“Oh, yes, thank you.”
“And understood them.”
Neither the chill tone, nor the sniff that accompanied it, bothered Lancey. She merely smiled with polite diffidence. Dirck’s mother had greeted her with a stiff formality that hid defeat and disapproval. Beekman van Zandt’s surreptitious wink and the younger Beekman’s broad grin had told the girl all she needed to know. Amelia van Zandt had, for once, been routed by her men folk. She didn’t like it, but she had cried truce.
“Not completely,” Lancey said frankly. “This was all very new to me, ma’am.”
Mrs. van Zandt squinted, munched her lips as if tasting the girl’s remark. “Well,” she said, “that’s honest.” She gazed around, noted the convention was adjourned, frowned at the press jamming the doorways. Gathering gloves and umbrella, she hesitated, decided to be gracious. She said, “You looked very nice anyway, my dear.”
“Stunning,” said her husband He patted Dirck’s arm, made no attempt to lower his voice. “Good stock, son. Long in the flanks for all her size. She’ll breed.”
Young Beekman muffled a guffaw, and pushed a path toward the stairway. Lancey, face scarlet, quickly followed on Dirck’s arm. She didn’t dare glance at him, could feel suppressed laughter quivering his sleeve. Behind them Mrs. van Zandt’s voice clanged like a dropped handbell.
“Really, Beckman!”
“Well, dammit, Amelia,” said Master van Zandt, “my grandfather was a cooper, and yours was a piddling brewmeister!”
“Oh, my,” murmured Lancey, half-expecting the roof to collapse.
Dirck squeezed her hand. He said, “You’re a success.” He was feeling gay, delighted with the day’s results. Lancey’s success and Hamilton’s were strangely connected in Dirck’s mind, and he considered this a good omen. After today, he thought, neither ratification nor my courtship can fail.
“Good stock,” said Lancey gruffly, and giggled. She, too, was pleased by her reception, but she felt uneasy when she recalled her promise to Justin. It wasn’t exactly fair to lead Dirck on, to let him, and his family, think she was still free to choose.
She decided to cross that bridge when she must. So far Dirck had only requested her company; he might never propose. Lancey dismissed her uneasiness resolutely as they edged slowly toward the exit.
Outside the courthouse the sunset sky had a foreboding look. There was no breeze, but to the west, over the river, the afternoon’s sultriness seemed to have congealed, turned haze to an inky murkiness that was spreading. Distant clouds were massing into thunderheads; no valley resident could fail to read the signs. A storm was brewing. One of those violent, clamorous, lightning-lashed storms that periodically minimized the majesty of the Hudson.
Lancey noticed these portents, noticed also that few of the convention crowd seemed disturbed. People loitered, mingled with friends who had failed to gain admission. Men stood in groups, discussing the speeches; women exchanged gossip and criticized other women’s apparel. The horses, saddle and carriage, hitched in long rows that hedged all four arms of the crossroad, were more restless than their masters.
“Going to storm,” Dirck said, “but I’ll have you snug at home before it hits.” He was turning to speak to his brother, but never completed the movement.
Somewhere close a musket blasted. The sound of the gunshot froze the crowd to momentary stillness; the flash from the muzzle, a mica-speck in the darkening daylight, drew every gaze.
Across the road, at the corner of the old Dutch cemetery, a knot of men twisted and turned in sudden motion. A tall figure broke free, scrambled up the roadbank, ran, darting among the gravestones, through the burying ground. Another, trying to follow, was knocked sprawling. One man, square built, stepped aside, dropped to a knee, leveled a musket at the fleeing figure.
Lancey’s heart lurched as she recognized the fugitive. It was Justin!
Before the marksman could fire, a big man, moving fast, lashed out a kick snapping the gun upright, so that it spat its flame at the sky.
“That’s Pardon Cash,” said Dirck.
“Yes.” Lancey hoisted her skirts and ran. Fast as she sprinted, Dirck was beside her in five strides. His arm went around her as supporting prop and she was grateful. Petty coats, and shoes, were hampering.
They were the first to reach the struggle, and as they did it ceased. Lancey saw that other fishermen besides Pardon were involved. Seth Row was helping a fallen stranger to his feet. Gerritt Kimmee was arguing with Phineas Child.
The sight of Master Child sent a chill down the girl’s spine. He was a deputy sheriff and his presence meant that Justin had escaped the law. She noticed that the younger of the two strangers, the apple-cheeked lad that Seth Row was dusting, held two fingers against a bleeding mouth.
“Pardon,” she said, “what’s happened?”
Now holding the musket the big fisherman spat through the gap in his front teeth. The squat stranger answered in the nasal twang of New England.
“Fine town, Poughkeepsie. Helping murderers to bolt.”
“Murderers?” Dirck sounded puzzled.
“You boys oughtn’t to have done that,” said Phineas Child. “The man was a prisoner.”
“Now, look,” Pardon Cash said, “keep your dander dampened, Phineas. You’re a Poughkeepsie law officer. Justin’s been here several months, and, far as I know, he hasn’t done anything that broke any of the laws around these parts.”
“Justin?” Dirck asked. “Justin Pattison?”
Pardon Cash nodded, said: “That’s right. These strangers come along and make certain claims, but there’s no telling how true they might be.”
“True as true,” said the stranger. “The man’s wanted for a killing, and there’s a thirty-pound reward for his capture.”
“This,” Phineas Child said, “is Sheriff Aaron Nichols of Springfield in Massachusetts. And the other’s his helper, Samuel Hart.”
Young Samuel Hart bowed, spreading his fingers to display a bloody smile. Sheriff Nichols ignored the introductions. He glared at Pardon Cash, reached for his musket. The crowd from the convention had gathered, was asking excited questions, but neither the fisherman nor the officer paid any attention.
“Sorry,” Pardon said, “but Massachusetts law ain’t New York law. Justin’s our friend, and we couldn’t rightly let you cart him off to gaol.” He relinquished the gun.
“Back home,” Nichols said, “you’d all go in his place.”
Seth Row said, “This ain’t back home, mister.”
“Now, now,” spluttered Phineas Child. “These here officers, Sheriff Nichols and Master Hart, showed proper and right credentials. They are what they say they are. They asked for assistance and I gave it as was only decent. You fellers shouldn’t act like they misbehaved.”
“If you’re so set on defending Justin Pattison,” said Nichols sourly, “why’d one of you send word he was in these parts?”
“Send word?”
“Yeah!” The Massachusetts sheriff’s nod was emphatic. “Party by the name of Quist.”
“Quist.” Lancey whispered the name with disbelief. Since the first mention of Springfield she’d realized that Justin was in serious trouble; the backwash of Shays’ Rebellion had somehow followed him here to the banks of the Hudson. She knew the matter was serious, but couldn’t believe that the sheriff had correct information. “Did you say—Quist7’
“That’s right, Mistress.” Aaron Nichols glowered at her. “Most of us back home was willing to let bygones be bygones. What’s over and done should lie fallow. But when a feller riding through—Philadelphia to Boston—asks around about is there any reward for Justin—well, there was no holding Eph Cutting’s folks. Eph’s the one Justin killed.”
“This feller,” Dirck said, automatically mimicking Nichols’ tone, “wasn’t named Quist?”
“No, no. He’d been asked that by said Quist. Over here on your river.”
No Poughkeepsie man as much as glanced at Lancey. Dirck�
��s hand came to rest on her shoulder as if casually. Even Phineas Child’s face reflected the impassive expression of the three fishermen. The crowd, trying to listen and question at the same time, milled in restless bewilderment.
“Conrad,” said Lancey with horror.
Dirck’s fingers tightened; Pardon Cash spoke rapidly. “That’s neither here nor there,” the big fisherman said. “You might easily be mistaken about the looks or size of——”
Sheriff Nichols interrupted. “I’ve known Justin Pattison,” he said, “since he was no taller than your breeches’ knee buckles. We had the right man. Thanks to you and your friends he’s loose again. But I know my duty and I want him taken.”
“Of course,” Phineas Child said. “Of course. We’ll get the town sheriff. The deputies. Form a posse. With thirty pounds’ reward there’ll be plenty to lend a hand. He can’t cross the river, and he can’t go far afoot.”
The Massachusetts man’s glance flashed from Pardon to Seth Row to Gerritt Kimmee. He said, “You’d better send a few armed men among the fishermen, just to make sure he can’t cross the river.”
Phineas Child started giving orders. There was a scurrying, a gabble of excited voices. Someone ran for the town sheriff. Others, joyous at the prospect of a man hunt, hurried to get their guns. Aaron Nichols, leaning on his musket, told young Hart to patch his mouth, and watched the preparations. Anger made him hold himself as rigid as his gun barrel.
The trio of fishermen drew apart. Lancey and Dirck joined them. The girl clutched Pardon’s wrist.
“Pardon, tell us the whole story.”
“They caught him at Jaycock’s,” said Pardon. “The two New Englanders and Phineas was together, armed, and Justin never had a chance. If Gerritt, here, hadn’t been in the ordinary having his tipple, we wouldn’t know about it yet.”
Cerritt Kimmee nodded; he swabbed his lips with a palm before he spoke. “I saw them come in. Justin was sitting with Digmus and Venick, but he saw them, too. He said something, low like, to Venick, and stood up. That sheriff one, Nichols, he called Justin by name, and Justin went along with them as meek as a lamb.”
“Yes,” said Lancey. She knew Justin’s meekness, the false quiet that waited for the proper moment to explode into action.
“Well,” Pardon Cash said, “it took Gerritt a few minutes to get hold of Seth and me. That’s how we didn’t catch up with them until they reached the graveyard here. Naturally, we wasn’t going to let no outsiders take another fisherman to gaol. They’d been right canny, sneaking around the town to avoid folks, but we were waiting for them. Phineas tried to argue with us, but Justin suddenly took things in his own hands.”
“Aye,” said Seth Row, “he even caught me by surprise. They’d just mentioned that somebody named——” He glanced at Lancey, swallowed, continued. “Somebody named Quist was in line for the reward, when Justin jumped. After that I was busy.”
“Can he get away?” asked Dirck.
“I don’t know.” Pardon sounded dubious. “They’ll be watching all of us. There’ll be constables asquatting on every boat in the village, and they’ll send horsemen to the ferries. If he’s penned this side of the river they’ll run him down sooner or later.” He cocked his head, scanned the bruised clouds in the purpling western sky. “And from the looks of things this ain’t going to be any night to be out in.”
“Even,” said Gerritt Kimmee, “for a murderer.”
“Justin’s no murderer!”
Lancey might have saved herself the indignant cry. Only Dirck’s hand, again tightening on her shoulder, showed that it had been heard.
Seth and Gerritt shrugged in unison. Pardon Cash smiled without humor. “We ain’t asking,” he said. “He rowed with us, Lancey. Cast net and made drift. That’s enough for us. But the man sounded certain sure.”
Seth Row said, “Thirty pounds is a lot of money.”
There was, Lancey realized, no sense in arguing about Justin’s innocence at the moment. A glance at the thinning crowd, the purposefulness of the men that gathered around
Phineas Child, convinced her that time was precious. Sheriff Nichols, grim and laconic, was making sure that the hunt was organized with efficient speed. Even while she watched a rider pelted down the Filkintown Road toward the ferry, and another swung his horse into the Post Road, heading south. From the steps of the courthouse people, delegates and guests, gazed at this bustle with idle interest.
“Justin will be all right,” Lancey said. “He can take care of himself. Come, Dirck.” She didn’t care if they thought her heartless; she even tried to make her voice gay. The important thing was to get Dirck alone, to enlist his help. Justin needed her, and Lancey’s whole body burned with the determination to save him.
He was, she told herself, the man she loved, yet it never occurred to her that Dirck might refuse his aid. She was sure she could rely on Dirck.
As they moved away from the fishermen Lancey’s voice was quick and low. She spoke for Dirck’s ears alone, rapid, clipped speech without tremor or hesitation.
“Dirck. Dirck, I think I know where he’ll hide!”
“Justin?”
“Yes. It’s a place we both know. We must find him, Dirck. He’ll need help to get away.”
“You want him to, Lancey.”
“Oh, yes. Yes!”
Dirck’s step didn’t falter. He walked beside her, head tilted, as if listening to a girl’s chatter. Lancey’s whisper was vibrant with emotion.
“Justin’s not a murderer, Dirck. It happened in Shays’ Rebellion. They shot at him, and he fired back. He didn’t mean to kill the lad. It was fair fight.”
“You know this?”
“He told me! We can’t let them catch him and hang him, Dirck! We can’t!”
“No,” said Dirck, “I guess we can’t.”
Something in his voice, a false note, a shade of strain, made Lancey pause, gaze at him more closely. Dirck, she recalled, had taken her to the convention, had not expected the day to end with a burst of activity. She was filled with sympathy and understanding, sadly aware that she had spoiled his outing. He didn’t know that she was pledged to help Justin because he was her future husband.
“Dirck,” she said lamely, hoping that he would contradict her, “there’s no reason why you should get mixed up in Justin’s troubles. Your mother and father—”
“Can find their way home,” finished Dirck. He smiled at her, steered her toward the place where they had left the mare. If this, thought Dirck, is more than Lancey helping a friend, it is time I knew it. He forced himself to keep his voice calm and steady.
“Just tell me where to go, Lancey, and what you’d like me to do.”
They found Meda, and mounted in silence. This time, as Lancey placed her foot in Dirck’s locked hands, was hoisted to the pillion rigged behind the saddle, she gave no thought to arranging the velvet skirt. The only thing in her mind was reaching the clearing as quickly as possible. That, she was sure, was where Justin would go to ground. He would be certain that she’d come there!
Riding south, along the Post Road, Lancey twisted her lips in a wry smile, stung by the difference between this ride and the one they had taken, only a few hours previously, on the way to the convention. Then, Meda had walked, stepping delicately as if fearing to rumple Lancey’s gown; now the mare cantered. Then, she and Dirck had bandied lighthearted conversation; now they travelled in silence.
She was again riding behind Dirck, with her arms around his waist, but she tried not to remember that she’d enjoyed the warmth of his nearness, the play of his muscular back. Now, such a feeling was unfair to a harried Justin.
To their right, over the river, the sky had turned livid, a bilious color shot with streaks of blackness that had run, like wet bad dye, from the dark curtain behind them. Meda went at a ground-eating pace, hoofbeats as regular as a clock pendulum, but they rode through a half-light, hushed atmosphere that gave the journey an unbelievable quality. There was no one else on
the road, in the world, besides themselves, and the man they were trying to save.
“Conrad,” said Lancey, once, against Dirck’s collar.
Dirck said, “You don’t know that. It’s a guess.”
“No. I know. Somebody crossed on the horse-ferry who spoke Massachusetts. That was all he needed. Conrad would do anything for money.”
“He’s only a boy.”
“He’s a—a scavenger! Conrad hardly even knew Justin. All he was interested in was the pounds he might bring.”
Dirck shrugged, warned by her bitterness that this was no time for discussion. He heeled the mare from canter to fast gallop, too conscious of Lancey’s clasp about his middle, wanting the whole business finished as soon as possible.
He was riding to the rescue of his rival, and he knew it, but he made no effort to think clearly. Lancey wanted him to do this. Until it was done he could not demand why, or place his own qualities in the scale opposite those of Justin Pattison.
The damned nuisance, he said silently, has hamstrung me by getting himself in jeopardy!
Lancey prodded him, showed the place where they should leave the road. As they climbed the slope, weaving between the trees, Dirck slowed Meda to a walk. They moved, now, through an eerie forest; in the vague luminescence of the gathering storm the tree trunks were witch fingers poised around them, ready to clutch. The light, filtered through foliage, was bad, shadowy, an unreal reflection that lacked substance. Around them no leaf stirred; the only sounds were those of their own passage.
They came out into the clearing, and could see the sky. Dirck took one look, and grunted. It was gray with threat, darkening and ominous.
“Justin,” called Lancey. “Justin?”
“He’s not here,” Dirck said. “Nobody’s here.” The clearing, in the weird glow as daylight retreated before the dark of evening and tempest, seemed a magic glen, an evil fairy circle.
“Justin,” cried Lancey again.
Far to the north lightning flickered. No thunder reached them, and the sky, after that brief spasm of lurid glare, appeared even darker.
“He may be miles away, Lancey.”
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