Captain Adam (26 page)

Wingfield indeed was not so much bringing charges against Adam as he was hurling hard words at him in the hope of causing him to blurt 160

out in anger something that in a cooler moment he'd conceal—something useful to Colonel Dudley.

Or was it more than that, the reason for this spate of abuse? Could it be that Wingfield, uncertain, seeing that he was not well liked here, had taken refuge in bluster for bluster's sake, and now hoped to make an example of this whippersnapper Long? Could he have been told— there were plenty to tell him—that Adam had always been too big for his breeches? Had he resolved to take the wind out of Adam's sails before Adam could get a mite of way on?

Whatever it was, it was becoming intolerable, Adam couldn't listen to it much longer. And the crowd outside was really large now.

"I guess that's all we need to talk about." Adam turned on his stool. "You want to know anything more you know where to find me."

"Now damn it, no bastard of a Newgate whore's going to come in here and tell me that—"

Adam did not spring to his feet, but he got up right fast.

"All right, that's enough." He drew. "Draw!"

Here it became patent that the custos had not been trying to start a fight. His amazement was genuine. Though he had seen that Adam carried a sword, surely he had not dreamt that Adam knew how to use it.

It was equally evident that, though flabbergasted, he was not frightened. He, too, rose, and with alacrity. He, too, drew. When the astonishment had faded from them, there came into his eyes a glint of joy. Adam could all but hear the man say to himself: "Oho! now I can really teach the whelp to heel!"

In fact Captain Wingfield bowed—a very small, stiff bow, scarcely more than a curt inclination of the head. He glanced at the door: there was only one, and he stood near it.

"Can't fight here. Ceiling's too low. Go on outside."

"Not while you're standing there I won't."

"What's the matter—don't you trust me?"

"No."

That really riled the custos. The anger of his tirade had been in part simulated. Then he'd been astounded and immediately afterward amused and probably pleased, being sure of his own swordsmanship. Now he was sore. His chin went down, his small dark eyes blazed.

"I'll go out my own way," said Adam, and threw the stool he'd been sitting on through the window. "Meet you in the street!"

It was a tall window, though narrow, and he sprang to the sill and jumped backward, not looking where he was going. Bits of broken glass chickered around him. His blade was in position all the time, in case of a rush; but as he jumped he saw that Wingfield was racing through the door.

Adam landed easily; it was only a few feet. Men fell away from him. He ran around the corner of the building.

Wingfield was coming, sword high.

Adam's first emotion, when they engaged, was one of chuckling triumph. He didn't think then of the position of his feet or how he gripped his blade. Nor did he even do any feeling-out, as he should have done, or plan an attack, howsoever elementary. He simply sailed in.

It was a minor advantage he had, in the beginning, but it could count; and it amused him. For Wingfield not only had not expected him to draw but never supposed that he would know how to hold his weapon, much less that he would attack.

They had for footing wet rounded cobblestones. Adam slipped, in a lunge, and went to his right knee, his sword hand down; but he was up again swiftly. Wingfield slipped, retreating; but he was back in position before Adam could close. Wingfield retreated further.

There were men on both sides of them and likely enough these men were yelling. Adam didn't know. They told him afterward that he'd laughed aloud throughout the engagement, as though he was having a wonderful time; but he didn't know this, then.

Wingfield retreated. This might have been wholly because he was startled, as Adam supposed, or it might have been because he knew he was backing toward the wharf, where the footing would be better.

The wharf, a town property—simply the wharf to Adam, though it had recently been named Queen's Wharf—was packed gravel between planks and pilings. Wet, the gravel would be firm, not slippy.

Wingfield might have wished he could turn and run to this, but he didn't dare. But the moment he felt the gravel underfoot he made a stand. He caught Adam's blade low and clacked it off, and his own was in for a riposte that almost reached. Then he was back in position, grim.

Adam thrust again. Again he missed—and Wingfield stepped back several paces and lowered his point.

Adam stopped, panting, puzzled. But he kept his point in line.

"You're hit, sir," Wingfield shouted. "An affair of honor ends when one party's been hit!"

There were men on either side, yammering. It all sounded like click-etty-click-click.

Adam had known nothing, no burn or pain. He was breathing short but feeling fine. He was remembering not to grip his sword too hard. He looked past its point now, at Wingfield's face.

"This ain't an affair of honor. It's a brawl. Guard!"

He went in again.

Now he, too, was off the cobbles and onto the gravel. It felt good. He catstepped, his blade steady, threatening, threatening. Wingfield re-162

treated with a dainty sure step, a watchful fighter no longer flustered, who believed that his chance would come soon.

Now they were near the end of the wharf, not a long one.

Adam lunged again, full-length. He was very low, stretched close to the gravel. He had aimed for the right armpit, meaning to slip under the other's guard. Wingfield did not even tr)' to riposte, but arched in and went high on his toes, straightening his sword arm.

Adam's point fell short. Wingfield's was not accurately thrust, by inches. Otherwise Adam would have lost his right eye, perhaps his life, too. Adam sensed the steel go past his ear, though he couldn't have said whether he felt it, it was that close.

For a split-second then Adam knew fear—a tap, a touch, no more. He shook it off.

In fact, the advantage was his. He couldn't go further in—he was stretched full—but as he brought his left leg up for another lunge he knew that Wingfield would have to retreat further.

In the position he was in, Wingfield, about to be attacked again, had no choice. He jumped back—and his left heel struck the stringpiece at the end of the wharf.

That finished the fight. The stringpiece was only a few inches high, but the contact spilled Wingfield's balance. He had to parr)?, and he did; but he couldn't risk a riposte; and Adam pressed in.

Wingfield teetered. His right hand went high, then quickly low. His point was badly out of line.

Adam swept his blade up, no longer threatening with the point. To those who watched it must have seemed a brilliant stroke, but in fact it was easy. Anybody could have done it, just then.

Falling backward, waving his arms wildly, Wingfield no doubt had started to release his grip on the sword. Adam's rapier caught it full in the middle, threw it up, took it out of Wingfield's hand; and Wingfield went over backward into the water.

The sword, after pinwheeling high, fell at Adam's feet. He grinned at it quietly, and picked it up.

Men were all around him, babbling at him, laughing into his face. Other men were reaching down for Captain Wingfield, who made an almighty big fuss there in Narragansett Bay.

"You're hit, Adam!"'

"Punctured your shoulder!"

"Look, Captain, he got you right in the—"

Adam felt the place. It was wet, but then he was pretty wet all over, nigh to being as wet as his late opponent, what with the rain. But when he took his hand away and looked at it, there was blood. This astonished but did not dash him. It couldn't have been serious.

"A smitch of rum'll set that right," he said. "Come on, everybody." "A souvenir for you, Blake," he said soon afterward, when he tossed

Wingfield's weapon on the bar. He dropped some coins there, too. "And

drinks for my friends—all of them!"

O ^7 All lumpy with lemons, he slowed his step before the home t_J i of Obadiah Selden. There was a light in the big room but

none in Deborah's bedroom beside it, and he stood a moment looking at the bedroom window only a few feet away. There was enough light from the large room—the door must have been ajar—to show part of the bedroom wall, and he made out a sampler, marvelously neat, hanging in a frame:

Young Obadias,

David, Josias,

All were pious.

The rain had ceased only recently, and the late afternoon was overcast, dark as night. A breeze shivered the leaves of the maples, shaking loose a shower of raindrops which pittered all about him. He had climbed the hill fast, and what with this, and what with the ale at Blake's, he was a bit winded.

It was inevitable that his thoughts flew to the previous time he had paused at this spot. Then, a clear night, he had felt very pleased with himself, all the world being, as he supposed, just ahead of him. Now he was inclined to be somber. He rolled the lemons around in his pockets, rubbing them against one another, pleased with their sleek dry smoothness.

A shadow came to the window. It was Deborah. He could not tell whether she was facing him or had her back to him, and he didn't know whether, if she faced him, she could see him. But the lower pane was up, and on impulse Adam crossed the patch of grass.

"Deborah," gently.

She did not gasp, did not turn. She must be facing him. Yes, he could see more clearly now: she was facing him.

"I, uh, I'm glad you're not going to have a baby after all."

She didn't say anything, nor did she move. The town, for this hour, was singularly quiet. Lightning bugs began to appear, doggedly battling the breeze. Shaken, long-suspended raindrops thupped into the ground. 164

It was creepy, saying things to a shadow that didn't answer, or even stir. Maybe she did not hear him? He could have been mistaken about that window. He reached out. No, the pane was raised, sure enough, and his hand went right through and came to rest on the sill an inch from hers.

Now he heard a quick intake of breath, which made him feel more comfortable.

She cleared her throat, and that was a very small sound. It could be that she wasn't sure whether she could make any voice at all come.

"I never did think I was going to have a baby, Captain. How could I, when I've never been near a man?"

He shook his head, bewildered. Deborah Selden would not go skittering here and there in her talk, saying one thing when she meant another, flirting with words in order to flirt with him or whomever.

"Why'd you want to get married then?"

"I—I didn't just want to get married. I wanted to get married to vou."

"Well-"

"Have you forgotten that I asked you, right here, before I—I tried to play a deceit?"

"No, I ain't forgotten."

"You shied away. Oh, you was polite about it! But you thought—well, what you just said. That's only natural. And you didn't want to take another man's leavings."

"Aye," guardedly.

"So you went on down the hill. And you was to sail at dawn. And Father was just about to go down and meet with you and with the rest. So I went to him and—and lied. Must've hurt him something dreadful."

"Likely."

"Hurt you, too. But I counted on I'd make up to you by being such a good wife and—well, warm." 1 see.

"I never thought you'd do what you did."

"Nobody else thought so either. Didn't myself. Hard to know how you're going to act sometimes, till you're right there facing it."

"Mine was a wickedness. Not just because I broke the Ninth Commandment—"

"You sure did that."

"—but because it was such a cruelty to you and Father both. He believed me, and it wounded him. You didn't, and it embarrassed you. I misdoubt you still believe me?"

"Well-"

"Never mind. I'm glad you stopped. 1 was going to seek you out and tell you how sorry I am, but that might've been hard to do without

causing talk. But now I can tell you. I can say, Thank you, sir, for being so kind.' You were kind, Captain. You were polite and had sweet manners."

The lightning bugs rocked. The grass, wet, gleamed up at him.

"Guess I couldn't think what else to do," he muttered. "First time anybody'd ever asked me to marry 'em."

"It will be the last time I'll ask you, now that you know how I feel."

"Expect you'll find somebody else easy enough, with all you got to offer."

He was thinking of her breasts when he said that, though she might have supposed that he was thinking of her father's wealth, for she stiffened a mite. Then she relaxed. She put a hand over his, on the sill.

"Reckon I won't," she whispered. "If you won't take me, Adam, nobody's going to get me. I got to go now. Father's calling. Good night."

The pressure on his hand was gone, and he looked up and Deborah was no longer there, only the blank window, the far wall blank, too, except for the framed sampler, the exquisite needlework.

Young Obadias, David, Josias, All were pious.

He sighed. He was vummed if he knew what to make of the whole business. Well, she'd hear about Maisie soon—the whole town would— and then she might feel different.

All the same, it shook him, knowing that she had been like that all this time.

He drifted away, scarcely moving any faster than the fireflies. Not until he was off the grass and into the mud of the lane again did he remember the lemons. He'd meant to give her some. Indeed that was why he had gone to the window.

He took three of them from his pocket. They were sleek, bright, hard, a virulent yellow. He had brought them up the hill for Elnathan, truthfully, but he calculated she would not miss what she hadn't known she was going to get. It was a politeness: put it that way. Lemons were formal. There wasn't a housekeeper in town wouldn't squeak with delight, you handed her a lemon. They were thought of as gifts. If you had just come back from the islands, like Adam had, you were virtually expected to fish them out and pass them around among the womenfolks; though of course you could show favoritism, and if you were sparking some certain girl, she naturally got the most of 'em, or even all, for the town always jabbered, when a vessel was fresh in from the sugar islands, about who would get whose citrons and how many. 166