town.
The last few houses on the edge of New York slipped past. On either side were farmfields and orchards, stone boundary walls, and cattle in their pastures. He rode past the large old windmill atop Common Hill, and then he was truly on the Boston Post Road as it curved along the huge green deep of Collect Pond on the left and thick woodland on the right sloping all the way down to the river.
The rain showers had thankfully settled the dust on the Post Road. The road itself was not nearly as rugged as that miserable path from Charles Town to Fount Royal, but certainly could still bring a civil engineer to his knees. Matthew considered that one of the most grueling jobs in the colony had to be driving a coach between New York and Boston, and feeling those bumps and gullies nearly knock the wheels off under you. But then again, it was a road well-travelled by local farmers and occupants of the larger estates further north and of course as a route not only to Boston but also to East Chester and New Rochelle.
It was a hilly route, with large stretches of wilderness between cultivated farmland. Here too, as in the Carolina colony, the massive trees in places overhung the road with gnarled branches that had been old in the days of Henry Hudson. Deer occasionally jumped in the undergrowth at the sight of Matthew and Suvie. Dark flights of insects whirled over swamp ponds and clear streams gurgled over smooth-worn stones. There was also, as in Carolina, the feeling that one was always being watched by Indian eyes, yet for a white man to see an Indian who didn’t wish to be sighted was a near impossibility. The clouds bellied, a shower fell, the clouds broke apart, and the bright sun shone down through ten-thousand green leaves above Matthew’s head.
He kept Suvie at a walk, intending to pick her up into a trot a little further along. He judged it would take about a half-hour from this point to reach the more narrow road, marked by a pile of white stones, that turned to the left off the Post Road and wound to a number of estates either once or currently held by Dutch residents. Then he could work Suvie into speed and possibly cover the remaining four miles in about forty minutes. It interested Matthew why someone would choose to live out here in the wilderness so far from town, but as he understood it these particular people owned businesses-like Mr. DeKonty’s stone quarry and lumbermill-that demanded both space and resources. He understood there was a vineyard out here somewhere and a winery starting up, but he hadn’t yet seen it. These were hardy, fearless people who seemed to have no problem with Indians showing up for tea, but never let it be said that New York would ever grow without fearless people.
Rays of sunlight streamed through the forest, but now lower to the ground. Ahead the road curved to the right beyond the thicket of trees. The noise of birdsong was loud and reassuring though from the western distance came a faint low rumble of thunder. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of green cliffs rising up below a blue haze. He hated to be caught out in a real rainstorm, not just these passing summer drizzle-fits, but even if he became soaked at least the envelope was well-protected.
Now the road curved to the left and climbed a hillock. At the top it descended and went right again, a capricious trickster. He guided Suvie around the bend and saw the oak branches inter-locking over the road ahead like the arbored ceiling of a green cathedral.
The road stretched out straight and flat. This would be a good place to urge Suvie into a trot, he decided, but no sooner had this thought come to mind than three quail burst from the thicket to his right, flying past him like arrows, and following with a crash of breaking underbrush came a big chestnut horse with a white-starred face.
The muscular animal was being ridden by a man wearing a black tricorn with a raven’s-feather tucked in the scarlet band, a white ruffled shirt, dark blue coat, and white breeches. Unfortunately, Matthew saw, he was no ordinary equestrian out for an afternoon’s jaunt, for he wore a dark blue kerchief across the lower half of his face and bore a pistol whose barrel looked equally as long as Matthew’s forearm. The business-hole in that barrel was trained on Matthew, whose first rather frantic idea of digging his heels into Suvie’s sides and riding like a scalded- ass demon flew away as quickly as a scared quail.
“Hold your horse,” the highwayman directed, as Suvie gave a shudder of alarm and started to sidestep. Matthew did as he was told and pressed his knees in, at the same time giving as smooth a pull on the reins as he could manage. Suvie whinnied and snorted but complied with her rider. The highwayman approached, the pistol resting across his lap. Matthew’s heart was pounding so hard he knew his ears must be twitching.
“Keep the reins and step down,” came the next command. When Matthew didn’t immediately obey-being somewhat frozen solid at this sudden attack-the highwayman placed the pistol’s barrel against Matthew’s right knee. “I won’t kill you, young man,” he said, his voice low and husky though not altogether ungentlemanly, “but I shall blow your knee off if you fail to do as I say. This being a well-travelled road, I’m sure a wagon will come along in three or four hours.”
Matthew climbed down off Suvie, still holding the reins.
The highwayman now dismounted, and Matthew was aware that he was a broad-shouldered monster of a man perhaps three inches above six feet. Gray sides showed below the tricorn, as well as half a craggy face, the bridge of a formidable nose, and deep-set eyes dark as tarpits. The left charcoal-gray eyebrow was sliced by a jagged and nasty-looking scar.
“What do you have?” the man asked, laying the barrel against Matthew’s left ear.
“Nothing.” It was all he could do to speak, but he knew that he had to steady up.
“Why is it everyone says that? Well, not everyone. Some beg to give me their money, after I shoot them through the ear. Wish to answer that question again?”
“I have a little money.”
“Oh, ho! From nothing to a little! Progress of sorts, I’d say. Soon we’ll have you richer than Midas. Where is this pittance?”
“Saddlebag,” Matthew said, but only with great reluctance because he knew what else was in there. He thought he could hear the ocean roaring in the pistol’s barrel.
“Open it.” The man took Suvie’s reins and stepped back.
Matthew tried to take his time at undoing the leather straps, but the highwayman said, “I’m going to take what you have, so cease the nonsense.” When Matthew had opened the bag, the man commanded, “Step off the road,” and Matthew backed up into the high grass. Then the raven of the roads strode forward, reached into the bag, brought out Matthew’s brown leather drawstring wallet, and…the indignity of it…the silver watch just presented to him two hours before.
“Shiny,” the highwayman commented. “I like this very much, thank you.” The watch disappeared into his coat with practised grace. Next was the undoing of the wallet, and this time the half-face gave a menacing scowl. “What’s your job? Professional beggar? How is it you carry a silver watch of wealth and a wallet of poverty?”
“My station in life,” Matthew answered. “The watch belongs to someone else.”
The highwayman stared at him impassively for a moment, looked into the empty saddlebag once more, and then gave Suvie a flathand whack on the rump that caused her to squall like an infant and shoot forward, her eyes wide with terror and her ears back against her head. She galloped wildly away along the road, heading in the direction of the DeKonty estate, and Matthew thought he heard the chestnut horse give a whicker that for all the world sounded like an evil little laugh.
Matthew slowly let go of the breath that had lodged in his lungs. He knew full well he was up to his ears in what his face had been pushed into two nights ago.
“Open your coat,” came the next directive.
Instinctively, Matthew’s fingers went to his coat just over the envelope. He winced and dropped his hand down as if seared by unearthly fire.
“Open it.” The highwayman came forward until he was an arm’s length from Matthew. The tarpit eyes glittered and the pistol rose up to rest against his own shoulder.
“I have no more-”
In the next instant Matthew’s coat was wrenched open, a button flew from within, and a hand pulled the envelope out before the button could fall into the grass. The robber checked the other side of Matthew’s coat for another pocket but, finding nothing, turned his attention to the waistcoat. Its small pocket was empty and so too was the pocket of his breeches; therefore the highwayman took two steps back and looked down at the envelope, starting to turn it over to the sealed side.
Matthew stepped forward, damp sweat prickling his face. At once he had the highwayman’s full concentration and the pistol barrel at one nostril.
“Listen,” Matthew said in a voice that was near breaking, “that doesn’t concern you. It’s an official document.
