The Cadet

The Massacre of 1655 had begun.

For the next three days, the enraged Indians attacked all the outlying farms in New Netherland.  They started on the far side of the river directly across from Manhattan, burning and killing.  Every farm and occupant of Staten Island was killed or taken hostage.  Then the Indians crossed over to New Utrecht, Gravesend and Bruekelen.  By then, the colonists there had heard of the disaster.  Some fled toward Manhattan, only to be caught in the water by the swift canoes.  Some made it across the narrow section by Helle Gat.

Jan was working in the big field behind his house with Tomys Swartwout.  They had already gathered in Swartwout’s fine crop (which had enabled him to make good on his debt to Jan Stryker), and were nearly complete with the Snedeker crop when they both saw the figure of Jan Stryker running from the direction of his farm.  He had a spear in his hand.

“Indians are attacking all the farms!”  His great voice covered the distance across the field, galvanizing Jan and Tomys.

“Quick, Tomys!  To the shed!  I have spears there!”  The two men reached the shed at the same time as Jan Stryker.  Jan looked at his friend in confusion.

“Where is your family?”

“I’ve gotten them across Helle Gat to the colony!  But I had to come to warn you!  Your family is safe, also, Tomys.  But I fear the wilden are right behind me!  Jan Stryker was gasping for breath as he spoke, his speech coming in spurts.

“It was noble of you to come warn me, my friend.”  Jan grasped Stryker’s arm in gratitude.  “We must head for the river.”

“No time.  The wilden are between us and the river!  We shall have to make a stand here.”

A cold hand gripped Jan’s heart.  He ran to the house.

“Annetje!  Get yourself and the children into the bolt-hole!  Hurry!”  Jan had constructed a hiding place under the floor of the house.  An innocuous section of floor could be raised, and there was a good hiding place under it.  He did not have time to do or say anything more, for suddenly he heard Stryker’s voice.

“They are here, Jan!  To arms!”

Jan ran outside.  Forty feet away, a dozen Indians were running at his two friends.  Gerrit stood with them, his spear held with the point high like he’d taught him.  Jan took the spear he’d left leaning against the wall by the front door and charged forward with a scream of fear and rage.

Jan reached the press just as Gerrit, Stryker, and Swartwout were thrusting at the first Indians with their spears.  He did not pause, but continued to run into the mass of men.  His spear skewered the nearest Indian, who screamed as he began to fall backward.  The spear had passed completely through the man, and entered the chest of the Indian directly behind him.  The weight of the two men falling tore the spear from his hands.  Next to them, an Indian stood looking appalled at the two men obscenely stacked, joined together with the thick wood pointing directly to the sky, and therefore he did not have time to get out of Jan’s reach.

Still bellowing with a hysterical madness of fear mixed with an insane rage, Jan tore out both the man’s eyes with his fingers.  He was reaching to tear the tomahawk from the shrieking Indian’s grasp when a blinding pain lanced across the top right part of his skull.

All went quiet, then black.