Captain Adam (30 page)

But there was Resolved Forbes, up on deck there. And—Adam suddenly remembered it—there was the new coat.

The coat was kept at the Hearth Cricket, where Adam had a room, it being altogether too spectacular a garment to be worn down by the river here—it would invite stones and muddy sticks. The serious abstemious Forbes, Old Sobersides himself, could not have been forced at pistolpoint to don such a coat. But it would fetch a fine price. Resolved Forbes, though he might disapprove of such pieces of frippery, would hardly be likely to overlook their value.

Adam seized his quill and in a moment had added a codicil:

"Save only my new coat, together with the waistcoat thereto, also the cocked hat, wch I give and bequeathe to R. Forbes, mate."

Feeling better, indeed humming, he went up on deck. Forbes saluted him; and the two stood watching the completion of the work.

"They're a good crew," Adam said after a while.

"Aye."

They were. The new bosun, Holyoake, if louder and less sure of himself than Jeth Gardner had been, was young—and he was spry, he was brisk. Abel Rellison still was with them, making a man's wages now, three shillings a month, which put him and John Bond into a position of great lordliness over the sailors from English ships. The two Negroes from Jamaica still were aboard, earning almost nothing, not caring, tolerably good workers, if slow. Then there were three strapping Newport boys, each the worth of any man. The Goodwill forecastle these days was a cheery clean place.

Skipper's gone balmy. Mate's on a spree. Running in circles On Scaredy-Cat Sea.

Adam harrumphecl.

"You should have all the new cargo aboard inside of three hours." "Aye, but not stowed, sir."

"Take her out in the stream, do your stowing there. No sense paying wharfage. Leave the Moses and one hand." "Aye, aye, sir."

"Have only one hook down. That's if the water allows it." Resolved Forbes looked sideways at him. "Might leave in a hurry, sir?" "Aye. I might have just killed a man." He said it matter-of-factly; and Mr. Forbes only nodded. "Shall I have somebody summon a chair, sir?" Adam shook his head.

"I'd admire to walk. I'll have to chair around later." "I, uh, if it should happen that this man kills you instead—" "There's a paper in my box, on top." "Aye, aye, sir."

A A The cuffs alone must have been eighteen inches deep.

J- -*• Hea\'y with gold braid, they were stiffened inside by wire.

The coat itself, where it was not brass buttons or braiding or turned-over yellow, was the red of a flame. It was made of moire silk. Getting into it, when you were already encased in a waistcoat that reached to your knees, was much like what getting into a suit of armor must have been.

Adam was spared the crowning glory of this costume—the periwig.

"Run you anywhere up to fifty guineas," Chumley had explained. "Spend your money like that, you won't have any left for me."

So Adam had his hair cropped short and bought one of these new three-cornered hats. At Clark's of an afternoon, Chumley had said, almost nobody was bewigged. They wore instead little linen or velvet caps, not unlike nightcaps, or tricorns; or some even sat down bare-headed. It was a highly informal place. And the circumstance that his hair was close-cropped would make Adam appear a man relaxed, a man who had left his fifty-guinea peruke at home.

"La, but you couldn't go out that way at night!"

"Of course not."

Now he gave a last loving pat to his cravat and toddled cautiously downstairs, the boniface having shouted that his chair was ready, Clark's

was scarcely half a mile away, but nobody save a fool would risk it afoot in a coat like this.

" 'Ail the conquering 'ero comes!"

This was Hal Bingham, making a to-do, as he did each day, about Adam's descent. The Hearth Cricket was patronized largely by seafaring men, not many of whom customarily sallied forth each afternoon in a coat that would have shamed Joseph's.

Adam liked the Hearth Cricket, as he liked Hal Bingham and his wife, their daughter Lil, the customers, the neighbors. Adam's day, this past week, had been divided sharply into three parts. In the morning he had gone about his business, chiefly buying, checking prices, being insulted by port officials, perhaps dropping in at Edward Lloyd's place in Abchurch Lane to look over the "ships' list" that enterprising proprietor posted. In the afternoon he would sit at Clark's, chatting with John Chumley, now and then meeting sundry meaningless minor toffs, and sipping wine, while he waited for Sir Jervis Johnston to appear. In the evening he sat before the fire at the inn. This was best. Back in his freedom suit, he would stretch his legs, hoist his jack, and talk and laugh. Except for their accent these folks were such as he might have known in Newport. Adam liked them, and it made his heart warm to see that they liked him. Indeed it got Adam all throat-lumpy every time he contemplated this coziness.

Today, however, the air of the ordinary was strained. Mine host and his virife clucked around Lillian, who was weeping.

Lil ran to Adam. He mussed her hair with one hand, giving her a smack on the backside with the other. Still blubbering, she giggled. She was six.

"They won't let me play outside!"

Hal said quickly: "She can run far's Loo Lane upstreet and the Thatched Roof downstreet, but only in daytime. She knows that."

Adam considered.

" 'Tis a short span, sure."

"Aye, and a few steps further," Goodwife Bingham cried, "might take 'er clear to the other side of the sea!"

"Bad as that?" Adam asked. "Even in daytime?"

"Bad as that," said Hal. "They'll be climbing in our windows pretty soon, snatching the babes right out of bed."

"Al Lamson's tyke, just about Lil's age here, she took a stroll last week —and they ain't seen nor hide nor hair of her since."

"Hardly seems possible— Where's the watch?"

"Wherever it's not needed. Don't you get Cap'n Long's coat all smeary there now!"

"She's all right," said Adam, an arm around her.

"Our one chick, y'see," said Hal. "Keeps up, we won't dare let her outdoors at all. Must be a gang of 'em working this neighborhood."

His wife sighed.

"Asking your pardon, Cap'n Long, but there's times I wish nobody'd ever discovered that America of yourn over there."

"Mary!"

"No harm," Adam said. "But we ain't all stolen nippers there, ma'am. We ain't all slaves. Folks in New England never even heard about these kidnappers, far as I know,"

"You tell 'em, when you go back."

"That I will, ma'am. I sure will."

He cupped Lillian's chin in a hand, and raised her face, and grinned down at her. She grinned back, tears and all.

"Now remember what your mother and father said, or I won't bring you a sugar bun today. Don't ever trust a strange man."

"I'd trust you," the child cried, and hugged him, "because you have on such a beautiful coat."

"A Londoner," said Adam.

The city seethed around his chair. Women screeched indefatigablv, and men fought. Why? As always, the great number of idle appalled Adam. The streets and the places of refreshment that led off them were crammed with men who sat or stood all day doing nothing. In Newrport when two or three were gathered together they worked while they talked, if they talked at all, and the subject of their conversation in such a case was likely to be, say, corporeal immortality, or perhaps the doctrine of moral inability in a fallen state. Here they droned of wenches, horse races, the price of gin.

All the noise, the fuss, the banging and slapping and kicking and stamping, the hubbub, the clamor—yet in a few hours, when night fell, an uneasy silence would fasten itself upon London; and the dust, if the day had been dry, would settle; while these brash boisterous persons, stricken dumb, scared, would disappear like worms that crawled back into the woodwork, leaving the streets still. It couldn't be, by Adam's reasoning, that all these persons had made themselves so uncomfortable in crushing so close together, in such a small and smelly place, purely for the purpose of safety. This, he'd heard, had been suggested by certain wiseacres. He did not believe it. He reckoned that nobody who had walked the streets of London after dark would ever believe it either. They frighted even him.

Yet he shouldn't whine. He was Home, wasn't he?

The chair was put down, the door opened.

"Clark's, your worship."

Now this, though a wooden pot was fastened above the door, was no typical coffee house. Technically it was public; it was licensed. You went in unchallenged, and paid your penny at the bar, but when you sat down you weren't served—not unless you were known. Clark's atmosphere was different, as was, too, its very appearance. There was no sand on the floor. No advertisements were pasted on unpainted walls. Spittoons were not scattered about. The ceiling wasn't low, grimy. The barmaid—barmaids and the nasty English habits of spitting and of picking the teeth were what most shocked Adam about London—was not called Phyllis, as she was virtually everywhere else. At Clark's there were no readings of the public prints, nor were there auction sales conducted by inch of candle. Nothing vulgar like that.

John Chumley was in his accustomed corner.

"Just sent for a bottle. You're in time to pay for it."

Adam nodded. He was getting used to this.

Chumley took the churchwarden out of his mouth, and yawned.

"Old Clark's pressing a bit for a couple of quid I owe him. Settle it up, won't you, my sweet chicken, my chick?"

Adam took the coins from a pocket, and he spun one on the table.

"We've been doing this for a week," he reminded Chumley.

The latter's smile was sleepy.

"I know, I know. But I've not doodled you, my dear, believe me. This sort of thing is much the best when it appears to be done by chance, so to say. If we sought out Jerve Johnston 'twould be too crude—and not public enough. A man likes to get credit, among his peers, for the number of times he's called out. You see?"

"But when is Johnston ever going to he here?"

"He's here right now. Came in five minutes ago."

A t^ What Adam saw at first was not the man he meant to kill. J- ^ He saw a mist, through which gleamed the green-flecked eyes of Maisie.

"The longish one in blue, with the Mechlin cap."

It is the traditional delight of the lover in separation to keep the memory of the loved one fresh by turning it over and over, regarding fondly but attentively every aspect of it, seeking out each detail. Adam Long was not concerned with tradition. He loved Maisie all right, and he was

sick for the sight of her again; but that was just it—he couldn't afford to be sick. As much as he was able, he must keep Maisie out of his mind. She was bad for his work.

Yet he saw her now as he looked across the smoke-filled room to the place where his mortal enemy sat. He saw her as first he'd known her, the long-legged lass who used to stand at the taffrail and look wistfully' across the emptiness of the sea.

He shook his head to clear it. He wiped his mouth.

Summoned by that effort of will, like a genie invoked by carefully concocted magic, Sir Jervis Johnston came into focus.

He was stick-thin and tall. His hands were beringed, his throat be-laced. He spoke in a high-pitched drawl. He waved his kerchief, and negligently took snuff. He rolled his eyes.

At a glance, then, a fool. But as Adam studied him, the man's restless strength somehow showed through. Johnston twitched with trivialities; vet despite these, and despite the fact that his every word and movement were thought out, he was a person to fear. How Adam sensed this he couldn't have said; but he did sense it.

Even at Clark's, where to be listless, to be languid, was almost a requirement for entrance, Johnston attracted attention. Though there was nothing so common as a craning of necks, Adam's ear, sharpened by a week's practice, caught the slight but significant change of tone. Jack-a-dandies in corners yawned in one another's faces and wearily swapped gossip; but they were out of eye-ends gazing at the newcomer.

Sir Jervis Johnston couldn't afford to gamble, had no interest in the life at court, wasn't military. There were two places where he shone, where his exploits were fabulous: on the field of honor or in a lady's bedchamber he was, they tittered, without a peer. His every triumph in each of these chosen fields was known to his fellow customers at Clark's —the only public that interested him.

"What do we do?" asked Adam in a voice that seemed to come from far away. "Do we pull his hat down over his eyes?"

"No, no, no, no! After an hour or so you and I'll drift over to his table, and I shall introduce you. Jerve'll undoubtedly ask us to have a glass of wine, and then when you fall to chatting you'll say that positively you don't swoon at the sight of his coat or that you would be glad to have your servant instruct his servant how to make up a proper cravat. That's all."

"I ain't got a servant."

"It doesn't matter."

"But will he know he's been mortally insulted then?"

"He'll know. He has a very keen ear for such things. Then we'll drift back here, and after maybe half an hour Jerve'll ask the waiter to fetch 190

writing materials and he'll compose a note to you, asking you if you wouldn't care to retract your remark. You'll read this and toss it aside. Then later you'W call for writing materials and—" Chumley broke off to grip Adam's arm. "See here, you can write, can't you?" 1 can write.

"Good. So you simply tell him that you don't feel you should modify your remark, and you subscribe yourself his worship's most humble and most obedient servant—and send it by the waiter."

"Then what?"

"I take care of the rest. You don't have to do any more."

"Except fight the man."

"You won't fight. You'll meet but you won't jight. Remember that."

Adam nodded. He had no intention of making an apology, but neither did he have any intention of telling Chumley this.

"Then what do we do?"

"Then we all share another bottle of wine—"

"I pay for that one, too?"