“What about Anthony’s below?”
“If I have to pay horse-ferry prices, I’d rather pay them to you, Hendrick.” Dirck glanced at Lancey, nodded. “Besides, that’s a four mile ride.”
He sounded coolly practical, but Lancey wasn’t fooled. This was Dirck’s method of adding to the Quist income. He had put it on a footing that removed all taint of charity, but she knew he’d normally take the regular ferries. It was a nice gesture; any of the fishermen would jump at a chance to earn hard coin.
“Why not, Pa? He has to cross somewhere.”
Hendrick’s gaze shifted from Dirck to his daughter. He rubbed his chin, thinking.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Justin said, suddenly, “if you have an extra pair of oars.” He saw no reason why Hendrick should refuse. Young van Zandt might be showing off before Lancey, but cash was cash. With himself, a stranger, in the boat it became straight business.
“An excellent idea,” said Dirck, instantly recognizing the other’s motive. The fellow wasn’t stupid, and had his uses. Hendrick mustn’t get the idea that he was being helped, or patronized.
“All right,” Hendrick said. “Fetch the oars, Lancey.”
With a nod, Lancey skipped away. Dirck turned to the mare. He undid the girth, removed saddle and blanket. He led the horse down to the water’s edge, and waited.
The boat was tied to the pier. Hester came from the house with Lancey. She greeted Dirck with candid pleasure.
“Glad to see you, boy. Glad you’re in a hurry, too.”
“That makes it unanimous,” Dirck said, laughing. “I’d be stuck this side for at least an hour if I hadn’t thought of Hendrick.” He patted the mare, murmured to her, while the others prepared the boat.
Lancey arranged the positions. “You set the stroke, Pa,” she said. “I’m used to you. I’ll take the bow. That puts you in the middle, Justin, and our passenger in the stern.” She didn’t want Justin where a deliberate crab would drench Dirck.
“As you wish,” said Justin. His half-grin acknowledged the reason behind her instructions. A little water wouldn’t shrink that green coat, he thought, but it’s too crude a jest. He climbed into the boat, held it close to the pier for Dirck.
“Steady, girl. Steady.” Dirck handed Hendrick the saddle, walked, sideways, along the pier, guiding the horse into the shallow water. Meda stepped gingerly, snorted as she flicked a foreleg, but gave no trouble.
“Get in, Dirck,” said Hendrick. He held out a supporting hand. “Don’t step on the gunwale.”
“I’m not that much a lubber,” Dirck said. He was watching Justin Pattison from the corner of one eye. The fellow would like nothing better than to see him go in up to his knees. Dirck clucked to the mare, slid down into the boat with swift grace. “All set. You can shove off now.”
They pushed away from the pier, paddling cautiously while Meda followed. Hester, on the shore, raised her hand, but didn’t call for fear of distracting the horse.
“Come on, Meda.” Dirck’s voice was calm and coaxing. “This is nothing new. Come on. That’s my girl.” Without turning to them, he waved to the rowers. “Give way.”
Hendrick bent, pulled back. Justin joined him on the next stroke. Lancey, gazing past the backs in front of her, saw that the mare was breast deep. A moment later Meda tossed her head, began to swim. Then, Lancey, too, swung into the tempo of the stroke.
The six oarblades rose from the water as one, dripped as they swept back, dipped down together.
“Good Meda,” Dirck said. He grinned at the boat’s crew over his shoulder. “She’s all right now. She’ll stay with us all the way.”
They rowed on in silence, with a steady, even beat. The tholepins creaked in a single sound, as regularly as a clock’s ticking. Hendrick kept them carefully ahead of the horse, just enough to lead and help without pulling.
Lancey glanced past the others at the receding shoreline. They were, she noted, angling south to move with the ebb tide. The movement as Dirck removed his hat drew her attention. His smile vanished when Justin spoke.
“Now, I know you. The brevet cornet.”
Dirck flushed, glared. Lancey knew instantly that Justin had touched a raw spot.
“What’s that, Justin?” she asked.
“We used to call him the brevet cornet.” There was laughter in Justin’s voice. The effort of rowing didn’t quicken his breath or speech.
“But what’s it mean?”
“It’s army talk,” Dirck said, thickly. He cleared his throat, explained. “Brevet’s a nominal rank higher than one’s regular commission. Honorary, mostly. And without extra pay. Cornet—”
“Cornet,” said Justin, “is a cavalry flag carrier. The lowest form of horse riding officer.”
Nobody’s stroke wavered, but Lancey knew from the set of Hendrick’s head that he, too, was listening. She was puzzled by the angry flash of Dirck’s eyes, the suddenly tight mouth. Justin had said nothing insulting.
“Well,” she said, looking at Dirck, “if you were an officer—”
“I wasn’t!” He snapped the denial. “I was only a courier, and he knows it. Without any rank at all. They let me carry messages because I was handy and had a horse!”
“You messed with the officers.”
“By invitation.”
“That’s what I mean.”
Both voices were hard now. Justin’s was low, but tinged with contempt. Dirck spoke more loudly, with bitter indignation. Lancey, distressed and uneasy, shook her head at the man in the stern.
“Where was this?” she asked.
“Newburgh,” said Justin.
Dirck nodded, visibly trying to regain composure. He drew a breath, said, “I don’t remember you.”
“I didn’t you, till the hat came off. And, of course, you’re older.”
“What regiment were you—”
“Nicola’s!”
To Lancey’s amazement Justin’s interruption sounded defensive, brought a grin to Dirck’s face. She was completely beyond her depth, a little annoyed that the animosity between the two had nothing to do with her. I might just as well not be in the boat, she thought.
“Oh, lud,” said Dirck, laughing. He glanced at his mare, chirruped to her, swung back. “The invalids. No wonder you called me names. But they never gave me a chance to be wounded, Pattison.”
“It wasn’t that, blast you!” Justin was coldly angry, but his oar never hesitated. “I blame no man for not getting hurt. It was the way you strutted with the rest of the epaulet crowd.”
“While you were in the Kingmaker’s Own Rifles!”
“No choice of mine, van Zandt. Believe me. The men didn’t back Nicola. He got that plan from the officers, not us! Hamilton, most likely, and a few others.”
“Hamilton wasn’t even there.”
“So you say. I’ve heard differently. He was there in spirit anyway. The voice was the voice of Nicola, but the hands—”
Exasperated, not understanding the argument, Lancey gazed aft at Meda. The mare had swung a bit wide of the boat’s stern, but she was swimming strongly, head high. Dirck kept turning to check her position, but it was a mechanical movement. His interest was in the talk with Justin.
“That’s just campfire hogwash,” he said.
“How else did we learn about it?” Justin said. “Maybe you were told, but it leaked down through the ranks.”
“Whatever in the world are you talking about?” Lancey’s question was sharper than intended. She was pleased that they seemed to have forgotten their enmity, but curiosity made her irritable. “It sounds like a great riddle!”
“Aye,” said Hendrick.
Dirck’s laugh drowned Justin’s chuckle. Lancey could only see the former’s face, but she was sure that they exchanged a glance. Again she felt shut out, ignored. This meeting, she thought resentfully, certainly wasn’t going the way she had planned.
“Of course they wouldn’t know,” Justin said. “It was kept a deep, dark secret,
remember.”
“Some secret when we both—” Dirck noticed Lancey’s glare, broke his remark with a laugh. He leaned forward, reins bunched in one hand, the saddle at his feet. “All right, Lancey, we’ll explain.”
It was the first time since the inn that he had called her by name without any title. Lancey wondered if Justin noticed. Probably, like Dirck, he was too interested in the conversation to worry about niceties.
“This was after Yorktown,” Dirck said, “while the army was camped down around Newburgh. There was a colonel named Nicola. Lewis Nicola. A Frenchman.”
“Wait a minute,” said Justin. “Don’t give them the wrong idea. He’d come over here ten years before the war, and he’d done most of his soldiering in Ireland. He wasn’t one of the Johnnies who’d come running to take a fresh stab at the British. Nicola was in our army from the beginning.”
“True enough.” Dirck accepted the correction with a nod. “He wasn’t like Lafayette. He was a Continental colonel, and at Newburgh he was in command of an invalid regiment. Mostly men recovering from wounds or sickness, and some recruits in training.” He snickered, twinkling at Justin. “Later called the Kingmaker’s Own.”
“Tell it right or let me,” said Justin, growling. “They never called us that to our faces!”
“Well,” Dirck said, “it was pretty dull in that camp. The fighting was over, but the war wasn’t. Congress was far from prompt with the soldiers’ pay, but didn’t want them going home. Colonel Nicola got a bee in his bonnet.”
Justin said: “Or had it put there; van Zandt. If you ask me, old Nicola was just spokesman for the crew. I’d wager that half the Society of Cincinnati was in on it.”
“Mayhap.” Dirck nodded as he glanced back at the mare. “He was important in the Society’s Pennsylvania branch after the peace. But, anyway, spokesman or not he wrote the letter and he signed it. You know, Pattison, I think I delivered that letter.”
“You?”
“Well, I’m not sure. But all I did in those days was deliver letters. And there was one from Nicola to Washington that the general opened in my presence.” Dirck shook his head, remembering. “Lud, he looked at me as if I was a night crawler. You know how he was when he lost his temper. But he didn’t swear or anything, just waved me out. I was glad to go.”
“What was in the letter?” asked Lancey.
“Aye,” Hendrick said.
“Nothing much,” Justin said. “It just proposed that General Washington set himself up as king, that’s all.”
Lancey gaped, open mouthed. She heard her father’s grunt.
“That’s right,” said Dirck. “It wasn’t such a hare-brained scheme at that. The general had the army, and the army had the guns.”
Justin nodded as he pulled on his oar. He said: “That was the devilish part of it. We’d followed him so long we might have supported him out of habit. Congress had been no friend to the common soldier. Slack with pay and provision. I don’t say everybody felt that way—I didn’t for one—but I’m glad it wasn’t put to the test.”
“General Washington refused,” Lancey said.
“Yes,” said Dirck, “and in no uncertain terms. They say the letter he sent Colonel Nicola almost scorched the paper. After that, the general called a meeting of all his officers, and told them to hush up about the military taking charge of the government.”
“That I know about,” Justin said. “Friend of mine was sentry outside the meeting. Of course they closed the doors, but he listened. The general made it plain what his feelings were. He held his command by grant of Congress, and so did they.”
“Pattison,” asked Dirck, “is it true he said something about going blind in his country’s service?”
“Yes. He took out his spectacles before he read what he’d written, and mentioned he’d grown gray and blind.” Justin chuckled. “Though he could still spot a dirty musket at fifty yards!”
“A great man,” Hendrick said.
Lancey, rowing automatically, said, “To reject the offer of a crown!” She was thinking of the temptation, the power, the general’s reputation. He could have been king, she decided, recalling a small girl who felt safer whenever she heard that Washington was encamped on the river.
“Too bad,” said Justin, with sudden bitterness, “that he changed his mind!”
“Changed his mind?”
“The general?”.
“General Washington?”
“Are you blind?” Justin asked. “Who presided in Philadelphia when they made up this Constitution? Who’ll be president if it’s passed?”
“That’s not the same as king, Pattison!”
“A different name. Maybe he won’t be able to hand it down in the family like in Europe, but he’ll be president for the rest of his life!”
“I’ve read the document,” Dirck said, “and—”
“So have I.” Justin sounded insulted. “It says four years the term, but nothing about how many terms!”
The Quists, father and daughter, listened in silence. Lancey was impressed that both these young men had read the text of the proposed Constitution. Her own knowledge was based on newspaper comment, and hearsay.
“It’s still no monarchy,” Dirck insisted. “There’s to be a parliament, a Congress, a Senate and a lower house.”
“There was a Senate in Rome,” Justin said, “when the Caesars strutted as emperors. And I seem to recall a war against unjust acts passed by another parliament.”
“Because we weren’t represented there!”
“Look, van Zandt. Tell me one place where this Constitution says the government can’t pass any law it wants. Any law at all. Good or bad. Represented, my elbow! Some places won’t even hear about a law for weeks. Suppose they don’t like it when they do hear?”
“They can protest and—”
“And your president—the general—stops that just the way the king tried to, with powder, ball, musket and bayonet!”
“You can’t have a country without law, Pattison!”
“There speaks the budding lawyer. How about some laws that say what the government can’t do! Like throw a man in gaol for debt. Or tax him right off his land. Or shoot the beggar down because he tells his neighbors they’re being cheated!”
“Nobody says this document is perfect,” Dirck said. “It merely provides a workable plan of government better than the present Confederation. If you’d read some of the essays Master Kent’s shown me, instead of only what George Clinton writes—”
Justin interrupted with a snort that was a wordless expletive. “I’ve read the thing itself! I don’t need Clinton or Alexander Hamilton to tell me what it means!”
“Ship your oars, Lancey,” called Hendrick.
Lancey, startled, obeyed the command jerkily. She’d been listening avidly, rowing with an ease of habit that required no thought. Now she saw that they were close to the shingle under the river’s western cliff.
The mare, swimming more strongly as the shoreline neared, drew alongside the boat.
“Steady, girl,” cried Dirck, half rising. “Almost there.” He stretched his arm full length to give the horse slack reins.
Hendrick and Justin slowed their stroke, but Meda was standing in the shallows before the boat’s keel grated on the bottom. The mare, puffing but unwinded, stalked ashore without even glancing at the human beings. Dirck, laughing, dropped the reins and let them trail through the water after her.
“Meda’s a true female,” he said. “She’s in a pique.”
“You would be, too,” said Lancey, “if somebody made you swim across.” She stepped onto the beach, held the bow steady. “Won’t she run?”
“Not Meda.” Dirck, carrying the saddle, edged past Hendrick, stepped warily over the thwart where Justin gave him room. He didn’t trust the argumentative stranger not to upset him deliberately. If he does, Dirck thought, I’ll heave the saddle at him.
Justin, grinning up at Dirck, wasn’t even tempted. A bargain was a barg
ain, and the passenger was paying to be ferried across. If it had been his own boat, not Hendrick’s, things might have been different.
“Thanks, Hendrick,” said Dirck. He jumped ashore, set down the saddle, ran to dry Meda with the blanket.
The others watched in silence while he patted the mare, talked to her. Lancey, amused, was reminded of their first meeting. She’d grown fond of the mare since then, but Dirck van Zandt was like a small boy with a pet. The horse was his first concern; it never occurred to him that he was keeping them waiting. Turning, she read the same thought in Justin’s scowl.
Dirck came back, counted coins into Lancey’s palm. She stared at the money, shook her head.
“Three shillings!” She glanced at Hendrick.
“Too much, Dirck,” he called.
“Nonsense. Three rowers at a shilling apiece.” Dirck was brusque and definite. “Fair rate.”
“Thank you—cornet,” said Lancey, unable to resist teasing. She gurgled happily at Dirck’s glare.
“Brevet only,” Justin said, and chuckled.
“When the Constitution is passed,” Dirck said, solemnly, “you will both be hung by the thumbs.” He picked up the saddle, and walked toward Meda.
The boat was well off shore when Dirck rode away. Lancey watched him disappear with mixed feelings. He and Justin had met, and argued, and the honors were about even.
Too even, Lancey decided, with a muffled sigh.
CHAPTER 11
THE NEW DRESS WAS WHOLLY HESTER QUIST’S IDEA. SHE produced the material, re-cut and altered it. She even persuaded a dazzled Lancey to stand still for fittings.
From the first moment that Hester poured the heavy folds of the skirt across the table Lancey had been entranced by texture and color. The russet velvet was old, reeked of camphor, showed the wear of rubbed-off nap and tattered hem, but it wasn’t faded. By firelight it had the sheen of bronze; in sunshine it looked of an even deeper richness. The girl was too stunned by its beauty to cry out as Hester’s two little daughters did.
“Look, Hannah! Look!”
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