Shad Run

by Howard Breslin

  Pardon Cash said: “And what startled you into grabbing my oars?”

  “Were they yours? I found them propped up against—”

  “You found them,” roared Pardon, “right where I left them! On pegs outside my boathouse! I wasn’t expecting thieving at this time of year! Ten Bush spotted him prowling around, Hendrick.”

  “That’s right, Pa,” Ten Bush said. “I saw him sneak off with them, and roused Pardon.”

  Hendrick turned his head, frowning. Lancey read her father’s thinking from her own. What was Ten Bush doing up at Pardon’s at that hour?

  “Can’t we get Ten Bush inside, Pa?” said Lancey. “His head needs tending.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” the prisoner said, “but he charged me, and I acted without thinking.”

  “Huh,’ said Lancey, “did you think he’d stand there, and let you throttle me?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed past him, anxious to divert her father’s attention away from Ten Bush. “Bring him in, Pardon. We’ll all be more comfortable inside.”

  She led the way into the house, insisted on putting a fresh, cold compress on her brother’s cheek. Hendrick rebuilt the fire; Hester heard one of her daughters whimper and disappeared up the ladder. Only Pardon Cash and his prisoner stood and waited.

  Hester returned to light the candles on the table. She’d donned petticoat and shoes, smoothed hair and dress. Without asking she took the gin from the cupboard, poured a dram for everyone but the stranger.

  Strangely, when the man saw Lancey by candlelight, he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. With the scarred eyebrow his grimace gave him a gleefully sardonic look.

  “Lancey,” Ten Bush said, at last, “stop fussing. I’m all right.”

  “You’re sure, Ten Bush?” asked Hendrick.

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “He needs rest, Pa,” said Lancey. Her father’s tone and frown made her sure of his next question. “He should get some sleep.”

  “We all could use some,” Hester said.

  Hendrick swallowed half his drink, and sat down. “There is something I don’t understand,” he said. “You went to bed with the rest of us, Ten Bush. You said good night.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  Lancey bit her lip, watching the flush rise slowly toward the cloth Ten Bush held against his cheekbone. Oh, God, she thought, was he leaving us after all, and fetched back by this rascal’s thievery?

  “Then why were you at Pardon’s? Why, except for your hat, are you fully dressed?”

  Pardon Cash cleared his throat. “His hat fell off, Hendrick, when he ran to help Lancey.”

  The prisoner, legs wide, was an interested spectator. His glance moved from father to son, and back, as they spoke.

  “I was just passing Pardon’s, Pa.”

  “Where were you going?”

  “I was coming back from Jaycock’s.”

  Coming back, thought Lancey. She knew that Ten Bush wasn’t lying. He was gazing at Hendrick guiltily, but he was telling the truth. Whatever his reasons for slipping from the house, he was coming back!

  “What took you to the ordinary?”

  “I wished to leave a message, Pa.”

  “So,” said Hendrick. Tilting his head back he finished his drink. He set the noggin on the table. “So.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Hester said. She tried to ease tension with a laugh. “Maybe Ten Bush has a girl or—”

  “No, Hester.”

  “No, Ten Bush?”

  “No,Pa.”

  There are times, Lancey decided, when that slow way of talking makes a person want to scream! She had a fair idea of Ten Bush’s message, but her fear of its contents was less urgent than the desire to have it stated. Tell him, she urged her brother silently, don’t make him dig it out by more questions.

  Ten Bush took the cloth from his face, twisted it in his hands. He gazed at it for a moment, tossed it aside, visibly braced himself.

  “My message was for upriver, Pa. By post, or ship’s captain, or anybody going first.”

  “For Claverack Landing, maybe?”

  “Yes, Pa. To Captain Judah Paddock. To inform him that I will join his crew by next week at the latest. To help with the loading before he sails.”

  “And he sails?”

  “The week following, Pa. For whales.”

  “You did this,” Hendrick asked, “in spite of what I said?”

  “No, Pa,” said Lancey, “that’s not right. Ten Bush still hoped you’d give permission. He wanted me to ask you. I promised him I’d get you to see his side.”

  They were all startled when the prisoner laughed. He said, “It’s a dog’s life, whaling, but at least it’s an honest trade.”

  “You should talk of honesty!” said Lancey, furious at his laughter.

  “Better than some. A fine gentleman’s doxy, for example.” He laughed again, and Lancey stared. The man was grinning at her, mocking her. Why, she thought, he means me! The suddenness of the insult pinned her to her chair for a breath, then she leaped out of it with a bound.

  CHAPTER 7

  “LANCEY!”

  Her father’s gasp checked Lancey in mid-stride. Until then she hadn’t realized she was crossing the room, fists clenched, muscles tensed to swing. She let her breath out, opened her hands, as she pivoted to scan the watching faces. All but one showed surprise; even Pardon Cash had his mouth open. Only the stranger, head cocked and smiling, seemed delightedly aware of her intention.

  He wanted me to hit him, she thought. He taunted me in hope. She brushed her palms together as if dusting them, knees weak with relief.

  “What right,” she asked, voice high and shaking, “has he to laugh at us? To stick his oar into a family matter? A common thief!”

  “Oh, not common,” the man said. He sounded as cocksure as before. “You don’t stay any length of time at Brick Gables if your purse is common.”

  “You live at von Beck’s inn?”

  “Well, I did, until a few days ago.”

  Lancey laughed. She saw bewilderment cloud the long face, and laughed harder. Either the man had seen her carried, limp with eyes shut, into the inn and guessed at the rest, or Hilda von Beck had been gossiping. It didn’t matter. Now that she knew what was meant the insult had lost its fangs.

  “What is funny?” asked Hendrick.

  “We are, Pa,” Lancey said. She twinkled at her father, reached to pour him another drink. “Here we’ve been alarmed in the night, nearly lost a boat. Ten Bush and I are battered and bruised. And we spend our time talking about Ten Bush’s voyage!”

  Hendrick’s smile flickered, faded. He said, “It must be talked about, Lancey.”

  “Now? In front of this—this footpad?”

  “Well done,” said the man in quiet admiration. “Things always look different on the morrow. Not changed, but different.”

  “Lancey,” Ten Bush said, “this fellow can wait. My business is something that must be settled. I was willing to let you choose your time, but now it is in the open let it stay in the open.”

  Hendrick nodded, and said, “Your brother is right, Lancey.” He rose from his chair, turned his back to the room to stare at the fire. His square figure was outlined by the dancing reflection of the flames.

  Ten Bush rose, looked at Lancey. The girl nodded, opened her mouth to speak. She’d promised her brother, and was gathering her arguments. Her stepmother’s gesture caught her eye.

  Hester, watching her husband, raised one finger. Slowly, never shifting her gaze, she waved the finger from side to side.

  Lancey waited, listening to the noise of the fire, the creak as Pardon Cash shifted his feet. Once she glanced sideways at the bound stranger. He, too, was watching Hendrick, squinting with interest.

  How does he stand so motionless, Lancey thought, and why? Can he really care about anything but his own capture?

  “Well,” said Hendrick, turning, “I still think this whaling is foolishness, but something ha
ppened this night. Two things. It is fortune, or Providence that I found out about the first one, it is Providence alone that I do not mourn because of the second.”

  “I think,” said the prisoner, “that I can claim a hand in both.”

  His calm effrontery brought tumult. Pardon Cash swore at him; Hester snorted. Brother and sister exploded into speech.

  “By breaking Ten Bush’s head?”

  “You be quiet, you!”

  Hendrick hammered on the table with his noggin. When he had their attention he sat down again, stiffly, with a sigh. “The man speaks with a pinch of truth,” he said. “Maybe good comes sometimes from evil. If he had not tried to steal I would never have known that Ten Bush had left his bed to send his message.”

  “I had to let Captain Paddock know, Pa.”

  “Aye. And now I, too, know. Know that you are set. That nothing I can say will change you. Set.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “The other thing,” Hendrick said, “is from this man also. It happened to me when Lancey called out that you were hurt. That was a bad moment, that grew no better as we came down to see. But standing over you in the yard—that was the worst moment.”

  Throat tight, Lancey had to nod to swallow.

  “You,” said Hendrick, pointing a finger at the prisoner, “I swore in my heart to kill if my son did not live.”

  “Of course,” the man said. He sounded unafraid, and in complete agreement.

  Men, thought Lancey, with a wild impulse toward hysteria. “Struck down by a nameless thief,” Hendrick said, “here on my own doorstep.”

  “My name is Justin Pattison.”

  Justin, recalled Lancey, is what they called him at Jaycock’s. For all a name was easily changed, he might be stating his true one. He gave it politely, with none of the cringing air of a caught thief. His attitude puzzled her.

  Concentrating on his own thoughts, Hendrick didn’t hear. He paused between words, spoke very slowly. Unused to emotional expression the fisherman was finding it difficult.

  “This was a lesson. My selfishness wished to keep you here, Ten Bush. With us, with me, as it has been. Yet you might have been taken from us, not for a year or two, but forever.”

  Justin Pattison shook his head. He noticed Lancey’s glare, shrugged, and said nothing.

  The girl feared an interruption that might distract Hendrick. She trembled at each pause, aching to prompt, not daring to hurry the slow speech. Her father’s inner struggle touched her deeply.

  Hester was smiling. Ten Bush was gnawing his lips, but his eyes were shining with hope. Pardon Cash, embarrassed, was gazing at the ceiling.

  “I do not like change,” Hendrick said, “but it is less bitter than death.” He raised his gaze from the table top to smile at his son. “Go, then, Ten Bush, as you wish. You have my blessing, and my prayers for your safe return.”

  “Thank you, Pa,” Ten Bush said, throat working.

  Lancey wanted to shout, to clap her hands. Instead she stepped behind her father, placed her palm on his shoulder. She knew what the decision had cost him, but her sympathy was less than her joy that it had been made without friction. Father and son would part in friendship. In her gratitude she vowed to replace Ten Bush in every possible way.

  Across the table her gaze met Justin Pattison’s. Why, Lancey thought with shocked incredulity, we owe this peaceful settlement to that scoundrel’s violence! She refused to admit such a ridiculous conclusion.

  “Now,” said Pardon Cash, jerking a thumb at the prisoner, “what about this barnacle, Hendrick?”

  “Take him to the gaol,” Lancey said.

  “You can do that,” Justin Pattison said, “though I stole nothing after all.”

  “Because we caught you,” Ten Bush said.

  “You’d have gotten the boat back. I only wanted to borrow it to cross the river to look for work.”

  “There are ferries!”

  “True.” He was unruffled by Lancey’s heat. “But they are for travellers with coin, not for ex-soldiers who were paid in worthless shinplasters.”

  Pardon Cash grunted, leaned forward to see his captive’s face. “You were a soldier?”

  “From Boston to the finish. Seven years.”

  “Continental, then?”

  “The Massachusetts Line.”

  “What difference does that make?” asked Lancey. “The war’s been over for five years!”

  “And forgotten as long,” Justin Pattison said. His face darkened beneath its tan, and he spoke with cold disdain. “You needn’t worry, Mistress. I beg no favors because I fought. Nor expect any at this late date! Your friend, here, asked me, and I told him.”

  “They call me Pardon Cash. Were you at Harlem Heights?”

  “Among other places.”

  “It’s the only victory I was in,” said Pardon, wistfully. “When those blasted Hessians stormed Fort Washington, they netted the lot of us. I spent the rest of it in the hulks.”

  “The hulks.” Justin Pattison nodded. “Then you owe nothing to anybody, Mister. Those prison ships were pest holes. Most came out as corpses.”

  Lancey was tapping her foot impatiently. Pardon, she thought, sounds as if he’s met a lost shipmate, and the others are listening with interest. Hero or liar Pattison’s tale didn’t change the fact that he was a thief and a bully.

  “Aren’t we forgetting,” she asked icily, “that he tried to kill Ten Bush when caught stealing?”

  “Kill?” Justin Pattison laughed. “Begging your pardon, Mistress, there was no danger of that. With a musket butt, perhaps, but not with an oar shaft hardly thicker than my wrist. He has a sore head, yes, but I’m not unscathed myself.”

  “You can thank Lancey for that,” said Pardon Cash. “You got away from me slick as a greased eel. Aye, and took my gun in the bargain.” The big fisherman snapped his fingers. “My gun! It’s still in the river!”

  “He took your gun?” Hendrick asked Pardon.

  “Away from you?” Ten Bush sounded impressed.

  “By a trick!” said Lancey.

  “Aye,” Pardon admitted with a grin, “but in fair enough fight. There’s not many could do it.” He clapped a big hand on Pattison’s shoulder. “Next time you want a ferry ride you just come ask me.”

  “All right,” Justin Pattison said, “I’ll ask you now. I can’t go back to von Beck’s, or get the things I left there, until I find work. He’s not a hard man for a Swede but my score adds up to pounds. If you clap me into gaol, he’ll come down on me for debt, and I’ll be there for months.”

  The coolness of the proposal outraged Lancey. She waited for Hendrick’s refusal, saw with dismay he was considering it.

  “Give way, Hendrick,” said Pardon Cash. “After all, no harm’s done. An old soldier, and all.”

  “How do we know he’s telling the truth?”

  “You don’t, Mistress.” Justin Pattison bowed to Lancey. “Though there are documents at von Beck’s would prove it. If you care to ransom them.”

  “Ten Bush,” said Hendrick, “you’re the one was hurt the most.”

  Even before her brother spoke, Lancey knew what he’d say. Ten Bush was so happy to have his father’s blessing that he’d forgive anything.

  “I bear no ill will, Pa.”

  That leaves me, Lancey thought. The attempted theft was easily forgotten. They were fisher folk and understood that a man who needed a boat might borrow it without asking the owner. It was a fisherman’s task to protect his gear, and nobody went screaming to the watch over a foiled filching. But what of her sore knee and scraped hands, Ten Bush’s great bruise?

  “What do you say, Lancey?”

  Lancey’s mouth twitched as she fought a smile. Somehow the rogue had managed to turn the tables, to put her at a disadvantage. He stood there daring her to judge him, and she had to admire his audacity.

  “Oh,” she said, with barbed sweetness, “let the poor beggar go. Didn’t he fight for God and country?”

&n
bsp; The flush and quick glare that brought delighted her. For all his proud, reckless air this Pattison had his tender spots. Well, he’d called her a doxy, hadn’t he, and probably still thought the term apt? He needn’t think she’d let him off scot free after that.

  Pardon was already undoing the captive’s bonds. The big fisherman looped the rope through his belt, reached for the stone bottle.

  “Have a swig of this, lad,” he said.

  Justin Pattison chafed each wrist in turn, nodded. Then as he accepted the offered drink, he swayed. The muscles about his mouth paled, and he put a hand on the table to steady himself.

  He had stood motionless for so long that the change startled the company. Lancey frowned with quick suspicion, but her stepmother forestalled comment.

  “Young man,” said Hester, “when did you have your last decent meal?”

  “I’m all right, ma’am,” said Justin Pattison. He took a gulp of the liquor.

  “Sit down there,” Hester said, up and bustling. “It’s pot luck indeed at this hour, but there’s bread and cheese and some cold beans.”

  “Scraps.” Lancey made the word a taunt.

  Pattison looked ready to hurl his noggin at her, but the rebuke came from her father.

  “Lancey!” he said. “Haven’t we always shared what we had in this house?”

  “Yes, Pa.” Lancey was meek, but not contrite. There was no denying that the Quists had fed light-fingered scamps before, but this one was special. She was content to know that he nursed a hatred for his present condition, and could be hurt through it.

  “I don’t want to be any trouble,” he said, gruffly. Lancey’s laugh, genuinely merry, brought his head up. With a smile he said, “Any more trouble.”

  “It has been a night of hurly-burly,” Lancey said. Watching Hester set dishes before him, she realized the man was really hungry. He tried to hide it, face impassive and hands still, but his eyes betrayed him.

  Pardon Cash, fidgeting on his stool, was obviously itching to ask questions. He said, “You know the river?”

  “I should,” Justin Pattison said, “after being camped both sides of it more times than I can count. I was with an invalid regiment outside Newburgh for more than a year.”