Shad Run

by Howard Breslin

  “Glib as Beelzebub,” muttered Lancey, aloud.

  The trouble was, she decided, that the man had the Devil’s own skill in assuming a pleasing shape. She hadn’t dreamed that a patroon like van Zandt would be anything but patronizing to simple fisher folk. Instead, he had actually seemed to enjoy the company, had exerted himself with charm and talk.

  While mocking me, she thought grimly, because of the stolen skates and what happened at Brick Gables!

  That they shared a secret made her furiously angry. Dirck van Zandt had no right to presume that she had told no one of his attempted seduction!

  Did he dare think, she asked herself, that she held her tongue from a feeling of guilty shame? The shame, the guilt, was all his for trying to take advantage of——

  “Oh, blast him anyway,” Lancey whispered. She was honest enough to confess that the occasion in question had stirred her senses to an embarrassing degree.

  Feeling uncomfortably warm, she pounded the featherbed with a fist, trying to build an unheated surface. She kicked away her blankets, letting the breeze of the action soothe her naked limbs. Lancey owned no nightgown, and the air in her cubicle, moist and clammy from the day’s rain, descended on her flesh like a chill dew.

  It brought a momentary relief, and momentary composure. She laughed silently at her needless worrying.

  What, after all, could van Zandt do to trouble her life? If he accused her of stealing Rachel Anthony’s skates, she would blandly deny it. If he mentioned their supper at the inn, she would make him a laughingstock, a clumsy rake who knew nothing of women!

  If, like poor Jan Elmendorf, he had intentions, honorable or otherwise, what a dance she would lead him!

  God and Nicholas, Lancey thought, captivated by the prospect, then would come my turn to laugh.

  Frowning, the girl recalled her stepmother’s warning. Hester had liked Dirck van Zandt, and said so, but trusted no man completely at first meeting.

  “That bay mare likes him, too, girl. But he has her wearing his bridle.”

  True enough, agreed Lancey, but I do not like him! She was merely annoyed that the reasons for her dislike had kept her sleepless for so long.

  She had just settled her covers again when she heard the noise.

  Lancey raised her head, listening. There was nothing but the usual night sounds of house and river. Tensely she identified Hendrick’s snore as it vibrated the length of the loft. No one else seemed to be stirring, not Hester, nor the children, nor Ten Bush.

  Ten Bush, she thought, and swung her legs over the side of the pallet.

  Then, it came again, outside and alien, the rattle of a stone turned by a bootheel.

  “Ten Bush,” Lancey whispered. She was reaching for shift and petticoat as she rose. These were all she donned before she padded to her brother’s closet, but she had her dress gripped in one hand.

  She stood outside the curtain that guarded Ten Bush’s privacy. Her father and Hester shared the only walled room in the upper half of the house, at the back, built around the stone chimney for warmth. It had a door, but the other sleeping quarters were screened by hangings. Lancey scratched her nails against the worn sailcloth stretched across her brother’s corner, and raised the pitch of her whisper.

  “Ten Bush?”

  There was no answer, no sound of breathing or movement. Lancey brushed past the canvas; two steps and a touch confirmed her forebodings. Her brother’s cot was empty!

  Heart thumping, the girl moved swiftly. The loft was pitch black; no glimmer of light showed through the oiled paper that covered the single, front window. Lancey, sure of her way, didn’t even pause as she drew her dress over her head. She was tugging the skirt in place about her hips before she reached the open ladder well.

  Her bare feet slithered on the rungs as she descended. There was light below, the ruddy glow from the fireplace. Lancey stood for an instant, letting her eyes adjust, nimble fingers drawing and tieing the laces of her bodice.

  The mound of embers behind the fire-screen was like a great red eye. As she gazed at it, calculating, the last log burned through and broke, hissing as it sent sparks flying.

  Midnight at least, Lancey judged. She almost ran across the deserted room, blaming herself, feeling accusation frown from every lurking shadow. Ten Bush had grown tired of her hesitation, had decided to slip away while they slept.

  She didn’t know his reasons, only that she must catch and stop him. If he left this way he’d regret it, and Hendrick would never forgive him. Her worry was increased by her surprise that Ten Bush would act like a thief in the night.

  The wedge that held the latch bar locked was swiveled up as she’d expected. She swung the door open, peered out.

  It was a clear night, starlit if moonless, and cool. Lancey could see yard and pier, the black glitter of the river. There was a figure bent by the boat, dark against the white hull.

  Thank God, Lancey thought, and relaxed. She snatched a shawl from a peg, flung it around her shoulders. Anger replaced anxiety, but she tried to control the feeling. She wanted to tongue lash Ten Bush for scaring her, but what mattered was persuading him to wait.

  A scrape of wood on stone startled her. Lancey closed the door carefully behind her, stood watching. She couldn’t figure what Ten Bush was doing. Her brother’s tall frame seemed stretched and widened by some trick of shadow and starlight.

  The scraping noise sounded again, and the boat moved. Lancey’s lips tightened as she realized the reason. It took two men to carry the boat easily, but Ten Bush, using a log for a roller, was inching it toward the water. He was working with slow care, sliding the gunwales a step with each lift, lest any loud report might rouse the family.

  It’s just good fortune, Lancey decided, that I was awake. Once the boat was launched there could be no stopping him without a shout. She was annoyed by Ten Bush’s stealth, and furious at his rashness. Didn’t be know his father at all? He’d send the boat back, of course, but its use in such a fashion would hurt Hendrick badly.

  She moved silently toward the boat, flinching a little as her bare, winter-softened feet met the cold edges of stones. Lancey felt a flicker of amusement. It was an odd hour for her first shoeless venture of the season.

  With the smugness of the undetected watcher, Lancey waited until she was only a yard away before she spoke. Ten Bush deserved to be startled, but she didn’t want any outcry. She kept her voice low, smiling coldly at the crouched back before her.

  “Ten Bush Quist, have you gone mad?”

  The result was galvanic! As if stabbed, the figure straightened, whirling. In that instant of fluid motion Lancey’s heart contracted with shock!

  This man wasn’t Ten Bush at all!

  He was taller, bigger, moved with incredible speed. Before she could do more than gasp with stunned belief he loomed over her, grabbed her. One arm pinioned her, lifted her off her feet; a strong hand clamped over her mouth.

  His swiftness had prevented speech, and Lancey hadn’t thought to scream. Now, gurgling against his palm, she could only fight. Raging, she struggled to break free, writhing against his grip, kicking.

  The man held her half-turned against his chest. He swayed as she twisted, but that was all. His speech stirred the girl’s hair.

  “One sound, wench, and I’ll strangle you!”

  Lancey was too furious to heed the threat. Jaws aching from the vise of his fingers she tried vainly to bite his hand. Her heels drummed futilely in the air. There was a roaring in her ears that drowned the man’s menace.

  “Stop that! Be still!”

  He was being careful to keep his voice low, as steady as the pressure of his arms. Then, suddenly, Lancey felt the man’s muscles stiffen. Through her rage and pain came the sharp rat-tat of running feet, shod feet. Rolling her eyes she saw a figure dart toward them from the shadows beside the house.

  “Let her go!”

  It was Ten Bush’s voice, and he was shouting. Lancey made herself relax. With her brother to
help she need have no fear of the stranger.

  Surprisingly, the man laughed.

  “Well,” he said, “this spot’s as crowded as a Sabbath churchyard!”

  “Let her go,” repeated Ten Bush. He was taut with anger, poised to rush.

  “Certainly.”

  With the word the man tossed Lancey to one side. For an instant she seemed to hang in space, while the ground tilted to meet her. Skirts flying, she fell heavily, sprawling. Her palms and a knee burned as they scraped through the shingle. Hurt and angry she twisted instantly into a crouch and faced her assailant.

  Both men were darkly clear in the blue sheen of the starlight. A low pulled hat-brim shadowed the thief s face. Ten Bush, hatless, looked so pale that his eyes and mouth were smudges. Fists raised, he charged.

  The stranger stooped, plucked an oar from the ground. He used it like a bayonet-tipped musket, thrusting with a swift, sudden lunge. His forward foot stamped as he drove the oar handle at Ten Bush’s middle.

  “Look out!” cried Lancey.

  Ten Bush checked his rush. He slapped the oar with his hand, weaved his body away from it. He snatched at the weapon, but missed.

  Still leaning into his lunge, one knee bent, the man was perfectly balanced. The oarblade flashed as he whipped it through a quick arc. It was a fast maneuver, smoothly executed.

  The wood cracked as it caught Ten Bush on the side of the head. Staggered by the blow he tottered sideways; his legs buckled and he collapsed in a heap.

  “Too easy,” said the stranger.

  Lancey’s horrified stare blurred with rage. Her brother was down, hurt, and her only thought was vengeance. With a wordless shout she uncoiled from her crouch in a springing leap. Fingers curved, nails ready to rake and tear, she hurled herself at the man.

  Her jump stopped abruptly. The man calmly raised a stiffly extended right arm, and let her crash into it. With a jar that shook Lancey’s teeth, the heel of his hand slammed against her chin. The stars suddenly jumped in the sky, flashed through her head.

  She went over backwards, dazed, crashing down beside Ten Bush. Tears of pain and frustration stung her eyes, but she was too breathless to weep.

  “I warned you, vixen,” said the man.

  “Aye,” bellowed a new voice, “and I’m warning you. Drop that oar and stand still!”

  The command shook through Lancey’s dizziness. She sat up, aware only of rescue, and that her skirts were twisted high around her hips. As she straightened them she heard the newcomer speak again, knew him for Pardon Cash.

  “Go on, drop it. This fowling piece is loaded.”

  “Now, it’s a parade ground,” said the stranger. He laughed again, shaking his head as he let the oar fall to the ground. “I might as well have blown a bugle.” Lancey glared at him. He wasn’t at all bothered by what he’d done. The man stood motionless under Pardon’s gun, but there was nothing frightened about his posture. The tall figure was relaxed and at ease.

  “You all right, Lancey?” asked Pardon Cash.

  “Yes, thanks to you.” Her first concern was Ten Bush, and she turned toward him.

  Her brother was lying face up. The girl swallowed nervously at sight of his paleness, the ugly bruise showing on his cheekbone.

  Paper was ripped from window sash, and Hendrick Quist’s question had the same staccato rasp.

  “What in thunder’s going on out there?”

  Lancey glanced to where her father’s head was thrust through the torn fragments of the upper story window. Hendrick’s bald skull gleamed as he stared down at them.

  “My own question,” said the stranger.

  “What?”

  “You shut your face,” Pardon Cash said. He had moved closer, and he gestured with the leveled fowling piece. It was a long-barreled gun, but Pardon’s bulk dwarfed it. He answered Hendrick in a louder voice.

  “Caught us a thief, Hendrick. Stole my oars and was after your boat.”

  “Pa,” called Lancey, shakily, “Pa, come down. Ten Bush is hurt.”

  “Ten Bush.”

  Hendrick spoke the name softly. For a moment he stayed framed in the window, then he withdrew. Lancey heard the rumble of her father’s voice, caught a glimpse of Hester as she peered out.

  “Is he bad, Lancey?”

  “I—I don’t know, Pardon.”

  “Well, then,” said the stranger, taking a step, “let somebody look who can tell.”

  “You stand still!”

  “Oh, come. The girl’s making a fuss over nothing. I only rocked him to sleep. He can’t be much hurt.”

  “You—” Lancey tried to find an epithet bad enough to fit. “You—”

  “Justin Pattison,” the man said, interrupting. He took his tricorne off, bowed deeply with an elegant flourish of his arm. “At your service, sir and mistress.”

  Pardon Cash swore. He said, “You’ll laugh out of the other—”

  The sentence was never finished. Still bending from the waist in his bow, the man threw his hat with a flick of his wrist. As the tricorne sailed at Pardon’s face, the other was moving. Even as Pardon Cash ducked, the stranger covered the distance between them and dove for the big fisherman’s knees. He went in low, under the gun.

  Lancey sat, frozen and gaping, as they went down. The tricky devil, she thought. The pair were thrashing on the ground, all flailing arms and legs. She’d never known anyone to best Pardon in a wrestle, but she saw the fowling piece snap from the tangled bodies as if slung, twirl once in the air, and splash into the river.

  An instant later the stranger broke free. He was upright, and running, and she heard his hateful laugh, his panted remark.

  “Time to pull foot!”

  He ran toward her, away from Pardon. Now, Lancey could see his face, long and dark, with grinning white teeth. He would pass quite close, and somehow she knew exactly what to do.

  She reached for the oar, raised it like a javelin, jabbed it at the man’s striding, long legs. Her aim was true. The oar bucked out of her grasp as it tripped him. Calf and shin clamped against the wood, the tall body pitched headlong.

  He struck the ground with a force that shook the yard. Lancey, glowing with triumph, scrambled for the oar, swung it high. Before she could strike Pardon Cash brushed past her, flung himself on the fallen man.

  “I’ve got him, Lancey,” called Pardon, breathing hard. He yanked the stranger’s wrist up against his spine.

  Then, Hendrick and Hester stormed out of the house, and Lancey remembered Ten Bush. She noticed that her father, in shirt and breeches, had armed himself with a boat-hook. Hester, still fastening her dress, was carrying a lighted lantern. Both were disheveled and grim.

  Not listening to their excited questions, or Pardon Cash’s explanations, the girl turned back to her brother. Ten Bush was breathing heavily; his head lolled when she cradled it in her lap.

  He was fully clothed, and she tried to loosen his shirt. Her fingers were awkward, stiff with the same fear that chilled her breast.

  “Let me see,” said Hester, holding the lantern so that its beam fell on Ten Bush’s face.

  Lancey heard the hiss of Hendrick’s indrawn breath at sight of the purple bruise. In the pale glow of the lantern it looked livid, and swollen.

  “Get some water,” Lancey said.

  Hester thrust the lantern at her husband, tore a strip from the hem of her skirt as she hurried to the river. She came back with it dripping, dropped on her knees to bathe Ten Bush’s brow. He flinched away from the cold rag when it touched the bruise.

  “Ten Bush,” Lancey said, “lie still.”

  His eyelids fluttered. He raised a hand to push away Hester’s swabbing, but Lancey caught his wrist.

  “Let Hester do,” she said.

  “I don’t think his skull’s cracked,” said Hester. Her fingertips stroked the swelling, pressed.

  Ten Bush groaned. His eyes opened, blinked glassily at the light. He shook his head, winced, tried to sit up. Lancey put a hand on his
shoulder.

  “Ten Bush, are you all right?”

  “What happened?” he asked, foggily. His gaze focussed on Lancey, and he smiled. “What happened, Lancey?”

  “Thank God,” Hendrick said.

  “And a thick Dutch poll,” said Hester. She gave the rag to Ten Bush, and rose. “Hold that against your hurt. He hit you a real smart clout.”

  “Hit me?” Ten Bush rolled off Lancey’s lap, struggled to his knees. With Lancey’s help, and Hendrick’s, he managed to rise. He said, “I’m all right.”

  “You were clouted with an oar,” Lancey said. “When we caught—”

  “The thief,” Ten Bush said, his voice stronger. “The boat thief! He got away!”

  “No,” Hendrick said, “Pardon has him fast.” He raised the lantern, waved it toward the shadows where the big fisherman held his prisoner.

  The man was standing quietly. Pardon Cash had roped his wrists behind him, and gripped him by the collar. He straightened as they came toward him, and Pardon’s clutch tightened.

  “No more tricks, you.”

  “Let’s have a look at him,” Hendrick said. He pushed the lantern under the other’s nose.

  Why, Lancey thought, I’ve seen him before. In spite of the mud and gravel picked up in his tumble, the face was easily recognizable. It was a thin face, long in nose and jawline, darkly tanned. She remembered the eyes, almost black, that had glanced at her from a doorway in Jaycock’s Ordinary. This was the man who’d been sporting with Nell Bogardus!

  Closer, she could see that one of his heavy eyebrows was permanently cocked by a thin, white scar that slanted through it and across his forehead. Hatless, he looked older. There was a gray forelock in the thick brown hair, and he was grizzled at the temples.

  Impassively the man met Hendrick’s scrutiny. It was the fisherman who, outstared, spoke first.

  “Why you want to steal my boat?”

  “Who says I was stealing it?”

  “I do,” said Lancey, “I caught you at it.”

  The dark eyes flicked toward her. His wide shoulders shrugged as he said, “The girl’s mistaken. I was only examining it. In the dark she startled me, and I grabbed her.”