Strangely, the other fishermen, usually suspicious of outlanders, accepted him from the first. Pardon Cash sponsored him and the man had genuine fishing ability. They welcomed his talk as fresh and interesting.
No boat returned from a drift without an audience. The fishermen ashore gathered to comment, to weigh the haul mentally, to count the netted fish. That was why the Livingston pier was crowded with loungers watching the slaves approach the day the sloops came back upriver.
Lancey saw them first, and the sight brought her to her feet. She felt a familiar thrill of excitement as her breathing quickened, and her smile came unbidden. Later, she knew the flotilla would be familiar and everyday, a hazard even to the nets. But, always, the sloops’ initial return visibly brought spring, seemed to emphasize the beauty of the river.
They came in a long line, and the white shields of their jibs, gleaming in the sunshine, had the gallant bravery of an untried, but confident, army. There was a fair wind behind them, out of the south straight up the valley, and they sailed in the order set by the way they had jostled through the Highland gateway.
“Ah, lovely,” Lancey said.
Justin Pattison, standing behind her, said, “Yes.”
The one word brought her head around. He was looking past her, staring at the ships. Admiration showed in the glow of his dark eyes, in the parted lips. It was genuine, unmasked, and it stirred the girl.
He’s as moved as I am, she thought. He was, at once, less an enemy.
The other men bunched together to gaze downriver. Even the slaves, a few yards off shore, rested on their oars and regarded the spectacle.
“Ain’t that the Lydia running third?” asked Gerritt Kimmee.
“Aye.” Seth Row sounded definite.
Pardon Cash glanced at Hendrick, shrugged. He said, “A mite far to be certain sure, I’d say.”
Lancey noticed that Justin Pattison didn’t seem to hear the remarks. He was still watching the sloops, and be spoke musingly, more to himself than to anyone else.
“They’re strung out like charging cavalry.”
Although the comparison was beyond her experience Lancey thought she saw what he meant. The sloops formed a ragged wedge across the width of the river; the leading ship at the point of the triangle, the others scattered behind. There was movement and speed in the advancing line.
For herself, the beauty of the sight came more from its colors. The snow-white sails against the gray-green clifis, on the shining-blue water. The creamy furrows that each prow carved from the river, dancing horn-shaped plumes that seemed to decorate every bow. From a bright sky the sun laid a fresh sparkle on the whole fleet.
They were closer now, and the girl could see the different paint on the hulls, Bashing green here, gray there, there a yellow stripe on black, catching the sunlight like so many brilliants. Every sloop was heeled over, canvas tautly curved in that arc that seemed to contain both grace and power.
When they changed course, Lancey caught her breath. The booms whipped across in turn as each riverwise helmsman tried to catch the valley’s crosscurrent of air at just the right moment.
“Squads left oblique,” murmured Justin Pattison.
Not squads, thought Lancey, but sloops. No horses had the beauty of ships moving before the wind. Horses had their own beauty, probably, but only the flight of birds could compare with a sailing vessel!
Then, they straightened out again, and were sliding past, no longer a wedge, but a row of heavy laden sloops that covered a mile of river.
“The Lydia is fifth,” said Pardon Cash.
“Aye,” Seth Row said, “now.”
“They ain’t all Poughkeepsie sloops,” Gerritt Kimmee said. “Some’s bound for Rhinebeck, or Kingston.”
“Albany even,” Hendrick said. “That yellow striper is the Prince Orange, out of Albany. I saw her when she passed down.”
They stood watching while the local sloops swung out of line, veering for Poughkeepsie Landing. All had seen the movement before, but not this year, and they didn’t want any local skipper to blunder in front of upriver captains. Lancey was more concerned because Justin was a spectator. Her worry was needless. The Lydia and the others peeled toward their berths as gracefully as ducks banking out of formation.
The northbound sloops went on, but the fishermen relaxed. As one they turned back to their trade.
“Calico,” called Gerritt Kimmee, “any herring?”
Teeth flashed as Calico grinned, shook his head. Tanner bent to his oars, called back over his shoulder.
“No, sir. Water too cold.”
Hendrick moved to the edge of the pier to help the slaves come alongside, but the others didn’t bother. Lancey, turning away, paused. Justin Pattison was still gazing after the sloops. He looks, she thought, like somebody in a dream. She had a sudden impulse to shield him from an abrupt awakening. The feeling startled her.
Pardon Cash stretched, spat through the gap in his teeth. “Well,” he said, “old Cap’n Benjamin got back in time to vote anyway.”
Justin Pattison’s head turned. His eyes were narrowed, sharpened. He said, “Vote?”
“Aye,” Seth Row said, “for delegates to the convention. The fellows that will decide on the Constitution.”
“How’s he voting?”
Lancey caught the intense note in the question. For some reason the answer was important to Justin. She bit her lip, puzzled. This man had as many moods as scales on a tommy cod.
“Why,” Pardon said, “I guess the town’s way. The county’s way. George Clinton’s way.”
“For them that’s against,” added Gerritt Kimmee.
“Your way?”
Pardon Cash laughed. “You asking me, Justin? I ain’t got a way.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I’ve never had a vote.”
“Why not? You’ve a boat, a trade. That’s property. Even if only the propertied can vote—”
“I think,” said Seth Row, “you got to have a certain amount.”
“Don’t you know?”
Lancey saw that the repeated questions were bothering the fishermen. Even Pardon shifted his big shoulders uneasily. They didn’t like Justin’s insistence.
“No,” Seth Row said, “I never bothered to find out. I mind my own business.”
The slur darkened Justin’s tan, but he smiled. He said: “So do I. This is your business. And mine!”
“Voting?”
Lancey heard the jeer in Gerritt Kimmee’s voice, but kept her gaze on Justin’s face. He was unruffled, poised and motionless. Something in his stance reminded her of his figure awaiting Ten Bush’s rush. The memory brought instant recognition. He was ready and eager for combat.
His glance, gay and reckless, brought added conviction. She expected violence, was relieved to have it come in the vibrant passion of the man’s voice.
“That’s right. Voting. How else do we get a voice in things? Isn’t that what the war was about? Because King George wouldn’t give us a voice? Well, there’s plenty nearer home feel the same way. They won their own votes from King George but they don’t intend to let the likes of you and me have any say at all.”
The fishermen looked at each other. Hendrick, helping the slaves empty their catch onto the pier, paused to listen. Tanner nudged Calico, received a head shake in reply, went on with his work.
“Who do you mean?” asked Seth Row.
“Hamilton, for one. And all the others that are bent on getting this Constitution passed. Things are bad enough now, but they’ll be worse if that happens. The idea that every man— every grown-up man—should have a vote sticks in their craw!”
“Well it might,” said Seth Row.
Gerritt Kimmee nodded. “That’s a New England notion anyway.”
They’re annoyed at his criticism, Lancey decided, and reminding him he’s a stranger. She didn’t think it would bother Justin. She hoped he’d go on talking. When he talked this way she could listen the live-long day.
“And New England,” said Justin, “was better off when they followed it. When everybody stood up in town meeting-before the rich taxed the poor out of their votes. I don’t understand you York Staters. You knuckled under to the patroons from the first.”
“How’s that?” asked Pardon Cash. His voice was mild.
Pardon, thought Lancey, has something up his sleeve. She knew that deceptive mildness. The big fisherman baited his hook with it.
“You know how,” Justin said. “Most of the people had to work for the patroons, pay rent, do as they were told. They couldn’t even own their own farms! No wonder you think voting is outlandish. You never had a chance to try it out.”
“Well, now,” said Pardon Cash, “I wouldn’t exactly say that. You see, I can’t talk for anyone else, but there’s a reason behind my not voting. Wasn’t healthy for a while.”
“Wasn’t healthy?” Justin sounded puzzled.
“Aye, that’s right. ‘Twas better, and safer, to steer clear of the authorities. I was out with Prendergast, son.”
“Who?”
“William Prendergast. I’m not surprised you never heard of him. This was over twenty years ago. But it’s a name still remembered around here.”
“This side of the river,” said Hendrick. The other fishermen nodded, watching Pardon Cash with the grave attention of those hearing a familiar tale.
Lancey could see that interest had replaced Justin Pattison’s vehemence. His glance raked the group, returned to Pardon. He spoke with less confidence.
“I’m afraid I know nothing about him.”
“Well,” Pardon Cash said, “maybe it’s time you learned. You New Englander fellows seem to think the Revolution was mostly your idea. Or at least that you started it. You had some real smart talkers over that way, especially around Boston, and they carried on at a great rate whenever anything happened.”
“Now, wait—”
“You wait, son. I’m not taking any credit away from Massachusetts. But in ‘66—nine years before Lexington and Concord Bridge—some of us poor, downtrodden, patroon ridden Dutchess County boys stood up to redcoat regulars. Aye, we burned a few grains of gunpowder, and shed some blood.”
“You mean you rebelled?”
“Aye. At least the royal governor called us rebels. And Levelers. We didn’t see it that way. Will Prendergast—he lived over near Quaker Hill on the Philipse Grant, paid his rent to that damned old Tory—he thought the way you do. That it wasn’t fair for the patroons to hold all the choice land, and make the farmers stay tenants.”
“He was right.”
“Quite a few people thought so. Farmers especially. He was a big man, Will was, with Irish in him. He tried to do something about it. He raised an army—over a thousand muskets came down off their hooks. I was ashore at the time, and no farmer but I went along with the rest. ‘Honest debts but no rent,’ Will told us. And we marched south toward New York.”
“A thousand men?”
“More joined us every day. But we wanted redress not rebellion. We sent word to the governor, to the landlords. Either meet our just demands or we’d start tearing down manor houses. The landlords screamed, and wrote letters to the governor. But we went nearly all the way to Kingsbridge. I heard later that the New York folk were shaking in their boots.
“Gage was in command down there, then,” Pardon Cash said. “The same fellow you New Englanders later threw out of Boston town. And Sir Henry Moore was governor. But our quarrel was with the landlords, not them. We sent half a dozen men in to parley. Maybe it was a mistake because Gage said he’d have to fight, and paraded his Grenadiers, and what with one thing and another, our army turned back this side the Harlem River.”
“But you said you fought.”
“So we did, later, but it was coming on summer, fine haying weather, and a lot of farmers went home. General Gage didn’t have that trouble. He did have the Twenty Eighth British Grenadiers sailing downriver from Albany, and he ordered them to land at Poughkeepsie. I saw them come off the sloops myself, and their aim was to capture Will Prendergast, so I got me a horse and rode east to warn him. I didn’t know just where he was, and I wasted some time alooking, and some other fellows joined me until there was about thirty of us.”
“Armed?”
“Aye, we had muskets. We decided that Will was probably to home, so we rode for Quaker Hill. The regulars were marching for the same place, and between Fredericksburg and Quaker Hill we sort of stumbled into each other. There was a bridge over a little river, and a field of tall corn, tasseled but green, beside the road. We got in among that corn and looked out at them.”
Pardon Cash shook his head, smiled his crooked smile. His voice was mocking, but held a hint of pride.
“‘Thirty young fools against a regiment of British Grenadiers. They filled the road like a windrow of fallen sumac leaves. I don’t know what we were thinking of—stopping them, giving Will Prendergast more time, or what. Maybe we were too riled to do much thinking. Anyway, when they swung ‘round to face the cornfield, we fired.
“Two of them fell at that first volley. Then, they charged, and that glittering line of bayonets made a man’s stomach turn over. Colder and brighter and more deadly than any surf rolling at you. There was no time to reload. We got out of that corn fast. The soldiers made a shambles of that stand, but caught nary a one of us.”
“And this Prendergast?”
“Well, they didn’t exactly catch him either. But his wife, Mehitabel, was a peaceable woman, a Quaker. A few days later she persuaded him to give himself up. The redcoats took him to New York, and then back here to Poughkeepsie for trial. That came in August, and the charge was high treason. He was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged.”
“Ah,” said Justin Pattison.
“We couldn’t let that happen, of course, and a bunch of us made plans. His wife had other ideas. She rode down to New York and talked to the governor. She came back with a promise of pardon and a reprieve. She was a fine-talking woman, Mehitabel Prendergast, and her husband listened to her. She’d hardly rode in before we surrounded the gaol house, ready to split it open like a rotted beer keg. We had enough boarders to get Will Prendergast out the minute he said the word. He refused, preferring to do it the legal way.
“And that’s the way it ended. We lost, and you fellows over to Massachusetts did a better job some nine years later. Some of us were marked men, and I shipped out on the first vessel I could sign on. Didn’t come back for five years or more.
“But we was the first to fight redcoats, Justin, no matter what they tell you anywhere else.”
“All right,” said Justin Pattison, “I’ll not belittle what you did. Losing doesn’t even matter. We all did our share of losing before we did much winning. You’ve just proved what I was saying. When they won’t give you legal means to fix things, by vote for example, you’ve got to rise up and demand them at musket muzzle.”
Hendrick stirred, frowning. He said, “All we want is to be let alone.”
“That’s right,” said Gerritt Kimmee.
Seth Row bobbed his head in a nod. “What’s fishermen got to do with farmers and such-like? Even in ‘66 Pardon here only joined Prendergast for sport.”
“Never could pass up a fracas,” admitted Pardon.
Lancey saw Justin flush with annoyance. He started to speak, checked himself with a shrug. The movement seemed to dismiss the argument, but the girl felt he had merely postponed it, decided to bide his time. She wasn’t certain she could read his moods, but thought she was learning.
Pardon Cash stretched, linking his fingers above his head and raising his big body onto his toes. “Hendrick,” he asked, “you aiming to try dark flood tonight?”
“No.” Hendrick shook his head. “Not for several days yet.”
“Can we borrow a lantern then? Justin’s got a hankering for a night drift.”
The fishermen looked at Justin. He met their regard with a nod. Seth Row’s lip curled
. Hendrick’s face was blank. Gerritt Kimmee tried to swallow a chuckle, failed. Even the slaves, though politely grave, widened their eyes.
What’s the matter with Pardon, thought Lancey. She was annoyed at the big fisherman for letting Justin make such a mistake before the others. Pardon knew the river, knew it was too early for night fishing. Her opinion of Justin’s capability lessened, but she felt protective, not superior.
“It’s hardly worth the row,” she said, “because—”
“Oh,” said Justin, “we didn’t figure to catch much. I’d just like to get the feel of the river at night.”
The other faces cleared; Lancey’s reddened with anger. Justin’s cool interruption made her solicitude ridiculous. His tone mocked and rejected her advice. Pardon Cash’s grin did not make her any calmer.
Why, the oaf, she thought, glaring at Justin. He was so damnably, irritatingly smug!
“You’re welcome to the lantern,” Hendrick said. “Lancey will show you where it is.”
Lancey’s skirt swirled as she turned on her heel. She left the group without bothering with farewells. As she stepped from pier to shingle she heard a footfall behind her, but she didn’t glance back to see who followed. It was either Pardon or Justin, and she was angry with both men.
They mounted to the path in silence. The day’s brightness had passed its peak; the sun, moving westward, had drawn some color from the sky, faded it to a milder blue. A line of shadow covered the shallows where the river lapped at the foot of its west bank.
Justin’s voice identified him, brought her head around. He said, “You don’t have to rush, Mistress.”
The title stressed the mockery in his speech. It refueled the girl’s anger. So did his ambling stride, the long legs easily keeping pace with her own brisk walk. Hat on the back of his head, jacket slung over one shoulder, Justin was the picture of a casual stroller. He wore a collared waistcoat, buttoned high to the throat, and the rolled back shirtsleeves displayed the dark hair on his forearms.
Lancey noticed these things with a single swift glance. She bit her tongue until the heat was drained from her reply, spoke to the landscape.
Shad Run Page 12
