Chapter One
I can never look back on the terrible fire of 1776, the one that destroyed hundreds of houses as well as Trinity Church, as a blessing, but in a way it was one for me. It saved me not only from the wrath of my parents but also from the ignominy of public disgrace. Of course there were those few (there are always some who suspect something other than what they are told) who treated me cautiously, as if I were not wholly trustworthy, which I guess I am not when you come right down to it.
During the two years that preceded the fire New York was in a state of unrest, so much so that the grown-ups, even those not engaged in city affairs, were on edge and short-tempered. My brothers, Jan and Pieter, and I found it best to follow parental orders promptly and to keep out of the way as much as possible. This was not always easy to do, since the duties assigned to us often involved our father and mother. The boys were working with Papa, helping to build the rows of small houses that were spreading out to the north of us, and after I was taken out of the Dame's School up on Prince Street (where I learned to read and to write a fair hand, and which I was loath to leave) most of my day was taken up with domestic chores: churning the butter, making the cheese, scrubbing the tiles in the kitchen, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Even the road in front of our house on Beaver Street had to be swept, and every Friday I was out there with a broom, whisking the dirt and trash into piles, which would be taken away later by the men who came around with their carts. If the mistress of a Dutch household had a passion for anything it was for cleanliness; she cleaned everything she owned, and Mama was no exception. She kept at it and kept me at it until we were both exhausted, or until it was time to sit down and pick up the mending or our knitting.
By the time I was twelve I could turn out a pair of woolen stockings almost as good as the ones my mother's flashing needles produced, and a year later I was able to adorn them with the bright-colored clocks the boys liked. If we weren't knitting, we were mending, or patching trousers, skirts, petticoats, or shirts, whatever needed repair. None of us had extensive wardrobes; what clothes we had we kept until they were thoroughly worn out, at which point they would be carefully cut into squares for dustings (flannel petticoats were good for these) or into strips to be made into rag rugs. We wasted nothing. It never occurred to me to complain about having so few clothes; I simply wore the same woolen skirts over two (or three on bitter-cold days) petticoats in winter and in summer high-necked gingham or calico dresses, sometimes with a fichu that covered the bodice and was crossed at the waist.
Occasionally I would see the governor's lady and some of her friends driving out in their carriages and marvel at the beauty of their silks and satins, but did I envy them? No. They had what they had and we had what we had; it was as simple as that. Envy would have complicated things.
I was happiest, I think, on the days I went to Mistress Shelby's house on Anne Street to deliver some knitting or mending Mama had done for the old lady. It was there, in the cluttered front room of Mistress Shelby's tiny house that I learned to appreciate the beauty of the English language.
Mistress Shelby spoke slowly and precisely, pronouncing each word carefully, and one day when she caught me imitating her she smiled and asked if I would like to improve my vocabulary.
"I will make you a list of words, my dear," she said, taking up a quill pen and beginning to write. "I will explain their meanings, and you must get them by heart. Then the next time you come we will discuss them and use them in sentences. Will you do that for me?"
I loved doing it, and for the next three years, until poor Mistress Shelby died of some fever or other, I seized every opportunity to hurry over to Anne Street, carrying something Mama had baked or sewed, sure of a delightful hour with my elderly friend.
A boring life, I imagine I hear you say, and you would be right; for the most part it was deadly dull. There were, however, some compensations: an occasional party, outing, or wedding to attend, or even something as simple as helping with the picking of ripe fruit, which would provide an opportunity for a young girl like me, Marike Dykeman, to be with people her own age.
One late summer day in particular stands out in my memory: it was when I was seventeen years old and people were beginning to comment on how pretty I was becoming when Jan, Pieter, and I went over to the Wiltwyck farm to help bring in the pear crop. Mama was pleased to let us go because she knew Vrouw Wiltwyck would send us home with our string bags filled with enough fruit to make a good supply of pear brandy, and Papa approved of anything that produced tangible results. If they knew about the horseplay and flirtations that went on under the pear trees, and I am reasonably sure they did, they said nothing beyond warning us to behave ourselves and to be home before sunset. Then Mama handed over the food I had helped pack and sent us off.
We had rather a long walk to the orchard, a couple of miles, I think. Because of all the building going on in lower New York farmers were forced to move to the north, and according to Papa the time would come when there wouldn't be a single farm or orchard left in Manhattan. He was right, of course, but I hated the way he said things like that, as if he were God Himself making an announcement.
Yes indeed, he was right. The Wiltwyck orchard is long gone, replaced by rows of tidy brick and brownstone houses, but I have no trouble picturing it as it was that warm, sunny day, the day I met Philip Bogardus. I could not help but notice him, a tall, slender young man dressed in a light blue shirt and a pair of dark britches that seemed to emphasize the shapeliness of his long legs. When I realized that he had glanced over in my direction more than once I wondered whether he would speak to me, but he said nothing until a wasp stung me and I uttered a sharp little cry.
"What is it?" he asked, hurrying over to where I stood staring at the swelling on my wrist. "Oh, a sting. You'll need some mud to put on it."
He picked up a stick and scraped a bit of dirt from the base of the tree.
"This is too dry," he said, holding it out to me, "but if you smear it on your wrist it will help take the sting out until I come back with some water. Wait here."
He disappeared in the direction of the barn and returned a few minutes later carrying a wet handkerchief from which he squeezed a few drops of water onto my wrist.
"Oh, it feels better," I said gratefully, "so much better. But now your handkerchief is all wet."
"No matter," he said with a laugh. "I'll just put it around my neck to keep me cool. That's why I brought it with me."
After that it seemed only natural that he should help me with the pears that were too high up in the tree for me to reach, and even more natural for us to sit together in the shade and share our food when the gong sounded at midday. I had brought the usual bread and cheese, along with a slice of cold venison and two of Mama's olykoeks, or oilcakes, delicious little confections flavored with chopped apple, citron, and raisins. I gave him one of the cakes and in return he handed me a square of gingerbread he said their cook had made.
"You have a better cook than we do, Marike," he said, savoring the last crumbs of the oilcake. "Is she a slave? Ours tries hard, but she doesn't do too well."
I was surprised that a boy who came from a household that kept a slave—only a few of the wealthier families did so—would be out picking pears, but I merely smiled and said that my mother and I did the cooking.
After we had finished off our meal with a couple of ripe pears, the juice of which helped assuage our thirst, I leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree and Philip stretched out on the grass nearby while we waited for the signal to resume picking. I could hear the murmur of voices and an occasional burst of laughter from other pickers, but nothing disturbed the sensation of excited tranquility (if there is such a thing) that came over me as I listened to Philip's pleasant voice and watched his face crinkle up when he laughed. I think I knew then that I would love him. I'm almost sure I did.
Tired as I was by the time the sun began to sink low in the sky, I didn't want the afternoon to end. I wanted to go on talking to Philip and listening to him tell about life in the Bogardus household, which was evidently ruled by a father as stern and strict as mine. I guess most Dutch fathers were like that then. Maybe they are still.
"I'm almost ready, Marike," Philip said, bending a high branch down so that I could reach the pears on it, "almost ready to strike out on my own. I'll be twenty next month, old enough to make my own rules and decisions, but first I must find some means of supporting myself. So far I have worked only under my father's direction."
"So have my brothers," I said. "They work with Papa building houses. Today he gave them a holiday, but tomorrow they will have to work harder and longer to make up for it. What kind of work does your father do?"
"He has a ship chandler's shop on South Street," he answered. "He sells things the sailing ships need, mostly English ships these days. He's had it ever since I can remember. He'd been in the Dutch navy, a supply officer, until he was hurt and could no longer go to sea. He doesn't complain, but he's had a stiff leg and pains and aches ever since."
"How did he get hurt?" I asked when Philip paused. "Was he at sea when it happened?"
"No, they were in port, loading the ship, when a heavy cask filled with fresh water rolled over on him. No one expected him to live, but he did, and when he was well enough he collected his pay and came here. He went to work for Herr Van Osler, who owned the chandlery, and when the old man died Papa took it over and made it into the successful business it is today."
"Did he meet your mother in Holland?" I asked, wondering whether they'd come to America together.
"Ah, no," Philip sighed. "That's another story, and not a happy one. Papa sent for his parents after a while and supported them until they died. But he met my mother here. She lived with her family up near the Zuyder Zee. When she was five years old, or maybe six, marauding Indians raided their little village, and apparently she saw her mother and father killed. She escaped by hiding in the woods, where a family named Bemberg found her. They took her in and brought her up. Years later my father met her at some church affair and married her. I think they've been happy, even though my mother is an extremely nervous and excitable woman. Papa told me she'd never recovered from seeing what happened to her parents, and I believe it. She still goes into hysterics every time she sees an Indian."
"Even the friendly ones who come here to sell fish and animal skins?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so, but my sisters and I know that she can't help it, and run for her potion to calm her. It seems to work."
"And you, Philip, what will you do if you leave the chandlery?"
"I could stay there," he answered slowly, "or I could go to sea any time I liked, and I won't say I haven't been tempted, but. . ."
Here he hesitated for a moment or two. Then after absent-mindedly tossing a pear into my basket he continued slowly: "I think I'd rather be a landsman, have a farm, children, maybe even a pear orchard," he finished with a laugh.
A few minutes later one of the Wiltwyck sons came by in a cart drawn by a farm horse and began to collect what we had picked. He was a big, cheerful fellow, and strong, who lifted the heavy baskets as if they were filled with feathers.
"There's cider for you in the barn," he shouted. "Papa says to have a cup or two before you go. It's nice and cold. Tastes good on a hot day."
It did taste good. I should say here that none of us ever expected to be paid for our work in the orchard; fruit picking was looked upon, at least by us young people, as recreation, a respite from the ordinary day's occupation, and considered a cup of cider or two ample reward.
I was ready to start for home, and after Vrouw Wiltwyck had filled my bag with fruit from the pile she had set aside for the pickers (not the very best pears, I noticed) Philip offered to carry it for me.
"Then I will know where you live," he said, keeping his eyes averted. "I should like to come and see you some evening, Marike. We could go over to the river, perhaps, and watch the boats and waterfowl."
He frowned slightly as he spoke, but when I assured him that I would like to do that he smiled and took my hand in his free one.
For the remaining days of that summer and all during the following fall and winter Philip was a constant visitor to our modest home. To my surprise neither of my parents made any objection to his presence, since they'd both been highly critical of the few young men who'd called on me in the past. Papa had even threatened Gerard Vanderbeck with a beating if he ever came near the house again. As far as I could tell all poor Gerard had done was to refer to the tavernkeeper as a bloodsucker and despoiler, which to Papa constituted "foul and villainous" language. Philip, on the other hand, was soft-spoken, courteous, and not unwilling to lend a hand with some of the heavier chores. Pieter and Jan teased me about him, but I could tell from the way they acted that they held nothing against him.
Perhaps I had no right to be as happy as I was that year when all the Dutch families, at least all the ones we knew, were constantly complaining about the hardships they endured under British rule, but what girl in love for the first time in her life could be anything but happy? I had a tall, handsome lover with soft blond hair that curled around his ears and at the nape of his neck, and eyes as blue as the summer sky, so much more beautiful than my own nondescript gray ones. How could I not be head over heels in love with him, and how could I worry about the future of the city when all my thoughts were directed toward a life with Philip on the farm he would own, to our lives together in the house I would run for him? He would ask Papa for my hand, he said, as soon as he saw his way clear to acquiring the land he'd had his eye on for several months.
"It's over on Long Island, Marike, where the soil is good and crops and orchards will flourish," he said, gazing off into the distance as if visualizing an established farm. Then his expression changed and he frowned slightly as he continued: "I hope you won't be lonely there, my darling. It will be some distance from your family, and there won't be any close neighbors."
"I'll have you, Philip. How could I be lonely? And in time we'll have our own family," I said, letting my head rest on his shoulder while he untied the drawstring at the neck of my dress. We were quiet after that, happily quiet. Later, when I was in bed, I thought about how gentle and tender he was when he held me and kissed me and how all too soon it was time for me to go home and for him to run off into the darkness.
As the spring advanced toward summer and the days lengthened we had more time to ourselves than we'd had during the cold, snowy winter, and Philip's expression of his love for me grew more and more exciting. He'd take me to a secluded place on the bank of the Hudson or to a field of tall grasses, and we'd lie close together, caressing each other and murmuring words of love for as long as I dared stay away from home. No one came near us, but occasionally we'd catch sight of other courting couples, who, like us, were too intent upon themselves to interfere with anyone else's lovemaking.
"This is wonderful," I whispered to Philip one evening. "Can it last? Can we possibly go on being this happy?"
"Oh, yes we can, my little love," he answered, letting his hands move gently over my body. "Not only will it last, but it will get better and better, more wonderful. You'll see. Look at me, Marike; kiss me—there, that's better. No, no, don't pull away from me. Come closer. I need you."
