Nell’s complaint wasn’t finished. She said, “I begged Digmus to hire more help, but he’s too pinch-purse.”
“This won’t last, Nell. They just like to celebrate the beginning.
“Nell!” Digmus Jaycock burst through the smoke curtain that filled the kitchen doorway. The little innkeeper held a cluster of pitchers in each hand, shouted as he bustled past Lancey. “Ain’t them shad ready? Master Venick wants his meal!”
“I can’t hurry the fire,” said Nell, whining, “even if he is new custom.”
“A stranger?” Lancey was mildly curious. Jaycock’s, below the bluff, drew most of its trade from the waterfront. No sloop had made port; a west banker who crossed on the barge ferry might be buying shad for an inland village.
“Rode in this morning,” Nell said, “from upriver.”
“Peddler?”
“Not him. Says he’s aiming to buy land.”
Lancey felt a peculiar sensation on the back of her neck, and turned. Digmus Jaycock, holding a pitcher under a keg tap, was staring at her over the top rims of his square spectacles.
“You still here, Lancey?” The innkeeper’s smile looked as oily as his sweat-streaked face. A forefinger pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“You told me to wait.”
“That’s right, I did.” Jaycock turned the bung’s wooden valve, watched beer gush into the pitcher. “Had a notion. Might help Hendrick sell some fish if the price is right.”
Frowning, Lancey nodded. Digmus would be sure to reap most of the profit from any transaction, but a sale was a sale. She said, “How many fish, and what’s the right price?”
“Two, three dozen. Maybe more. A copper the shad less than today’s cost me.”
“Not for roe,” Lancey said. “The full shilling for roe.”
“You got roe?”
“Not many. But we will have. It’s early to start cutting the price, Digmus.”
“I got to ship them, don’t I, Lancey?” The innkeeper drummed his knuckles on the beer cask. “And I’m the one’s got the barrels to keep them alive in. This feller lives way out in Pleasant Valley. Sawmill man with a passel of hired hands. He might want a weekly shipment as long as they last.”
Whatever Digmus was charging the sawyer, Lancey decided, it wasn’t a bad offer. She knew from experience that prices would plummet as the shad increased. The prospect of a future, steady sale was tempting.
“Seth or Pardon would snap at it,” Jaycock said.
“Hard money, Digmus?”
“Well—if I can get it. State paper for sure.” The innkeeper turned off the tap, noticed Nell listening, and roared. “Nell! Them fish won’t be fit to eat!”
“I’m going,” Nell said, tipping the shad out onto a wooden plate. “I’m going.” With a spoon she raked two potatoes, jackets black as char, from the embers, juggled them into place beside the fish.
Jaycock’s bellow whipped her as she scurried from the kitchen. “And take note whose noggin’s dry!” He smiled an apology at Lancey, dropped his voice to its normal tone. “That wench is a slattern. The man paid coin in advance.”
“Nell does her best,” Lancey said, disapproving of the way he bullied the hired girl. Her curtness wasn’t noticed. She watched Digmus blow foam from the beer, drink deeply, set the pitcher aside, and start to fill another.
“Needed that,” Jaycock said, wiping his mouth. He belched, spoke hastily. “All right, Lancey. Buck like I said, roe like you did.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Lancey touched his fingers with her own. “Of course, I’ll have to ask Pa.” Jaycock’s nod was as meaningless as her remark. They both knew that Hendrick would agree.
“I’ll cart the kegs over in the morning,” Jaycock said. He grunted as another song rocked the common room.
This time the crowd was singing in full-throated chorus. Lancey, wincing at the loudness, was pleased by the selection. With more will than harmony the assemblage, beating time with feet and tankards, chanted a brave defiance that recalled the years of war.
Raise your bowls of rum and gin
In a toast of rousing din!
Confusion to kings,
Their paid underlings,
And plague take all of George’s kin!
Hey-oh, pass the flask ‘round.
Hey-oh, quaff the toast down.
The song was applauded by a concerted shout of laughter. Through the boisterous mirth Lancey heard Nell Bogardus squeal, a thin sound like the cry of a startled gull. A moment later the hired girl’s voice, giggle shaken but clear, was raised in protest.
“Now, you stop that, Justin Pattison!”
Justin, thought Lancey, is here. She found herself on the threshold of the doorway, staring into the common room. Frowning, she wondered if curiosity or jealousy had spurred the unconscious movement. In any case she was glad she’d changed to clean homespun, donned shoes and stockings, before coming to the inn.
Oven heat from packed bodies made Lancey gasp. Now she could see the whole chamber, and at first glance there seemed to be no unoccupied space. Men lined the walls, sat shoulder to shoulder, back to back. The bonnets of the few women were a sprinkle of dewdrops caught in a thick hedge.
Well as she knew the custom of celebrating the shad’s return, Lancey was surprised by the size of the crowd. There must be, she judged, at least five dozen people, good reason for Nell to be harried, and Digmus smiling.
Her gaze searched through the haze, seeking Justin. There were candles on every table, but the light was dim, dammed by the sitters into separate puddles. She recognized fishermen, carters, warehousemen, two shipwrights, a sail-maker. Except for the crews of the voyaging sloops, all the riverfront trades were represented.
In a corner Seth Row argued, earnestly and drunkenly, with his wife. Mistress Row was rigid with disapproval. At Seth’s elbow Gerritt Kimmee sipped his mug and pretended not to listen. The talk, loud and incessant, was so general that Lancey found it unintelligible.
“Lancey! Over here!”
Pardon Cash’s shout overpowered other noises. Lancey turned, saw Nell moving away from a table that blocked the cavern of the empty fireplace. Pardon, half rising to wave and beckon, loomed higher than the mantel. Justin, seated beside one of the post riders, glanced toward her. The other man at the table was a stranger.
“Sit down, Lancey,” called Pardon as she approached. “Where’re Hester and Hendrick?”
“Home,” she said, taking the stool Pardon vacated. These impromptu gatherings were too raucous for Hendrick, and Hester, of course, was bound by her husband’s absence. Smiling, she watched Justin shove closer to make room on his bench for Pardon. “Evening, Justin.”
“Hello, Lancey. Well met.”
She knew, instantly, that he had been drinking for some time. No thickness of speech betrayed him; his movements were steady, his muscles in control. Justin held his liquor well, but there were tiny indications—the dark eyes seemed all pupil; his grin was recklessly aslant.
“What’s your pleasure?” asked Pardon Cash. The big fisherman, too, sounded completely sober. “We’re all partial to rum punch, but if you’d like gin or—”
“No,” said Lancey, “rum punch is fine.” She spoke with polite indifference, still gazing at Justin. Strange, she thought, how the drink made him more human, less detached. She was aware that she wanted to reach out and brush back the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead.
“You know Albo, of course,” Justin said, nodding at the post rider. “This other gentleman is Master Venick.”
“Christian Venick.” The stranger lisped on the s.
“Sir,” said Lancey, trying not to stare.
“Mistress Lancey Quist,” Justin said.
“Mistress Quist.” Again the lisp hissed as Master Venick repeated the name. He was the only man at the table wearing a hat, and he raised two fingers to the prow of his tricorne.
The stranger’s teeth, Lancey not
ed, looked too big for his mouth, pushed his thin lips into a pout. Amber-tinted spectacles hid his eyes, but brows and hair were black. The latter, by its stiff neatness, was a wig. Lancey didn’t blame him for that. The poor man had need of any adornment he could use. His face showed the rough, yellow skin of lemon peel.
He was well, but not richly dressed. His broadcloth coat was bottle green, the waistcoat brown homespun. The ruffles of his linen were slightly soiled.
Pardon Cash drained his noggin, dashed the dregs into the fireplace. Reaching for a bottle, he yelled, “Nell!” Pouring, he winked at Lancey. “You’ll have this to sip before she even hears me.” His next yell flattened the candleflame. “Nell, fetch another mug!”
“Surely,” said Master Venick, turning his head to address Justin, “you know what this news means.”
“Too blasted well! That’s seven!”
“Lucky seven,” Pardon Cash said, as he mixed.
“Not yet,” said the stranger. “Not in this case.”
“It’s too close for joking,” Justin said.
“Justin, what is?”
“Seven from nine, Lancey, leaves only—” Justin saw she was mystified, interrupted himself with a short laugh. “You haven’t heard. Maryland has ratified the Constitution. She’s the seventh state.”
“You’re sure?”
“Albo, here, just brought the news.”
“It’s true,” said the post rider, glumly. Like most public employees he was a Clinton supporter. “The news arrived in New York by sail a couple of days ago. Maryland voted for adoption on April twenty-eighth.”
“Massachusetts was number six,” Master Venick said, “and consequently, Maryland—”
“I can count,” said Justin. “I left Massachusetts because she joined the others.”
Lancey could hear the harsh anger in his unraised voice, and once more it drew her, touched some kindred quality within herself. She wished to join forces with Justin, but the stranger’s presence made her tentative. A woman kept her place, was forthright only before her friends.
“Seven is still just a hair’s breadth more than half thirteen. She spoke slowly, glowed as the speech brought Justin’s glance. “New York has not decided, nor Virginia. Of course, the smaller, weaker states feel need of an alliance, but—”
“Nothing so small about Pennsylvania,” said Pardon Cash. He softened the interruption by placing the drink in front of her. “I’ve been there.”
“Or Massachusetts,” said Justin, broodingly. His gaze went through her into the past, seeing not the girl but the hills of his home state.
“We are still the keystone,” Lancey said. She was not travelled, but she knew her beliefs for truth. “By position, and wealth. Because of the river. Even the British realized that.”
“You forget one thing, Mistress,” Master Venick said. “When nine states vote this Constitution into being, it has been adopted. Done. Set up. In force.”
“For those nine only!”
“Aye, Justin,” said Pardon Cash, “but then it’s sail with the tide or be left behind.” He was arguing for pleasure; there was more heat in his irrelevant complaint. “Where the devil is that wench with my tankard?”
“It has not come to that yet,” Lancey said.
“George Clinton won’t let it happen.” Albo Bosse shook his head in much the manner of one of his post horses fighting the bit. “He’s got the votes pledged to whip it, too!”
The stranger smiled, bent forward. “You are both right. But votes can change. Clinton should never have tried to out-write Alexander Hamilton. That young man has the better wit, the sharper pen. He has drowned the governor and his faction in a flood of letters.”
“I’ve read some,” Justin said, “but not all.”
“There are more than fifty,” said Master Venick, “and I doubt not there’ll be more.”
Albo said, “What good’s a letter if a body can’t read?”
Master Venick ignored the remark. “Hamilton has another thing. Money. Gold to put those letters in people’s hands. Yes, and enough maybe to cross palms and turn heads.”
“True!” Justin drank, clapped his noggin on the table. “It’s the same trick his kind always use. Buy and bribe. With the purses at his disposal he’ll not have to spend a penny of his own.”
“There are—purses—on our side, too.”
Why did he whisper, Lancey asked herself, covertly watching the stranger. This Master Venick made her uneasy. It wasn’t his looks, but his manner. He crouched in his chair, glanced around as he spoke, knifing his meal to cool, but not eating.
“I ain’t got a side,” said Pardon, with a laugh, “nor much of a purse either.”
The post rider, feeling his liquor, hiccoughed. Albo’s voice was thick, stubbornly argumentative. “Ought to have a side. Old George is the man to follow. Clinton ain’t exactly a— a pauper.”
“This,” whispered Venick, “has naught to do with Clinton.”
“Who then?” asked Justin.
Lancey, listening, noted that the conversation was now between these two. She was puzzled by Justin’s quick acceptance of the stranger’s attitude. He wasn’t sneaky like Venick, but he had lowered his voice, and his attitude excluded Pardon, the post rider, and herself.
Christian Venick shrugged. “A few men who are against this document.”
“Men without names?”
Yes, Lancey decided, Justin has talked like this before. He was sparring with the stranger, seeking information, interested. He didn’t even notice when Pardon rose, went in search of Nell.
“Men with funds,” Venick said.
“To do what?”
“A good question,” Albo Bosse said, drunkenly.
Neither man bothered to glance at the post rider. There was, Lancey thought, an invisible chessboard on the littered table between them. Justin, motionless, waited for the next move, the stranger’s reply.
“To make the blind see, help the dumb to speak.” Venick had merely toyed with his food while he spoke. Now, he began to eat busily, plying both knife and fork.
“Preacher talk,” said Justin, scowling.
Venick chewed, swallowed, grunted. He said, “Yes, and out of place in such company.” He looked at Albo, bowed to Lancey, piled shad on his knifeblade.
“I must go anyway,” said Lancey, annoyed. She thought the man rude, ridiculously mysterious. To her surprise Justin made no attempt to continue the conversation.
“We’ll talk again,” he said, rising. “I’ll see you home, Lancey.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Oh, yes, it is.” His grin was sudden, infectious. “I have need of the air. This place reeks foul enough to breed fever.” He picked his hat from the floor, led the way to the door.
Lancey, following, remembered that she hadn’t even touched her drink. Glancing back she saw Albo Bosse reach for it. She didn’t care. Justin was willing to leave a drinking bout to be her escort.
The night was soft with spring, bright with stars. After the heat of the tavern, the mild breeze from the water felt refreshing, a light coolness that came at intervals. Beside the man and girl, as they walked, the river ran, wide and silent, bedecked in its finest night attire of silver-flecked black.
At first Lancey was content to stroll in silence. She tried, not hurrying, to match her step to Justin’s long stride. Her vision quickly adjusted to the darkness, but she gazed at the river, sure footed on the familiar path.
Justin, too, in spite of his drinking, moved with easy assurance. He didn’t weave or stumble, kept close to the girl without touching. The upper part of his face was shadowed by his hat-brim.
They were well away from Jaycock’s, out of earshot, and alone, before Justin spoke. His voice was subdued, suited to the deep quiet that surrounded them.
“Lancey,” he said, “will you tell me something?”
“If I can.”
“Don’t you ever think of the future?”
“The
future?” repeated Lancey, playing for time. She was a trifle disappointed by the question. If, as she suspected, Justin sought a learned, impersonal answer, she was not in the mood for such a discussion. She said, “Why, yes. Sometimes. No more or less than everyone.”
“I don’t mean marriage, home and babies, Lancey.”
“No, I know you don’t.” Her laugh was dryly amused. It was like Justin to dismiss as unimportant the speculation common to all young, unwed females. “I do think of other things, too.”
“Such as?”
“Well, by the signs the shad this year will run heavy, and that means we’ll fish on the dark flood, and—”
He stopped abruptly, glared down at her. When the girl chuckled his snort recognized that she was teasing. “A fair hit,” Justin said, “but too close for jesting. Not much else has been in anyone’s thoughts since the first silverback was taken.”
“ ‘Tis a seasonal sickness and will pass.”
“There’s a worse sickness, and it is spreading. The news about Maryland showed that. But nobody at the ordinary seemed to take it seriously.”
“With one exception. Your friend, Master Venick.”
“No friend of mine,” said Justin slowly, “for I never saw him before tonight. If that wasn’t the rum punch talking, he has a plan. We could use a plan, Lancey. Any plan.”
“You mean—about the Constitution?”
“What else?” Justin slapped fist into palm. “Everybody against it—from Clinton on down—is too cocksure, too certain of victory. It’s the Hamilton crowd that is working, talking, writing letters. You don’t beat a busy enemy by sitting still.”
“Justin,” said Lancey, putting her hand on his wrist, “why is it your concern?” Her fingertips felt his withdrawal, and she spoke quickly. “I’m not being a giddy schoolgirl. I know that the kind of government we get is important, but what difference will it make to you, personally?”
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