It was a full forty paces. At the center of the door was a doubled circle of whitewash, not as large as the head of a child. The wood around it was chipped and scarred where it had been used as a target or test of skill for several years.
The seven friends had been walking through the ville in the bright morning sunshine, all the night's fog burned away. Whereas there had been mainly curiosity on their first walk around the streets and alleys, there was now suspicion, tainted with fear. It was obvious to Ryan that the shadow of Pyra Quadde lay heavy over Claggartville. The news had spread that he had fallen out with the Salvation'sskipper.
But they had been welcomed at the quay. Several men, some of them with bronzed complexions and long sleek hair, had been competing with the long whaling spears. Innkeeper Rodriguez had mistaken the tall Mescalero for a top harpooneer and the word had scurried along the lanes. Now the crowd wanted to see Donfil in action, pitted against the local champions.
"You don't have to do it," J.B. had whispered to the shaman. "If they suss you aren't good with the spear, then they'll be even more watchful of us. Understand?"
The Indian had nodded. He understood.
He'd taken the peculiar spear with its single steel flue, and hefted it, feeling for the balance. The shaft was of stout elm, about four feet in length. The metal was roughly two feet long, of iron, the cutting point of harder steel set in it.
"There is thy mark, heathen," said the old man, who seemed to be in charge of the friendly competition.
"May thy gods strike firm," said one of the young local harpooneers. "A deep strike and a rich harvest to thee."
"And to thee, brother," the Apache replied, balancing himself carefully, fixing his eye on the small white blob upon the door.
Ryan was uncomfortable, surrounded by so many strangers, many of them hostile. But Donfil's eager participation had made it even more hazardous for them to try to pass on by.
Ryan was a reasonable hand at throwing a knife, as was J.B. Jak was the best with his concealed blades that Ryan had ever known, but none of them had ever thrown spears.
There was a blur of movement, the only sound the exhalation of breath from the Apache as he released the iron. Then the gasp from the onlookers as the harpoon struck trembling in the center of the paint mark on the oaken door.
"Four-ace lucky!" shouted one of the middle-aged men watching. "Do it again, outlander!"
Donfil More did it again, five times from five casts.
Nine times out of nine throws.
The cheer nearly raised the steep-sloping roofs of the houses of Claggartville, the noise sending a flock of feeding gulls screeching from the calm waters of the harbor.
The watchers broke ranks and pressed in on the strangers, but Ryan and the rest were almost forgotten. It was only as friends of the Mescalero that they were slapped on the back, their hands pumped, grins shining in their direction.
"I'll give thee a twentieth part of a voyage if thou wilt ship with me as harpooneer!"
"An eighteenth!" a second captain yelled, jumping up and down in his anxiety to secure the services of this amazing giant who could thread the iron through the eye of a needle.
"No. No, thank you all. But I am here with my friends."
"Thou needest work. All of ye," warned a chubby man with a stovepipe hat, tarnished green with age. "I'll find labor for all seven of ye. E'en the snow-head mutie and the wenches, if thou signest on for a year's hunting the right whale."
"Aye, Boaz, but what lay dost thou offer the heathen ironman?"
"Enough, I'll warrant."
The sailor who'd pressed the question bellowed with laughter. "Best lay thou hast ever offered a harpooneer was one-seventieth." He paused to make his point stronger. "And that was for thy wife's sister's oldest son, was it not, Boaz?"
The plump captain was not in the least set back by the gibing. "Aye, that be so, neighbor. And the worst hand with an iron I ever did see. When he fell from the top foreyard ten days from harbor, it was for the best."
The crowd joined in the general merriment.
But beyond them all, at the farthest end of the crowded quay, Ryan could see the quarterdeck of the Salvation. And the dark-clothed figure of its sinister skipper was leaning on a rail, smoking a white clay pipe. When her glance met Ryan's the woman straightened and spit in the water, turned away and vanished down the nearest companionway.
It cast a chill over the cheeriness of the moment for Ryan, though he said nothing to any of his friends.
Back at the Rising Flukes, while they waited for Rodriguez to call them down to their supper, everyone congratulated Donfil on his uncanny skill with the unwieldy harpoon.
"I swear it was the most stunning example of skill I ever did see!" Doc exclaimed, trying to flatten his straggling gray locks over the planes of his skull with the palm of his hand.
"Bastard double-chiller," Jak said, sitting cross-legged on a bed, honing one of his knives on the sole of his boot.
"How'd you get that good, Donfil?" Krysty asked, leaning against the wall by the window, one arm across Ryan's shoulders.
"Hunting. The war spear is not as long as the whaling iron, but it requires much the same skill. I have always had a good eye."
"Ten out of ten," J.B. said quietly. "Most men couldn't do that with a handblaster."
"Wins the gentleman a ten-cent stogie or a Kewpie doll of his choice," Doc barked, banging on the floor of their room with his swordstick.
"What's a Kewpie doll, Doc?" Lori asked.
"I fear I... I don't recall, my dear child."
They were interrupted by the landlord of the Rising Flukes calling them down to eat.
Unless something went dreadfully wrong with their plans, it would be their last meal in Claggartville.
Chapter Sixteen
The clam chowder was superb, rich and thick, steaming in the handmade pottery bowls. Rodriguez brought in a great pot of it, glowing from the fire, ladling it out in giant portions. A serving girl brought over a loaf of new-baked bread and a crock of salted butter.
The tavern was oddly empty, with the exception of a dozen hard-faced men who'd commandeered the two tables on either side of the main door into the Rising Flukes. They spoke little, concentrating on their tankards of ale. Ryan hadn't noticed them before and tugged Rodriguez by the sleeve.
"Outlanders?" he asked.
"Who, master?"
"Near the door."
The landlord glanced around, rather too casually, thought Ryan. "Oh, the lads. Just a few honest whaling men."
"From which vessel?"
"Which vessel?" Rodriguez repeated, trying to paste a smile more firmly in place on his pale face. And failing.
"Would it help your hearing if I cut off your damned ears?" J.B. asked in a penetrating whisper.
"No, no, masters. I'm not certain sure which sailer they hale from."
"But?" Krysty prompted, wiping a dribble of chowder from her chin with a linen napkin.
"I think it may be the..." His voice dropped so much that all they could hear was an indeterminate mumbling.
"I believe that our jovial host mentioned a name not unlike that of the Salvation," Doc said, tipping up his bowl to drain the last of the chowder.
"Is it that?" Donfil hissed. "They are all from the Salvation!"
Rodriguez nodded. "They be."
Ryan glanced around again, finding that every single man jack of them was looking at him. He raised his mug of beer to them with a half bow. "They look no worse or better than any other men around the ville."
Rodriguez couldn't wait to explain things to them, his tongue tripping over the words.
"Don't think that 'cause of Pyra Quadde bein' the sort of a... she's got the best record any skipper from Nantucket and beyond ever got. She can catch the scent of a whale across a hundred leagues of sweating ocean, and that's... Some men sails with her year in an' out. Taking all the goods like the jack she brings to... and the bad an' all an' there's plenty of that and some don't come back."