Lancey Quist, dangling her bare legs from the end of her father’s pier, gazed at all this beauty and yawned in boredom. She had seen the Hudson’s every mood, found nothing surprising about its present loveliness.
Northward, upriver at a point above the town of Poughkeepsie, a lone fishing boat drifted. Distance dwarfed the craft to thimble size, but Lancey knew it was Pardon Cash’s dory, with Hendrick aboard as the big fisherman’s partner.
No other vessel moved within the range of Lancey’s vision. Even the ferry barge had not made a crossing for the past hour.
The girl felt lost, and a little lonely. All the sounds she heard were familiar, nature formed: the soft lapping of water against the piles, a twittering bird, the whisper of foliage to a passing breeze. The house behind her was empty. Hester had taken the children visiting. A fish net hung, drying, on its rack, but Lancey considered this poor company.
It looks listless, she thought, and empty, the way I feel.
Justin was gone, safely away in the early dawn. There had been no trouble. Everything had gone according to plan; the transfer from rowboat to sloop had been made without a hitch. By now the Lydia was farther down the river than Lancey had ever sailed.
Lancey, brooding, tried to summon a tear for Justin’s departure, and failed. The few days of nursing him had settled that question forever. Justin had wasted no time mourning his losses. In fact, Lancey decided, his farewells had been jarringly cheerful.
“By this time,” Lancey said, aloud, “he’s probably arguing Jan Elmendorf into a mutiny against Captain Benjamin.”
The thought produced a grin. Poor Jan was certainly susceptible to argument. Dirck van Zandt had persuaded him to help a man he hated. She expected no trouble when Jan returned to find that he’d removed the wrong rival. The sailor was awed and impressed by Dirck. Lancey suspected that the shooting of Justin had won Jan’s steadfast friendship.
“And just where,” she asked the west bank opposite, “is that glib-tongued Master van Zandt?”
She had seen Dirck only once since the night of the duel. Two days ago he had galloped Meda into the Quist yard, shouted his news from the saddle.
“Lancey, Hendrick, Hester! The word’s just arrived. New Hampshire ratified!”
Lancey recalled their stupefied questions, her own utter disbelief.
“Are you sure, Dirck?”
“When?”
“I—I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true!” Dirck had sounded positive, as well as angry. “New Hampshire voted to adopt the Constitution on the twenty-first of June! New Hampshire, for God’s sake!”
“But—but doesn’t that mean—”
“Yes, Lancey! That makes New Hampshire number nine. The ninth state! It’s the law of the land now, no matter what we decide here in Poughkeepsie!”
“What’s the convention going to do?”
“I don’t know. Everybody’s in an uproar. Clinton’s off in one corner swearing that it doesn’t make any difference, and Hamilton, smiling and quiet, is in another knowing blame well it does. The town is worse than the delegates. There hasn’t been so much talk since the courthouse burned down! I’ve got to get back!”
Dirck had wheeled the mare, and raced away. Leaving me, Lancey remembered, without a single affectionate word, in worse condition than the town.
For Poughkeepsie was still suffering from shock and outrage. Lancey, hurrying to join the crowd around the courthouse, had shared the local feeling. After all the excitement, the anger, the fierce debate, another state had cast the deciding vote. Overnight Poughkeepsie had toppled from its eminent position, had ceased to be the most important town in the independent states.
Some took the news in glum silence; others were loudly indignant. The townsfolk had considered the convention a personal possession that combined the best, most dignified qualities of county fair and republican forum. Now that possession had diminished in importance, was no longer the great contest, and people felt they’d been swindled.
Digmus Jaycock was among the angriest. The little innkeeper had hammered fist in palm, and shouted.
“That piddling New Hampshire! They done this on purpose! Ain’t they always tried to get the best of us in New York? They set up those Hampshire Grants years back just to spite us! On land that’s rightly ours! And, look what happened. Now it’s the Vermont Republic, ain’t even part of the country!”
Lancey, listening, had suspected that Jaycock’s anger was intended to quiet any rumors about his loyalty or friendliness to Tories.
The delegates to the convention had, after the first flurry of excitement, acted with more deliberation. Lancey had managed to catch glimpses of both leaders. George Clinton’s bulldog look refused to admit even a minor defeat. Young Alexander Hamilton, dapper and cool, walked like a man now sure of victory.
They will argue for weeks, Lancey guessed, before a vote is taken.
The sunshine was making her drowsy, and she yawned again. As far as she was concerned the convention, like the shad run, was over.
“Except,” muttered Lancey, “you can depend on the fish coming back next year, but you never know what men will do.”
This remark pulled her mind from sleepy lethargy. Lancey, head lowered, stared at the river beneath her feet, as if seeking the answer to her puzzle in the depths of the blue water. Dirck van Zandt was a man. Did she know, for sure, what he would do?
His absence was beginning to worry her. Perhaps he regretted the proposal made in the clearing, or, more likely, never meant the words to be taken seriously. Dirck had certainly, she recalled, taken her acceptance for granted. Maybe the mixture of gathering tempest, her nearness, the mention of her betrothal to Justin had goaded Dirck to speak of marriage.
“Fighting fire with fire,” said Lancey, miserably. Dirck was clever, guileful, wily. Nobody else could have talked Jan and Justin into the same sloop, neatly removing both by one voyage. From the first she had hesitated to trust Dirck. If his offer of marriage was merely part of a devious scheme Lancey thought she would die.
She loved him.
That was the bald and simple truth. Whatever happened Lancey knew she could never escape again.
“Lancey!”
The hail was quite close, and she glanced up, startled. She recognized the little boat at once, rose to her feet. The Argo carried her spritsail like a banner. Lancey’s heart leaped in reply. Dirck, grinning at the tiller, held something aloft and yelled.
“Betrothal gift!”
Betrothal, thought Lancey. Her hand flashed high in a wave that was half-salute, half-triumph.
Sunshine gleamed on fresh red paint, glittered on polished steel. Lancey gaped, staring, suddenly weak with elation. She gave a gasp of delight.
The gift Dirck flourished was a pair of brand-new red skates!
“Red skates!” called Lancey. “You fool! It’s summer!” Nothing could have pleased her more. The skates were at once a reminder of the past, a promise for the future.
She stood there watching Dirck as he brought the Argo toward her.
»»»»» * «««««
Scanned and proofed by Amigo da Onça
v. 1.0 – 03/05/2017
Table of Contents
SHAD RUN
Rear page text
Teaser
Other Books by ...
Title Page
Copyright details
Dedication
Author's Explanation
Book One: EBBTIDE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
Book Two: FLOODTIDE
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER
18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
Rear Cover
Shad Run Page 33