{"product_id":"new-york-the-novel-isbn-9780345497420","title":"New York: The Novel","description":"\u003cb\u003eWinner of the David J. Langum, Sr., Prize in American Historical Fiction\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNamed one of the best books of the year by\u003ci\u003e The Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e and “Required Reading” by the \u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEdward Rutherfurd celebrates America’s greatest city in a rich, engrossing saga, weaving together tales of families rich and poor, native-born and immigrant—a cast of fictional and true characters whose fates rise and fall and rise again with the city’s fortunes. From this intimate perspective we see New York’s humble beginnings as a tiny Indian fishing village, the arrival of Dutch and British merchants, the Revolutionary War, the emergence of the city as a great trading and financial center, the convulsions of the Civil War, the excesses of the Gilded Age, the explosion of immigration in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the trials of World War II, the near demise of New York in the 1970s and its roaring rebirth in the 1990s, and the attack on the World Trade Center. A stirring mix of battle, romance, family struggles, and personal triumphs, \u003cb\u003eNew York: The Novel\u003c\/b\u003e gloriously captures the search for freedom and opportunity at the heart of our nation’s history. \u003cbr\u003e“Sweeping . . . History has never been so fun to read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the tradition of James Michener, Rutherfurd unfurls more than three centuries of the city’s history as seen through the eyes of the descendants of [the] van Dyck and Master [families]—and the many other colorful characters he introduces along the way.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eDetroit Free Press\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Incredible storytelling . . . Readers will fall in love with the iconic city.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Post and Courier\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[A] riotous, multilayered portrait.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eEdward Rutherfurd was born in Salisbury, England, and educated at Cambridge University and Stanford University in California. His first bestselling novel, \u003cb\u003eSarum\u003c\/b\u003e, is based on the history of Salisbury and Stonehenge. \u003cb\u003eRusska\u003c\/b\u003e, his second novel, recounted the sweeping history of Russia. \u003cb\u003eLondon\u003c\/b\u003e tells the two-thousand-year story of the great city, bringing all of the richness of London’s past unforgettably to life. \u003cb\u003eThe Forest\u003c\/b\u003e was set in England's ancient “New Forest.” A former resident of London and New York City, Edward Rutherfurd has had a home in Dublin for more than ten years. He has two children.\u003cb\u003e1664\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So this was freedom. The canoe went with the river's tide, water  bumping against the bow. Dirk van Dyck looked at the little girl and  wondered: Was this journey a terrible mistake? Big river, calling him to  the north. Big sky, calling him to the west. Land of many rivers, land  of many mountains, land of many forests. How far did it continue? Nobody  knew. Not for certain. High above the eagles, only the sun on its huge  journey westward could ever see the whole of it. Yes, he had found  freedom here, and love, in the wilderness. Van Dyck was a large man. He  wore Dutch pantaloons, boots with turnover tops, and a leather jerkin  over his shirt. Now they were approaching the port, he had put on a  wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it. He gazed at the girl. His  daughter. Child of his sin. His sin for which, religion said, he must be  punished. How old was she? Ten, eleven? She had been so excited when  he'd agreed to take her downriver. She had her mother's eyes. A lovely  Indian child. Pale Feather, her people called her. Only her pale skin  betrayed the rest of her story. \"Soon we shall be there.\" The Dutchman  spoke in Algonquin, the lan­guage of the local tribes. New Amsterdam. A  trading post. A fort and little town behind a pal­isade. But it was  important, all the same, in the worldwide com mercial empire of the  Dutch. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eVan Dyck was proud to be Dutch. Their country might be small, but  the indomitable Netherlanders had stood up to the mighty, occupying  Spanish Empire, and won their independence. It was his people who had  constructed the great dykes to reclaim huge tracts of fertile land from  the rage of the sea. It was the maritime Dutch who had built up a  trading empire that was the envy of the nations. Their cities—Amsterdam,  Delft, Antwerp—where the rows of tall, gabled houses lined stately  canals and waterways, were havens for artists, scholars and freethinkers  from all over Europe, in this, the golden age of Rembrandt and Vermeer.  Yes, he was proud to be Dutch. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn its lower reaches, the great river was tidal. This morning it  was flow­ing down toward the ocean. During the afternoon, it would  reverse itself and flow back toward the north. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girl was looking forward, downstream. Van Dyck sat facing  her, his back resting against a large pile of skins, beaver mostly, that  filled the center of the canoe. The canoe was large and broad, its sides  made of tree bark, sturdy but light. Four Indians paddled, two fore,  two aft. Just behind them, a second boat, manned by his own men,  followed them down the stream. He'd needed to take on this Indian canoe  to carry all the cargo he had bought. Upriver, the late-spring sky was  thunderous; above them, gray clouds. But ahead, the water was bright. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA sudden shaft of sunlight flashed from behind a cloud. The river  made a tapping sound on the side of the boat, like a native drum giving  him warning. The breeze on his face tingled, light as sparkling wine. He  spoke again. He did not want to hurt her, but it had to be done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You must not say I am your father.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girl glanced down at the little stone pendant that hung  around her neck. A tiny carved face, painted red and black. The face  hung upside down, Indian fashion. Logical, in fact: when you lifted the  pendant to look at it, the face would be staring at you the right way  up. A lucky charm. The Masked One, Lord of the Forest, the keeper of  nature's balance. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePale Feather did not answer him, but only gazed down at the face  of her Indian god. What was she thinking? Did she understand? He could  not tell. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom behind the rocky cliffs that stretched up the western bank  like high, stone palisades, there now came a distant rumble of thunder.  The little girl smiled. His own people, the Dutchman thought, as men of  the sea, had no liking for thunder. To them it brought harms and fears.  But the Indians were wiser. They knew what it meant when the thunder  spoke: the gods who dwelt in the lowest of the twelve heavens were  pro­tecting the world from evil. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sound echoed down the river, and dissolved in space. Pale  Feather let the pendant fall, a tiny gesture full of grace. Then she  looked up. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Shall I meet your wife?\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDirk van Dyck gave a little intake of breath. His wife Margaretha  had no idea he was so near. He'd sent no word ahead of his return. But  could he really hope to bring the girl ashore and conceal her from his  wife? He must have been mad. He twisted round, awkwardly, and stared  down the river. They had already reached the northern end of the narrow  territory called Manhattan, and they were running with the tide. It was  too late to turn back now. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Margaretha de Groot took a slow draw on the clay pipe in her sensual  mouth, looked at the man with the wooden leg in a considering kind of  way, and wondered what it would be like to sleep with him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTall, upright, determined, with piercing eyes, he might be gray,  and well into middle age now, but he was still indomitable. As for the  peg leg, it was a badge of honor, a reminder of his battles. That wound  might have killed some men, but not Peter Stuyvesant. He was walking  down the street with surprising speed. As she gazed at the hard,  polished wood, she felt herself give a tiny shudder, though he did not  see it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat did he think of her? He liked her, she was sure of that. And  why shouldn't he? She was a fine, full-bosomed woman in her thirties  with a broad face and long blonde hair. But she hadn't run to fat, like  many Dutchwomen. She was still in good trim, and there was something  quite voluptuous about her. As for her liking for a pipe, most of the  Dutch smoked pipes, men and women alike. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe saw her, stopped, and smiled. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good morning, Greet.\" Greet. A familiar form of address. Like  most Dutchwomen, Margaretha van Dyck was normally known by her maiden  name, Margaretha de Groot; and that is how she had expected him to  address her. Of course, he'd known her since she was a girl. But even so  . . . He was normally such a formal man. She almost blushed. \"You are  still alone?\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was standing in front of her house. It was a typical Dutch  town house, a simple, rectangular dwelling, two stories high, with  wooden sides and its narrow, gabled end turned to the street. This end  displayed a handsome pattern of black and yellow brick. A short stairway  led up to the street door, which was large and protected by a porch.  This was the Dutch \"stoop\". The windows were not large, but the ensemble  was made impressive by the high, stepped gable that the Dutch favored,  and the roof ridge was crowned with a weathervane. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Your husband is still upriver?\" Stuyvesant repeated. She nodded.  \"When will he return?\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who knows?\" She shrugged. She could hardly complain that her  hus­band's business took him north. The trade in furs, especially the  all-important beaver pelts, had been so great that the local Indians had  hunted their animals almost to extinction. Van Dyck often had to go far  north into the hinterland to get his supplies from the Iroquois. And he  was remarkably successful. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut did he have to stay away so long? In the early days of their  mar­riage, his journeys had only taken a couple of weeks. But grad ually  his absences had extended. He was a good husband when he was at home,  attentive to her and loving to his children. Yet she couldn't help  feeling neglected. Only that morning her little daughter had asked her  when her father would be home. \"As soon as he can,\" she had answered  with a smile. \"You may be sure of that.\" But was he avoiding her? Were  there other women in his life?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLoyalty was important to  Margaretha de Groot. So it was not surpris­ing if, fearing her husband  might be unfaithful, she told herself that he was morally weak and,  dreaming of solace in more righteous arms, allowed a voice within her to  whisper: \"If only he were a man like Gover­nor Stuyvesant.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"These are difficult times, Greet.\" Stuyvesant's face did not show it,  but she could hear the sadness in his voice. \"You know I have enemies.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was confiding in her. She felt a little rush of emotion. She wanted  to put her hand on his arm, but didn't dare. \u003cbr\u003e \"Those cursed English.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If the trading empire of the Dutch extended from the Orient to the  Americas, the English merchants were not far behind. Sometimes the two  Protestant nations acted together against their common enemies, the  Catholic empires of Spain and Portugal; but most of the time they were  rivals. Fifteen years ago, when Oliver Cromwell and his godly army took  away King Charles of England's crown—and his head—the rivalry had  intensified. The Dutch had a lucrative slave trade between Africa and the  Caribbean. Cromwell's mission was clear. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The slave trade must belong to England.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Many honest Dutchmen wondered if this brutal trafficking in humans was  moral; the good Puritans of England had no such doubts. And soon  Cromwell had taken Jamaica from the Spanish, to use as a slaving base.  When Cromwell had died four years ago, and a second King Charles had  been restored to the English throne, the same policy had continued. Word  had already reached New Amsterdam that the English had attacked the  Dutch slaving ports on the Guinea coast of Africa. And the rumor across  the ocean was that they wanted not only the Dutchman's slave trade, but  his port of New Amsterdam as well. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e New Amsterdam might not be large: a fort, a couple of wind mills, a  church with a pointed spire; there was one small attempt at a canal,  more like a large ditch really, and some streets of step-gabled houses  which, together with some modest orchards and allotments, were enclosed  within a wall that ran from west to east across Manhattan's southern  tip. Yet it had a history. Ten years before even the \u003ci\u003eMayflower \u003c\/i\u003esailed,  the Dutch West India Company, seeing the value of the vast natural  harbor, had set up a trading post there. And now, after half a century  of fits and starts, it had developed into a busy port with outlying  settlements scattered for dozens of miles around—a territory which the  Dutch called the New Netherland. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It already had character. For two generations the Dutch and their  neighbors, the Protestant, French-speaking Walloons, had been fighting  for independence from their master, Catholic Spain. And they had won.  Dutch and Walloons together had settled in New Amsterdam. It was a  Walloon, Pierre Minuit—a name that was still pronounced in French,  \"Minwee\"—who had bargained with the native Indians, four decades ago, to  purchase the right to settle on Manhattan. From its birth, the tough,  independent spirit of these mixed Protestant merchants had infused the  place. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But above all, it had position. The fort, to a soldier's eye, might  not be impressive, but it dominated the southern tip of Manhattan Island  where it jutted out into the wide waters of a magnificent, sheltered  harbor. It guarded the entrance to the big North River. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And Peter Stuyvesant was its ruler.New York Times bestseller","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302314201317,"sku":"NP9780345497420","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345497420.jpg?v=1767733682","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/new-york-the-novel-isbn-9780345497420","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}