Shad Run

by Howard Breslin

  This was what she really wanted to know, and it gave her voice sincerity. How he answers, she thought, will give me the key to Justin.

  “For one thing,” he said, “I didn’t fight a war to swap King Log for King Stork.” He turned her toward the river, gestured at the dark rampart on the opposite bank. “There’s a lot of country over yonder, Lancey. A lot, all different. I wore out boots marching through some of it. Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia. Counting Massachusetts and York, here, I’ve been in skirmishes across five of the thirteen states.”

  Lancey glanced up at him, nodded. They were standing close; she could feel his tall strength against her. His arm was around her, but he was gazing over her head, into the distance.

  “And I’ve seen others,” he said. “Connecticut. New Hampshire. Maryland. That makes eight. Besides serving alongside men from most of the others. Well, anybody that says the folks from all those places can be ruled by a single set of rules is talking hogwash.”

  “They did fight together, Justin.”

  “Sure they did. To get rid of a ruler, and a set of rules that didn’t fit any of them! I’m not a blind fool, Lancey. I know there’s got to be some sort of Congress in charge of certain problems—like fighting another war, or treating with the Indians. There’s whole passels of border country claimed by two or three states at once, and you’ve got to have somebody can settle those arguments. But this Constitution they’re buying—a pig in a poke if ever there was one—will shackle us worse than the chains we broke!”

  Swayed by his conviction, Lancey said, “You figure they’ll act the way Parliament did, then. Tax tea, and such like.”

  “They’ll act any way they want once they’re in power. And the word to remember is ‘they!’ The men in favor of this agreement. Rich, mostly. Landowners, slaveholders, merchants. They’ve the money to elect their friends to office, and pay for troops to keep them there. They’ll vote for their own interests, and the devil take the rest of us!”

  His vehemence, soft voiced to fit the hush of place and hour, moved her. She had heard the arguments before, but Justin gave them fresh meaning. Her interest in the year’s great political question was variable; it was, after all, a strictly masculine subject that could be belabored to boredom. But Justin made it almost as exciting as fishing, a bugle call to battle.

  “How can we stop them?” she asked, and felt his arm tighten.

  “I don’t know, Lancey. But you were right back there in Jaycock’s. Our best chance is here in New York. They cannot leave this state like a wedge between New England and the rest. If New York defeats adoption, Virginia may do the same.”

  “But isn’t Virginia—?”

  “Washington’s state? Yes! That’s the trouble. He’s been their foremost soldier since the old French wars. They’re beholden to him, as we all are, and proud of him besides. The fact that he favors this new government will carry weight.”

  The general was one of Lancey’s heroes, but he was far away. She leaned against Justin’s arm, seeking the right words to keep him talking. Always practical, she said, “But if it’s this state will tip the scales, then how do we make sure the iron is in the right pan?”

  “There are ways,” Justin said, grimly. “I’m not sure who started the revolt against Britain. I was just an apprentice lad, following my elders. But I learned who held on, and won. The people, Lancey. The men in the field, and their womenfolk behind them. Plain, ordinary men, mostly. Ploughboys, settlers, carpenters, smiths. I’m not taking anything from the gentry that fought with us. They were brave enough. But they weren’t the pudding, just the raisins in it.”

  “You spoke of ways, Justin.”

  “There is one way to get a hearing, and that’s to stand up and holler.”

  “Oh, there’ll be plenty of that done.”

  “Speechmaking, you mean. The delegates up to the courthouse ranting at each other. That’s not the kind of hollering I’m talking about. My kind won’t even have a voice in that debate.”

  “Governor Clinton will be there.”

  “Clinton!” Justin uttered the name like an oath. “All along this river you think he’s the big pumpkin. He’s on the right side this time, but he’s no friend to the people. He proved that when—”

  He checked in mid-sentence; the girl heard his teeth click together. She turned in surprise, let it show in her tone.

  “When, Justin?”

  “No matter. We’d better move along.”

  Lancey yielded to the pressure of his arm, was glad that he didn’t remove it. She walked inside that protective arc, and found it pleasant. It was, she decided, companionable, comradely. Justin was all male, but a girl didn’t have to guard herself every moment. He had other things on his mind besides wenching.

  The niceness of the night made her wonder about that. He evidently liked her, talked to her like an equal.

  “Well,” she said, “we can’t settle it tonight anyway.”

  “No, we can’t,” said Justin, laughing. He slid his hand up her side, drew her closer. “We can’t decide anything, but thanks for letting me rave, Lancey. It does a man good to air his brains now and then.”

  “Does—a woman good, too,” she said, pretending not to notice that his fingers were now lightly curled under the curve of her breast. “Most men don’t think we have any.”

  “Fiddlesticks!”

  “About politics, I mean.”

  “Don’t fish for compliments, Lancey.” Justin bent to look at her face, grinned. “You know blame well you’ve more than most girls—more of everything. You’re a walking grenade, and a threat to man’s peace.”

  “A grenade?”

  “That’s right. Dangerous for lads that don’t know how to handle gunpowder, but part of a soldier’s training.” He was walking more slowly; the bantering voice was gay. “As a matter of fact, Lancey—”

  Something stirred the darkness on the path ahead of them. Justin stiffened, raised his head. Lancey, annoyed by the interruption, glared at the movement.

  A shadow detached itself from others, turned to bulk. They felt the ground quiver under the slow tread of hoofs, heard the jingle of a bridle. Then, it wasn’t a shadow but a walking horse. Some trick of starlight magnified its size. The rider in the saddle looked a giant.

  “Him again,” said Justin.

  “Who?” Lancey, whispering, was puzzled.

  “Who’s there?” called the rider.

  Lancey gave a murmur of exasperated recognition. Dirck van Zandt, she thought, certainly managed to appear at the wrong time! The horse, moving closer, seemed to shrink to its proper proportions, and she knew he rode Meda.

  “Is that you, Lancey?”

  “Yes, Dirck.” She made no move to withdraw from Justin’s encircling arm. She could tell, without looking, that the tall man beside her was amused, at ease. He waited until the mare shuffled to a halt, and his greeting was coolly casual.

  “Evening, van Zandt.”

  “Oh,” Dirck said, “hello, Pattison.” He raised a hand to his hatbrim, then sat, gazing down from the saddle. There was no stiffness in his manner, but only the mare, craning her neck, moved.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Lancey. She heard herself carefully echoing the casual politeness of the men. Biting her tongue, she resisted an impulse to giggle. They were all acting as if this meeting on the river path were a nightly custom.

  “Waiting for you,” Dirck said. “Hendrick told me of your errand at the ordinary. Hester wished me to stay till you returned, but I couldn’t.” He paused, leaving unexpressed his desire to see her alone. “I’ve been making my farewells.”

  “Going away?” asked Justin.

  “Yes. To New York.” Dirck was fully aware of the linked figure the pair made. He kept his voice steady. “Chancellor Livingston wants to examine me on my fitness for the law. Master Kent thinks me ready, and my father wrote the chancellor.”

  “Naturally,” murmured Justin.

  Lancey heard
the soft criticism. A van Zandt and a Livingston would exchange favors to advance one of themselves. She was, she told herself, pleased by Dirck’s impending departure. It confirmed her choice; their paths had crossed by accident, were designed for separate routes.

  “I’m sure you’ll do very well,” she said. “You are riding down?”

  “Yes. I’ll be away for at least a fortnight. I need Meda with me.

  “Safer than sailing, too.” Justin said.

  The remark was flat, almost toneless, but it chilled Lancey. For one dangerous second she was frightened. Dirck had the wit to know an insult, retort in kind. Justin’s speech, with its reference to the capsized skiff, betrayed a hidden anger. She did not want a quarrel between these two.

  “Well,” she said, before Dirck could speak, “I’m sure Meda will be more trustworthy in a squall than I was.” Fairness forced her to take her share of the blame. “Her prattling will not distract you, Dirck.”

  “Nor her eyes,” Justin said.

  “Why,” said Dirck, almost purring, “you don’t do Meda justice, Pattison.” He patted the mare’s neck. “She’s too much of a lady to say so, but she’s hurt.”

  The genial foolery warned Lancey. Unless she did something the situation might flare into violence. Dirck’s raillery was mocking Justin’s bluntness, daring him to continue. In another minute, she thought with despair, they’ll be bridling like schoolboys.

  She took a step away from Justin, raised her hand to the rider. Dirck, surprised, closed his gloved fingers around her own. Her voice was clear, pleasant, without pleading.

  “I wish you a good journey, Dirck.”

  “Thank you, Lancey.”

  “We’ve delayed you overlong, I fear. And Justin and I are late, too.” Lancey drew her hand away, knew by the way Dirck released it that he understood.

  “Of course.”

  Justin raised his hat, bowed. “I’ve no great liking,” he said, “for laws or lawmen, but may you go far in your chosen trade, van Zandt.”

  “Thanks,” said Dirck, showing his teeth. “The same to you, Pattison.” He bowed in turn, flourishing his tricorne. “My compliments, Lancey. Farewell until our next meeting.” A twitch on the reins set the mare in motion. “May Poseidon keep your net free of any strange, poisonous fish!”

  “Goodbye,” called Lancey.

  Meda danced sideways, but Dirck checked her. They moved away at a slow, sedate walk. The mare picked her way along the rough path; the rider did not look back.

  Watching them, Lancey knew her relief by the trembling of her legs. She hadn’t realized she was so tense. Thank God, she thought, that Dirck had read the signal in her gesture, had accepted dismissal. Then, she frowned, puzzled by his last remark. Dirck had an annoying habit of larding his speech with bookish expressions.

  “Who was that he mentioned, Justin?”

  “Poseidon. Neptune. God of the sea.” He barked a short laugh. “Hell, I’ve been called lots worse than a poisonous fish!” He turned toward the girl. “You sorry to see him go, Lancey?”

  “Dirck? Why, no. He’s just a friend, Justin.”

  “Your friend riles me. Especially on a horse. Horsemen always make my hackles rise, Lancey. Guess I was a foot soldier too long.”

  They went on toward the fishing village. Lancey had the feeling that something momentous had been settled. When Justin began to whistle, she joined in happily. Their trilled duet of Yankee Doodle seemed to salute their new closeness.

  CHAPTER 16

  “SIXTY-EIGHT ROE,” HESTER SAID, “AND FORTY-THREE BUCK.”

  Lancey, helping her father unfold the net for washing, turned to stare at the fish piled on the pier. The shad, scintillating in the sunshine of the May morning, glittered with the brilliance of many colors, silver, purple, lavender, metallic green, the red of rust.

  “Good,” said Hendrick with satisfaction. “The roe no longer hold back.” He had most of the net gathered between his hands, and he motioned Lancey away with a toss of his head.

  Stepping back, shaking the web loose as its length increased, the girl couldn’t share her father’s feeling. After three weeks, with every netting heavier, the run was approaching its peak, but the price dropped with each passing day. A fine, curved roe, shading six pounds because of the bulge under the dorsal fin, now brought less than the early bucks.

  The townfolk of Poughkeepsie, Lancey judged, were already revolting against a surfeit of shad. Customers were increasingly harder to find. She carried her basket farther afield each time she sought a market. The boats of casual fishermen appeared on the river less frequently, and even the fishers-by-trade, like Hendrick, didn’t bother to row out in the rain.

  As they dipped the net in the cleansing tub, hung it, and rinsed it with buckets of clear spring water, Lancey envied her father’s placid contentment. For Hendrick a good catch was its own proof of success. What they didn’t sell, and couldn’t eat, would fertilize his little vegetable garden. If he paid his debts and had money left over, well and good, but all that was less important than a fine haul of shad.

  Other years, she recalled, she had felt the same way, paying no more attention to mounting profits than to the ever stronger odor of rotten fish. During the tag end of the war, when she’d been first grown enough to help on a drift, the troop encampments downriver had supplied an unfailing market. In those days a fat roe had fetched a hatful of Continental paper, worthless except as pipe spills. No wonder Hendrick couldn’t take money seriously.

  The four springs of peace, too, had accustomed them to profitable seasons. With the river open the sloops returned bringing trade and goods. There had been lumber rafts floating down from the mountains, rebuilding everywhere. A new flood of settlers replaced the departed soldiers, and the dispossessed Tories; the militia hung muskets over mantels, and went back to work.

  Lancey sighed, remembering, with a faint regret for a smaller self who had bartered shad for a clutch of eggs, or a crock of butter. Clinton’s government had improved New York currency, but the valley farms, so recently stripped to supply an army, once more reckoned wealth in terms of produce. Other places, she had heard and read, suffered during that time, but along the Hudson, barring the normal wants of winter, few went hungry.

  Even, she thought, when a boatload of shad brought no more than a stalk of rhubarb. Why, then, was she worrying about this year? The rule was as fixed as the moon’s cycle—the more shad, the less coin. Who could change that?

  “Justin,” said Hester.

  Startled, the girl swung around with a swirl of skirt. Hester, bare feet hooked together above the water, sat on the edge of the pier, bleeding roe for dinner. Lancey realized that her stepmother was continuing a conversation, not answering an unspoken question.

  “Who told you?” asked Hendrick.

  “Pardon.”

  “I wasn’t listening,” Lancey said, hoping they hadn’t noticed that the name had caught her attention. “What about Justin?”

  “Caught himself a mighty sturgeon.”

  “How mighty, Hester?”

  Hester, fish in one hand, knife gleaming in the other, flung her arms wide in the immemorial gesture of fishermen. She said, “Pardon hefted it as bettering four hundred pounds.”

  Hendrick’s sputter of exhaled breath expressed disbelief.

  “Pardon,” said Lancey, grinning, “strains the truth, too.”

  “It’s big enough,” Hester said. “I saw it.”

  “Sturgeon that size,” said Hendrick, shaking his head, “would raise Ned in the net.”

  “They didn’t net him. Justin gaffed him.”

  “Gaffed him?” Lancey stared at her stepmother.

  “Speared him, I ought to say. Justin made himself a three pronged spear. Sort of like a stunted pitchfork, but light, you know, and different looking. Pardon says he stuck the critter neat as any Indian.”

  “Where was this?”

  “West bank, Hendrick. North of the ferry landing, I gather. In the shallo
ws along there. They saw this big fellow sporting around—you know the way them sturgeon leap—”

  “I know,” said Hendrick, growling.

  “Pardon says this one Hang hisself out of the water high as a sloop mast.”

  “Pardon says!”

  “Don’t be jealous, Pa.” Lancey, hugging herself, was delighted by Justin’s achievement, and her father’s reaction.

  “That’s right, Hendrick. I’m only telling you what happened. The sturgeon was making such a racket they spotted him a way off. So they rowed over that way, and lit a torch, and Justin speared him by torchlight.”

  “Another lie,” said Hendrick, stubbornly. “Ask Lancey. There was no torch on the river last night.”

  “They fished by early tide. You and Lancey didn’t go out till after midnight.” Hester laughed at her husband’s face.

  “Hendrick, I saw the sturgeon. You can’t know everything that happens on the river!”

  “That’s right, Pa.”

  “All right.” Hendrick, nodding, replaced scowl with smile. “I believe. Justin did good. I wonder where he learned that trick.”

  Lancey wondered, too. She’d spent a lot of time with Justin in the past ten days, but he hadn’t mentioned making any fish spear. Mostly they’d talked of simple things; how flowering dogwood differed from mountain laurel; why scarlet tanagers vanished after a brief appearance. Lazy talk, as careless as the fleecy clouds drifting across the May blue sky above them, and yet not aimless.

  They were, she thought, both trying to learn more about the other. They swapped riverfront childhoods, boy and girl, Connecticut and Hudson, with the shrewd trading of cautious urchins. She knew Justin, an orphan apprentice with a hard master, had found beauty only outside that household of harsh prayers, coarse food, and heavy rod. Sometimes he spoke musingly of Massachusetts, of trout in streams as transparent as glass, of wooded hills aflame with autumn fire, of a mountain called Monadnock.

  Having no experience with exiles Lancey did not recognize one when he spoke. She listened, moved because the man was moved, sympathetic to the tone as much as the meaning.