Tom looked for an escape. He started to run down toward the river. He made for the little dock and the boat. It was only the work of a moment to untie it. Thank God there was a paddle in the boat. But he’d hardly clambered in before another shot rang out, and a splash in the water told him that the old man had only missed him by a foot or two. Seizing the paddle, he pushed off and paddled furiously downstream. He didn’t pause or even look back until he’d gone a quarter-mile. He’d gone downstream with the tide after that, pulling into the bank and resting when it turned.

During his rest, however, it had occurred to him that he still didn’t know whether Annetie was the old man’s wife, daughter, or had some other relationship entirely. Only one thing was certain. The farmer had his horse, which was worth a lot more than the boat he’d taken.

The thought had bothered him.

Van Dyck let Tom eat in silence. But after a while he asked him whether he’d seen the English fleet in Boston. At this, Tom seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then allowed that he had. “And what’s the fleet doing, exactly?” van Dyck asked. Again the young man hesitated, then he shrugged.

“They were busy in Boston when I left.” He took a corncake and chewed on it for a few moments, staring down at the ground. But van Dyck had a feeling he knew more than he was telling. The Indians asked him if the stranger was a good man. “I don’t know,” he answered in Algonquin. “You should watch him.”

The Indians told van Dyck he should return to them when the summer was over, to join in the hunt. Van Dyck had hunted with them before. The big hunts were enjoyable, but ruthless. Locating the deer, a huge party would fan out in a great arc—the more people the better—and come through the forest beating the trees, driving the deer toward the river. Once the deer were slowed up in the water, it was easy to kill them. So long as there were deer, these Algonquin lived well. Van Dyck promised he would come. And he continued to talk and laugh with them for some time.

It was clear that his obvious friendship with the Indians intrigued the young Englishman. For after a while he asked van Dyck if it was usual for the Dutch to be so friendly with the natives.

“You English do not care to know the Indian customs?” the Dutchman asked.

The young man shook his head.

“The Boston men are busy getting rid of their Indians. It isn’t difficult. They just need one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Wampum.” The young man gave a wry smile. “The Boston men make the Indians pay tribute in wampum, according to how many men, women and children there are. But usually the Indians can’t manufacture the wampum quickly enough. So then they make them give us land instead. The Indian population shrinks, every year.”