Calico, gray haired and older, spoke first.
“Heavens got a mean look.”
“Mighty mean,” agreed Tanner. “Be a pelter.”
Neither expected an answer. They squatted in the rear of the shed, attentive and silent. As skilled fishermen they were an accepted segment of the group, but they joined a discussion only when addressed.
“Anybody got credit left up to Jaycock’s?” asked Seth Row.
Gerritt Kimmee cackled a laugh. Hendrick, hurrying his work, frowned over his shoulder. By the end of winter all the fishermen, except the slaves, owed a score at Jaycock’s Ordinary, but Hendrick disapproved of Seth’s question. A man enjoyed his gin or rum after work, or on occasions like weddings, funerals and celebrations.
Squall or not, Lancey thought noting the frown, her father’s hands would not be idle. She knew he’d enjoy the talk as much as she did, but wouldn’t make it an excuse for drinking.
“Credit,” said Pardon Cash, “or cash, I ain’t exactly welcome at the tavern.”
“Why not?” asked Lancey, surprised.
“Called Captain Benjamin a snout-nosed pighead,” Gerritt Kimmee explained, “and said Digmus was another.”
“Pardon, you didn’t!”
“Fear I did, Lancey. Digmus butted in. ‘Twasn’t his argument.”
“It’s his inn,” Hendrick said, “and the captain’s his best custom.”
Pardon Cash said, mildly, “He is still a snout-nosed pig-head. Going to cast his vote for them that’s against the Constitution and he don’t know one word it says.”
“You know what it says?” Seth Row hitched forward eagerly.
“Well, no,” Pardon said, “but then with no reading or writing I ain’t got no vote anyway. If I had I’d take time to find out what everybody was yelling about.”
“Now, wait,” Gerritt Kimmee said, “the captain did know a thing or two. Said trade was good and getting better. Said New York money was better than anybody else’s. This thing would change all that. We’d have to pay the war costs for the whole damn twelve other states!”
“They was all in it, wasn’t they?”
“Talk sense, Pardon,” said Seth Row. “Just ‘cause you lost two teeth from scurvy in a British prison hulk is no reason I have to lose mine.”
“You might get them knocked out, Seth.” The mildness was gone from Pardon’s voice. His gaze was cold and steady.
Seth’s face turned even redder, and he gulped. They all knew that Pardon Cash had never forgiven the British for those teeth. In the moment of hush a breeze stirred the stretched fishnet.
Lancey put her hand on the big man’s shoulder. She felt the tensed muscles relax. “Pardon,” she said, “this Constitution can’t be much good if George Clinton is against it.”
Hendrick, Ten Bush and Gerritt Kimmee nodded as one. Seth Row, apologetically smiling, didn’t dare. Calico, listening, nudged Tanner.
“Old George ain’t God Almighty, Lancey,” Pardon Cash said. “He makes a fair governor, maybe, but he served alongside me aboard the Defiance back in ‘58, and he was no great shakes as a sailor.”
“He is a brave man,” Hendrick said. “In the war he proved it.”
“I ain’t questioning his courage, Hendrick. I ain’t even saying he’s wrong. Just that he could be. Last time Lancey, here, read to me out of the Country Journal there was ten, twelve farms up for sale. That don’t sound to me like times are good and getting better.”
“Oh, farmers!” Gerritt Kimmee shrugged his shoulders.
“If you stop to think, Gerritt,” said Pardon, “you’ll figure that’s ten, twelve less farmers might buy fish now and then.”
“They weren’t all from around here,” Lancey said.
Pardon’s lips twisted in his crooked grin. He said: “As close as Freedom Plains, and as far as Nine Partners. Unless you read the printing wrong, Lancey.”
Hendrick and Ten Bush joined the others under the open shed. “Lancey don’t read wrong,” Hendrick said. “She learned her letters good.”
“Took to it,” Ten Bush said, “quicker than me.” He hadn’t spoken before, and his tone was proud.
Leaning against the trestle that held the inverted boat, Lancey reddened slightly as she turned away from the men’s admiring glances. Few of the fishermen could read or write, none of their women-folk. She recalled her own wailed complaints when Hendrick insisted she accompany Ten Bush to the evening schooling the dominie held in the Dutch church. Her father had refused her pleas. The children of Cecile Delancey, descendant of a member of the Dusine, the twelve hereditary rulers of New Paltz, must learn their mother’s accomplishments.
The river had turned lead colored, sluggish and sullen. It slapped angrily at the thin piles of the Quist pier, looked even darker than the wan, lowering sky. Above the west bank the storm clouds, swollen with rain, had moved northward. For the moment there was no wind, and sunless daylight hung across the valley, like a limp, transparent curtain, in uneasy quiet.
Hester, appearing at the open top of the Dutch door, drew Lancey’s glance. Her stepmother waved to the men under the shed, swung the half-portal shut. The two little girls, Lancey judged, were safely sheltered.
Behind her, Pardon Cash was talking again, back on the main topic of the year. The girl, listening with only part of her mind, wondered in how many places men were arguing the same way about the same thing.
“It stands to reason,” Pardon said, “that they didn’t hold that meeting in Philadelphia for nothing. Every blessed time those high-cockalorums get together in Philadelphia something new comes out of it. For years now.” He raised a big fist, snapped a finger upright as he made his points. “First off come a petition to King George, rot him. Then, come the war. Then, General Washington’s appointment. Then, the Declaration. Lastly, the Confederation.”
“And now, this Constitution.”
“And now, like Seth says, the Constitution. Well, I been to Philadelphia, years back. It’s the biggest place we got in the country, Quaker neat and thriving. Compared to Philadelphia this here Poughkeepsie’s like—like a dory next a man-o’-war!”
The group stirred in protest. Even Lancey frowned, annoyed at the comparison.
“Too big likely,” said Seth Row.
Gerritt Kimmee nodded. “Ain’t got no river like the Hudson.”
“Go on, Pardon,” Ten Bush said. His lips were parted, and his eyes shining.
He likes to hear of far-off places all right, Lancey thought, glancing at him. Her heart sank, and she gazed again at the river, not seeing it, tensed to prevent a sigh.
“It’s got its own river,” Pardon Cash said, with a shrug, “but that ain’t here nor there. What I’m saying is this. Every blame thing plotted down there in Philadelphia has come about. Even those that seemed least likely—winning the war, being independent—happened like they planned!”
“But we all wanted those things.” Hendrick spoke without glancing up from the tangled skein of fishing line he was unraveling.
“Barring the dirty Tories,” said Gerritt Kimmee.
Pardon Cash laughed, spat between his teeth. “I ain’t peddling nothing, one way or t’other. But maybe somebody ought to warn George Clinton. When the wind blows out of Philadelphia it don’t pay to beat against it.”
“I don’t know,” Hendrick said, prying at a tight knot with a fingernail. He paused between sentences, but the others knew his method and waited. “Maybe Clinton’s right. Maybe we should stay as we are.”
Poor Pa, thought Lancey, has had enough of changes, dreads another. During the long war Hendrick, sticking doggedly to his trade, had supported the cause of the patriots, but without joy. He blamed the British for starting the trouble. Hadn’t they stolen the colony from his Dutch ancestors in the first place?
She recalled his tight-lipped bitterness that September of 1777 when Vaughan’s Raid brought the redcoats upriver. He had cursed the warships as they passed, their cannon thundering, on their way to burn
Kingston. Those lobsterback bastards, Hendrick had said, in memorable language, spoiled several days of fine fishing weather.
Five years of peace had convinced Hendrick he was right. Left alone, not bothered by government or soldiers, a man could raise his family decently. A seasonal trade had its ups and downs, but hardship was part of living, and the river would always feed them.
Wishing, Lancey decided, didn’t make things stay as they were. Ten Bush’s ambition proved that. All the tiresome talk about the Constitution was another sign of change, though that outcome was important only to people like the Clintons, the Livingstons, and the Schuylers. Governor Clinton led one faction; General Schuyler’s son-in-law, Hamilton, the other.
“Like as not,” said Seth Row, voicing her own opinion, “it won’t matter to us however the voting goes.”
The rain came with a sudden hiss of wind. It drummed on the roof of the shed, lashed in charging lines across the surface of the river. One side of the shed was protected by the tarpaulin that had covered the boat, hung as a windbreak. The group drew together behind this, snug and dry, silently contemplating the storm.
In the first minute of its fury the tempest pelted the yard into mud; the narrow pier swayed, creaking in protest. From the eaves of the Quist high-peaked shanty water streamed in a steady cascade.
Then the wind slackened; the rain settled into a firm downpour, as was expected.
CHAPTER 5
LANCEY QUIST, WAITING IN THE SHADOWED COMMON ROOM OF Jaycock’s Ordinary, gazed out through the twelve-paned window and sighed. The drizzle showed no sign of lessening. March, always a testy month, had emptied a sackful of differing rainstorms on the valley in the past week.
The girl didn’t like her errand, and she didn’t like the room. Jaycock’s was slovenly enough when crowded, with a blaze roaring in the fireplace, and men shouting. Now, in the emptiness of early morning, the cold, wet ashes of last night’s fire added their dank odor to an already thick collection—musty dampness, stale beer and tobacco smoke, the reek of rum, the clinging scents of guttered candles and badly cooked food.
Some of the tables had not been cleared, were littered with empty tankards, greasy trenchers, spilled gravy. The unswept floor was happily hidden by the day’s dimness, but felt gritty underfoot. The shards of a broken jug were heaped beneath a bench.
Blurred as it was by rain streaks, and glass flaws, Lancey much preferred the view through the window. Jaycock had built his inn beside the road that sloped down from town to landing, and she could see the whole curve of the harbor.
The drizzle, drawing a haze of wetness across her vision, gave the scene a shimmering unreality. Warehouses, boathouses, the piles and planking of piers, seemed to quiver with the tremor of slick, black jelly. Flecked by raindrops the river looked tideless, stagnant, as bilious as a disease ridden swamp.
One sloop, bare mast slowly rocking, was still in her berth. Lancey knew the ship for the Lydia, knew too that the rest of Poughkeepsie’s fleet was beating down to New York in spite of the weather. With the season’s first cargo eagerly awaited, something beside his share in the shambles behind her must have delayed Captain Benjamin.
She heard a titter, and turned. Beyond the open doorway to the tavern’s front hall there was a sound of scuffling, a girl’s muted giggle. A moment later a man crossed the opening, raking the room with a quick glance as he passed. Lancey had a glimpse, startlingly vivid, of sharp dark eyes, a lean handsome face under a tilted tricorne. Even after the portal was empty it seemed to retain an impression of a tall, wide shouldered figure in black.
The front door creaked as it opened, slammed shut. That was when she realized she’d not heard the man’s step. For all his height he had moved with swift silence.
Lancey was still staring at the doorway when the girl appeared. Her mob cap was awry, her hands straightening her bodice, but she was grinning. The sight of Lancey caused an instant recoil that brought her fingers up to cover the grin.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s all right, Nell. It’s only me.”
“Lancey?”
“Yes.” There was neither scorn nor amusement in Lancey’s voice. The ordinary’s hired girl had once been a playmate. Nell Bogardus was her own age, plump and dimpled, with a too easy, nervous laugh.
“Sakes, Lancey! You gave me a turn.”
“I’m waiting for Digmus.”
“Oh, well, what harm?” Nell’s shrug was a movement that bounced her bosom and wriggled her hips. Her rounded, pink cheeks dwarfed her tiny pointed nose and the dab of mouth beneath it. “You needn’t go thinking things.”
“Why should I?”
“It was just a friendly buss, Lancey. Honest. Why, that fellow ain’t even staying here.” Nell cast a swift look back towards the kitchen behind the common room. “That’s why I jumped. Digmus don’t like to catch me fooling with them that ain’t spenders.”
“Digmus doesn’t own you, Nell.”
“Might as well,” Nell said, “the way he works me.” Her tone was resigned, cheerless. She began to collect dirty dishes, clattering them with a deliberate loudness planned to impress a listening employer. “But there was naught happened outside there should bother him or you.”
“All right, Nell.”
“I know what folks say about me.” Nell, scowling, spoke with whining indignation. “All of them, even Hester. Maybe even you, Lancey.”
“You know me better.”
“A trollop!” Nell, gripped by self-pity, wasn’t listening. “Too free with my favors! No better than a common whore!”
Lancey was silent, not shocked but unwilling to encourage the tirade. She knew Nell’s remarks were only too accurate. The riverfront women considered the girl’s behavior scandalous and were rough tongued in their criticism.
“All I ever wanted,” Nell said, sniffling, “was a bit of fun. That’s all. They oughtn’t to go aflogging and aflaying me just for that.”
It all depended, Lancey thought, on what was meant by fun. No wife in the vicinity cherished the idea that Nell’s meaning included her husband.
“If the truth was known, Lancey, there’s plenty throwing stones is a lot worse than me.”
Smiling, Lancey recognized Nell’s statement as a hint intended to provoke questions. She refused to be drawn. The ladies of Poughkeepsie town had somewhat different standards than the riverfront women-folk, but both frowned on flagrant misconduct. Suspicion merely added spice to gossip; certainty brought horrified rebuke.
Nell’s fault, she thought, is that she doesn’t know how to dissemble. Others may behave worse, but carefully did so in privacy.
Footsteps signalled the end of the conversation. Nell, instantly diverted, stopped scowling to look up, simpering. Turning toward the sound, Lancey regarded the two men who entered from the inn kitchen.
They came, one behind the other, and their appearance reminded her of a skiff towing a barge. Digmus Jaycock, in front, was a small, wiry man, with a quick, shuffling step that seemed ever ready to burst into flight. He had a big nose over a wide, greasy mouth and wore spectacles whose rectangular frames looked fitted, like windows, into his eye-sockets.
Behind him lumbered Jan Elmendorf, towering over the little innkeeper. Jan was as uncompromisingly square as a granite tombstone. He carried his head lowered, chin touching the base of his throat, and gazed at Lancey from under his hat-brim.
“Morning, Lancey,” Jan said.
Lancey nodded in reply. She was none too pleased by Jan’s presence. His open, silent devotion irritated her. From boyhood he had tagged after her, undiscouraged by ridicule, indifference, or open insult.
“Hello, Jan,” said Nell, smiling.
The greeting brought a sharp glance from Lancey. Stupid Nell, she thought, can’t resist beaming at anything in breeches. Then, startled at her own vehemence, she felt a moment’s wonder. Did she, at heart, consider Jan Elmendorf her own property?
“Ain’t you cleaned up in here, Nell?” asked
Jaycock.
“I’m doing it.” Neil added a tankard to the piled tableware before her.
“You didn’t waste no time with that Justin?” The innkeeper’s big nose wrinkled in distaste.
“Cap’n Benjamin give him short shrift,” Jan said. “The Lydia’s got all the hands she needs.”
“I was just talking to Lancey,” said Nell.
“That’s right,” Lancey said, “to pass the time while I was waiting, Digmus.” She was pleasant, but firm. He needn’t think he could keep her cooling her heels as he liked.
Digmus Jaycock made no apology. He said, accusingly, “They was only eleven loaves, Lancey. I counted them three times. Ain’t a full dozen.”
“Then don’t be so niggardly with your flour.” Lancey’s voice was cold and unimpressed. This was the part of her errand that she dreaded and disliked. Jaycock always found something to haggle about, the weight of a loaf, the texture of the bread.
“Niggardly? Me?”
“Hester could barely eke twelve loaves out of the last batch. It’s agreed she keeps one as payment.”
“If she wasn’t wasteful—”
“Hester?” Lancey’s interruption was mocking. The Quist bread supply depended on Jaycock’s flour, but she would not be bullied. Besides, Hester always managed to keep back at least two loaves from each baking.
“I measured it out myself,” Jaycock said, “and I figured on a full dozen.”
Lancey drew a breath. She had reached the place where she made her dare, and she never made it without fearing it would be taken.
“Look, Digmus,” she said, “if you think you can do better elsewhere, go right ahead. Hester’s bread is the best fodder you have in this ordinary, and you know it.”
“It is good bread,” Jan Elmendorf said.
“Tasty,” agreed Nell.
The comments were ignored by both contestants. Lancey serenely met Jaycock’s scowl. She imagined the innkeeper was mentally computing the size of her father’s score, but kept her face untroubled. At last the little man shrugged, stepped aside to show that Jan was carrying a sack.
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