“You were wounded then?”
“Yes.”
“Eat,” said Hester.
With them all watching, Lancey noted, he was careful to eat slowly. Every movement of his spoon was controlled; no mouthful was bolted. She liked that in him.
In fact there was much about him that was likeable. For all its long jaw, his face was well made, strong, clear skinned, and very male. His dark complexion made the white streak in his hair, the scar-quirked eyebrow, strangely attractive.
He had long-fingered, big hands that looked capable, and he used them with a minimum of waste motion. The way he fights, Lancey thought. Something about his worn, patched coat puzzled her, and then memory solved the problem. It was an old uniform, re-cut and dyed black.
Pardon Cash barely waited until the meal was finished. “What’s your trade, Justin?” he asked.
“I was ‘prenticed to a boat builder on the Connecticut River. But I went off soldiering before my time was up.”
“Hear that, Hendrick? River raised.”
“I hear, Pardon. They say it’s good sized that Connecticut.”
“Fair to middling,” agreed Justin Pattison, “but you notice I’ve come back to the Hudson.”
That, Lancey decided, was the right thing to say. Even Ten Bush, who was planning .to leave the river, beamed at the compliment.
“You come at the right time,” Hendrick said. “The river’s open her whole length, the packets are sailing, and there’ll be work.”
“If you really want it,” Lancey said.
Justin Pattison looked at her. “I’m not saying I’d take anything,” he said, “not even for a crust and a cot when I need both. The day when a man can’t choose his labor he becomes a slave.”
“There are several whalers,” Ten Bush said, “making ready to sail. Upriver at Claverack. Some call it Hudson. I don’t know if they lack hands or not, but—”
“Thank you,” Justin Pattison interrupted, “but that is not for me. Cooped up inside a vessel month after month with the same people, hearing the same talk. Besides those ships are owned and skippered by New Englanders. I’ve had enough of that breed to last me for a time!”
“You hear, Ten Bush?”
Ten Bush merely smiled at his father’s question, but Lancey glowered at the stranger. Who was he to be criticizing her brother’s chosen trade?
She said, tartly, “Seems to me you’re mighty finicky about what you will or won’t do!”
“Maybe,” said Justin Pattison, nodding, “but it’s not for fear of hardship. Or of hunger.”
“I guess not.” Pardon Cash laughed. “Not for a man who spent that winter at Valley Forge. I take it you were there, Justin?”
“I was there.”
It was a flat statement and Lancey believed it. She saw her own sudden interest reflected on every face. In the decade that had passed since the then rebel army had suffered in that camp, its plight and fortitude had become a legend. The stay-at-homes had felt the severity of that same winter, understood the hardships related by the soldiers.
Hester and Hendrick exchanged a glance; Ten Bush moved his stool a trifle closer. Pardon Cash’s big head bobbed in a series of slow nods.
More than some of the great battles, Lancey thought, we are proud of those months at Valley Forge. Folks like us especially, fishermen and farmers, the hewers and drawers, the poor, the landless, the riffraff.
“You know,” said Pardon, “I guess most everybody in Poughkeepsie, ‘cept me, has heard all about that time. From the troops quartered downriver.” He sounded both apologetic and eager. “But me, I was their prisoner till the war was over.”
“You came back here like a skeleton,” Hester said.
“I managed.” Pardon laid a crooked finger on his lips as if to hide the gap in his teeth. “But I never did hear, first hand that is, about Valley Forge. If you wouldn’t mind talking about it, Justin——”
For the space of his quick frown Lancey was sure that the ex-soldier would refuse the unfinished request. He glanced at each of them in turn, but his gaze rested longest on Pardon Cash. The frown slackened, returned. She spoke to that indecision, very softly.
“He was in the hulks.”
The dark eyes swung toward her, hooded beneath lowered eyelids. “I know,” said Justin Pattison. Then, he smiled and turned to the big fisherman.
“What do you want to know?”
“What it was like.”
“You’re asking the wrong man,” Justin Pattison said. His voice was bitter and vibrant. “There’s plenty could give you chapter and verse about the Forge. If half of them had been there we’d have moved out and taken Philadelphia!”
Cold prickles ran down Lancey’s spine at his hard, relentless tone. This man was not telling a story. He was a zealot cursing the unbelievers, a soldier talking to civilians.
“Those who lived through it want to forget it. From the general down. It was bad, bad. Hovels to live in, rags to wear. Little fire and less food. And, Christ knows, it was cold. Cold that never let up on you, never let you sleep much, or thaw. I can’t even tell you how many days it lasted. I lost count. Because it didn’t seem like it would ever end.
“Some died, and some ran, and some stuck. You got sick and you died or stayed sick. You froze, and you died or stayed frozen. There was no reason why this one lived, and that one didn’t.
“Maybe the general put it down different in some report. He could tell it best. He saw the whole camp. I saw it smaller. One hut that was crowded even after four burying parties. One campfire that was never big enough. A couple or three paths—to muster, to the burying ground, to the captain’s for rations. Paths to Calvary all of them, and the last was the worst.
“I was eighteen that winter, but missed the day being out of my head with ague and fever.
“So they made me a sergeant for living through it because too many sergeants hadn’t. Old von Steuben’s drilling helped some toward the end, and warmer weather helped more. But telling it now you can’t make it like it happened. You had to be there.”
He stopped so abruptly that they were still waiting for him to continue while he drank. He set down his noggin with a finality that broke the spell.
“That’s all?” asked Pardon.
“That’s all.”
Lancey didn’t share the others’ disappointment. She wanted him to go on talking for another reason. While he spoke she’d felt an attraction, a magnetism, as strong as it was exciting.
“Justin,” she said, using the name without thought, “the dominie, our preacher, said that General Washington prayed.”
“Maybe he did,” said Justin Pattison. “He had reason. Don’t think I’m running down the general. He was the best we had at all times, and he was never better than that winter.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was always there, somehow. At your elbow, going past the campfire, taking a salute. We didn’t have a war, nor powder, nor food. God, counting noses we didn’t have an army! But we had him. I’m no officer boot-licker, but the man was good. You didn’t even envy him his boots, or his warm cloak. He was that good!”
“A great man,” Hendrick said.
Pardon Cash said, “You think he’s right wanting this Constitution passed?”
“Of course he’s right,” said Justin Pattison, with a harsh laugh, “according to his lights. He’s a rich man, isn’t he? Oh, he risked it, and his neck with it. He put it all up for hazard like a gentleman, I’ll give him that. But now he’s won the gamble.”
They stared at him, disturbed by his vehemence. Even Pardon Cash had seen Washington, held him in awe.
“He won the war!” Lancey’s protest was sharp.
“Granted,” Justin Pattison said. “But some of us at Valley Forge, quick and dead, thought we were fighting for liberty. Not for any lousy piece of paper that says the rich get richer, and the poor man keeps his place!”
Lancey, involuntarily, had a mental picture of Dirck van Za
ndt, compared him to the speaker. Silk and steel, she thought. Ivory fan and iron hammer. This Pattison was older, tougher, tempered by war and trouble. She knew van Zandt was rich, well-born, sure of place and position. The other was a rascal and a rogue, ready to steal, fight or conspire to get what he wanted. She recognized his spirit as akin to her own. I would like to see them together, she decided. The idea amused her.
“I’m sleepy,” Hester said, yawning. “Are we going to sit here talking until dawn?”
CHAPTER 8
LIKE MOST OF THE MARRIED RIVERFRONT FOLK THE QUISTS were a churchgoing family, slightly more irregular than their neighbors, especially in the fine weather of fishing season. Hendrick was religious, but not fanatical. He wasn’t bothered that Ten Bush courted ill luck by departing on the Sabbath, but he insisted they must all attend services first.
“That old talk,” Hendrick said, “about the oarsman who still rows the river because he broke the Sabbath is a grandmother’s tale. But it is better that Ten Bush take no chances before a long voyage.”
Lancey didn’t mind. She’d long since adopted her stepmother’s attitude toward Sunday services. Hester went to please her husband, to see people, to note new bonnets and dresses. She’d been a seamstress before marriage and never lost interest. Sometimes there was gossip to exchange, and occasionally the preacher’s sermon stirred fresh curiosity about certain sins of the flesh.
Only Conrad, summoned from the horse-ferry, complained. The boy bemoaned his loss of revenue, but submitted when Hendrick threatened to forbid his working at all.
Scrubbed and shining, dressed in their best, the family assembled before the first peal of the church bell. Ten Bush, chin propped high by a starched white stock, seemed more uncomfortable than pleased. He kept gazing around the room as if trying to imprint every detail on his memory.
“You’re sure you have everything?” Lancey said, for the tenth time. She was trying to mask sadness with brisk efficiency.
“Yes, Lancey.”
“He must have,” said Conrad, hefting his half-brother’s bundle.
“I’ll carry that.” Hendrick inspected the knots that fastened the blanket wrapping, swung the parcel onto his shoulder. It was a good-will gesture, an assurance that he didn’t regret his grant of approval.
Hester fastened her cloak at the throat, took a small daughter by each hand. Cocking her head, she examined her tall stepson from boots to hat crown. “You’ll pass,” she said, “but save that jacket for the belles in foreign ports.”
“I don’t think we make any ports,” Ten Bush said, reddening.
“There’s the bell,” Lancey said. She tied her bonnet ribbons as she stepped outside. Automatically her glance checked the weather, but without real interest. It was a warm morning, but damp. Mist rose from the river like steam; haze wrapped the sun in gauze. The girl felt depressed. Her brother’s departure meant the end of the life she’d known.
I’ve too much of Pa in me, she thought, to like change. The melancholy of the moment convinced her this was true. Actually, she was enjoying her sorrowful reflections.
Strung out along the path, they took the short cut to the Post Road. Hendrick led, Conrad on his heels; Hester herded her charges in the rear.
Lancey, walking behind Ten Bush, believed she quivered at each stroke of the church bell. She was wearing her best dress, a year-old sprigged dimity Hester had made, now faded to soft yellow, and she considered it too gay for the occasion. Her step was subdued and stately, befitting a funeral.
“Lancey.” Ten Bush spoke over his shoulder.
“Yes?”
“I just thought. I’m leaving one kind of country, and liable to come back to another.”
His cheerfulness irritated Lancey. Didn’t he realize that he was breaking up the family? She had wanted Ten Bush to get his wish, but the reality was unpleasant. It’s all the fault of that Justin Pattison, she decided illogically.
“You’re coming back here,” she said.
“Oh, sure. But it’ll be changed if they set up this Constitution.”
“It won’t pass. Not in New York.”
“You know,” Ten Bush said, “I’m sorry I’m going to miss that meeting. This town’ll be jam packed.”
A snort ended Lancey’s sobriety. He was, in typical man fashion, worrying about missing a stupid convention, while her heart mourned his coming absence! Her toe shot out to trip him, but she remembered his good clothes in time.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” she said with heavy sarcasm, “when you get back. Who spoke and how they voted. I wouldn’t want it bothering you while you were playing tag with those whales!”
They reached the wider road, and were able to walk abreast. Ten Bush waited for Lancey. His expression was one of baffled concern.
“You mad about something, Lancey?”
“No. Of course not.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m not.” She couldn’t spoil their last morning with a fit of temper. They were not demonstrative with each other, but now she took his arm. “I’m glad for you, Ten Bush. That you’re doing what you want. I just wish I was going with you.”
“You’re a girl.”
“I know.” It was the remark that settled the question. Girls did not go awhaling. She had no real desire to leave the river, but she was nettled. Why she thought rebelliously, do men always bring that up, when you’re just trying to say you’ll miss their company?
“Likely you’ll get married within the year.”
“Married?” Lancey glared at her brother. “Me?”
“You’re of age. I’m surprised it ain’t happened before this.”
“You needn’t be! It’s not going to happen in any hurry, believe me!” Even to her own ears she sounded too violent, so she laughed. “You’ll find your whales a lot easier to catch than this miss!”
Hester called a warning, and they drew aside to let a chaise rattle past. They were close to the crossroads now, and Hendrick was waiting in front of the old Dutch graveyard. Conrad was watching the people gathered in the doorway of the English church opposite.
Probably, Lancey thought, estimating their wealth as compared to our own congregation. She had no qualms about gazing that way herself. The English church was fashionable, but no more so than the older Dutch establishment.
There on the steps, talking to a tall, smiling young lady, was Dirck van Zandt. He had his hat in his hand, and he was laughing.
Lancey didn’t stare, but she gathered every detail of the other girl’s costume. She was wearing a dress of blue brocade that shimmered as she moved, with matching bonnet. Her cloak was trimmed with fur. Both were cut in the latest fashion, looked new.
I’ll wager, Lancey thought savagely, he hasn’t tried any of his fancy tricks with her! She shifted her gaze to the girl’s face, noting a cool and handsome beauty, as pale and finely carved as a cameo.
As tall as he is, Lancey noted, and rich. Well, water sought its own level, and who cared!
Hester came up to wink at Lancey, nod toward Dirck. Lancey’s smile was cool, unflustered. She turned away, not hurrying, glad that he was too busy to notice them. She didn’t fear a snub but a year old dimity could not match blue brocade.
Together, the family crossed the Filkintown Road to the Dutch church. The bell had stopped tolling, but churchgoers were still moving toward the entrance. Wagons were ranked along the edges of both roads; a few horses were even hitched in front of the new courthouse that faced the church across the junction of Post and Filkintown Roads.
Lancey gave the courthouse an affectionate inspection. The burning of the previous one had been one of the town’s great fires, the best in her experience. The new structure had barely been finished in time for the legislature’s meeting in January. Lancey had personally, if unofficially, supervised every stage of its construction.
It was a large stone building, almost square, with two stories of glassed windows below its peaked roof, and a chimney at both e
nds. A strange-looking, open-sided cupola crowned the edifice.
Frowning at the cupola, which she had never approved, Lancey wondered again that it had withstood the winds of March. It looked flimsy, less sturdy than the Quist boatshed.
“Come on,” Hendrick said, “come on. Reverend Livingston’s waiting.” He stowed Ten Bush’s bundle beside the doorway as they entered, left Conrad to guard it.
The church was crowded, heavy with the mixed odor of massed humanity and damp clothing. Lancey’s depression returned. Everything was all too familiar, the same faces, the same hymns, the same routine. She recognized Nell Bogardus peering from a rear corner, Digmus Jaycock forcing his way into a pew. Down front a trio of stalwart backs could only be the von Becks.
There was a clatter as they sat for the sermon. John Livingston, another of the ubiquitous clan so prominent in the county, had studied and taken his degree in Holland, but no longer gave alternate sermons in Dutch and English. The practice had outlived British rule, but died out with the war’s end.
The minister read his text.
“He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.”
Startled, Lancey heard Hendrick grunt beside her, turned to see Ten Bush’s mouth drop open. Even Hester wore a worried frown. The girl had been depressed because the service held nothing special for her brother’s leave taking, but this was too close for comfort!
Listening, she discovered that Reverend Livingston wasn’t talking about Ten Bush, but of those who left the house of righteousness for the palaces of sin. It was both a relief and a disappointment.
The preacher droned on, not unpleasantly, but Lancey lost the thread of the discourse. Hendrick had relaxed into dutiful solemnity; Ten Bush restless, was fingering his starched neckpiece. Hester smiled at her stepdaughter, sharing a relief that the text had been a meaningless coincidence.
After a prayer and another hymn, it was over. Lancey recited the words without thinking of their meaning. She was praying mentally for her brother’s safety, a fair voyage and a quick return. The muttering voices around her did give comfort, a sense of unity.
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