It was then that Jeremy made his break.
One moment he was standing there beside Wouter, gazing with his sullen green eyes on the contraption before him, and the next he was streaking across the cornfield like a white-tailed deer with the bloody mark of the catamount on its rump. Jeremy was a wicked runner, as quick and lank and fleet of foot as the intrepid chieftains he counted among his ancestors. This was Mohonk’s son, after all, and though Mohonk may have been a degenerate, a miscegenator and a disgrace to his tribe, he was nonetheless as much a familiar to these hills and valleys as the bears, wolves and salamanders themselves, and a runner of the very first water. And so, kicking up his heels, flailing his bony legs and pumping his bony arms, Jeremy Mohonk — son of Mohonk son of Sachoes — called up the spirit of his ancestors and beat a path for the sanctuary of the woods.
What he hadn’t figured on was the tenacity of van den Post, the eater of jellyfish. Without a thought for Wouter, the hyperkinetic schout threw off hat and rapier and lit out after Jeremy like a hound. They were twenty paces apart at the outset, and twenty paces apart they remained, as first the Indian, then the schout, disappeared into the woods at the far verge of the field.
Wouter looked around him. The sun was climbing over the ridge behind him now, pulling back the shadows as if drinking them up. He watched a flock of blackbirds—maes dieven—settle back down in the corn where Jeremy and van den Post had cut their swath through it, and then he looked down at the plumed hat and rapier lying in the wet grass. Somewhere a cow was lowing.
Wouter didn’t know what to do. He was afraid. Afraid of the cellar, afraid of the stocks and their cruel chafing grasp, afraid of van den Post and the patroon. What he wanted more than anything was to go home and bury himself in his father’s arms, ask him to explain it all to him once again — he wasn’t sure he had it right anymore. He’d stood up to the patroon, defended his father, made his stand, and what had he got for it? Pain and abuse, a pinched ear, wet pants and moldy bread. He looked down the hill, past the great house and out to the road that lay quiet before it. Fifteen minutes. He could be home in fifteen minutes, hugging his moeder, watching the light flash in his vader’s eyes when he found out what they’d done to him. …
But no. If he ran, they’d come for him. He could see them already: a dozen armed men, the strange black among them, come with dogs and shouts, with hot pitch and feathers, their torches lighting the night. What’d he do? one of them would holler as they held him down, and another, grim as death, would answer in a voice edged with outrage: Why, he bearded the patroon, the little snipe, that’s what he did.
Biting his lips to fight back the tears, Wouter Van Brunt, eleven and a half years old and as full of regrets as any septuagenarian, slouched around the white pine frame, sat himself down on the rough log behind it and stuck his feet out straight before him. Slowly, deliberately, giving it all his concentration, he eased down the crossbar until it clamped firm around his ankles. Then he went to work on his hands.
He was still there when his father came for him.
Up the dusty road, through the gauntlet of his neighbors with their bent backs and anxious faces, his shoulders thrown back, powerful arms laid bare, Jeremias never faltered. He lashed out with the wooden strut as if it were a weapon, striding with such brisk determination he might have been marching off to war, and he didn’t stop to say a word to anyone, not even Staats or Douw. Everyone looked up, of course, but they couldn’t see his face, which was hidden beneath the turned-down brim of his hat. One-two, one-two, his arms swung out at his sides, and he was moving so fast he was almost through them when Staats flung down his shovel and started after him.
The act was contagious. One by one the farmers threw down their tools and silently followed Jeremias up the drive to the house — even Robideau, though he was the last. By the time Jeremias had reached the meadow in front of the house, the whole neighborhood — Cranes and Oothouses, van der Meulens, Mussers and all the rest — was behind him. No one said a word, but there was fear and expectancy on every face.
The patroon had ordered the stocks erected midway up the ridge behind the house, where they would be convenient to the immediate discharge of any sentence he might pass down, and yet not so close as to discommode him with any noise, odor or other unpleasant contingency that might arise as a result. To get to them, one had to circumnavigate the kitchen garden and cross a meadow of pasturage, beyond which lay a cornfield and the woods into which cousin Mohonk and van den Post had vanished. Jeremias was in a hurry. He did not circumnavigate the kitchen garden, but instead trod right through it, intent only on the tiny distant figure imprisoned in the cruel machine on the slope above. He trampled parsnips, beets and succory, rent the leaves of lettuce, leeks and cresses, crushed cucumbers and burst tomatoes. In their agitation, the others followed him.
They were close enough to see that only half the contraption was occupied and to see too that it was the younger boy who occupied it, when the three riders, barely settled in their saddles, shot out from the rear of the barn to intercept them. Jeremias kept going. And his neighbors, aware of the riders bearing down on them, aware of the patroon’s certain displeasure and of the wrong they were doing, followed. If you’d stopped any one of them — even Robideau or Goody Sturdivant — and asked him why, he couldn’t have told you. It was in the air. It was electric. It was the will of the mob.
The riders cut them off no more than thirty feet from the stocks. Clods flew, the horses beat the ground with iron hoofs. “Halt!” bellowed the patroon. They looked up into his face and saw murder there. His mount wheeled and stamped while he fought to level his late father’s dueling pistols — one in each hand — on the crowd. Beside him, clinging like a leech to a dappled mare, was van den Post, the recovered rapier held high and naked to the sun, and beside him, the third rider, a stranger no taller in the saddle than a boy of eight, his wizened face set in a smirk, a musket clenched in his gnarled little fist. Now normally, at the very least, they would have remarked the arrival of this stranger — of any stranger, but particularly of such an ill-favored and lean-fleshed little radish as this one — but there wasn’t time to think, let alone gossip.
“The next man that moves dies by this hand!” roared the patroon.
They stopped. All of them. To a man, woman and child. Except for Jeremias, that is. He never broke stride, never wavered. He marched straight for the patroon as if he didn’t see him, his eyes fixed on the stricken face of his son. “Halt!” the patroon commanded in a voice that lost itself in the effort, and almost simultaneously, he fired.
There was a shout from the crowd, while Wouter, impotent, unheeded, eleven and a half years old, cried out in a voice of dole — and for the third time in two days, Mistress Sturdivant fell. Hugely. Thunderously. With all the dramatic moment of a Phaedra or Niobe. Suddenly, all was confusion: women shrieked, men dove for cover, young Billy Sturdivant flung himself atop his mother’s supine hulk and the patroon ducked his head like a man guilty of the ultimate solecism. As it turned out, however, Goody Sturdivant wasn’t hit. Nor, for that matter, was Jeremias. The ball kicked up a divot at the blameless instep of Cadwallader Crane’s well-oiled boot and buried itself harmlessly among the grubs and worms.