They were entering the narrow channel now, and van Dyck let the oarsmen take it easy. They were coming down the west side of the stream. Above them, the gray stone palisade of cliffs were catching the rays of the afternoon sun. A slight choppiness now appeared in the water. He glanced back, but the curve of the river now hid the boat that, he assumed, must be following him into the channel.

And then, suddenly, the boat was upon them. It was coming fast and he could see every detail of the vessel now: a big, clinker-built longboat, with a covered section in the middle from which the mast rose. Eight men were rowing four pairs of oars. It was high in the water, so it could not be carrying any cargo. Why should this empty vessel be in such a hurry? There was a figure standing in the stern, but he couldn’t see what sort of man it was.

The vessel pulled closer. It was only a few lengths behind them, then a length. Now it was level. Curious, he looked across at the figure in the stern.

To find himself staring into a face he knew only too well. A face which, some instinct told him, he did not wish to encounter. And the man was staring straight back at him.

Stuyvesant.

He quickly looked away, but it was too late.

“Dirk van Dyck.” The harsh voice came ringing over the water.

“Good day, Governor,” he called back. What else could he say?

“Hurry, man! Why aren’t you hurrying?” Stuyvesant was level with him now. Then, without waiting for a reply, Stuyvesant turned to van Dyck’s oarsmen. “Row faster,” he shouted. “Pull.” And the oarsmen, recognizing the fearsome governor, obeyed at once and sent the boat hurtling through the water. “That’s it,” he yelled. “Well done. Keep up with me. We’ll go down together, Dirk van Dyck.”

“But why?” called van Dyck. The governor had already gone a little past him, but his men were managing to keep up the same pace now, so that the two of them could continue their shouted conversation downstream.

“You don’t know? The English are in Manhattan harbor. The whole fleet.”

So the English fleet had come after all. He’d heard nothing, but that wasn’t surprising. The people at New Amsterdam would have sent a swift rider up to Fort Orange to tell the governor, who was now racing downriver with the benefit of the tide. No doubt word would spread among the Indians soon, but it would take some time.

Clearly the English had lied. He thought of the young fellow from Boston. Had Tom known they were coming? He must have. That’s why he’d hesitated when asked about the English fleet.

“What are we going to do?” van Dyck shouted downstream to Stuyvesant.

“Fight, van Dyck. Fight. We’ll need every man.”