The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I’m giddy. We’re not blowing it up! This time is different! Maybe . . . maybe . . . But I can’t let myself think about that now.

Herschel takes up my hand. My skin flames to life when he touches me, and we go flying across the Battery as fast as our feet can carry us.

Private police from the Second Ward, retained by the corporation for the evening, have started herding people away from the gangplank, and we sneak unobserved to the stern of the barge where it’s moored not far from the West Battery peninsula. A thick hemp docking line groans under the drag of the barge as revelers mass on the port side to wave to the people on shore. Night is gathering quickly in the shadows of the Battery, and no one observes us as we creep to the dock edge. The stern of the boat bobs about ten feet away.

“We can shimmy across on the dock line,” Herschel suggests. “Can you do that in a dress?”

I grin at him through the dark, plant my hands on his cheeks, and kiss him full on the mouth. He’s surprised, his young lips trembling. Then his lips warm under my pressure, and he kisses me back.

A pop and explosion from a child’s firecracker startles us apart, and I break away from him, taking a few steps back. I hoist my skirts up over my knees, bloomers exposed, take a deep breath, and then I start to run.

“Gott im Himmel!” I think I hear Herschel exclaim, but it’s too late to stop now. My foot plants hard on the edge of the dock, the light-spangled waves below me, and I jump.

I vault up as high as I can go into the air, my feet kicking, and then I land on the deck, collapsing in a heap of skirts over my head. Some other young people on the barge applaud and cheer, and a few young men rush over to help me to my feet, slapping me on the back and shaking my hand.

While they’re congratulating me there’s another thunk and it’s Herschel, sprawled out on the deck on his stomach, one leg in the water, scrabbling his way aboard. They’ve thrown the dock lines off and the barge is slowly starting to make its way into the current. Several young men haul Herschel to safety by the back of his jacket. He’s lost his hat in the leap, and when the young men see his ear curls, they drop his jacket and move away.

“Jew,” one of them mutters under his breath.

I rush over to help him to his feet, glaring back at the strangers who’ve vanished into the throng. The music has reached deafening levels, and I can’t get Herschel to hear me over the horns. I ascertain that he’s not hurt, only winded and hatless.

As the barge pulls away from shore, I spy my parents’ carriage rolling to a stop at the foot of the gangplank, and my father lurches out of the carriage door with my mother close on his heels. They’re waving their arms and shouting, but I can’t hear them.

Herschel moves with stealth behind the band in the stern, making sure of the leather bag, until we reach the lee side of the cabin. We’re alone. Most of the corporation crowd has gathered on the larboard side, where they can watch the city lanterns recede into glittering dots along the shore. The barge will pull away from land and swing around into the current in a wide semicircle until the starboard side faces the city, and that’s when the governor on his barge nearby will pour the waters into the harbor, and they’ll light the fireworks.

We don’t have much time.

Herschel fumbles the leather bag open and pulls out a couple of cans, some brushes, and a pocketknife. Swearing with effort he struggles to pry the cans open. Finally he gets one done, dips a brush, and sets to work.

I grab another of the brushes and dip it into the paint, but it’s old and congealed so thick I almost can’t get the brush in.

“Herschel,” I whisper, tugging at the hem of his coat.

“What?” he whispers back.