finding transportation across the river was no great chore. Once Patrick was on Manhattan, however, getting to his destination—the residence of Jacob Schuyler—proved impossible until the driver of a carriage succumbed to the temptation of a ten-dollar gold piece. For the duration of the ride, Patrick sat in the back with his right hand firmly around the handle of a revolver, which he let the driver glimpse on more than one occasion.
The narrow city streets were filled with angry, sullen people, and fights broke out frequently. The carriage wheels crunched through broken glass; many store windows had been smashed and shops plundered. He was glad he had not worn his uniform. It likely would have made him a focus of the crowd’s anger, which, justifiably, centered on the government’s inability to prevent the travesty occurring before their eyes.
He saw a body lying facedown in a puddle. Two small children stood by, fascinated. “Looter,” said the driver.
“Where in God’s name are the police?” Patrick asked.
“Protectin’ the rich people. Where the hell else would they be?” He laughed harshly. “Don’t worry none. You’ll be safe where you’re goin’.”
When Patrick had arrived the night before at the Schuyler apartments, armed with a letter of introduction from their good friend Theodore Roosevelt, he was disappointed to find that Jacob Schuyler was out of town. His daughter, Katrina, was at home and assigned him a room that overlooked the East River. When he was told the Schuylers had apartments, he hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly not the thirty rooms they occupied, along with their several servants.
Nor was Katrina what he had expected, given such a totally Dutch name. He’d thought of her as a blond dumpling with blue eyes and a vapid, giggly personality. But instead of being plump, Katrina was slender, almost thin. She stood slightly over average height but appeared taller because of her thinness and because she carried herself very straight, with almost military precision, and dressed quite primly. She was also a little older than he had expected. He guessed that she was in her late twenties or early thirties, a spinster and well over marriage age. She appeared distraught, tired, alone, and concerned.
At least he’d been right about the blond hair and the bluish eyes, Patrick thought as he sipped his morning coffee and wondered what the new day would bring.
“Good morning, Colonel. Is the view to your satisfaction?”
Patrick placed his coffee cup on a table and turned. “Hardly, Miss Schuyler. I find it most depressing.”
She nodded. “Now you know how I’ve found it over the past couple of days. To be honest, I am delighted you are here even though I might not have shown it very well last night. There was that horrid feeling that we—that is, everyone in New York—had been abandoned. What with the explosions of Sunday night and the invasions and the mobs of looters, my world has been a nightmare.”
Of course, he thought, and that would have accounted for her distracted and confused behavior of yesterday. He had to admit she looked far less unattractive, although now, rested and under control, there was an air of formidability that he hadn’t noticed. While she was far from a beauty—her face was thin, her nose a little long, and he hadn’t yet seen her smile—he found her looks interesting. Interesting—now there’s a word to be damned with, he thought.
“And what ship is that?” she asked, looking at the German cruiser.
“Her name is the
Hela,
a small cruiser.”
“Not a battleship? Are we so insignificant that we don’t even rate a battleship?”
He told her the larger ships were doubtless out at sea or in the harbor keeping a watch for the American navy.
She gestured to the table. “You’ve read the morning papers, I see. Anything of note?”
“Other than a level of vitriol against things German, there is a wide divergence of opinion. The Hearst
The narrow city streets were filled with angry, sullen people, and fights broke out frequently. The carriage wheels crunched through broken glass; many store windows had been smashed and shops plundered. He was glad he had not worn his uniform. It likely would have made him a focus of the crowd’s anger, which, justifiably, centered on the government’s inability to prevent the travesty occurring before their eyes.
He saw a body lying facedown in a puddle. Two small children stood by, fascinated. “Looter,” said the driver.
“Where in God’s name are the police?” Patrick asked.
“Protectin’ the rich people. Where the hell else would they be?” He laughed harshly. “Don’t worry none. You’ll be safe where you’re goin’.”
When Patrick had arrived the night before at the Schuyler apartments, armed with a letter of introduction from their good friend Theodore Roosevelt, he was disappointed to find that Jacob Schuyler was out of town. His daughter, Katrina, was at home and assigned him a room that overlooked the East River. When he was told the Schuylers had apartments, he hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly not the thirty rooms they occupied, along with their several servants.
Nor was Katrina what he had expected, given such a totally Dutch name. He’d thought of her as a blond dumpling with blue eyes and a vapid, giggly personality. But instead of being plump, Katrina was slender, almost thin. She stood slightly over average height but appeared taller because of her thinness and because she carried herself very straight, with almost military precision, and dressed quite primly. She was also a little older than he had expected. He guessed that she was in her late twenties or early thirties, a spinster and well over marriage age. She appeared distraught, tired, alone, and concerned.
At least he’d been right about the blond hair and the bluish eyes, Patrick thought as he sipped his morning coffee and wondered what the new day would bring.
“Good morning, Colonel. Is the view to your satisfaction?”
Patrick placed his coffee cup on a table and turned. “Hardly, Miss Schuyler. I find it most depressing.”
She nodded. “Now you know how I’ve found it over the past couple of days. To be honest, I am delighted you are here even though I might not have shown it very well last night. There was that horrid feeling that we—that is, everyone in New York—had been abandoned. What with the explosions of Sunday night and the invasions and the mobs of looters, my world has been a nightmare.”
Of course, he thought, and that would have accounted for her distracted and confused behavior of yesterday. He had to admit she looked far less unattractive, although now, rested and under control, there was an air of formidability that he hadn’t noticed. While she was far from a beauty—her face was thin, her nose a little long, and he hadn’t yet seen her smile—he found her looks interesting. Interesting—now there’s a word to be damned with, he thought.
“And what ship is that?” she asked, looking at the German cruiser.
“Her name is the
Hela,
a small cruiser.”
“Not a battleship? Are we so insignificant that we don’t even rate a battleship?”
He told her the larger ships were doubtless out at sea or in the harbor keeping a watch for the American navy.
She gestured to the table. “You’ve read the morning papers, I see. Anything of note?”
“Other than a level of vitriol against things German, there is a wide divergence of opinion. The Hearst
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