"You must be. You got those things with you?"
"Aye. I'd've made you out a clearance for some French port but maybe this was better—my French ain't very good."
"By the way, why was you in such a hurry to get aboard?"
Seth grinned. He was a different man with a deck under him.
"My writing talent again. It gets me in trouble. Friends'd ask: 'Why do we have to go all the way to Contraband Cove to fetch off goods we don't want to pay duty on? We could take 'em ashore here, we only had a cocket saying the customs'd been paid.' So I'd make 'em out a cocket."
"I see. That's why business at the Cove's been falling off?"
"I'd do it just for friends. But I got a heap of friends."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself—doing honest smugglers out of work like that. Pity the admiralty didn't get you."
"They damn' near did. There was a Queen's man looking for me with a warrant. Heard that the other night, at Blake's. That's why I slipped out. And these papers and seals, I chucked 'em into my chest and brought that aboard of here, where the warrant wouldn't reach. Then I figured I might as well stay. So I did." "I see."
"I still got those papers and so-forth, you should ever want a handsome-looking document."
"I'll let you know if I do."
It was that way all through those waters, where no man's ship was safe. The best thing to do at sight of a strange sail was run. Sight and scoot; and the Devil snatch the skipper who didn't watch sharp. Some of the hands even concocted a chanty about it:
Scaredy-Cat Sea;
That ain't for me.
Scaredy-Cat, Scaredy-Cat, Scaredy-Cat Sea.
Lightning aloft,
Breakers alee.
While we go rolling
Down Scaredy-Cat Sea.
Only once did they stop for a gam, and that, you may be sure, was after they had identified a Yankee rig. The other was small, a sloop, booming north, skittish, coy; but those aboard of her, when at last they were sure of themselves, were happy to heave-to.
"Put the longboat over. Fast—afore he gets his in the water!"
For if the other skipper came calling, Adam had only that half-bottle of rum. So it was Adam who went, taking with him most of his crew, who would fraternize with the crew of the sloop.
The sloop was from Stonington, Connecticut. Would Captain Wallis take a letter? Glad to, sir. Thereupon Captain Long wrote a report to his owners. There was little enough to say. He did make mention of Seth Selden, "a valued member of my crew," who, he said, sent his regards. Seth grinned, afterward, when Adam told him this.
Captain Wallis had been down in the islands five months.
"They're scared of everything down there."
"Scaredy-Cat Sea," muttered Adam.
"Eh?"
"Nothing."
"More wine?"
"Thanks."
"You say 'boo' they jump a foot. Sure, they want to buy. But they'd like to have credit." He snorted. "Credit!"
"Does seem silly," Adam agreed.
"One minute they're going to set forth and conquer every island in this part of the world, and they're slapping themselves so hard on the chest they like to knock themselves backward—and next minute a shark breaks water 'way out, and somebody yells 'the enemy'! and the whole population skedaddles for those dad-blamed dodans of theirs back in the hills, all loaded up with provisions and water." He snorted again. "Water! It's a good drink for them!"
When Adam made deck again, blinking in the rowdy-dowdy sunlight, the hands in the longboat were teaching the Stonington lads a song:
I spit on you, You spit on me—
"And never loaf offshore," Wallis warned. "They come out in boats. Swarm all over you."
Ain't no politeness In Scaredy-Cat Sea.
That was the first time Adam Long had acted the captain anywhere but aboard of Goodwill herself. The second time came only a few days later, when he went ashore to register at Kingston.
He was disappointed in the flat, scorched city. To anyone used to the mellowness of Newport, a town almost seventy years old, sevew-year-old Kingston was shudderingly raw.
The port authorities were arrogant, the townspeople suspicious, surly. Adam drifted from place to place, now and then trying, rather pathetically, to pick up a gam.
His freedom suit was too hot for Jamaica, too plain, too. He wished he had a brighter, lighter coat, maybe even a sword.
He drifted into an ordinary and took a table far in the rear. The sunlight outside, reflected by the white buildings, had been so bright that now he could scarecely see anything at all.
At last he made out another customer, a man with a twitchy nose, a furtive manner, mouselike.
"Could you tell me," Adam started, "if any of those that sailed under Thomas Hart are to be found around here now?"
He had decided that he would seek out old members of Hart's crew and get affidavits stating that he, Adam Long, had had no dealings with the pirate. But he'd made too abrupt a start.
The man at first did not seem prepared to answer. Then he said from a corner of his mouth: "Best not to talk about Tom 'Art."
"Sorry," said Adam, embarrassed.
However, after a drink the mouselike one relented; and while nothing further was said about Captain Hart he did introduce himself—Willis Beach—and did tell Adam something about Kingston.
Kingston, it appeared, approached a panic. Nobody knew when the news of war would come—it might well be brought by a French fleet. The colony had a few cannons, a small store of powder and ball, half a warehouse full of rusting muskets, but no real soldiers. Nine men out of ten were scared half to death. They bustled here and there with the pauseless persistence of ants. They whispered in corners. They shaded their eyes to scan the sea. They hoarded.
"Some wants to arm the blacks, other say it'd be worse'n 'aving the Frenchies 'ere. Now if they was to—"
He broke off. Coming in from the street were three Marines in bright blue coats and pipe-clayed belts. They were large coarse purposeful men. One had a hanger.
Though he had never before seen one, Adam knew instantly that here was a press gang. There were warships in the harbor.
The men made for Willis Beach. One grabbed the little Londoner's arms and twisted them behind him, so that he squealed in pain. One yanked him off his stool. The third, the midshipman, finished his ale.
"Let him alone," Adam said suddenly.
He didn't know why he did that. It was none of his business. He truly didn't give a hoot what happened to Willis Beach, even though the httle man was the only one who had said a civil word to him so far in this colony. It was probably the presser's manner that did it. Any man from Rhode Island might have felt the same way.
The men were puzzled rather than angry. One reached for a short wooden cudgel Adam had not previously noticed: it hung by a leathern thong from his belt. Adam punched him in the jaw.
The man staggered backward, malting low blubbery sounds of astonishment. He tripped over a stool and sat down—hard.
The midshipman drew his hanger.
"O-ho! It's a fight our Yankee friend would like, eh?"
Adam looked at the blade. There was nothing he could oppose to that, physically. He sneered. He whipped a paper out of a pocket.
"And it's a court-martial our officer friend would like, eh?"
Wary, his point still raised, the midshipman looked at the letter. Adam could not be sure whether he could read; but if he couldn't he wouldn't admit this. In any event the signature and seal were sufficiently impressive. The message enjoined one and all to abstain from hindering Adam Long, who was doing some special work of a confidential nature for "Benbow, Admiral, R.N." They had learned the name of the admiral from bumboat women, and Seth Selden, with some such emergency as this in mind, had made a fine thing of the forgery.