Shad Run

by Howard Breslin

  “He escaped, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s safe in the Vermont Republic now.” Justin shrugged, stared moodily at the ground. “But that isn’t the worst of it, Lancey. In Massachusetts they used what we’d done as an argument in favor of this Constitution. So such an outrage could never happen again, they said. And folks listened, and voted to ratify.”

  Lancey saw the pain in the dark eyes. Why, she thought, he’s as hurt as a small boy. Justin, the cool fighter, the wrathful veteran, the unbowed rebel! His weakness surprised and touched her in a way that his bitterness had never done. Tears blurred her vision, and pity softened her voice.

  “That isn’t your fault, Justin.”

  “It’s always a fault to lose.”

  “No,” she said, “you’ve lost other times. In the war. But you fought again, and again, until we won.”

  “We won a war, Lancey, and every day it becomes less a victory. First we fought for our rights as English citizens. Then, because we couldn’t get them otherwise, we fought to be free and independent states. And now we seem determined, state by state, to trade both freedom and independence for a government that grants only the rights it wishes!”

  “New York won’t.”

  “I wish I was sure of that!”

  That shook her because she had never heard him admit the possibility of defeat. For all his warnings, his disdain of George Clinton, his scorn for riverfront lethargy and the county’s respect for landlords, Justin had always argued with passionate conviction. The Constitution must not become the law of the land. It could be prevented if New York stood firm. Justin smiled at her concern, at the moisture brimming her eyes. It was a smile that combined affection and disillusion. He said, “I have staked everything, Lancey, on one last desperate gamble, but if it fails——”

  Now that, Lancey thought, is mere foolish talk. How could Justin, a fisherman spectator, stake everything on a gamble that could influence the outcome of the convention? No matter what was decided in the courthouse they would all go on living.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, honestly.

  “No, of course, you don’t.”

  “Do you mean that—?”

  “You must not ask my meaning, Lancey. You must trust me, as I have trusted you.”

  “Oh, I do, I do!”

  Her cry was completely sincere. Justin had done what she asked, revealed more of himself than she had expected. She knew his past, and the knowledge dissolved her suspicions. He had followed Daniel Shays; he would not let Christian Venick involve him in anything unworthy. Lancey admitted she disliked Venick without cause. Only a man could judge the worth of another man’s plan.

  “Young Eph,” he said. “It was fair fight, Lancey.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “You—you’re not upset?”

  She shook her head, tossing her hair. The stranger killed in the fight at Springfield meant no more than the redcoat soldiers that he had slain in war. If men fought with muskets some would be killed. Lancey had no scruples about that. She knew Justin; he was no more a murderer than he was a thief, though she had once caught him trying to steal a boat.

  “Anyway,” she said, with inspiration, “you didn’t do it. You said ‘amputated,’ and the surgeon’s to blame.”

  “Well, now,” said Justin, “I can’t rightly claim that. ‘Twas my shot made him need a surgeon, though some of them are too quick at lopping off limbs.”

  For some reason, Lancey thought, maybe because there was bad blood between himself and the dead man, Justin needed reassurance. She leaned forward and cupped her hands under his chin. Their faces were very close. His scarred eyebrow twitched as he raised it.

  “That’s over and forgotten, Justin.”

  “Not back in’ Massachusetts.”

  “You’re not there, you’re here. And I can prove it.”

  Lancey kissed him with deft thoroughness. It was a kiss intended to bring solace, and it succeeded only too well. Justin’s arms went around her shoulders, drew her close; his lips murmured against her mouth.

  “Lancey, Lancey.”

  “Dear Justin.”

  “Oh, I love you, Lancey.”

  She had thought there’d been enough of talk, but he had said the one extra thing she wanted to hear. He’d never said it before, and even now he spoke with strained gruffness. It was, she decided, a proof of his sincerity, far different from the glib phrases of Dirck van Zandt.

  “I love you, too,” whispered Lancey. She made the statement firmly, feeling it disloyal to think of one man while kissing another. She ran her fingers through Justin’s hair, held his head close as they kissed again.

  This was a long, lingering kiss that left them both stirred and breathless. Justin gazed down at the girl lying back in his arms. Her face was flushed, her smile tremulous. The hazel eyes had never seemed so vivid, wide with excitement, bright with anticipation. Lancey’s rapid breathing fluttered the bodice of her dress, and his hand went toward that movement almost involuntarily.

  She gasped at his caress, closed her eyes. His very deftness was at once stimulating and weakening. She drew herself toward him, blindly seeking another kiss.

  They lay side by side in the long grass, resting a moment, mutually accepting a respite from passion. Lancey opened her eyes. The sky overhead was very blue. Around her, close, was the perfume of spring, the sun warmed scents of earth, and grass, and clover. Justin’s arm pillowed her head; his muscular length pressed against her from ankle to shoulder.

  “Justin,” she said, softly, looking at him.

  He smiled, reached to complete the disarray of her bodice. She’s lovely, he thought, and willing. The warm, soft roundness of her flesh was disturbingly smooth after the roughness of the homespun.

  Lancey trembled under his palm, reached to clutch his hand. She held it still, tight against her.

  “Justin, we—we mustn’t.”

  “No?”

  “No. Please. I—”

  “Lancey.”

  “Oh, God, Justin, don’t.”

  “We’ll be wed, Lancey.”

  “Wed?”

  “Yes, I—I’m asking you to marry me.”

  His face was very close. The so blue sky beyond it was very far away. Justin wished to marry her, had asked. He wasn’t like Dirck, but she couldn’t think clearly. Her senses seemed to be shouting to her to accept, and she couldn’t think for the tumult.

  “Don’t you trust me, Lancey?”

  That was it, Lancey thought. She had asked for his trust; she couldn’t in turn refuse her own.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Justin.”

  He leaned to kiss her. As they kissed Lancey let go of his hand, put her arms around him.

  It was her gesture of trust.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE MORE IMPORTANT DELEGATES TO THE CONVENTION, THE faction leaders, arrived in Poughkeepsie on the sixteenth of June, the eve of the meeting. They sailed upriver from New York aboard the sloop flotilla, and the townsfolk lined the roadway from the landing to watch them disembark.

  Lancey Quist, standing with her family, was impressed by the size of the crowd. Town and countryside had turned out in force. Shops were shuttered and farm chores skimped; only the inns were open for business. Even Hendrick and the other fishermen neglected their trade to welcome the distinguished visitors. The first sight of the sails flashing from the south brought chattering excitement from the packed ranks of onlookers.

  The girl barely gave the maneuvering sloops a glance. Her gaze scanned the throng in search of Justin Pattison.

  Her cheeks burned at the memory of their lovemaking in the clearing. She was, to her surprise and relief, still a maiden, but that was not due to her own scruples. She had permitted Justin liberties that no other man had been allowed. Lancey’s knees felt watery as she recalled the caresses, her mounting passion, her readiness to submit to the final, expected act.

  Once more, she thought, her body had betrayed her by its h
eated desires, but her decision had been deliberate, her surrender complete. She had been willing to let Justin win her; it was his choice alone that had saved her.

  Lancey remembered that without disappointment. Her enjoyment had been intense enough to dispel any momentary feeling of incompletion. Justin had been tender, thoughtful, skillful. How right she had been to trust him!

  His reasons had been valid and worthy. He’d mentioned her youth and innocence, the uncertainty of immediate marriage, his love, the wedded bliss in their future. Her respect and devotion, Lancey decided, had been increased by Justin’s behavior. She recognized, too, an unmentioned taboo. For safety and reputation a girl had better wait until her wedding night. Anything else was dangerous, might mark her as a sinful strumpet. There was, she knew, many a slip between the banns and the blanket.

  In all honesty, she thought, I don’t deserve Justin. Any other man would have taken advantage of her.

  Hester, holding a daughter by each hand, nudged Lancey. “There’s Dirck,” she said, nodding.

  A group of horsemen were walking their mounts toward the landing, leading saddled, riderless horses. Lancey saw Dirck in their midst, riding Meda, flanked by his father and brother. Tappen Platt rode beside Schuyler Davis. The riders were dressed in their best, as splendidly groomed as the shining horses.

  “The gentry,” said Lancey, using Justin’s scornful tone.

  Hendrick turned in surprise. He was enjoying the crowd, the air of excitement, the holiday occasion. The riders had brought a good natured murmur of admiration from nearby spectators, and Lancey’s remark jarred him. He said, “Dirck is our friend, too, Lancey.”

  “Too?”

  “Aye,” Hendrick said, slowly, “as well as Justin. There was no cause for Justin to resent what Dirck did for us about the shad. There is no reason for you to take sides.”

  “No reason, Pa?” Lancey stared at her father. Of all the people assembled here, she thought, I have the best reason for taking sides in any quarrel between those two men!

  “Lancey didn’t mean that, Hendrick.” Behind her husband’s shoulder Hester shook her head at the girl. “That group is gentry, and here to welcome Alexander Hamilton.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s no secret,” Hester said. “Everybody knows. Seth Row’s wife told me. The van Zandts, and the rest are against George Clinton, and for adoption.”

  “All the gentry are,” Lancey said, “except the Livingstons.”

  Hendrick scowled, shrugged. “It is right that Dirck stands with his family. We are still beholden to him.”

  “Of course,” said Hester, forestalling her stepdaughter’s speech. Again, she gave Lancey an almost imperceptible headshake. “We like them both, don’t we, Lancey?”

  Swallowing her retort, Lancey nodded. Hester’s twinkle mocked male blindness, and female weakness. The girl colored, glanced away, wondering how much her stepmother guessed. She had, Lancey thought, liked them both indeed, but her choice was Justin.

  They had reached their understanding in the clearing, but she didn’t dare risk a repetition of the circumstances. Their meetings, since then, had been within sight, if not earshot, of others. They had spoken of love, and held hands, but there had been no opportunity for ardent courting. Justin seemed busier than ever with Venick, but she no longer questioned that.

  Lancey’s searching gaze was without anxiety. She merely wished to look at Justin. If, as she suspected, his secret business concerned the convention she might see him even less once it opened.

  He wasn’t present, she decided, at least in the part of the gathering she could see. Other familiar faces drew her attention: the Rows, Digmus Jaycock, Nell Bogardus. She saw Pardon Cash, hatless, towering above a distant group, and stared for a full minute at the men surrounding the big fisherman. There was no one who resembled Justin.

  A roar rose from the landing, a shouted name that was tossed along the long lines hedging the roadway. Men were disembarking from a sloop. Lancey recognized one stalwart figure before his name reached her.

  “Clinton,” said Hendrick.

  “Clinton,” Hester said.

  Around her, Lancey heard the name mentioned, repeated, bellowed, cheered. It climbed the slope of the bluff with the gunfire crackle of branches breaking before a high wind.

  “It’s Clinton.”

  “There’s Clinton.”

  “Clinton.”

  Poughkeepsie, in spite of its east-bank position, claimed the governor as its own. Many who cheered had crossed the river from Clinton’s native Ulster County, but even these did not outshout the townsfolk. They all knew him, had seen him as recently as six months ago. He was valley born, river bred, one of themselves.

  Lancey yelled with the rest, her voice lost in the general acclaim. She felt no disloyalty to Justin, thought he would understand. This was, after all, the man who had led the state for as long as she could remember—the first, the only, non-royal governor.

  Whatever his faults, she decided, he deserved the praise and the applause. His had been one of the early voices raised against the Tory landlords, among the first to cry for independence. If in the long struggle to keep the British from control of the Hudson, George Clinton had been a more willing than able general, he had proved his courage and his energy. The redcoats had driven him, and beaten him, but they had never crushed him. With Washington’s help, he had managed, except for the raid that razed Kingston, to hold on to the upper river.

  George Clinton, grinning, raised his hat to the cheers, and the sunshine turned his hair to the silver of birchbark. He was a big man, six foot four, heavy in shoulders and chest, with a paunch of middle age bulging his waistcoat. There was more of the farmer than lawyer about him, a broad-faced genial farmer, with a large nose, and very shrewd eyes.

  He waved and climbed into a carriage, and the crowd cheered the group with him. These were Poughkeepsie men, Clinton men—Melancthon Smith, Zephaniah Platt, Gilbert Livingston. The elegant young fellow with the quiet smile was the governor’s nephew, DeWitt, General James Clinton’s boy.

  By craning her neck Lancey could see Dirck van Zandt. He was waving his arm and shouting. So were Tappen and Schuyler. Beekman van Zandt and some of the other older men sat their horses silently, but even they were smiling.

  The gentry, she thought, didn’t mind cheering a man allied to the Livingstons. Then she admitted that the sneer did not apply to Dirck. He’d cheer a man he meant to fight as readily as he’d laugh at a girl he wished to kiss.

  “Eunice Wynbridge for instance,” muttered Lancey.

  “What?” Hannah grabbed at her stepsister’s hand. “What, Lancey?”

  “Nothing, dear.”

  As the governor’s carriage ascended the slope, headed for the Clear Everett house, the cheers died down behind it like the settling dust. The first part of the show was over, but there was more to come. The folks who had shouted for George Clinton wanted to be sure that his political rival had heard.

  Dirck van Zandt wheeled his coaly bay mare across the roadway; the other horsemen followed. They blocked the view of the landing, but Lancey could see that Captain Benjamin’s Lydia was alongside her mooring. Down there, at the foot of the hill, people were jostling each other, pointing.

  “Told you,” Hester said, “they’d come to meet Hamilton.”

  “What’s he look like?” asked Hendrick.

  “They say he’s on the small side.”

  “And young,” Lancey said. “Thirty. Thirty-one. Something like that.”

  “I wouldn’t call that so young!”

  “Depends, Pa.” Lancey sounded thoughtful. “He was a colonel when the war ended, but nobody knew much about him.” She was quoting Justin and Dirck, things she had read. “He’s fast become the governor’s chief rival. ‘Course it didn’t hurt that he’d been General Washington’s aide.”

  “Didn’t hurt none either,” Hester said, “that he married a Schuyler!”

  The crowd made th
e same comments, showed the same curiosity. Few had seen this stranger who favored the Constitution. Rumor said that he wrote the arguments that those who could read had passed on to the rest, arguments that made sense, that a man could follow. This Hamilton, if he did write them, was a mighty sharp young man.

  Then, as the little cavalcade swung about, the crowd fell silent. There were strangers riding with the others now, and one of them was Alexander Hamilton.

  Lancey knew him at once. The quiet crowd, she judged, felt the same instant recognition. There was more to it than his age, his bearing, or the manner in which he edged his horse into the lead position. The act was done with ease and graciousness, with the unthinking arrogance of one who assumed command by right. But there was more to it than that.

  He rode into Poughkeepsie like a conqueror, and the watching people recognized him.

  “Good looking, ain’t he?” said Hester.

  Nodding uncertainly, Lancey stared at the man. Why, she thought, he isn’t so small! Then, she saw that he wasn’t tall either. His slenderness and posture made the most of every inch. Hamilton’s clothes, rich black, seemed to have been molded on his figure, as neatly fitted as a handmade glove. He rode well, but not with casual grace as Dirck rode. This was a man who had trained himself to control an animal.

  “Yes,” she said, “he’s good looking.” He reminded Lancey of Eunice Wynbridge. His was a more masculine face, but the even features had the same chill, contained expression. This was, she admitted, an unfair comparison because Hamilton was being stared at by hundreds of unfriendly eyes. Lancey was sure he was aware of that fact, ignoring it.

  The horsemen came up the slope in a rough wedge with Hamilton riding point. There was no sound from the crowd. In the stillness Lancey could hear the clop-clop of the hoof-beats, the jingle of bridle chains. Hamilton held his steed to a walk, and his head turned as he surveyed the packed ranks on either side of the road.

  He was almost in front of Lancey when the first hiss broke the quiet.