A few Jewish families remained, Rebecca's among them. They were sheltered by elements in the British government and, most of all, by the Puritans. The Puritans, a growing force in English society, were much more favorably inclined toward the Jews than the established church. Many of their scholars were keenly interested in the study of Hebrew texts, as part of their efforts to "purify" Christianity.
The Scottish officer stepped into the room and spoke his first words. As soon as Balthazar heard that unmistakable accent, his rigid face softened. Within seconds, Rebecca saw her father's normal warmth and wit returning.
She, too, had felt the charm of that northerly version of the English tongue. It was not the accent itself, but what lay beneath it. On two occasions, once when she was twelve and again when she was fourteen, Rebecca had accompanied her father and uncle to Cambridge, which was a hotbed of Puritanism. The presence of the two learned Jewish doctors-fluent alike in Hebrew and Greek-had been requested to clarify certain obscure passages in the Biblical texts.
"I bring you greetings from Gustavus Adolphus, Balthazar Abrananel."
Hearing that accent, Rebecca remembered those earnest Puritan scholars with fondness. Their branch of the Abrabanels had finally been forced to leave England, not long thereafter. Uriel, always the more adventurous of the brothers, had opted to seek his fortune in Germany. Her father, burdened with a sickly wife and a daughter, had chosen Amsterdam. There, among the Dutch cousins of the Puritans, they had found a haven.
Balthazar Abrananel nodded. "Please convey my deepest respects to His Majesty, uh-?"
"Mackay, sir. Alexander Mackay, captain in the king of Sweden's Green Regiment, at your service."
Stern and stiff they were, those Calvinists-as humorless and cold as the Sephardim were not-but they had a respect for the Bible not shared by the Catholics, or even the Lutherans. God had given the people of Abraham a place in the world. Who were they to question His will?
Behind her, Rebecca sensed Michael coming into the room. He came to stand behind her. Very near, he was. A bit more so, perhaps, than propriety allowed.
Rebecca found her lips curving into a smile, and forced the expression from her face.
Propriety. But whose, exactly? Not the Americans! They seem oblivious to the concept. The most shameless folk I have ever met. Remembering the treatment she and her father had been given: And have perhaps less reason to be shameful, in all truth.
Michael was very close. She felt an almost overpowering urge to lean back against him. Then, seeing her father's eyes upon her, she straightened.
The eyes were knowing. Rebecca had tried to keep her daily reports to her father free of any emotion. She had been especially careful-or so she thought-to keep any trace of warmth from her accounts of Michael and his doings.
Inwardly, she sighed. No doubt she had tried too hard. Balthazar Abrabanel was as shrewd a man as ever existed. She had never been able to hide anything from her father. In truth, she had never really tried before.
There will be a stern fatherly lecture coming, she thought glumly. Very stern.
Balthazar's eyes moved away from her and focused again on the Scots officer. Mackay had been bustled into a heavily upholstered armchair by Judith Roth, and was now resuming his conversation.
The Scotsman glanced quickly around the room. Clearly enough, the presence of the Americans was making him a bit reticent.
"You may speak freely, Captain Mackay," said Balthazar. "Our hosts are quite aware already of the treasure I was bringing with me." He bestowed a lingering look upon Michael. Rebecca was relieved to see that there was no anger in her father's eyes. Simply gratitude, and respect.
"Indeed, had it not been for them-Michael especially-the silver would now be in the possession of Tilly's monsters." He leaned forward and extended his hands. The spread fingers were heavily laden with bejeweled rings. "Along with these, cut from my body." Harshly: "And my daughter, of course."
Balthazar nodded toward the ceiling. "The chest containing the money for your king is upstairs in my bedroom. It is all there, every guilder. I have a receipt, of course."
Mackay waved his hand. The gesture was one of certainty and assurance. No need, Balthazar Abrabanel. Your honesty is unquestioned.
Perhaps oddly, Rebecca's reaction to that little movement was more one of anger than of pride. Of course you trust the Jews with your money. And then, when the mood changes, you accuse us of foul crimes because we can turn a profit without cheating. Unlike your own bankers. Christians!
But her anger was only momentary. In truth, it was misdirected. The various branches of the Calvinist creed were by no means free of intolerance toward Jews. But they had their own firm belief in the value of hard work and thrift, they encouraged literacy, and they tended to view people who acquired wealth more with admiration than envy.
It was not the Calvinists, after all, who forced us to leave Amsterdam's Jewish quarter. My father was expelled by orthodox rabbis, not Christian preachers.
She forced her mind to focus on the moment. Her father would want her advice and opinion. Especially now, in such deep and unknown waters.
Mackay, she saw, was staring at Michael also. There was respect in that look-and more than a trace of puzzlement.
"Why?" the Scotsman suddenly blurted out.
"Why what?" responded Michael. But the question was rhetorical. The American placed his hands on Rebecca's shoulders and gently moved himself around her to come to the center of the room. There, standing straight with his hands on his hips, he gazed down on Mackay. The gaze was almost a glare.
"Why aren't we rapists and thieves?"
Mackay lowered his head and shook it. "That's not what I meant." The Scotsman ran fingers through his thick red hair, his face crunched into a frown. Plainly enough, he was groping for words.
Rebecca's father found the words for him. "It is simply their way, Captain Mackay." Balthazar glanced at the Americans in the room. His eyes lingered on the black doctor for a moment.
"It's not that these Americans are lambs." He smiled. "Some of them, I imagine, have even been known to commit armed robbery. Attempt it, at least." James Nichols grinned.
Again, Balthazar's eyes studied the various Americans. They came to rest, this time, on Michael. "And other depredations, I have no doubt. Brawling, for instance. Drunk and disorderly conduct. Disrespect for the public authorities."
Michael was grinning, now. Rebecca did not understand why, but she was relieved to feel the tension easing from the room.
Balthazar's smile was quite warm when he turned it to Mackay. "But they are also a people who cherish their laws. Which they enact themselves, you know, with scant respect for lineage and rank. From what my daughter has told me, they are the most inveterate republicans since the ancient Greeks."
Balthazar spread his hands, as if demonstrating the obvious. "This is why, I think, that their instinctive response was to protect us, along with our goods. The law was being broken, you see. Their law, not the crown's."
The Jewish physician gave Michael another glance, lifting a finger at him. "Ask him, Mackay. Ask him again. But do not ask: why? Simply ask: did you even think twice? Or even once, for that matter?"
Mackay looked at Michael. The American, after a moment, let his hands fall from his hips. It was a weary gesture. But there was nothing weary in the way the large hands curled into fists.
"I don't know what kind of a world you people have created here, Captain Mackay," Michael growled. "But we will be no part of it. None, do you understand me? Wherever our power runs, the law will be obeyed. Our law."
"And how far does that power run?" asked Mackay.