Stuyvesant was still watching him intently. He dare not pull across to the village now. For all he knew, the governor would turn and drag him downriver by force. The man was quite capable of such a thing.

Minutes passed. The two boats, held in place by the invisible force of Stuyvesant’s will, sped together down the stream. They were coming past the village now, away on the eastern bank. Van Dyck could see the Indians with fishing nets in the shallows. Other figures, women probably, were watching from higher up the bank. Was Pale Feather among them? He could not tell. Was she looking at him now? Did she know he was going past her, not stopping even for a moment, despite his promise? Would she suppose her father had turned his back on her?

He stared across the river, then looked away. If his daughter was there, he did not want her to see his face. A foolish gesture. Even with her keen eyes, she could not see his face from there. He lowered his head, gazed at the pelts at his feet, and felt ashamed. Away on the far bank, the little Indian village began to fall behind. He glanced back. He could still see the line of women, but they were becoming blurred and indistinct.

They slipped downstream another hundred yards. Then another.

“Pull across stream.” He gave the order. The oarsmen looked astonished.

“But, Boss—” said one.

“Pull across.” He pointed to the eastern bank. He was the Boss, after all. Unwillingly, they obeyed him.

As the boat began to turn, Stuyvesant saw at once.

“What the devil are you doing?” he shouted over the water.

Van Dyck hesitated. Should he reply? He thought quickly.

“I’ll follow,” he cried, in a voice which, he hoped, suggested that his only desire was to be with the governor. “We’ll catch up shortly.”

“Maintain your course,” Stuyvesant bellowed back. A second later, Stuyvesant’s voice came over the water again. “Never mind your Indian bastard, van Dyck. Think of your country.”

How did he know about Pale Feather? Van Dyck cursed the governor under his breath. It had been a mistake to take the girl to New Amsterdam. He should never have done it.

“Follow me, Dirk van Dyck,” Stuyvesant’s voice rang out again. “Forget your half-breed and follow me, or your wife shall hear of this, I promise you.”