"Yessir. That's what I say."
"Nay but, my old seadog, why shouldn't I sing or whistle, and laugh—like other men?"
"Because you ain't like any other men, Cap'n."
"Lord, boy! And why not?"
"Because, sir, there's only one Cap'n Adam in the world, and you're him."
"Oh ... well," quoth Adam, pinching his chin. "You can run off—no—bring me your lessons, you and Moa, I've neglected 'em of late."
"Sir, I begs leave to inform you as there ain't need for you to trouble about us, 'cause we've said and writ our lessons very regular along o' your lady."
"Eh—my lady?"
"Ay, sir, yourn and Caruna's Lady Precious, and she do say as we be very good scholars,—'specially me! Very kind she is to both on us, Moa and me—never scolds us, like you, she don't, sir, and if she do 'tis so gentle-like as makes us work and try our best, 'specially me,—her being so kind!"
"Too kind perhaps, eh, old shipmate?"
"No, sir! She's always kind to everybody—'specially me! This is why I can't abide for to see her shed tears, sir, and weep so pitiful."
"Weep, d'ye say? Where? When? Why?"
"Yesterday 'twas, sir, wept very bitter, she did—ay, Cap'n, and 'twas all along o' you!"
"Lord love me! But how—how have I—what d'ye mean, boy?"
"Well, leastways, sir, 'twas your book."
"What book?"
"The one as you used to be always a-writing into. 'Twas last evening, sir, and I was just a-going to knock on her cabin door—with warm water like I always do, and I hears her give a kind o' moan-like, and then sobs. So I opens the door very soft and there she is a-kneeling by her bed and a-weeping all over your book. So then, afore I can stop myself, sir, I says, 'Oh, my lady', I says, 'please don't weep, mam.' So she looks up and smiles at me with her tears a-falling, and reaches out her hands to me. So I goes and comforts her 'cause of her tears, and wipes 'em for her on a corner o' the bed-sheet. And then, sir, she says what I shan't ever go to forget. 'Oh, Smidge', says she, 'when you grow up into a Dreadnought, promise me you'll always be good and brave, faithful and true like he is, and take care of him for me when I'm gone.' So I asks her, 'Who, mam?' And she says, 'Cap'n Adam,' says she. Then I ask her why she's going away and where to? But she only smiles and shakes her head so sad-like that I felt like I should weep too like I do now, sir, only, being a seadog I couldn't, and so——"
"Ad-am!" cried a happy, ringing voice nearby.
"Coo!" exclaimed Smidge. "That's my lady, and me nigh weeping! Don't tell her, if you please, sir, as I told you."
"Adam, may I come in?"
"Surely!" he answered, rising; thus as Antonia entered by one door, Smidge vanished by the other.
"Are you busy?" she enquired diffidently. "Am I ... shall I be in your way?"
"Never!" he answered, with fervour. "But now, pray has your ladyship brought back my Journal?"
For a moment she was mute and very still, then she smiled and sank before him in a slow and gracious curtsey, saying:
"Oh, sir, the naughty baggage stole it back into your desk last night whiles you were busy on deck, slyly, as she stole it away. Alack, this fine ladyship is not a very scrupulous lady, I fear, perchance because she is such mere female and therefore curious as Mother Eve. I trust you are nowise angry with her, good Master Adam, because she is here to beg you will take the air with her before supper."
CHAPTER XLII
A MAN, A WOMAN, AND A SWORD
Time has sped, and the Santissima Trinidad, well stored, armed, and manned by chosen crew, lies waiting to go out on the ebb, for the wind is light and baffling. Upon the poop, with Smidge (heavily armed) beside him and Moa hard by, stands Adam, glancing now up at towering masts with their vast spread of sail, and now away to windward, whence comes no wind worthy the name; on quarterdeck below paces sturdy Ned in hoarse confab with John Fenn; forward in the waist Martin Frant is busy with his two mates as a boatswain must be at such time; in the great, gilded stern-gallery is Antonia gazing upon the city with wistful, sombre eyes, until, as if warned by some vague premonition, she shivers violently and goes within.
Thus no one aboard sees the horseman who comes galloping so furiously along the quay and who, leaping from saddle, hails the nearest boat.
And presently up the galleon's steep, curving side comes Sir George D'Arcy, his finery somewhat dishevelled and himself flushed and breathless with haste.
"Adam!" he cries, glad-voiced. "God love thee, old friend,—I could not suffer thee sail without me, after all. England must wait. Say thou'rt glad to see me on board again."
"Right heartily!" answered Adam, as their hands met. "Thou'rt mighty welcome, George. But what o' Sir Benjamin? Comes he also?"
"Not he, Adam, no no. He is away up country. So I stole me hither unbeknown to him. Nay, Ben is for England in the Falcon, sailing next week, and vows nought shall prevent him. But as for me,—though I have paid half my passage-money in the Falcon—she sails without me."
"Ha, and there's the wind at last!" cried Adam. "Hast brought the breeze with thee, George?"
And now on the broad decks below was cheery stir and orderly bustle; hoarse commands, trample of feet about the windlass, wail of fiddle and deep voices raised in plaintive chorus.
"Anchor's a-trip, sir!"
"Ay ay. Lee braces—haul! Sharp your bowlines!" Creak of blocks and tackle as the great yards were squared to this freshening breeze; but as the tall, stately galleon began to move from her anchorage, down wind came a faint yet familiar bellow:
"Trinidado—ahoy! Belay ... belay! Bear up! Bring to! Stand by and let me come aboard."
All this was roared in stentorian tones from a boat whose oars beat and thrashed foam in desperate pursuit; a boat wherein a person of splendour bounced and flourished and waved long arms aloft, alternately hailing the ship and cursing his hard-driven oarsmen: "Santissima—ahoy! Pull, ye lousy dogs, pull. What, am I to be baulked by such bone-idle, misbegotten spawn? Pull, dog's leavings,—arms and legs and backs to it—pull, ye lubbers! Ship ahoy! Trinidado, heave to or be damned!"
Then Adam laughed, and others with him, the yards were backed and thus, after some while, Sir Benjamin clambered aboard spluttering oaths and puffing maledictions.
"I'm a ... dog——" he gasped. "I say, hang me ... for lewd cur if ... this isn't right cursed ... manner to treat ... thine old and valued ... friend and ... trusty messmate, Adam ... or may I sink and ... perish in blood! I say Hell's furies, man."
"Nay," laughed Adam, "hush thee, my Benjamin, catch thy wind, pay thy poor, blown boatman, and then explain thyself and most sudden appearing."
All this being done, Sir Benjamin glanced up at straining sails and humming cordage, looked round about upon trim decks and wide ocean, stretched his brawny legs with that bouncing motion peculiar to himself and exclaimed full-throated:
"Aha! What wouldn't fool George give to be back here with us!"
"He is, my addlepated ass, as you might ha' known, so bray not!" said Sir George, stepping from behind the mast which had screened him.
"Ho!" exclaimed Sir Benjamin with another bounce. "Ha! Why then, what I say is—let us forthwith toss a pot, twirl a can, and drain a beaker to and for old Friendship's noble sake. How of it, Adam?"
"Ay, with all my heart."
"Lord!" exclaimed Sir Benjamin when they were seated to their wine, "who'd be a landsman to live in noisy, dusty town when he may ride the foaming wave, breast the crested billow and expand his soul in the immensity of sea and ocean? To live a man among men with no peevish shrew or guileful woman, strong in Beauty's insidious lure, to enslave and win him to folly o' love and so to fret and fume and plague himself with ten thousand jealousies, heart-blasting cares and soul-shattering disillusions! I'm done with all women, thank heaven, and now drink confusion on their wilish arts and——"