“Ma, is it yours? Is it, Ma?”
“Yes, Hannah,” said Hester, critically examining the worn spots. “Every stitch in it is mine, and in the end the gown was given to me. But it’s going to be Lancey’s.”
“Mine?” Lancey reached to stroke the smooth nap. “Mine, Hester?”
“When it’s cut down some. You can see it was made for a taller girl than you.”
“But—wherever did you get it?”
“Trunk,” said Hester. She shook the dress, held it up against Lancey, already mentally figuring size and design. “But it was made for a young lady right here in Poughkeepsie. That was before I even met your Pa, but I always thought it was the nicest material I ever worked on.”
“You’ve saved it all these years?” Lancey knew her stepmother’s ability as a seamstress. Hester made, re-made, and patched most of the garments in the Quist household from small Hannah’s aprons to Hendrick’s shirts.
“Yes. You see, it was payment for my work, Lancey. The girl belonged to a wealthy family, my best custom. They were Tory, though, and when they fled needed what cash they had. I took the dress as settlement and gladly.”
“Then you wanted it for yourself, Hester. I can’t let you give it to me!”
“Fiddlesticks!” Hester snorted; the broad face brightened with a grin. “What need have I for fancy frills? You’re the one has the young men flocking around like foxes at a hen coop.” She tapped a finger on her elder daughter’s head. “Rhoda, fetch my sewing basket.”
Lancey, blushing, argued halfheartedly. She wanted the russet velvet so badly that her calves trembled. “Any young man who doesn’t like me the way I am—”
“They do. But when I’m finished their eyes’ll pop!”
“Dirck,” said Hannah, wisely.
Her sister set the sewing basket on the table, sniffed. “And Justin, too, Hannah, and Jan Elmendorf.”
“Little pitchers,” said Hester, and laughed. “Get out of your things, Lancey, and let’s try this on. It needs airing, but it’s clean.”
“I ought to help Pa.” Lancey was undoing the buttons of her homespun. She was so excited that her fingers fumbled
“Your Pa can do without. He knows I planned this. It’s time you had a real fine dress, Lancey. Homespun’s all right for fishing, and your dimity for church-going, but for courting—”
“Nobody’s courting me!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but it’s true you really need a new dress!”
The gown was much too large for Lancey. It made her look about the age of Hester’s daughters, a little girl playing in her mother’s clothing. The feel of the velvet, the glow from its color, had her bemused.
“Rhoda,” she said, “my mirror. It’s upstairs in the loft.” She danced impatiently, as the child scampered away. “Be careful not to drop it!”
“Stand still,” said Hester. She was on her knees, tugging and pulling at the skirt. “We can flounce it on each hip, and in back.” She rummaged in her basket, drew out a pin cushion bristling with wood slivers, and a few real pins. “You’ll need to wear at least five petticoats, but I can take in a couple of mine.
“Hester, be careful!” Lancey cried out in anguish as her stepmother’s scissors cut through the material.
“I know what I’m doing. The hem is threadbare anyway.” Hendrick, coming in for his dinner at noon, found the entire distaff side of his family clustered around the table. There was no sign of food. The board was covered with what looked like an assortment of red velvet rags. His wife was ripping seams, snipping threads. The little girls, kneeling on stools, were watching with rapt concentration.
In petticoats and shift, Lancey hovered at Hester’s shoulder. She stared, blankly, at her father, blinked and gave him a vague smile. The wreckage on the table was such a tangled jumble that she was afraid to speak. In her mind she was already wearing the gown.
“It’s mid-day,” said Hendrick, amused.
“Shh, Pa,” Rhoda said.
Hester was startled into dismay. “It can’t be!” She gaped at her husband, glanced from the litter before her to the pot-less fire.
“Sun’s overhead.”
“Oh, Pa!” Lancey felt guilty, remembering her promise to take Ten Bush’s place as his helper. “And I haven’t done a lick all morning. Why didn’t you call out?”
“Why?” Hendrick thought his daughter had never looked better. He was glad Hester had decided to fix the gown. He wasn’t quite sure why his wife had slashed it to ribbons as a starter, but that was her business. “There are things besides fish,” he said, “I will tell you when I need you, Lancey.”
Hester began to gather up the velvet. “I’m sorry, Hendrick,” she said. “I lost all track of time. Cut a slice of bread to stay you until I can—”
“Today,” said Hendrick, “I will eat with Pardon and Justin. I would not like your handiwork upset. This house is no place for a man.”
All four females gazed at him with abashed but silent agreement. Hester’s chuckle broke the hush, proved infectious. The little girls giggled, and Lancey laughed.
“Have they enough?” asked Hester.
“And to spare. I will have, perhaps, a nice bit of grilled herring.” Hendrick kept his face blank, peeped sideways at Lancey.
Stooping to pick an empty velvet sleeve from the floor, the girl only half heard his remark. “That will be nice,” she said, smoothing the remnant against her breast. Then, the import penetrated, and she whirled.
“Aye,” Hendrick answered the question in her face, “that is what I said.”
“Herring!”
“So you see there is cause to hurry your seamstressing. For the shad will be running soon.”
“Pa, wait. If you’re going to make a drift—”
“You will know. There is a time for everything, Lancey. Now, I want you to be Hester’s helper. To do as she says. I, too, wish to see the new dress.”
He bowed, and went out humming, evidently pleased with himself. The quartette stared after him.
“He means it, Lancey,” said Hester. “He has something up his sleeve, too. Always when he hums like that.” She gazed around distractedly, spoke with resignation “I guess we’d better eat a bite ourselves.”
The thing up Hendrick’s sleeve proved to be a pair of cut-steel shoe buckles. He unwrapped them that evening, placed them in front of Lancey.
“For the fancy gown, fancy shoes,” he said. “These will brighten your good ones, Lancey.”
“Oh, Pa. Hester, look.”
“I see.” Hester beamed at her husband. “So that was why you went up to the landing. It was a good thought, Hendrick.”
“They were a bargain,” Hendrick said, with hasty gruffness. “An attempt to get my meals on time.”
Lancey breathed on a buckle, rubbed it, gazed her thanks. They must have cost, she thought, both of Dirck van Zandt’s shillings. She was suddenly shy, confused by the favors of both father and stepmother. A russet velvet gown, and buckled shoes!
They missed no more meals, and Lancey made sure she was ready whenever Hendrick wanted to launch the boat, conscious as ever that she was Ten Bush’s substitute. There were long hours when Hester sewed; the fittings were frequent, but brief. Rhoda and Hannah soon tired of watching their mother at work, but Lancey thought her needle magical.
Then, at last, the dress was finished. Hester helped her stepdaughter into the gown, gave her a professionally critical regard, nodded. She handed Lancey the mirror and stepped back.
The small oval glass barely reflected the low, square neckline. Lancey kept shifting it for different views. She admired the way the russet framed her flesh.
“I wish,” she said, “we had a mirror would show all of me.
“Don’t worry,” Hester said, with proud approval. “You look real fine. Watch the faces of the men folk when they gander at you. And, of course, the women. They’re going to hate you in that dress, Lancey.”
Lancey Quist, well pleased w
ith herself, was returning from church when she heard the shouting. The tumult that shattered the Sunday morning calm ended a very enjoyable reverie.
Her new gown was already a proven success. It had caused a stir among the congregation, brought whispers from the women, stares from the men. As was seemly the girl had pretended to ignore these reactions, but she had not missed a glance. As she strolled homeward she was reviewing, with relish, the gaping admiration of Nell Bogardus, and Hilda von Beck’s envious glare. The sunshine was bright, the day fair; it was warm enough to let her cloak hang open. Head bent, skirts carefully hoisted out of the dust, Lancey was delighted by the twinkle of a new shoe buckle at every step.
The uproar that halted her seemed to bounce from the surface of the water. Listening, she tried to locate its source. She was alone on the river path. Hester had stayed behind, with her daughters, to reap compliments to her needlework; Hendrick hadn’t gone to the services.
Then, the men swept from behind Jaycock’s Ordinary in a hurrying, stumbling, noisy crowd.
They were yelling in high pitched excitement, a continuous, unintelligible sound that rose and fell, punctuated by the sharper notes of barking dogs. For a moment, as the men milled in their own dust, the animal yelps led Lancey to believe that the occasion was a dog fight. The throng jostled and pushed, constantly changed positions, in the manner of spectators following such a moving battle. A couple of riverfront mongrels were cavorting on the outskirts of the mob, but she saw at once that their shrill frenzy was inspired by their masters.
Lancey hesitated, torn between curiosity and caution. She wanted to see what was happening, but feared to risk her precious gown in such a press. Hitching her skirts higher she began to run, toward the shouters but veering up the slope of the bluff to a spot where she could look down over their heads.
As she drew near she could recognize individuals. There was Digmus Jaycock jumping up and down as he sought to peer past taller shoulders. Seth Row, scarlet cheeked and bawling, was waving his hat. She knew some of the others, sailors from the sloops, two ferrymen, a stableman.
It was a good-sized gathering for a Sabbath morning. Thirst had probably assembled them all in Jaycock’s common room.
Suddenly, the crowd burst apart like an exploded firework torpedo. The rank nearest her thinned, opened, as men scurried sideways. Through the gap a stocky figure tottered backwards, arms flailing the air. The man’s heels drummed the earth in a weird jig that fought to keep him upright.
A deeper roar shook from the watchers’ throats as he sat down with a bone shaking jar!
Lancey had only a glimpse before the shifting throng hid him again. Yelling men sprinted to close the circle, to form a fresh arena with themselves in the front row. Through the dust and the hurrying legs, the girl saw the blurred figure scramble to its feet.
She sprinted herself, bounding up the bank. The glimpse had been enough. With the realization that men fought, had come recognition of the staggered fighter.
It was Jan Elmendorf! His shirt was torn and his face bloody, but she couldn’t be mistaken.
Remembering Jan’s surly belligerence in the past, Lancey thought she knew his opponent. He had bullied and chivvied all her schoolboy playmates, scared away all other riverfront youths. A Dirck van Zandt, moneyed gentry, might awe Jan into sullen respect, but he would feel himself on equal footing with a fisherman’s helper like Justin Pattison.
“Poor Jan,” she muttered, as she ran. “He never saw Justin fight.” Her memory of the ex-soldier’s deadly competence was vividly fresh. He had handled Ten Bush with ease, and proved an agile match for Pardon Cash.
Reaching her chosen perch she turned, panting, to gaze down on the restless, bellowing mass of men. She was well above the crowd, able to see most of the circle it enclosed. Almost at once she spotted Pardon by his height. He stood on the far side of the ragged ring, holding someone’s coat and hat. The garments increased her certainty that Justin was involved.
The fighters were hidden behind the nearer spectators, and Lancey stamped a foot impatiently. As if summoned by the movement they instantly stepped into her view.
Justin Pattison, erect and poised, was retreating before Jan’s crouched advance. Amazingly, even as Jan shuffled forward, it was the taller man who seemed to be the stalker. His fists were raised, coiled to strike; he gave ground with a deliberate, slow ease that permitted no awkward unreadiness.
A hovering hawk, Lancey thought, or a human slingshot, loaded and aimed. The sun was directly overhead, and she shaded her eyes with a palm.
One sleeve hung flapping from Justin’s shoulder, and his shirt showed dark specks. She couldn’t tell at that distance if he was marked, but the white streak in his hair looked un-mussed. Certainly, he was less tattered and dusty than Jan. She could hear the crowd more clearly, now, distinguish voices through the wordless, pulsing shouts. The majority, of course, cried encouragement to the native, destruction to the outlander.
“Rush him, Jan!”
“Grapple the varmint, Jan!”
“Kill the beggar!”
“Jump him!”
“Jan, Jan, Jan!”
Any cries for Justin were smothered by the senseless, blood-thirsty chorus that supported his opponent. Lancey doubted that this bothered him, that he even heard. There was something calm and contained in the way he stood, moved, waited for the next encounter.
The shouting did not disturb her, either. Lancey knew her neighbors. They were expressing local loyalty, not hatred. Jan had been down, and risen; his fellow citizens were saluting his courage.
Behind Justin, the line of the circle swayed, surged back to give him more room. It was a signal for renewed violence.
Lowering his head Jan Elmendorf charged.
As he came in Justin hit him twice, left and right. They were short, vicious punches, thrown from the shoulders, hammered in the way a carpenter drove nails. Jan was rocked, but not stopped; his churning legs had already flung him forward in a dive. The blows twisted him so that he hit Justin with his side instead of his shoulder. They crashed down together.
Lancey sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. The crowd’s din forced her to cover her ears. Any semblance of circle or arena vanished in wild disorder as men struggled for a closer look. They hid the fighters from the girl. She could see only dust, bobbing hats, the heaving shoulders of a mob in the grip of an invisible whirlpool. In the center of this human vortex, to judge by the noise, was a raging battle.
Again the throng, giving the contestants room, changed shape, deflating itself from circle to ellipse. This opened at one end to disgorge a single, rolling figure.
Justin and Jan, locked together, heaved and wrestled, turning over and over on the ground as each fought to end on top. Their struggle was a blur of movement, kicking legs, punching arms, hands that slipped, pried, clawed for the hold that would punish.
From her ledge Lancey couldn’t separate the quick motions into individual acts, but she knew this savage form of fighting. It had no rules, no standards; even weapons were not barred if the fighters were equally armed. The towns in the valley had been settled for a hundred years, but on the riverfront men fought frontier style.
Down there in the dust the grapplers were gouging, biting, butting. Every grip was intended to break a bone; every kick was meant to cripple. To maim or scar was an accepted method of obtaining victory.
Lancey had watched such fights before. No child reared among the riverfolk failed to witness drunken brawls. She tried to recall whether she had cheered or gaped, could not honestly remember horror. This contest was different. She felt squeamish and revolted. Nausea flooded her mouth with salt saliva.
Maybe, she thought, it’s because I know them both. The picture of Justin minus an eye, or Jan with a twisted, useless arm, made her shudder. Yet she could not turn her gaze from the fight.
She blamed Jan for letting his jealousy flare into violence, but Justin too was far from guiltless. He, at least, had no cause
to fight over her, was intelligent enough to realize that Jan’s claim was worthless. She was Lancey Quist, belonged to no one, resented being made a reason for a quarrel!
The grappled figures stopped rolling, lay still. They seemed to quiver; there were no abrupt movements. Lancey wondered if they were exhausted. She was suddenly aware that a hush had come over the watching men. They were no longer shoving and jostling. The barking dogs made the only noise.
Slowly, very slowly, the joined wrestlers came to their knees, to their feet. Even at a distance Lancey could sense the tenseness of that struggle. A moment later she saw the reason.
Justin held Jan’s head locked in the crook of his left arm, was exerting all his strength to keep the other bent double. Jan, with a pulling grip on Justin’s hair, pawed with his free hand to break the hold. They swayed, stiffened.
Then, Justin let go of his left wrist, swung his right arm back. Three times, with the swift, chopping sweep of a farmer using a sickle, he smashed his fist into Jan’s face.
As the crowd’s bellow roared like thunder, Justin changed his tactics. With a movement too quick for Lancey to follow, he gripped, crouched, and flipped Jan over his shoulder. It was a tremendous heave, that flung the man through the air.
For an instant the stocky body seemed to hang by its heels. Then, Jan crashed down on his back with a force that shook the ground.
He was stunned. The fingers of one hand groped in the dust; his feet twitched. Justin took no chances. He was beside Jan in two leaps; his leg swung back.
Lancey shut her eyes. Justin was within his rights, but she couldn’t bear to see that final kick. She heard the shouting reach a new peak, fade from roar to a buzz of talk.
When she looked again, the fight was over. Justin, with Pardon Cash and the other fishermen around him, was walking away. Digmus Jaycock was in the group clustered around Jan. The rest of the crowd had separated, were standing in knots, chattering, gesticulating. One man, laughing, threw an imaginary opponent over his shoulder. Another, downcast, bad his purse out and was evidently paying a wager.
They liked it, she thought scornfully, they’ll talk about this fight for days. The strength of her feeling surprised her. A year ago she would have enjoyed it herself. Now she almost felt hatred for the whole stupid male sex!
Shad Run Page 15
