Dutch Treat
Although Peter Lydecker lived and worked in New Jersey and often crossed the Hudson River to visit Manhattan either for business or pleasure, he was ignorant when it came to the early history of the island and the surrounding area. He knew only the basics he had learned in school: Englishman Henry Hudson explored the river that would later bear his name, Peter Minuit purchased the island of Manhattan from the Native Americans for a ridiculously low price, the Dutch West India Company established the colony of New Amsterdam, which the British eventually took from the Dutch and renamed New York. It then remained a British colony until the American patriots won their independence from Great Britain.
His grammar school social studies textbooks, however, devoted only a few paragraphs to the great city's seventeenth century history, and Peter, although he lived less than twenty miles west of Manhattan, never thought to look elsewhere for additional information. Like many American students, history was something he was required to learn in school, but he considered it a fairly useless subject—much like algebra.
After all, what did he care about the Dutch colony or the people who settled there? That was almost four hundred years ago. Those past events and those people, long dead in their graves, had no bearing on his life—or so Peter had believed until one Friday evening when he left work and drove into the city to a party given by an old college buddy who lived on Central Park West.
His friend, Ethan Powell, who had a high-paying job as a Wall Street analyst, had gone to the considerable expense of having the food catered by a five-star restaurant and hiring a professional bartender and deejay for the evening.
Peter, who had hoped to meet an eligible young lady at the party, noted that there were about four dozen guests, roughly half of them female. Nearly all of the women, he soon learned with disappointment, were already in serious relationships. Furthermore, none of the few remaining women seemed to interest Peter.
They're much too high maintenance for me, he immediately concluded when he saw the expensive designer clothing and shoes they were wearing. I can't afford to date such women on the salary I make.
With no likely romantic prospects, he decided he would at least get a decent meal for his time and expense. After all, he had to fight traffic on the way into Manhattan and pay for the Lincoln Tunnel and for parking.
His mood improved considerably at the sight of the wide variety of foods.
It must be nice to have money, Peter thought as he examined the platters laid out on the dining room table and the large kitchen island.
Once he had filled his plate with a selection of meats, seafood, pasta and salad, he made his way through the crowd to the bar.
"What'll you have?" the bartender asked.
Peter thought about ordering a beer, but then decided to make the most of the situation by asking for a class of Cristal.
Why not? he reasoned. Ethan can afford it.
"You've got good taste," the bartender said as he poured the champagne into a Waterford crystal wine glass.
"Actually, I've never had it before," Peter confessed. "I'm more of a Budweiser guy. But what the hell? You gotta live a little once in a while."
"If you're in the mood for something different, why not try a Dutch Treat?" the man asked as he passed over the glass of Cristal.
"A Dutch Treat? I've never heard of it. What's in it?"
"I can't tell you that. It's a trade secret. I'll be drummed out of the bartender's union if I ever reveal the ingredients."
"Well, I wouldn't want to see anyone loose a job, especially not in this economy."
"You want to try one?"
"Maybe later, once I'm done with my Cristal."
It was more than an hour later when Peter returned to the bar.
"I think I'll try that drink now," he announced.
The bartender smiled.
"One Dutch Treat coming up."
Peter tried to watch the man as he made the drink, but the bartender turned his back and surreptitiously mixed the ingredients where no one could see them.
"Here you go!" the bartender declared and handed Peter a tall glass filled with a bright green liquid.
"It looks like antifreeze," the young man laughed.
He tentatively took a sip. It had a sweet, fruity flavor.
"Mmmm. Not bad. Tastes like green apple."
As he slowly drank his Dutch Treat cocktail, Peter sized up the bartender. The short and stocky man had a full head of tightly curling black hair and a heavy five o'clock shadow. His ill-fitting outfit, although clean, needed pressing and there were cookie crumbs on his tie.
"Can I get you a refill on that?" the bartender offered when he saw that Peter's glass was almost empty.
"I don't think so," Peter said, feeling his head begin to spin. "This one really packs a punch."
"Would you like me to call you a taxi, sir?"
"No, thank you ...," he replied, leaning forward and squinting his eyes to read the man's nametag pinned on his shirt pocket, "... Omar. I think I better go sit down for a while."
"Why don't you lie down in the guest bedroom? I'm sure your host won't mind."
Peter thanked the bartender and headed down the hall toward Ethan's guest room. No sooner did he sit on the queen size bed than he felt himself slip into unconsciousness.
* * *
When Peter opened his eyes, he saw blindingly bright sunlight streaming through the window. He quickly covered his face with his hands.
"It's morning. Damn it! I must have slept all night. What was in that drink?"
He gingerly moved his head, and to his surprise there was no pain or nausea.
"At least I don't have a hangover. I've gotta be thankful for small favors."
Hoping to summon the energy to get out of bed and face the start of a new day, he peeked through the cracks in his fingers.
Where am I? he wondered as he examined the unfamiliar setting. This doesn't look like Ethan's place. It doesn't look like anyplace I've ever been to.
He walked to the window.
"What the ...?"
What he saw outside fascinated him as much as it terrified him.
"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," he declared facetiously.
What he actually meant was that he was not in New York anymore. He also doubted he was in New Jersey.
He tried to make sense of the sights he was seeing: an old fashioned military style fort, a windmill, tall sailing ships in the harbor, dozens of simple shops and homes, and the people ....
"I must be dreaming. Either that or I'm hallucinating."
It was a lot like being in a Renaissance Faire except that the clothing was from the seventeenth century rather than the Elizabethan era, and Peter was the only one not dressed in costume.
"What the devil did Omar put in that drink?"
There was a light knock on the door. A moment later, a beautiful young woman stepped inside the room.
"Ah, you're awake? I was beginning to fear you were out for good."
"You know me?" Peter asked.
"No. I never laid eyes on you until I found you passed out on the street in front of the tavern last night. I asked Diedrich Van Laer to bring you inside."
"Tavern? What tavern? I was at a private party in Manhattan."
"I don't know what you're talking about," the young woman said. "But this is Dirck Storm's Tavern."
"I've never heard of it. Where exactly is it?"
"On DeHeere Straet, right here in Nieuw Amsterdam."
It suddenly occurred to Peter that the young woman was speaking Dutch, not English, and yet he understood every word she spoke. Even more amazing she was able to understand him, and the only foreign language he knew was a sprinkling of Spanish he studied for two years of high school.
"Who are you?" he asked. "And where do you come from?"
"My name is Annetje, the daughter of Claes, the cooper. I was born in Utrecht, but I don't remember much about it. I was just a small child when my parents came to Nieuw Amsterdam. Where are you from?"
"New Jersey," he replied automatically.
"Jersey? You're from England then?"
"No, I live right across the Hudson River."
"Where?" she asked in confusion.
"West of here," he replied.
Then he asked the question that had been foremost in his mind since he opened his eyes and got a good look at his surroundings.
"What year is it?"
Annetje laughed.
"Have you had that much to drink that you don't even know what year it is?"
Peter smiled weakly at her.
"It's the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and sixty-four."
"It can't be," he mumbled.
But the evidence of his own eyes supported her claim.
"I'm like Rip Van Winkle," he exclaimed in wonderment. "Only in reverse!"
"Van Winkle? So you're from Holland originally? I thought you were from England."
"At this point," Peter said with exasperation, "I'm not sure where I'm from, or when."
* * *
Although Peter was a stranger, Annetje took him home where her mother, Maritje, gave him something to eat. Her father, upon learning the young man had no place to stay, offered him a room above his cooper shop.
"I'm afraid I can't pay you. I don't have any money," Peter said.
"No matter," Claes replied. "I could use a strong young man like you around here. I'm getting too old to lift all those heavy barrels."
After the meal and the evening chores were done, Claes and his wife turned in for the night. Annetje volunteered to show Peter the way to her father's shop on DeHeere Straet.
"See that water there," Peter said, pointing to what he knew as the Hudson River but what Annetje called the Noort Rivier. "I live on the other side."
"It is dangerous there. No wonder you came to Nieuw Amsterdam."
"What's so dangerous about New Jer—about that land?"
"The natives, of course. When Willem Kieft was director-general of Nieuw-Nederland, there was a massacre at Pavonia, and many settlers were killed. And then about ten years ago there was another attack. More than a hundred people were killed, and another hundred and fifty taken prisoner."
Peter had been taught in school that the Lenni Lenape were a peaceful people. He never learned of the hostilities between the native tribes and the white settlers—no doubt because it was the white men who had instigated the trouble in the first place.
"There is so much about your world that I don't know," he said, as though apologizing for his ignorance.
"Don't fret," she said, taking his hand in hers. "You'll learn."
While he was with Annetje, Peter was content to simply observe the new world around him. But after she left him at her father's shop and he lay down on a bed made from a pile of straw and a hand-woven blanket, his mind turned to practical matters. What was going on in his own time? Was there any trace of him back in Ethan's guest room? Perhaps his body was still there, in a catatonic state. On the other hand, if he had completely vanished from his own time, had anyone noticed he was gone? Surely, his employer would suspect something was wrong come Monday morning.
And how long would he remain in the seventeenth century? If it was a permanent relocation, then he would try to adapt and make the best of things. But what if he returned to the twenty-first century in a week, a month or a year? The longer he remained in the past, the more difficult his return would be. He might go back to his own time only to discover he had no job, his apartment lease had expired and his bills were long past due. Hell, he might return to find he had been declared legally dead! He cringed at the thought of the paperwork he would have to endure to be "reborn."
With all the worries that plagued his mind, it was hours before he fell asleep. He woke up early the next morning to find he was still living in the past. He had to admit that he was pleased at having the opportunity of seeing Annetje again. It was instead her father, Claes, who first greeted him.
"You best get something to eat," the man said good-naturedly. "You can't do a good day's work on an empty stomach."
Peter found his way to the house with no difficulty. His heartbeat quickened when he saw Annetje baking bread in the kitchen. It was ironic, he thought, that he had dated a few dozen women in his own time, and none of them ever made him feel the way this Dutch girl from the past did. In truth, a part of him was reluctant to return to the twenty-first century.
As the days passed, Peter became increasingly comfortable in his surroundings. Like its successor, New York City, New Amsterdam was a melting pot. In addition to the Dutch, there were British Quakers, French Huguenots, Walloons, Germans, Scotsmen and Native Americans. Being a busy seaport, there were all walks of people including farmers, craftsmen, sailors, prostitutes, bankers, slaves, and even an occasional pirate.
This is not at all like I imagined Colonial America would be, he thought, as he watched a shipload of new settlers busily preparing for a trip north along the Hudson to a Dutch tobacco plantation near present-day Albany.
Images of dour-faced, Bible-toting Pilgrims from the Massachusetts Bay Colony making their way through the snow to attend Sunday meeting bore little resemblance to the Dutch colony, which was pulsating with vitality and industry.
He didn't even mind being a cooper's assistant. Manual labor, surprisingly, agreed with him, and it was not nearly as stressful as his office job had been.
And then there was Annetje. Each day he grew to love her more. If he were certain he would remain in the past, he would ask her to marry him.
"If only I knew for sure what lies ahead!"
* * *
One morning Peter woke to a warm, sunny summer day. A light breeze blew in from the Atlantic. There wasn't the slightest hint of homesickness in his heart. Not even the sight of New Jersey across the Hudson River evoked a longing for his own century.
As he walked along DeHeere Straet toward Annetje's home, his resolve not to propose began to weaken.
"I might be a prisoner of the past for the rest of my life," he reasoned. "If that's the case, I'd be a fool not to declare my love."
It was as though a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his soul. For the first time in his life, Peter was truly and completely happy. He made up his mind to ask Annetje to marry him. As for the impending British takeover, which only Peter knew was coming—well, whatever obstacles might lie ahead, they would face them together as man and wife.
As he neared Dirck Storm's Tavern, he decided to stop for a quick celebratory drink. When he walked into the dimly lit building, Dirck was not at his usual place at the taps.
"What'll you have?" a voice spoke from the shadows.
It was not Dirck's voice.
"How about a Dutch Treat?"
Peter felt as though he had been punched in the stomach by Evander Holyfield. As the man stepped into the light, Peter recognized Omar Applebee's curly hair and stocky frame.
"What are you doing here?" Peter asked.
"I've come to take you home."
"What if I don't want to return?"
"This isn't your time."
"I don't care. I want to remain here."
"Britain and Holland are at war. Now, I know you weren't a history major in college, but you do know that England was once the most powerful nation in the world. Remember that old saying: The sun never sets on the British Empire."
"What's your point, Omar?"
"The British realize the geographical importance of this island. They want Manhattan, and they'll get it."
"And what will happen to these people that are here?" Peter asked, believing that Mr. Applebee had the answer.
"What you really want to know is what will happen to Annetje."
"Yes. Is she in any danger?"
"There are all sorts of dangers," he cryptically replied. "Why don't you just forget about her? You can't marry her. If you do, you'll never return to your own time."
"I don't care."
"The choice is yours," Applebee declared. "Your life and the world as you know it, or this girl from the past."
Peter turned and walked toward the door; he stopped on the threshold and replied without hesitation, "I choose the girl."
* * *
Word spread quickly through the Dutch settlement: British gunboats had been spotted heading toward New Amsterdam.
"We needn't fear them," Annetje declared. "Director Stuyvesant will turn them away."
"You put a lot of faith in one man," Peter said.
"He is our leader, and even though he has but one leg, he is braver than any man I know."
"If only I knew what was about to happen," Peter said to himself. "What I wouldn't give to have access to Google right now."
"I have no idea what a Google is," Annetje said, "but there's nothing or no one can tell the future."
It was not the future but the past that troubled Peter. How could the people of New Amsterdam fight against four armed ships and hope to win? They couldn't. That much he knew. Unless somehow history could be rewritten, the Dutch would lose ownership of the land to the British. What he desperately wanted to know was whether there would be bloodshed. The thought of Annetje becoming a casualty of the war made his heart ache.
Peter's worst fears were soon realized. Richard Nicolls, onboard one of the British vessels, had sent word to Petrus Stuyvesant: on behalf of Charles II, King of England, he was demanding the surrender of the island of Manhatoes and all its lands and forts. If the Dutch did not comply, Nicolls would fire upon the settlement.
"Oh, God!" Peter cried out in anguish. "Why was I sent here if I am powerless to help change events?"
"Maybe now you're ready to go home."
Peter, who had thought he was alone, turned to find Omar Applebee standing beside him.
"Can I take Annetje with me?" he pleaded.
"No. You have to leave her behind."
"Then I'll stay, too. It was a miracle that I found her. I won't give her up now."
"It was hardly a miracle," Applebee laughed. "It was a twist of fate. Like winning a lottery. You were there when the dice were tossed."
"You make it seem as though time travel happens all the time."
"It does."
"Then why can't Annetje go with me to the future?"
Applebee did not answer. Instead, he asked another question.
"You're determined to hold on to her despite everything, then?
"I'll stay here and die with her, if necessary."
"All right," Applebee sighed. "I can't send her to the future, but at least I can make sure that the two of you get safely away from New Amsterdam. There's a trading ship in the harbor. Row out to it in a small boat. Then get onboard and set sail."
"What about the British?"
"They've got bigger fish to fry. They're not concerned with one unarmed trading ship."
"Once we're away from here, where do we go?"
Applebee frowned and shook his head.
"That's up to you."
* * *
Venturing into the harbor past the British gunboats, boarding the trading vessel and sailing it out of the harbor proved much easier than convincing Annetje of the need to escape. Even though she loved Peter and wanted to be his wife, she was reluctant to abandon her family who refused to leave New Amsterdam. Despite their own desire to remain, however, they insisted their daughter accompany Peter.
"We both want you to be safe," Claes assured her. "And we want you to be happy."
Thus, with her parents' blessing, Annetje left her home in search of a new life with Peter.
An hour after saying their goodbyes to Claes and Maritje, the young man from the future and his Dutch bride-to-be boarded the trading vessel. They found it manned by a strangely pale and silent but able crew who strangely enough regarded Peter as their captain. Without any interference from the British, they raised sail and headed out to open sea.
* * *
Ironically, the danger Peter had feared never materialized. New Amsterdam, unlike the New World colonies in New England and Virginia, was a commercial port owned by the Dutch West India Company. The colonists, unwilling to die for what was essentially a business venture, sent a signed petition to Stuyvesant, urging him to surrender to the British.
"We are defenseless against the English gunboats," one of the petitioners cried. "We're not soldiers; we're farmers and craftsmen, family men with wives and children."
As a former military man, the one-legged Stuyvesant would have preferred fighting to the bitter end, but he acquiesced to the settlers' request. Fort Amsterdam was vacated, and the British took possession of the land they later renamed New York, after the king's brother, the Duke of York. It was a peaceful surrender, and the people of New Amsterdam were allowed to keep their homes and businesses upon taking an oath of allegiance to Charles II, the reigning British monarch.
Had Peter and Annetje remained on Manhattan Island, they could have been married in the presence of the bride's parents and most likely lived long, happy lives as British subjects. However, Peter's concern for Annetje's safety, his deficient knowledge of early American history and unsound advice from the mysterious Omar Applebee had caused him to seek escape in the face of danger.
Claes and his wife waited many years for word from their daughter. Sadly, it never came. The parents chose to believe that she and Peter had settled elsewhere in the New World and made a good life for themselves. It was preferable to believing the young couple had met their deaths at sea.
The truth, however, is much more unnerving. Peter Lydecker and his beloved Annetje never stepped foot on land again. They remained aboard their cursed vessel for many years. They would briefly appear in one century, only to vanish and reappear in another. The occasional sightings of the ship, captained by a prisoner of time and manned by escapees from Davy Jones's locker, gave birth to the legend of the mysterious ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman. Some claim that to this day it travels the waters of the North Atlantic, searching for a safe harbor.
Salem likes to think he inspired Rembrandt, Vermeer and other Dutch Masters, but I've never heard of the Cat with a Pearl Earring. Have you?
