New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [19]
“If the Mohawks raid the Algonquin, so much the better. With luck, that’ll mean the Algonquin are too busy fighting the Mohawks to give trouble to us.” The Dutch had even sold guns to the Mohawks.
In van Dyck’s view, this policy had some risk. The northern outposts of New Netherland, up at Fort Orange and Schenectady, lay in Mohawk territory. Sometimes the Mohawks up there gave trouble. It was just such trouble that had called Stuyvesant up to Fort Orange the other day. Little as he liked Stuyvesant, van Dyck had no doubt that the tough old governor would cope with the Mohawks. They might be warlike, but they’d negotiate, because it was in their self-interest.
As for himself, van Dyck wasn’t afraid of the Mohawks. He spoke Iroquois and he knew their ways. In any case, he wasn’t going as far as Fort Orange, but to a trading post on a small river about a day to the south of the fort. In his own experience, whatever was passing in the world, traders were always welcome. He’d go into the wilderness and sell the Mohawks adulterated brandy, and return with a fine cargo of pelts.
“Put your trust in trade,” he liked to say. “Kingdoms may rise and fall, but trade goes on forever.”
It was a pity, of course, that he needed to trade with the Mohawks. For he liked his daughter’s Algonquin people better. But what could you do? The White Man’s eagerness for pelts and the Indians’ eagerness to supply them had wiped out so many of the beavers in the lower reaches of Hudson’s River that the Algonquin hadn’t enough to sell. Even the Mohawks had to raid up into the territory of the Huron, still further to the north, to satisfy the White Man’s endless demands. But the Mohawks supplied. That was the point. So they were his main trading partners now.
His journey took ten days. Venturing into the interior, he encountered no trouble. The Mohawk trading post, unlike most Algonquin villages, was a permanent affair with a stout palisade around it. The Mohawks there were tough and brisk, but they accepted his brandy. “Though it would have been better,” they told him, “if you had brought guns.” He returned with one of the largest loads of pelts he had ever brought downriver. Yet despite the valuable cargo he now carried, he was still in no hurry to return to Manhattan. He considered ways of delaying, a day here, a day there.
He intended to keep Margaretha waiting.
Not too long. He’d calculated carefully. She had set a deadline, so he was going to break it. He’d tell her of course that the business had taken longer than anticipated. She’d suspect he was lying, but what could she do about it? Leave her with a little uncertainty: that was the way. He loved his wife, but he had to let her know that she couldn’t order him around. An extra week or so should do it. So, on his orders, the oarsmen did not exert themselves too much as they journeyed slowly south; and van Dyck counted the days, and kept a cool head.
There was only one thing that troubled him—one thing he had failed to do. A small matter perhaps, but it never left his mind.
He had no present for his daughter.
The wampum belt she’d given him. It had a price, of course. But it was beyond all price. His little daughter had made it for him with her own hands, threaded the beads, sewn them, hour after hour, into this single, simple message of love.
And how could he respond? What to give her in return? He had no skill with his hands. I cannot carve, or carpenter, or weave, he thought. I am without these ancient skills. I can only buy and sell. How can I show my love, except with costly gifts?
He’d nearly bought a coat, made by the Mohawks. But she might not like a Mohawk coat. Besides, he wanted to give her something from his own people, whose blood, at least, she shared. Try as he might, he had not been able to decide what to do, and the problem remained unsolved.
They had come back into Algonquin territory when he directed his men to pull over to the western bank, to a village where he’d done business before. He liked to keep up his contacts,