can do. He's involved in business with your uncleâ”
“I'm studying law in my father's office. I'll speak to him,” Guert said.
“I have no money to pay a lawyer,” I said.
“There will be nothing to pay,” he said.
As they walked me back to my uncle's house on Broad Street, Thin Tom came running toward us. “Help!” he cried. “Get a constable. The Indian Negar's going to kill my mistress!”
We raced to the house, followed by a considerable crowd. Fat Alice and her daughter were screaming around the entrance hall and parlor. “What's happened?” I asked.
“Your friend Clara's got a carvin' knife in her hand. She's gonna kill my sweet momma!” Hester howled.
“What did you do to her, you fat bitch?” I screamed at Alice.
“She said she wouldn't do der wash widdout somethin' to eat,” Fat Alice said. “I called my mistress who come down to de basement with a
cat
7
in her hand. Dat Indian grabbed a knife and chased her upstairs and me and Hester wid her.”
cat
7
in her hand. Dat Indian grabbed a knife and chased her upstairs and me and Hester wid her.”
Aunt Gertrude came downstairs with the cat still in her hand. She was blowing like a racehorse. She had obviously run all the way to the roof. “That creature will be punished at the public whipping post or my name is not Gertrude Van Vorst!” she cried.
“Wouldn't it have been simpler to give her something to eat?” I said.
In a passion, she raised the whip to lash me but Malcolm Stapleton caught her hand. “Calm down, Mrs. Van Vorst,” he said.
“I will not calm down! Who invited you into my house?”
“Your niece here.”
“She's not entitled to such privileges.”
At this point Clara emerged from the basement with no sign of a knife in her hand. Almost simultaneously, Thin Tom appeared at the street door with a squat middle-aged man who wore a shoemaker's leather apron around his thick waist.
“Constable
8
Warner, I want this creature taken before a magistrate!” Aunt Gertrude said. “She's threatened us with murder for no reason.”
8
Warner, I want this creature taken before a magistrate!” Aunt Gertrude said. “She's threatened us with murder for no reason.”
“She threatened to whip me with that cat-o'-nine-tails. Isn't that a reason?” Clara said.
“Madam Van Vorst,” Warner said. “I've got a business to run. It's not a constable's part to keep peace among quarreling females.”
“You're paid out of the public purse, sir!” Gertrude Van Vorst cried. “I insist you take her to the jail and bring her before a magistrate in the morning. She's a danger to every person in this house. Only a public whipping will change her ways.”
“Did you mean what you said about murdering?” Warner asked Clara.
“I meant every word. I'll kill anyone who tries to whip me,” she said.
“Goddamn all,” Warner roared. He seized Clara by the arm and dragged her into the street. Pushing and prodding her ahead of him, he hurried her to a big stone building on the corner of Wall and Nassau streets, which she soon learned was New York's City Hall. In front of it was a set of stocks, in which two disconsolate-looking whores sat, their arms and legs pinned in the holes, while a crowd of boys hurled jeers in their painted faces. Beside the stocks was a bright red post with manacles dangling from it.
“There's where they're going to cure you of murdering talk tomorrow,” Constable Warner said. “I wouldn't be surprised if you get twenty or thirty lashes.”
Downstairs in City Hall's gloomy basement, a stumpy man wearing a
dirty grey wig was eating a plate of oysters. He had crossed eyes, which struck fear into Clara's soul. Was it a sign that he was in the service of the Evil Brother?
dirty grey wig was eating a plate of oysters. He had crossed eyes, which struck fear into Clara's soul. Was it a sign that he was in the service of the Evil Brother?
“What's this, more thievery?” he asked Warner.
“Nothing of the sort, Sheriff,” Warner growled. “The piece belongs to Her High Mightiness Van Vorst. Says she wants to murder the lot of them. I was tempted to tell her to go to it.”
The cross-eyed man stood up and stretched. A dozen heavy keys clanked at his waist. “Old Staats is sitting tomorrow,” he said. “He'll take good care of her. They killed one of his sons in 1712.”
He unlocked a heavy door and waved Clara along a narrow foul-smelling corridor, illuminated only by a single small window at the end of it. Halfway down, he unlocked another heavy door and shoved her into a cell that stank of piss and shit. A bucket, half full of the stuff, had obviously gone unemptied for a week. In the light from a dirty window Clara saw the floor was covered with a horde of roaches and other crawling creatures. There was neither a bed nor a chair. She would have to share the dirt-crusted floor with the insects.
“You got any money?” the sheriff asked.
“No.”
“You better find some if you want to eat anything.”
9
9
He slammed the door and clumped back down the corridor to finish his oysters. Out of the silence a voice spoke from a cell on the other side of the corridor: “What's your name, beautiful?”
“Clara.”
“Caesar over here. I'll get you somethin' to eat. What do you like? Oysters? Roast potatoes? Clams?”
“I don't care.”
“You got to change that way of thinkin', beautiful. You can make a man give you just about anything you want if you set your mind to it.”
Clara was too miserable to reply. She huddled against the wall by the cell door, her head bowed on her knees. Perhaps death was better than this sort of life. If they beat her at the whipping post she would murder someone, preferably Gertrude Van Vorst, and let them hang her.
The cell door swung open. “Caesar says you can have some of his dinner,” the jailer said. “You want to risk it?”
Clara did not know why she should fear Caesar. She crossed the corridor to find herself facing a husky young African. He was as tall as a Seneca warrior, with a flashing smile and bold carefree eyes. He gave the jailer some gold coins and bowed Clara into his cell, which had a cot,
blankets, and a chair and table. The floor was relatively clean and his slop bucket was empty.
blankets, and a chair and table. The floor was relatively clean and his slop bucket was empty.
On the table was a big plate of roasted clams, some ale, and plates of roasted potatoes and vegetables. Caesar grandly waved Clara to a seat. She was too disconsolate to eat much but Caesar did not let her gloom discourage him from enjoying a hearty meal. While he ate, he persuaded her to tell him why she was in jail. She described her persecution by Gertrude Van Vorst, Fat Alice, and her lying daughter, Hester.
“Fat Alice's mad at the world because she's so damn ugly she couldn't get no one but that walkin' skeleton, Thin Tom, to fuck her,” Caesar said. “She used to parade after me but I told her I'd rather do it with a sheep.”
“Do all the people of color hate me?” Clara said.
“Of course not. But they can't stop talkin' about you.”
“Why are you in jail?”
Caesar grinned. “If I told you that, you might blab it to the judge and Caesar would be dancin' at the end of a rope the next day. Let's just say they don't like the way I get my hands on ready money.”
“What will they do to you?”
“Depends on the magistrate I draw. I might get forty or fifty lashes or maybe just a warnin'. I usually get a warnin' because my master, old Johnny Vraack, can't run his bakery without me. He'd starve without Caesar. So he puts in a plea to the magistrate not to damage his property. Since it's all just talk and suspicion anyway, if the magistrate's Dutch, he goes along. The Dutch hate English law and love to thumb their noses at it.”
“What if you get an English magistrate?”
“He may decide to inflict some damage, just to be on the safe side. But I been lashed before. It's just another debit in Caesar's book.”
“Debit?”
“A debt. A debt of honor.” Caesar drained the last of the ale and smiled mysteriously. He was a little drunk. “Someday Caesar's goin' to rule this town. I wasn't named Caesar for no reason. It's the name of a great general from long long ago, a man who was more powerful than this Jesus the whites are always talkin' about. General Caesar hung Jesus from a cross, that's how powerful he was.”
Caesar leaned across the table, his voice low, his eyes hooded. “There's goin' to be another war. The French and the Spanish are goin' to attack New York from outside. Caesar will have an army inside. We'll help them win the battle. We'll pay back every one of the debits the whites owe us.”
Caesar leaped from the table and bounded around the cell, swinging an imaginary sword, slashing the shadows along the walls of the cell, spearing the empty ale bottle. “What a day that will be, beautiful. What
a dayâand what a night. We'll burn their houses. It's easy to do. You take a hot coal from the fireplace and carry it upstairs in a tin cup and stick it under the eaves. Four or five hours later, there's a blaze! The whole town will burn. The whites will come screamin' into the streetsâwhere we'll be waitin' for them.”
a dayâand what a night. We'll burn their houses. It's easy to do. You take a hot coal from the fireplace and carry it upstairs in a tin cup and stick it under the eaves. Four or five hours later, there's a blaze! The whole town will burn. The whites will come screamin' into the streetsâwhere we'll be waitin' for them.”
He lunged, parried, slashed. Finally, breathless and sweaty, he bowed before her and declared: “Then we'll make you the Queen of New York. Caesar's wife.”
Was this man inspired or was he simply drunk? Before her grandmother banned rum from Shining Creek, the warriors often drank too much and made boastful speeches about killing all the whites in the world. But in the morning they were much quieter and more sensible. They listened mournfully to the sachem, Black Eagle, who had been to Quebec and New York and told them the white men were as numerous as the leaves on the trees and it would be impossible to kill them all.
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