Tonight, the old house was ablaze with light, in direct contrast to the dark neighborhood around it. Lanterns hung outside the front door and flickering yellow hues shimmering in the window spoke of a blazing fire within. The house called to Rory, so warm and cozy, like a tiny cottage in the middle of the forest. He and Bridget had met the Rattle Watch here twice during the past month to discuss their progess in discovering a way to topple Kieft and free the Munsees; he had been sorry to leave both times.
They climbed the stairs up the hill to the house, whose front door was already opening. Mr. Dyckman stood there, nodding at him grimly.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “The rest of them are around the fire.”
“Thanks,” Rory said as they followed Dyckman inside, nodding politely to Mrs. Dyckman, who stood tensely nearby. Old friends of Nicholas Stuyvesant and his father, the owners of the house were normally quite welcoming and talkative, but tonight they looked pensive. The couple stayed by the door to keep watch for unwanted company as Rory and Bridget stepped into the living room, where around the crackling fire sat the only people Rory ever considered calling friends: the Rattle Watch.
Nicholas Stuyvesant, leader of the watch, stood up to greet them with a smile. The lanky boy appeared to be no more than eighteen, but Rory knew he was, in fact, over four hundred years old. Seated beside Nicholas was Alexa van der Donck, who gave them a tired grin. A hard worker, she didn't have Nicholas's flash, but she was smart, brave, and steady as a rock. Across from her, Lincoln Douglass bounded up from his seat to say hello, shaking Rory's hand vigorously. The son of Frederick Douglass, God of Freedom, Lincoln always seemed to be in motion, hopping up and down through the world like a pogo stick. A languid wave fom the seated final member of the Rattle Watch, Simon Astor, was all the Hennessy children could hope for from the lazy boy. The hapless son of the exiled God of Excess, John Jacob Astor, was wearing an inhumanly loud pink-and-yellow shirt; he probably didn't want to mess up the effect by moving.
There were happy greetings all around as the Rattle Watch welcomed Rory and Bridget. The Hennessy kids had been made members of the watch following their last adventure. But aside from those two times they had all met in this farmhouse, the watch had disappeared from the Hennessys' lives. At first Rory resented their absence, but soon he came to realize they were protecting him. Kieft still didn't know who he was, but the First Adviser knew Nicholas, Alexa, Lincoln, and Simon. Even this little excursion was a risk, but some things were worth the danger.
As the welcomes wound down, Fritz rode into the room on the back of Clarence, his rat, followed by Hans and Sergeant Kiffer.
“Was anyone followed?” he asked brusquely.
“I was!” Simon replied, raising his hand with a smirk. “I swear this one bee would not leave me alone the whole way up here. So annoying.”
“It probably thought you were some strange new flower and couldn't wait to pollinate,” Alexa said, nodding slyly at his crazy shirt. Simon stuck his tongue out at her as Nicholas and Lincoln snorted. Fritz gave all of them a stern look.
“This isn't a joke,” he said. “Kieft is right on our tail. He's practically knocking at the door.”
“He's all over these days,” Nicholas said. “I mean, I don't think all this talk about the Munsees breaking free and killing everyone came from nowhere.”
“We heard that, too!” Lincoln cried. “They even think the assassin was a Munsee!”
“Then who stabbed me in the handâmy mother?” Simon asked wryly, lifting the recently healed appendage that had been so brutally run through by the traitor Albert Fish.
“It doesn't matter,” Fritz replied. “It's a better story, and frightening enough to be taken seriously whether everyone believes it or not.”
“So what do we do?” Hans asked.
“Well, one name did come up today,” Nicholas said, glancing at Alexa. “Harry Meester. Mean anything to anyone?”
“It tugs at me, but I just can't place it,” Alexa admitted. Rory frowned. Where had he heard that name? Thankfully, his sister had a better memory than he did; Bridget was hopping up and down with excitement, waving her hand in the air. “I know! I know! He's the guy who shot Bucky!”
Rory whistled. Of course . . . The Rattle Watch, however, gave Bridget an assortment of confused looks. “What are you talking about?” Fritz asked.
Rory jumped in, explaining about the necklace and the story it contained. He pulled it out and everyone took a good look at the wampum.
“We should all take turns putting this on before we leave tonight,” Nicholas said to the rest of the Rattle Watch.
“I wonder what Olathe's name used to be,” Alexa said, her eyes distant. “I wonder if I knew her.”
“Soka almost told me,” Rory said. He told them about his dream. Fritz pursed his lips.
“I'll send someone in to make sure your friend Soka is all right,” he said. “Maybe she can tell him Olathe's original identity.”
“Finding this broad is not going to make everyone suddenly like the Munsees again, will it?” Sergeant Kiffer opined. “Sounds more like a wild-goose chase to me.”
“Hey, watch it peahead . . .” Bridget began, indignant.
“Let's focus here,” Nicholas put in, cutting off the argument before it could begin. “We can't go around making everyone love the Munsees overnight. And the mortals may be able to enter the park, but the rest of us can't, so searching for Olathe is just too dangerous. But if the name Harry Meester keeps popping up, maybe there really is something he can tell us that might change things. We need to find out what it is. Which means finding Harry Meester. Agreed?”
A tinkling crash came from the direction of the door. If sounded as if someone had dropped something. They all froze at the sound, nerves on edge.
“Mr. Dyckman? Mrs. Dyckman?” Nicholas called. “Are you all right?”
No one answered. Tucket began to growl as the watch warily rose to their feet. Fritz turned to Rory.
“If anything happens, you run. Both of you,” he quietly ordered the Hennessys. “No being a hero. Got it?”
Rory reluctantly nodded as he stepped in front of Bridget, giving her a look to let her know that if she didn't follow orders he'd throw her out the window himself. She gave him her best annoyed “all right!” face and stayed behind him. Tucket stepped forward, teeth bared. The dog was noticeably larger now, the sight of which made Rory's stomach drop. Something was coming . . .
“Okay, everyone, be ready for anything,” Nicholas whispered. “The important thing is to stay togetherâ”
His order was cut off suddenly by a whistle through the air, followed by a thud. Nicholas stared down in shock at the rusty cleaver sticking out of his stomach. Unable to speak, his eyes widened in pain as he fell to the ground.
For a moment they all stood frozen at the sight of their wounded leader. Then Bridget screamed, breaking the silence.
“Scatter!” Fritz shouted, and the Rattle Watch ran for cover just as the windows exploded and blue-jacketed men burst into the room.
“Hessians!” Alexa cried, and Rory's stomach rolled with fear. The Hessians were German soldiers hired by the British to fight in the Revolution. A band of them still lived in Inwood, in a camp down by the Harlem River, where they'd been stationed during the war. Rory had always made certain to avoid them, but there was nowhere to hide now.
“Run!” Fritz shouted up at Rory before urging Clarence into the fray. Rory backed into a corner, frozen, as the Hessians struggled with his friends. Lincoln, fearless, wasted no time fighting back, wrestling with a determined soldier trying to spear him with a bayonet. The long knife was affixed to the barrel of a musket. Rory wondered why the Hessians weren't shooting. But then one of them took aim directly at him and fired. Rory closed his eyes, certain that his number was up.
But no flash of pain hit him and he opened his eyes. Feathers floated through the air and he realized that the musket ball had hit a pillow on the seat beside him. Of course! Now he remembered his history teacher teaching the class about how unreliable a musket's aim could be. No wonder they stuck knives on the end.
Rory glanced around to check on Bridget. To his surprise she was already pulling herself through the window. She quickly dropped out of sight. He didn't know what to make of his sister's quick exit; she never ran from a fight. Oh well, at least she was safely on her way home. He heard a growl and turned back to the action to see what was happening.
Tucket had launched himself at a group of Hessians, snapping at them with his great jaws. He'd grown to three times his size so far, and the Hessians seemed shaken by the sight of this huge beast. They tried to stab at the dog, but Tucket simply grabbed the guns out of their hands with his mouth and bit them in two. Rory was impressed; that was one badass puppy.
The falling feathers were making it hard to see; Rory could barely make out the flashes of Hessian blue through the downy white as the intruders struggled with his friends. One of them trapped Alexa in the corner, raising his bayonet to stab her. Rory could stand by no longer; with a yell he launched through the feather-filled air and landed on the Hessian's back. The force of the impact threw off the Hessian's aim, sending the bayonet deep into the wall to Alexa's right. The soldier struggled to free his weapon, giving Alexa just enough time to grab a fireplace iron and whack him into oblivion. She turned to Rory, who waited for the inevitable grateful thanks.
“What are you still doing here?” she scolded him instead. “Run!”
Rory glanced around, frozen with indecision. Tucket was keeping a group of terrified attackers at bay across the room. Lincoln's leg was bleeding profusely, but he fought on with a stolen bayonet, slashing at a pair of Hessians. Fritz was riding to and fro, tossing firecrackers at the Hessians' feet to disable them. Hans and Kiffer were at his side. Simon had ripped off part of his gaudy shirt and wrapped it around Nicholas's stomach, in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. Rory had to stifle a cry as blotches of red seeped into the yellow and pink. Alexa grabbed Rory by the arm and led him to the ruined window.
“Please, we'll be all right,” she promised. “You have to get out of here.”
Reluctantly, Rory reached up and pulled himself through the window, dropping down into the dirt behind the house. The sounds of fighting drifted through the window, and fear ran through him as he hoped fervently that everyone came out okay. Alexa's face appeared in the window and she mouthed the word go one last time before disappearing again. But go where?
Then he remembered that the M'Garoth village lay under the Dyckman playground, just across the street. He'd go there for help. Liv, the captain of the patrol and Fritz's wife, would come running to save her husband, he was sure of it. He turned to race across the backyard toward the street.
An arm snaked over his neck, choking him. Another hand appeared, holding a rusty old cleaver to his throat, the twin of the one buried in Nicholas's stomach. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.
“Got ya!”
7
BILL THE BUTCHER
R
ory's kidnapper dragged him down a side street toward the Harlem River. With his top hat, waistcoat, and large mustache, the man looked like he'd stepped right out of the nineteenth century. But Rory wasn't so keen on figuring out what century his abductor hailed from as he was on planning an escape. The man's grip was steel and Rory couldn't shake it. The first time he tried to pull away, the man calmly backhanded him right across the face. His lip bleeding, Rory pretended to have all the fight knocked out of him, but all the while he searched for ways to get free.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, digging for information.
“You're Irish, ain't ya?” the man asked instead.
“Yeah,” Rory replied hesitantly.
“That's good,” the man said. “I'd feel worse about handing you over to the big guy if you weren't a dirty Irishman.”
Wonderful. He was in the hands of an old-school bigot.
“Who's the big guy?” Rory asked, undeterred. “Kieft?”
The man stopped, spinning Rory around to face him. Rory recoiled; the man seemed to look right through him.
“Don't be playing games with me, Rory Hennessy,” the man said. “I promised I wouldn't kill you, but it gnaws at me to have a Paddy by the neck and let him live. So, I may not kill you, but I will knock you around, hear me? So don't test me. You get me?”
Scared, Rory nodded. The man knew his name and had known where to find him. His luck truly had run out. The man resumed dragging Rory toward the river, muttering to himself.
“This whole city makes my skin crawl,” the man said, disgust coloring his voice. “In my day you had the micks and the krauts and the Chinks and the darkies. And that was bad enough. But I been out of the Tombs a half a day and already I've crossed paths with more dirty immigrants than I ever saw in my life. So many colors and accents and the like, it makes me sick. My family stretches back generations! They built this country! They didn't slink off the boat like a rat in the night.
“I even had to hire kraut Hessians to be my distraction; I'll be bathing for weeks to get their stench off me. Let me tell you, once I've handed you over, I got some real work to do. This city needs cleaning up and me and my cleavers have to rise to the challenge. I gotta take it back from the hebes and wops and micks like you. Dirty little micks like you . . .”
Suddenly Bill pulled up, roughly spinning Rory to face him. The kidnapper's cheek twitched as his eyes stared right through his captive. A shiver ran through Rory as he realized that madness had taken over his kidnapper. Bill's promise to refrain from murdering Rory teetered on the edge, as Bill's hands reached, grasping for the handle of his rusty cleaver . . .