Captain Adam Read online

A lubber was bad enough, a sea lawyer was bad; and a couple of lubberly lawyers at sea would be unbearable. However, he would reach an understanding with Waters and Peterson later—off soundings.

  He looked around, squinching his eyes against the smoke.

  Commercially this was the center of Newport, after dark the convergence of the counting houses. Call it the town's Rialto. There was nothing la-di-da about it. The walls were unpainted. The ceiling was low. There wasn't any floor: there was just dirt, packed as hard as rock. Two quartets of long pine boards laid on sawhorses were the tables. There was a serving bar at one end, and behind that the barrels and bottles— and Blake himself. A bench ran around the other three sides. There were i6

  a few joint-stools, but most of the customers who did not use the bench sat on empty kegs or else stood at the bar. No woman ever was allowed in the place, praise God. The prices were fair, the liquor generally good. It was an orderly ordinary: you seldom saw a fight there. Yet so poor was the light—Blake was parsimonious with his candles—and so crowded the benches, causing men to lean close to one another with lowered voices, so thick, too, was the tobacco smoke, and so low the ceiling, that Blake's to an uninstructed outsider might have looked a very den of conspirators and thieves.

  Farthest from bar and door alike, no more really than an end of one of the long tables, was what was known as the Adventurers' Corner. This was not meant for common seamen (who only adventured their lives) but rather for men of affairs, who adventured their money. It was here that voyages were planned, profits counted. Nothing marked it off from the rest of the room, yet no man who was not an investor in the deal-at-hand would have the temerity to cross even a corner of that space, much less to sit there.

  Adam Long, who had never before been there, now as a part-owner of the schooner rated a seat in the Adventurers' Corner.

  Zephary Evans was there, a lank slabsided man with lugubrious eyes. Zeph was a shrewd business man, even though he did permit his wife to lead him around by his very large long nose. Every now and then he would swoop that nose down toward his pot, at the same time half raising the pot toward the nose, and he'd make timorous contact with his ale, acting as though he expected it to explode in his face. Then he'd put the pot down, and he'd straighten and stare in somber resentment at it.

  Next to Evans was Seth Selden, a smallish man with a face as malicious as that of a monkey. They did say that Seth was sprightly off soundings; but for all Adam knew of him, the man, w'fh his ramrod back, his holier-than-thou cold eyes, truly belonged in Boston, your proper port for disapprovers. Here in the ordinary tonight, disappointed as he was, outraged to have been passed by for a younger man, Seth sat straight, mouth drawn, chin high, while his nostrils seemed to twitch as though he found the odor of the place objectionable.

  There were three others in the Adventurers' Corner, owners of small parts of the schooner. Indeed, they were all there excepting Adam Long and Obadiah Selden. Adam was in no hurry.

  "Everything's ready, then?"

  "All bung-up and bilge-free, sir," said Resolved Forbes.

  "Good. Go back aboard. I'll be along soon."

  When the mate went, Adam did not move. He sensed that he was being looked at—or if not looked at, thought about. He'd known the

  feeling before, sometimes even in church. Oh, he had some friends, though he had never sought friends! But in any given gathering here in town he could feel hke a straining pile the weight of the dislike of him, the jealousy of him. Tonight it was worse than ever. Though no man glared at him, the air fairly crackled and spat, as with summer lightning. They said he was too big for his breeches. He didn't care. He'd be on the high seas soon.

  Obadiah Selden came in.

  Obe was a man of bulk—square, firm, solid. He walked as though wading through ankle-deep water, and his eyes, under busy brows, habitually were cast down. His lips were intwisted and tight, like those of a man who holds a mouthful of verjuice he doesn't dare either swallow or spit out.

  Ignoring his associates, he came directly to Adam.

  Adam rose to greet him. This was not merely because of respect for an older man. Obadiah Selden carried a heavy oak stick.

  "Captain Long," in a very low voice, "may I see you outside?"

  Adam said nothing, only went around the table and followed the man out, stepping aside to give him precedence at the doorway.

  Every eye in the tavern was on them.

  They went back to the place where Ben Blake had his well. There was a low wall around it. Even before they got there, before the older man spoke, Adam Long knew what Deborah had done; and in spite of himself, and his rage, his fear, too, he couldn't help admiring her.

  Still Obadiah Selden did not look at him. After a moment Obadiah said in a low voice: "My daughter has told me about—about you."

  Adam said nothing.

  They couldn't see the bay from here, but they heard the querulous squeal of the chains by which Thomas Hart's body hung.

  "The sailing must be postponed, so's you can get married. After that I'll pack you off fast enough! And keep you off! I'll send you here and there and everywhere— The child," added Obe Selden, dropping his voice again, "will be brought up to be a true God-fearing Christian. We can do that much anyway."

  It was so easy. This merchant would move him, the sailing man, from place to place on the surface of the globe, as readily as though he were a wooden piece in a game of draughts. No hint of examination. No breath of doubt. What was the word of a propertyless bastard? Why even ask for it?

  "We'll tell 'em in there"—Obe lifted his stick toward the tavern—"that the sailing must be postponed. You're the master. You can think of a reason."

  "No," said Adam.

  "Eh?"

  It was the first time Obadiah had actually looked at him, and the look fairly frightened Adam. The man's face was extremely dark, almost purple. He seemed scarcely able to breathe.

  "You haven't told me yet what your daughter said."

  "God strike you, ye whelp! You know well enough!"

  "Maybe if I was allowed to talk to your daughter alone—"

  "No, damn your soul to hell! You'll not talk with her again till you marry her—and not after that, either!"

  Adam said, very carefully, very quietly: "I didn't get her pregnant. 1 haven't had anything to do with her. And I won't marry her."

  "Why, you—"

  Adam could easily have avoided the blow. He was never to know why he hadn't. He saw Obadiah raise the stick; but he didn't stir.

  He felt it touch the left side of his head like the swift sting of a beer, and slish off his left ear.

  "Will ye have wore of that, ye misbegotten mongrel?"

  Adam made no answer.

  Obadiah raised the stick again; but after a moment, quivering, he lowered it. He turned suddenly, and stalked back to the tavern.

  Adam touched the side of his head, and his fingers came away wet. There wasn't enough moonlight for him to distinguish color; but he tasted it, and it was blood all right. So he fetched up the bucket from Ben Blake's well, and using a tip of the tail of his shirt he mopped the wound and cleaned it, and held the cloth there until the bleeding had stopped. Then he patted back his hair, straightened his coat and cravat, and went into the tavern to take his place, for the first time, in the Adventurers' Corner.

  4 It was as good as town meeting for the customers, for al-

  though the men concerned with the Goodwill tried to keep their voices at a seemly pitch they sometimes let their feelings get the better of them. In any event, even when the very words themselves couldn't be distinguished, everybody at Blake's knew what was being said.

  This was no organized association or committee, never had been. Obadiah Selden and Zephary Evans were the largest owners, and ordinarily Obadiah as the older would be looked upon as the chairman or moderator. Tonight Obadiah sat in silence, his chin on his chest.

  Seth Selden was no longer there: he had been called away while Adam was
out back with Obadiah.

  Zeph Evans did most of the talking.

  "No need to go over it all again," he told Adam. "Some were for you but most were against. 'Twas said you lacked experience."

  Adam made no response. His principal supporter, as everyone knew, had been Zeph Evans, who had won over Obe Selden. Neither Zeph nor Obadiah was likely to entrust any mentionable part of his property to a man who lacked experience; and they all knew that, too.

  "And then, you know how we feel about the charter—"

  Adam nodded. He did know this. Of the colonies, Rhode Island and Connecticut alone operated under their own charters and were not subject to royal governors, excepting naturally in admiralty matters and matters directly pertaining to the throne, such as treason. There were those in London who did not think this a good thing. The other colonies were sassy enough as it was, these men believed, without having before them such examples of all but independent states. Especially there were Lord Cornberry, the royal governor of New York, who covetously eyed Connecticut, and Colonel Joseph Dudley, royal governor of Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and vice admiral of all New England, who sought to annex Rhode Island. The best way to bring this about—that is, a revocation of the two charters and thus a squashing of the spirit of independence—would be, these two politicians were agreed, to send Home evidence concerning the notorious disregard of the Navigation Acts in these colonies, and especially in Rhode Island, and particularly in Newport. Step on financial toes and the yelp that resulted could be heard a long way. The conviction of Thomas Hart, the pirate, had helped. But there should be more.

  Yes, Adam Long knew this. Everybody knew it.

  "It's been said around town that you couldn't possibly have made enough money to buy a share of the vessel just by bespoke work here and the wages you made while you was at sea.You couldn't have."

  "I didn't," said Adam.

  " 'Tis said you must have done a bit of business now and then out at Contraband Cove."

  "Why, sure. And so did you." Adam looked around. "And you and you and you and you," he added.

  He leaned forward, hands on knees.

  "There isn't a man-jack at this table ain't had his share of smuggling. Why make any bones about it?"

  Nobody said anything. Nobody dared to.

  "And as for that story that I ever had any dealings with Thomas Hart two years ago, whoever says that is a liar."

  "Captain Hart himself wouldn't tell," Zeph Evans pointed out, "but somebody in this town was certainly his agent."

  "Somebody certainly was," Adam agreed, "but it wasn't me."

  "Do you know who it was?"

  "No."

  Zeph moved his hands as if seeking papers to shuffle.

  "Well anyway, as I say, one of our members has asked for another vote on whether the captain should be you or Seth Selden, and that's what we're going to do now. Even though Seth himself's not here."

  "You can't do that! You appointed me, two weeks ago!"

  "It's our boat," Zeph Evans said coldly.

  "Who was it suggested this?"

  Zeph did not answer. He didn't have to.

  Adam objected to the taking of the vote. He said that it was illegal. He said that it would destroy the confidence of possible future investors, not to mention that of sailors who might be signed on, if the owners got to juggling masters on the very eve of sailing.

  He raised his voice, and they looked reproachfully at him.

  He declared that while he did not have a written contract he did have what amounted to an unassailable verbal contract, each and every one of them having formally agreed to abide by the wishes of the majority in the matter of choosing a captain. That contract would stand up in any court of law, he averred; and unless he was permitted to sail tomorrow at dawn in full command of the schooner, without any further qualifications or modifications or interference, by God, sir, he'd sue.

  This gave them some pause. But in a moment they came to realize, without even having conferred, that in fact he had no contract at all, and what the whole thing came to was his wishes against theirs.

  They prepared to take a vote.

  "You can't do this!" he cried. He told them how he loved that schooner. How he knew her every block and plank, every trunnel even. How he had helped to design and build her, arguing about her, fitting her, fashioning her. He reminded them that after her launch he had sailed with her before the mast, and then, on her second voyage, at the nomination of her original master, the late Captain Welsh, as mate. He pointed out that he had made all his local arrangements for the sailing as skipper, cutting off his connections, leaving himself not even a cot ashore to sleep on. He told them that less than an hour ago, right here in this room, he had made a final check with his mate. "Why, even my chest's aboard!"

  "It can be taken off," said Obadiah Selden.

  They would have listened longer. They would have listened all night, if Adam could think of enough things to say. He couldn't.

  They took the vote.

  It was done in a dignified manner. Each sixteenth was one vote. There were no ballots. There was no raising of hands, or even of voices.

  With Seth Selden absent, the tally was: 13 for Seth, i (his own) for Adam.

  After that, one by one, they went out. Excepting Obadiah, each stopped by the stool where Adam sat long enough to bid him good night. He never answered. He sat there, slumped, staring at a tankard half full of ale that had gone flat.

  Others, too, left the ordinary. The tobacco smoke swirled, thinning. Ben Blake began to collect flagons and to snuff out candles.

  Soon even the murmurous sound of talk from the street died.

  There was only one candle left, and it guttered low:

  Ben Blake came over to him.

  "Sorry, Long." Not Captain Long or Mister Long, just Long now. "Sorry, but I'm closing up."

  Adam rose. The left side of his head hurt, where Obadiah had hit him. He went out.

  5 The moon was down. A land breeze had sprung up, setting

  the maples ashiver, slatching the surface of the bay: Adam Long's sailorman's cheek told him this the instant he stepped outside the tavern.

  The door was closed behind him, and the last candle was put out. He had the town to himself.

  There was no sense going to Mr. Sedgewick's. Mr. Sedgewick hadn't been conscious for two days, had not even recognized folks for more than a year. Adam had pulled out of there three days ago. All the same, his dragging feet led him in that direction—until, realizing where he was, he brought himself up short.

  Was he quitting? Was he going to let them do this to him?

  He stood, pondering. He had to do something. If he bowed to this decision, here is right where he'd stay—here in Newport—for the rest of his life. He knew that.

  But—what fight could he make?

  On his left, as now he noticed in the starshine, stood the town pillory.

  Not far from Mr. Sedgewick's house, it hadn't been used in years. Adam

  could remember a few times when somebody had been stood there, his

  neck held fast by the oaken beam; but even on those occasions the boys

  had never been given a chance to throw things at the head the man couldn't move, for there was always a bailiff stationed to guard the prisoner. Only once, in Adam's memory, had anyone been kept there for more than a few hours. This was a blasphemer and thief, a thoroughgoing reprobate named Sharpy Boardman, and not only had he been stood at the pillory all one day and all one night, but his ears, by order of the magistrate, had been nailed into place. Yes, a nail had been driven through the fleshy top of each ear and into the beam. It probably hadn't hurt Boardman much, he hadn't made a sound when they did it —Adam was there—but it meant that he could not even wriggle and roll his head as the others had done, which after a few hours must have been torture. Folks had felt bad about it, Adam knew. They had passed with averted heads, not wishing to seem to jeer. It had not been necessary to keep the boys fro
m throwing things.

  Nevertheless there Sharpy Boardman had stayed, all that day and all that night. In the night Adam Long could hear his groans. They were low groans, as if he didn't know he was making them; but they went on and on. Others must have heard them, but nobody else did anything. Adam, nine or ten at the time, couldn't sleep. At last he had sneaked down from the loft and filled a jack with water and carried it out to the man. He had held the jack up to the man's mouth. Adam was mighty scared! He'd have got whaled proper if he'd been caught! The man had drunk every bit of the water, Adam tipping the jack up for him: Adam had had to stand on his toes to do this.

  "God bless ye, lad!"

  "I couldn't get at the rum," Adam had said. "They put it where I can't reach it."

  Next morning, early, they had worked the nails out and hoisted the beam. By the sentence Sharpy Boardman should have remained there all that day, but the feeling was that he'd had enough—and maybe too much. Folks were a mite ashamed of the whole business, and the magistrate had signed a special commutation order. The pillory was never used after that, though it was left here, just as Adam Long faced it now, in order to serve as a warning to those who might be planning wickedness.

  They'd had cool milk and some spirits, too, and even some bread, when they loosed Sharpy Boardman; but he had paid no attention to these. He had not lingered to lave in his humiliation, but had run, staggered rather, down the hill to the harbor, where without hesitation he had taken the first berth that offered. They were needing men bad in those days, any kind of able-bodied man, and within three hours of the time he quit the pillory Sharpy Boardman was bound south for the islands. He had never been seen in Newport since.

  Well, dad-blame it, that was right! The ruffian's instinct was sound! Get out! Go to some place where your scars won't show, and where, even if they are seen, you can invent a story to account for them.

  Down the hill, then, to the edge of the bay.

  Adam Long, too, ran it.

  And presently he felt under his feet the blobby cobbles of the waterfront, and he stared across at Goodwill to Men.