Spirits in the Park (30 page)

They were still paddling down the Loch as golden light began to creep through the canopy of leaves, telling them that the day was near an end. Finally, just as the twilight crept in, Finn guided his canoe to the shore and Soka followed suit.

“There are a few waterfalls ahead, so we need to head back to the trail, but we're not far from the edge of the Ravine, so it will be a short journey from here,” Finn told them, hopping out to pull the canoe onto the bank. Bridget helped Soka do the same, and they stashed the canoes in beneath the trees, covered in branches.

“Night's falling,” Soka said. “How far are we from the path up the Great Hill?”

“We have to come at it from the north,” Finn replied. “It will probably be better if we camp here and then climb in the morning.”

“Camp out here?” Bridget asked, looking around at the wild surrounding them. “What if there are more coyotes? Or giant squirrels? We'll be sitting ducks.”

“We can always spend the night at McGown's Tavern,” Soka suggested.

“Well . . . well . . . that's not such a good idea,” Finn stuttered. Bridget didn't understand why he was so flustered all of a sudden, and by the look of her, Soka didn't understand, either.

“Why not?” Soka asked. “It's unlikely any of my people have ventured this far north in search of me—not yet, anyway. We'll be careful to stay inconspicuous.”

“Yes, well, it's out of the way. We'd have to go an hour's walk east, which is in the wrong direction entirely. And the customers . . . they're a bit rough. Old soldiers and trappers and politicians and other unsavory types. We'd be better off camping here.”

“That doesn't make any sense at all,” Bridget said, putting her hands on her hips. “It's better to spend the night away from animals that are trying to eat us, even if that means a little walk and some weird guys at the bar.”

“She's right,” Hans said. “Anyway, your grandfather mentioned that he parted ways with Penhawitz there. Maybe someone there knows where the old Sachem went.”

“Fine.” Finn gave in angrily. “We'll go to the tavern, if it's so important to you.”

He stomped away, not waiting for the others to follow. Soka glanced at Bridget and shrugged before setting off after him.

“What got into him?” Hans asked from Bridget's shoulder.

“Maybe he's got a big bar tab or something,” Bridget guessed before following the others into the darkening forest, Tucket at her heels.

A NIGHT AT
McGOWN'S

N
icholas woke up suddenly. The room was dark and still. Did he have a bad dream? He turned over to see Lincoln asleep on the other bed. Everything seemed to be fine. So what had awakened him?

A creaking inside the room startled him. He looked sharply to see the door opening slowly to admit a shadow of a man. Nicholas froze, watching the intruder entering his room and knowing in his heart that he'd come to kill them both. Nicholas's pulse began to race as the shadow crept over to him and reached for his neck . . .

Nicholas's hand shot up to grab the man's wrist, and he leaped forward to drive the intruder to the floor. A muffled cry came from beneath him as he landed atop the would-be killer.

“It's not what you think!” the figure cried. “I'm a friend! A friend! You've got the wrong Jimmy!”

“Wasssgoingon?” Lincoln muttered sleepily, sitting up. Nicholas pulled back to see whom he'd tackled. To his great surprise, Jimmy Walker, aide to the mayor, stared back at him, eyes wide.

“What are you doing in here?” Nicholas asked suspiciously. “Lincoln, light a candle.”

“No!” Walker hissed. “They'll see it!”

“Who'll see it?” Lincoln asked, eyes narrowing.

“Look out the window,” Walker whispered. “Now!”

Nicholas pushed himself to his feet, wincing as the pain of his injured stomach flared up. He clutched his belly as he staggered over to the window. Gazing out at his parents' lawn, he didn't see anything at first. Limping up beside him, Lincoln let out a gasp.

“Look!” Lincoln said softly. Nicholas peered closer and then he saw it: dark shapes moving slowly across the lawn toward the farmhouse. As they came close, he could make out feathers and a flash of war paint.

“B'wry Boys,” Walker said from behind them. “Dressed as Munsees—like they've been doing all week. But this time they've got murder on the mind. Yours.”

“How do you know this?” Nicholas said, turning back to the man on the floor.

“Because I'm supposed to be opening the front door,” Walker admitted. “I made a copy of your mother's key the last time when I paid you a visit. Kieft instructed me to let Sly Jimmy and his B'wry Boys in so they can do what they do. They'll be at the door in a minute, so we don't have much time.”

“Why are you helping us, then?” Lincoln whispered, confused.

“Because I'm tired of all this!” Walker said, gritting his teeth. “Kieft wants a war, and I don't like wars! Wars are bad for business! There's no time for dancing and singing and all the good things in life. There's rationing and shortages and death! What a party killer!

“Besides, I know the Mayor wouldn't want this. He's made a whole mess of mistakes, but he respects Peter. He wouldn't agree to this if he knew. But Kieft keeps things from the Mayor all the time. I think he sees that Alexander is being slowly consumed with regret. I hate to see it! Such a waste when he could be having a good time! I won't let your death be another of those regrets. I won't! So come on, I've got some horses out back. We can sneak away with none the wiser.”

“But the house . . .” Nicholas muttered. Thankfully, his father was down at the hospital, still laid up with the awful sickness going around, and his mother was with him. Kieft had probably planned it that way, knowing that Peter Stuyvesant was too powerful to be taken down so crudely. But the farmhouse where he'd grown up . . . he couldn't leave it. He glanced at Lincoln.

“You know I'm the first one to jump into a fight,” Lincoln told him solemnly. “But even I know there are too many of them. It's just a house.”

“Come on, you're wasting time!” Walker warned them, walking to the door. Nicholas glanced back out the window. The fake Munsees were already climbing onto the porch, no doubt waiting for Walker to let them inside. He sighed, his heart aching. He'd make Kieft pay for this, he thought. Then he turned back to Walker.

“Let's go.”

They staggered out of the room and down the stairs, Walker supporting Nicholas as they ran. As they hobbled out the back door to the stables, they could hear the B'wry Boys beginning to beat on the front door. A crash sounded as something flew through the front window. When they reached the horses Walker had waiting, a smell of smoke began to drift by on the wind.

Nicholas shot Lincoln a look of horror. “They're burning it down!” he cried, fighting tears.

“We'll get them back!” Lincoln assured him. “If it's the last thing we do.”

“Hurry, it won't take them long to check back here,” Walker said, climbing aboard one of the horses. Lincoln and Nicholas followed suit and they galloped away, over the side and down to the street to safety. Behind them, the wonderful farmhouse where Nicholas had spent the last four hundred years burned brightly in the night. Nicholas could not watch, but he knew the sight would be with him always.

They heard McGown's Tavern before they saw it. Night had fallen and the weary travelers had to make their way by starlight. They'd passed out of the trees onto one of Central Park's paved paths, but Manhattan still suffered under the blackout, so the streetlamps were all dark. Bridget spied the shadowy buildings of the city in the distance, just over the trees. She wondered how her brother's search was going. And their mother, was she still okay? Bridget had to hope so. There was nothing she could do for them now.

Distant sounds of music and laughter floated by on the wind as they approached the hill that marked McGown's Pass. Finn explained that the pass had been used to hold back the British as General Washington retreated with his men from their defeat at the Battle of Brooklyn. The British claimed the pass—and all of New York—once Washington was well away, and they built forts nearby overlooking the rivers on either side. Eventually, the British would be defeated, and the patriots would triumphantly take back the city. Through it all, McGown's Tavern had survived, untouched by war or occupation, faithfully serving travelers on their way north. It even survived Central Park; the tavern remained at the same spot at the top of the hill into the twentieth century, becoming a favorite haunt of Tammany Hall politicians, before finally being demolished in the early teens.

Its memory was very much alive, however, judging by the merriment coming from atop the hill. At last, Bridget and her companions reached the hilltop where the tavern waited, a warm light in the dark. Lanterns hung outside, welcoming travelers. A stable stood nearby, filled with horses waiting for their masters to finish hobnobbing and head home to their beds. Smoke drifted out of the chimney, promising a blazing fire within. The thought of a nice seat by the fire seemed very pleasant to Bridget. She found herself getting excited as they reached the door and pushed through.

Inside, McGown's Tavern was jumping with the boisterous energy of its customers. Long tables stretched out along the big fireplace, filled with loudly talking—and in some cases singing—guests. And what guests! Soldiers from both sides of the Revolution sat on opposite ends of one table, redcoats near the door, browncoats by the fire. A group of Civil War soldiers took up the corner of another table, eagerly drinking away. Some well-to-do farmers sat eating their porridge next to a pair of nuns who were gingerly sipping wine. And standing by the bar, singing loudly, were three men in old-fashioned tuxedo tails and top hats—Bridget later learned they were corrupt politicians from the turn of the last century who'd died one snowy New Year's Eve when the horse-drawn sleigh they were riding slid into the lake.

Behind the bar, a woman in a wool dress and apron rushed about, filling cups and passing plates of food from the back kitchen out to her serving maids. She brightened when she spied Finn standing in the doorway.

“Finn Lee!” she cried, and the singing politicians stopped long enough to shout hello. “How is your dear grandfather?”

“He's getting better, thank you,” he said, stepping up to the bar. He turned to the nuns, who smiled up at him. “And thank you, Sisters, for your help with his leg. He told me that you saved him, sure as I'm standing here.” The nuns blushed and waved him off. Bridget had to admit, the boy knew how to work a room. Finn turned back to the woman behind the bar. “Catherine, do you have room for my friends and me?”

“Of course!” Catherine exclaimed, pointing to three chairs in the corner. “Sally will be by to see what you'll be having. That is if Megan or Molly don't beat her to it.” She winked. Finn looked away, as if embarrassed, and led Bridget and Soka (but mostly Soka, Bridget noticed) over to the table. Hans popped his head out of Bridget's pocket.

“What do they have? Pie?”

“Stay out of sight,” Bridget told him. “We're not supposed to be memorable.”

“Really?” Hans said. “I noticed that Finn just slips into a room like a ninja, doesn't he?”

“You know what I mean,” Bridget said.

“Well, I can't sit in your pocket all night, I'll suffocate,” Hans said. “I'm going outside for a moment to breathe some fresh air while I can. I'll be back.” He dropped down to the floor and raced toward the door. He just narrowly missed being stepped on by one of the serving maids, who gave a stamp as the battle roach passed by. She stepped up to their table.

“Did you see that?” she asked. “Little vermin get bolder every year.” She turned to Finn. “Hello, Finn. It's so nice to see you around these parts again.” Finn smiled slightly and nodded. Another serving girl stopped by.

“I bet he's happier to see me, right, Finn?” she said. The third serving girl popped by as well.

“I think we all know who he likes best, right, Finn?” She winked as Finn turned red. Catherine bellowed over from the bar.

“Leave him be, girls! There will be time enough for courtin' when the place is closed for the night!”

The girls frowned, batting their eyes at Finn. Soka turned to the handsome guide, her eyes narrowing.

“You know all these girls?” she asked evenly. Finn blanched.

“Not really. I mean, I do!” he hastily added as the girls shrieked with indignation. “But it's not . . . I'm not . . . I told you we shouldn't have come.” He sank back in his chair, defeated. Bridget smirked; no wonder he'd wanted to keep Soka away from this place. He'd dated everyone in here. He was a man-tramp.