“Lord Jesus,” said Digmus Jaycock, “that hit close.”
Ears ringing, Lancey didn’t hear the gunshots. Orange jets of flame stabbed the darkness as the pistols fired.
“Dirck?” Her shriek was shrill against the hollow rustle of the wind. “Dirck?”
“Still here,” said Dirck, subdued but gay. “A clean miss. But who threw the thunderbolt?”
Thank God, thought Lancey, as her heart leaped in her chest. The night tilted, closed in, began to spin. I must not faint, she told herself. She dug her fingernails into her palms, bit her tongue, tightened every muscle. She would not faint. She would not!
Justin’s voice was dry, unamused. He said, “Here, too, and we’ll have to try again.”
Digmus Jaycock swore. “Again?” cried Venick. “Are you daft, Justin?”
“We burned powder,” Justin said, “nothing else. That leaves us where we started.” His voice rose to question. “You agree, van Zandt?”
“Naturally,” said Dirck, after a tiny pause. “Your servant, Master Pattison.”
“Reload the pistols, Digmus.”
“No!” Lancey glanced from one lantern to the other. The wind, rushing now, seemed to mimic her note of hysteria. She knew she couldn’t stand a repetition of the duel, another tortured wait for the shots, and the result. By God’s mercy Dirck lived, and Justin, and they must not tempt fate again! “No,” she cried, and the word came bursting from her throat in an ever-higher succession of explosions. “No, no, no, no!”
Jaycock let go of the girl with startled haste. She heard Dirck’s voice, but her own shrieking made his cry seem thin and distant.
Then, earth and sky were shattered by a tremendous, deafening thunderclap, and lightning turned everything to one vast, blinding glare!
Lancey flung her hands over her ears, shaken by the force of the blast, unable to see or think. For an instant she quailed in panic, helpless before the storm’s fury. Darkness came again, seemed blacker than before.
The rain, so long delayed, gave a quick spatter of warning, and came lashing down in torrents.
Meda whinnied in fright, and the girl whirled to calm the mare. She was holding the bridle when Dirck shouted.
“Venick! Jaycock! Give me a hand here!”
“Justin’s down,” Jaycock said, darting away.
Struck by lightning, Lancey thought. She ran toward the figure stretched beside an overturned lantern. The rain slashed at her face, plucked at her skirts. Through the turmoil of the tempest she could hear Dirck swearing.
“Venick! Damn it, Venick, where are you?”
Jaycock called, “Venick!”
Stumbling, Lancey dropped on her knees beside Justin. She stared up at Dirck, gasped. “The lightning——”
“Lightning nothing,” Dirck said, with a snort. “He’s been shot. The stubborn idiot just wouldn’t admit I’d hit him.”
Cradling his head on her lap, Lancey Quist bent over Justin to shield his face from the downpour.
Slowly, leaning into the rain that the wind whipped in flurries from the surface of the river, the bedraggled little procession descended the slope toward the fishing village. Even the horse, plodding under a double burden, slipped in the muddy slick of the narrow path.
“Easy, Meda,” said Dirck van Zandt. “Easy, girl.”
He walked in front, leading the mare, picking their way by instinct in the darkness. Only one lantern cast any light, and its candle was guttering. Digmus Jaycock carried the lamp to guide his own steps.
“Dirck,” said Lancey, low and worried. “He’s slumped again.”
“He lost a lot of blood,” said Dirck, glancing over his shoulder. Atop the pillion Lancey’s face was vague blur, half hidden behind Justin’s bowed shoulders. Lancey, thought Dirck, will hold him in the saddle. She had wept over Justin’s wound, torn a lawn petticoat into shreds for bandages.
“I got to get back to the inn,” said Jaycock, sniffling.
“You stay with us,” said Dirck, with finality. “We need you to help carry Justin.” He was irritated and worried. Lancey’s solicitude for the wounded man might be only pity, but Dirck knew the adage about that emotion’s kinship to love.
“Yes, Digmus,” Lancey said, “it was bad enough that Venick ran off in the darkness.”
“Damned coward,” mumbled the innkeeper.
“I’d call him worse,” said Dirck. And Justin, too, he thought grimly. Justin had forced the duel, and now he was a wounded warrior. Lancey would have to nurse him for several days. Dirck, grinding his teeth, swore he’d not lose Lancey whatever happened.
“We’re getting close,” Lancey said.
“If you take Justin to Hendrick’s,” complained Jaycock, “he’ll be captured for sure.”
“Stop your whining,” said Dirck.
“I’m taking him home,” Lancey said, “where he’ll have care. That’s all that matters now.”
She was wet and miserable, but determined to be calm. The moment of panic when she first saw the blood from Justin’s side had been Lancey’s worst experience. She blamed herself for what had happened. If she had not led Justin to believe her promises, mistaken sympathy and lovemaking for love, he would not have been racked by jealousy, would not have challenged Dirck.
Justin, the girl thought, the competent, the indomitable, has lost everything. He was wounded, hunted by the law, beaten in combat by the type of man he despised. If she could do anything to ease his humiliation, she would certainly do it.
The worst of the storm had gone racketing down the valley, but the rain continued. Southward over the Highlands, the thunder was now a dull and distant rumble. As the path neared the foot of the bluff they could see the river, swollen and angry, running with the sluggish gray current of dirty sludge.
“We’re getting close,” Dirck said. “There’s a light in Hendrick’s. You go ahead, Jaycock, with the lantern, and find out who’s there.”
“Don’t forget to come back,” said Justin in a weak, but mocking voice.
“Justin!”
Lancey’s cry was as astonished as the stares of the men. Dirck nearly dropped the mare’s reins. He didn’t know much about gunshot wounds, but Justin’s collapse had worried him. The man had muttered incoherently, had seemed dazed and barely conscious, when they hoisted him on the horse.
“You all right, lad?” asked Jaycock.
“No,” Justin said, “but I’ll do. I’ve had worse wounds. The grogginess—I must have hit my head when I tumbled.”
“You did.” Lancey had noticed the bruise on his temple, but it seemed petty compared to the bleeding hole in his side.
She wondered if his rational talk was pretense, a fever symptom, really delirium. “You hurry ahead, Digmus. Don’t try to talk, Justin.”
“I need to, Lancey,” Justin said. “Where’s van Zandt?”
“Here.”
“Is the ball still in me?”
“No,” said Dirck, “it passed straight through the flesh of your side.” He was impressed by the wounded man’s interest. “Far as I could tell there’re no bones broken.”
“Then, that’s all right. From the way it feels, there’s nothing to worry about unless it mortifies.”
“Justin,” said Lancey, outraged by his calm diagnosis, “you bled like—by the gallon!”
“My eye,” Justin said, “no matter how it looked. I always bleed buckets, Lancey. Had an army surgeon once tell me it was healthy.” His chuckle was genuinely amused. “This is a fleabite compared to what hit me at Monmouth or Petersham.”
The hero, thought Dirck bitterly. This Justin couldn’t behave like a normal human, but had to remind everybody of his honorable scars.
Lancey felt both relieved and annoyed. Justin’s attitude, if true, made light of his danger, but also of her worry. She decided he was being brave. At any rate she wasn’t going to take his word about the seriousness of his wound.
Peering ahead, the girl saw that they were now close to her home. Ligh
t streamed from the open Dutch door, promised warmth and shelter.
Hendrick, waiting beside Jaycock in the Quist yard, wasted no time with questions. Lancey jumped down from the pillion, watched the three men carefully ease Justin out of the saddle. He made neither protest nor comment at the prospect of being carried.
The girl, hurrying ahead of the shuffling men, found her stepmother mother busily wadding the settle with bedding. Hester stared, raised her voice in a wail.
“Lancey, your dress! Not again!”
Lancey, flinging her cloak aside, glanced down at the rain-soaked dress. Why, she thought, I knew it was clinging and drenched, but paid no attention. Too much had happened for the russet gown to be important.
“Hester,” she said. “Justin’s hurt.”
“I know. Shot. Digmus said.”
“He may need a doctor.”
“Pardon will know. I sent Jan to fetch him.”
“Jan?” Lancey whirled, startled. “Jan Elmendorf?”
“Yes,” said Hester, nodding, “he’s been here all evening, waiting to capture Justin if he came.”
“But, then—Jan hates Justin. He’ll go for the sheriff and—”
“Not Jan. He wants to hale Justin to gaol all by himself.” Hester turned as the men edged their burden through the doorway. “Put him over here on the settle, Hendrick.”
Justin grunted in pain, and Dirck’s voice ripped out angrily.
“For God’s sake, Jaycock, watch what you’re doing. You nearly dropped him.”
“Steady,” Hendrick said. “Steady now.”
As they placed the wounded man on the pile of bedclothes, Hester bustled forward. She said, “We’d better get those wet clothes off him before he takes a chill.”
Lancey gazed at Justin, frowned. His face, shining wet from the rain, showed the tautness of strain. Though his cheeks were flushed, his brow was pallid. The dark eyes looked hot with fever. They rolled as he glanced around the room, then narrowed.
“Wait a minute,” Justin said, “where’s Venick?”
Trying to ease his jacket off, Hester paused at the sharpness of the question. She said, “Who?”
“Venick’s gone,” said Lancey. “He ran off while we were trying to bandage you. Just disappeared.”
“But he can’t.” Justin pushed Hester’s hands away, struggled to sit up. “We have to change plans, but I’ll be fit in a couple of days.”
“What plans?” asked Dirck.
Justin ignored him, pointed a finger at Digmus Jaycock. “Catch him, Digmus. Tell him there’s nothing to worry about. He can’t pull foot on us now.”
The little innkeeper paled, wet his lips, blurted a sentence.
“Don’t be a fool, Justin.”
“What?”
“What I said. Venick dassn’t risk using you now. With sheriffs and what-not after you. He’ll keep running till he’s safe. He must have thought you were bound to be captured with a pistol ball in you.”
Nobody else in the room moved. They were all watching the speakers, the angry wounded man and the frightened tavern owner.
Justin said, “But I’m not captured!”
“He couldn’t chance it,” Jaycock said. “Him being a Tory and all—”
“Tory?” Justin’s interruption crackled through the room. “Tory?”
The name, Lancey thought, sounded like an epithet, brought a prickle of gooseflesh to the nape of her neck. She glanced at the others, saw a reaction on every face. Dirck’s mouth was tight; Hendrick was glaring. Even Hester had stiffened to her full height. The bitterness of civil strife had been neither forgotten nor forgiven.
“Venick was a Tory?”
Jaycock flinched at Dirck’s tone, managed a nod. The fury in Justin’s voice made Lancey jump.
“But I took his money! Tory money! I’ve got every riverfront rough between Rhinebeck and Failkill primed with it, ready to march on the convention with muskets!”
“What?” Dirck whirled on Justin.
“We planned to riot,” Justin said. “To demonstrate! To show the convention delegates that they’d better not vote for the Constitution! But, God Almighty, if he bought us with Tory money—”
“This is true, Digmus?” Hendrick’s voice was a deep growl. “Yes,” said Jaycock, in a whisper. “Venick came down from Canada. He swore the governor, Sir Guy Carleton, had no finger in his scheme, but Tories supplied the cash all right.” He swallowed, took defiant courage from their disapproving silence. “Where’s the harm in taking good coin? Justin wanted to raise a rumpus anyway. Why should he care who provided the money?”
“It’s the difference,” Justin said, “between Dan Shays and Benedict Arnold, you mealy-mouthed, whining son of a sloat!” He sank back on the settle, stared at the ceiling.
There goes, Lancey thought, that last desperate gamble he mentioned. She felt, strangely, no pity for Justin’s defeat, but a faint contempt. Rioting like a pack of schoolboys insisting on a holiday!
“Well,” roared Pardon Cash as he stamped into the room, “I thought the convention was up at the courthouse. Clear the decks here! A lad’s been shot, needs care!”
Lancey busied herself helping Hester remove Justin’s shirt. When she glanced around, Dirck was gone.
CHAPTER 23
AMAZINGLY, IT WAS JAN ELMENDORF WHO PROVIDED THE means for Justin Pattison’s escape. He hated Justin no less, but he had his reasons.
On the morning after the duel Lancey found Jan lounging in the Quist yard when she emerged. The girl was feeling seedy, and sure she looked worse. For all that Pardon Cash, after washing the wound with hot gin, had declared that Justin had suffered no more than a graze, Lancey had nursed a restless patient almost till dawn. Even when he dozed she’d stayed awake, trying to make sense of her battered emotions.
She’d been so sure that she loved Justin; now she was twice as sure it was Dirck. Lancey only half recalled that Dirck had mentioned marriage, and declared his love, while they were alone in the clearing. What with storm, and duel, her fear and hysterics, everything that had happened seemed to be part of a fantastic nightmare.
The sight of Jan’s sullen face and stolid build was like a bracing plunge in cold water. At least, she thought, I’ve not changed my opinion of him!
“You clear out of here, Jan Elmendorf,” she shouted. She was sure she knew why he was there, and it spoiled the fineness of the day, dimmed the brilliance of the freshly washed blue of the June sky. “You’re not taking anybody to gaol from this house!”
“Shhh,” hissed Jan, glancing around, “somebody might hear, Lancey.”
“Let them hear!”
“You don’t mean that.” Jan faced her squarely, hands on his hips, chin thrust forward. “Dirck van Zandt says you’d never forgive me if I was to deliver Justin to the authorities.”
“Oh? When was this?”
“Last night. I was here when Dirck came out, and Digmus Jaycock. He invited me down to the ordinary for a nip.” Jan’s eyes brightened, and he grinned. “Say, can that Dirck drink! He must have drained three bottles of Jaycock’s best claret.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Lancey. She noticed Jan’s familiar use of Dirck’s name, and smiled inwardly. Charms them with claret, she thought, every time.
“Well, anyway, he said you’d never forgive me. Said you’d cherish Justin in—in durance’s bile, and hate me till your dying day.”
“He was right.”
“That’s what I thought. And Dirck said that if I helped Justin get away, you’d always remember it.”
“Right, again,” said Lancey, a trifle nettled by Dirck’s choice of words. Jan was trouble enough without encouragement.
“So I’ve a plan, Lancey. The Lydia sails again in three, four days. Of course he—” Jan nodded toward the Quist home—“he couldn’t come aboard at Poughkeepsie. But we could pick him up from a small boat on the river.”
“What about Captain Benjamin?”
“He said it was all right after
Dirck explained about Shays’ Rebellion. Of course he charged Dirck double passage.”
“Charged Dirck?”
“Dirck paid in advance.”
Lancey wasn’t sure she could trust Jan, but she agreed to ask Justin. In spite of his vaunted powers of recovery it was obvious that he was in no condition to ride or walk; even the climb from rowboat to sloop deck might be too much for him. She was surprised by Justin’s instant enthusiasm.
“It’s the perfect plan, Lancey. Even if the Springfield men return home, the Poughkeepsie sheriff will be looking for me. I can rest on the voyage and walk ashore when we reach New York.”
“But—four days—your wound—”
“There’s no point in coddling myself. Besides, I’m anxious to get away as fast as I can.”
“Why?” asked Lancey, and then blushed.
“Yes,” said Justin, gazing at her, “there’s that, Lancey.” He was pale under his tan, but the dark eyes were still defiant. “I fought that duel to kill Dirck van Zandt. He proved the better marksman, and I lost. But if I stayed around here—”
“You’d try again?”
“I might.”
They were alone in the Quist downstairs room. Sunlight streamed through the open top of the Dutch door, and Lancey could hear the piping of Hester’s daughters playing outside. She gazed at the floor, counted the cracks that joined the wide boards between her feet and the fireplace. Her voice was very low.
“Where are you going, Justin?”
“West,” he said at once. “Kentucky maybe. Or the Ohio valley. The country the Pennsylvania riflemen talked about. Out there they’d consider Shays’ Rebellion just a market-day fracas that got out of hand.”
There was farewell in his statement, and they both knew it.
The river changed from ebbtide to flood, signalling the transition to the discerning eye by movement and color. As always, on a day of June sunshine, the water’s blue seemed to laugh at the rival blue of the sky. The bright sun of late morning turned the lazily moving puff-clouds to masses of whipped cream against a single shade, but it touched the wavelets with a golden wand that brought sparkle and Variety. Here the current matched the canopy above it, there the river ran darker; one cove cupped an eddy pale as sapphire, another gleamed like polished marble with wind-stirred ripples for veins. Even the high, tree-covered banks, gay with the green of early summer, appeared to have been designed as a setting for the stream that flowed between them.
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