Captain Adam

by Chidsey, Donald Barr, 1902-1981

  To any but a lover's eye this vessel might have seemed a monstrosity. It was longish and most astoundingly thin: it must have been four or five times as long as it was broad, this schooner. It scobberlotched in other respects. That there was no forward castle was not extraordinary —many vessels were built that way nowadays—but there was no after castle either! A man on the poop—or where the poop would have been if there had been a poop—was but little higher above the water than one in the waist, which wasn't, properly speaking, a waist at all. The bowsprit was scarcely steeved but extended out at much the same angle as the deck itself, nearly parallel to the water. The tall sticks weren't sparred. The bows were not apple-cheeked, as bows should be, to push the water away, but sucked-in, giving the whole forward part of the hull a knifelike appearance. Come a good high sea, the old-timers around the yard used to predict while Goodwill was building, and that crazy craft would dive right plumb into it and never come up again.

  Nineteen out of twenty saw the schooner this way, as a freak.

  The twentieth saw it as an interesting if disconcerting experiment.

  Adam Long saw her as a bride.

  A bride for somebody else?

  He wheeled around, hands clenched, scowling, as though at a shouted challenge from the town, which, however, slumbered on. He glared at it, as at a rival for the affections of his beloved.

  He must get out of here! He had his fortune to make, and they weren't going to hold him up—not any longer!

  The white Moses boat, the schooner's gig, was not paintered to the stringpiece, as it should have been, and to find another boat at this hour might be difficult or noisy—or both. Well, he didn't need a boat.

  He took his shoes off and stuck them into the pockets of his coat.

  The water was cold, and he swam swiftly, lungingly, weighted by his clothes, but dogged, making scarcely a ripple.

  Resolved Forbes popped his eyes with an almost audible click when his captain pulled himself over the larboard gunwale.

  "This'll hold through morning. Let's have the hook up."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Afraid of fresh air, as sailors so often are, the hands had closed the 24

  forecastle hatch. Resolved Forbes flung it open, shouted an order. He returned to Adam.

  "Reason why the Moses wasn't there—"

  "I was about to ask you that, Mister."

  "Man named Seth Selden came aboard with her, little while ago. Said he's an owner. Said he'd decided to go along, as a passenger."

  Adam nodded amiably.

  "Drunk?"

  "He was getting that way."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Asleep in your bunk, sir. Should I put him ashore?"

  With a minimum of grumbling, all things considered, sleepy men walked the capstan. Jethro Gardner, the hard-bitten bosun, made for the halyards. Adam himself took the tiller. He shook his head.

  "No." He doubted that there was anything in this part of the world could catch Goodwill, but he wasn't going to take any chances of Seth's raising the town. Wait till they'd left Brenton's Reef well astern. "We could use an extra hand. Let him asleep. I'll take care of him later."

  You had to pay some way for all that speed. Goodwill to Men in any kind of sea was a roller. She was a pitcher, too, and would take over all sorts of green water, which fact, together with the sucked-in bows and quarters even more cramped than was customary, made the forecastle in dirty weather a miserable place. The officers' cabin, a tiny one reached by ladder through a slide-hatch on the after deck near the tiller, was scarcely more commodious, though it was less likely to be wet.

  When Adam Long went below, dawn was graying the deck and the vessel was truly outside, standing about in a lively manner, but booming.

  In the middle of the cabin was his own sea chest and on top of that Seth Selden's. Resolved Forbes' effects were neatly stowed away in the larboard locker and his chest was under the larboard bunk. On the starboard bunk, asleep, indeed snoring, was Seth Selden.

  This was the captain's berth, to which Seth had not lingered to hear himself elected. Here was, in fact, though he didn't know it, the real skipper, the legal one.

  In his two hands, upright, though the cork was out, was a bottle of rum, half empty. It was good rum, too, as Adam knew, who'd bought it —no dunder, nine pence a bottle. Adam corked it and put it away. He stood a moment, staring at the mean-faced man. He began to grin.

  He drew back his right foot.

  A portion of Seth Selden's backside hung over the edge of the bunk. It was not a large target; and Adam might have done better, too, with more room to swing in—nevertheless the kick was a hearty one and it slammed Seth against the bulkhead, so that he woke screeching.

  Adam grabbed him by the front of his fearnought and yanked him off the bunk and to the foot of the ladder, not far. He drew back a fist as red and almost as large as a Westphalian ham.

  "Stowaway, eh? Well, we'll keep you busy! You want to get along on this vessel, Mr. Stowaway, you'd better learn to listen to the captain!"

  Seth looked at the fist. He wet his lips.

  "Do I make myself clear?" asked Adam Long.

  Seth nodded.

  Then Adam seized him fore and aft—collar of fearnought, seat of breeches.

  "You, up there! Stow these things in the forecastle!"

  He heaved Seth to the deck. He heaved Seth's chest after him.

  Adam took off and hung up his freedom suit. It was not a very good suit, the sort of thing Mr. Sedgewick would give him, having been legally obliged to. Adam would get better suits soon, much better ones; but he thought that he might always save this one.

  It swung back and forth with the movement of the schooner.

  Naked then as the day he was born, Adam Long knelt and said his prayers. Afterward he got into the starboard bunk and turned his face to the wall. There were tears in his eyes, he didn't know why. He must have been mighty wrought-up. It was some time before he fell asleep.

  PART TWO

  Won't Anybody Buy My Eels

  6 There is not much that's noble about a bowsprit, at least to

  a sailing man, who thinks of it primarily as a thing you sit over when you want to relieve yourself—the head of the vessel, dedicated to a practice not good for neatness when she's climbing into weather-but the Goodwill bowsprit was something special. To Adam Long it was a humbling post, an article to be gazed on as another might gaze on a skull, an hourglass, or some similar memento mori.

  For Adam had opposed this bowsprit. He would have had it steeved at a much sharper angle. Goodivilly though more or less a community venture, represented the most advanced ideas in design. "The ship of the future," a few proudly averred. "A tarnation freak," said others. Throughout her building the yard had been visited by men who shook their heads, clucked their tongues.

  "She won't even float, that hooker! She won't float!"

  A lad of less than twenty then, a 'prentice who had never been to sea except as a baby when his mother brought him over, Adam nevertheless had insisted upon plenty to say about the construction of Goodwill; and in most matters, indeed in all but this one, he had been loud on the side of the ahead-lookers. But concerning the bowsprit he'd gone conservative. A straight-out sprit would weaken the hull. The elimination of the sprit-sail—there just wouldn't be room for a spritsail the way they were building Goodwill—would cost speed. It would put too great a strain on the sticks. It would make the whole vessel look silly.

  Well, he'd been crashingly wrong; and this was his private scourge. He had vowed that whenever he felt himself waxing cocksure he would go forward and have a good long look at that bowsprit.

  He did this the first morning out. The day was a dandy. Goodwill fairly leapt through the water, and all was atauto aloft and alow—in Jeth Gardner the bosun's phrase they had cracked on everything but the cook's shirt. The seas danced bright in the sun.

  Peterson, a sullen man, lumpy, grumpy, strong but not willing, and Eb Water
s, who hailed from Massachusetts and was otherwise objection-

  able, occupied the sprit this morning. Captain Long smiled at them.

  "Prayers when you're finished," Adam called. "Eight bells."

  Peterson hawked, spat.

  "I aim to be here a long time," he said.

  "So do I," said Eb Waters.

  "Five minutes," conceded Adam.

  It was perhaps a good thing, this early example. Adam gave them seven minutes, and then, when they all but refused to obey an order, he made things clear. It was necessary to knock Peterson down and to all but break Waters' arm; but it was worth the trouble.

  The others, with a single exception, gave forth no squawk when they learned about prayers-every-morning. Most of them reckoned they'd only have to work during that time anyway, and they'd liefer pray than work, as who wouldn't? They were the more mollified when Adam announced that the Sabbath was to be respected aboard of this vessel. Most skippers, though they might be churchgoers ashore, stuck to the slogan "No Sundays off soundings"; but Adam Long had other ideas.

  "Says in the Book we should keep the Sabbath, and it don't say anything about land or sea or what-not."

  Unexpectedly it was Seth Selden the sanctimonious who found the fact of daily Bible readings irksome.

  "Religion is for the home," he grumbled.

  "You stand up, and you close your eyes when I say the prayer," said Adam Long, "or I'll break the bridge of your nose."

  Seth had a hangover that first morning, but he grumped every morning pretty much the same way. In other matters he was unexpectedly cheerful. Adam had been prepared for whining, or maybe an attempt to assert his claim to the captaincy, but Seth seemed happy. A good sailing man, he came for nothing. He had not been signed on, so he rated no wages. Not only that, but Adam charged him fourpence ha'penny for the rum he had drunk—exactly what Adam himself had paid for it—and made a note to this effect under Seth's ownership account.

  There were many cases of men, skippers and mates mostly, who were mild-mannered ashore but fiends once they got out of sight of land. Seth was almost the other way 'round. So far from complaining, Seth settled down cheerfully, the chirkiest hand in the forecastle.

  How much of this was real and how much put on, Adam didn't know. He gave Seth no more than the usual reasons for grumbling; but there were times when he caught the "stowaway" studying him with a look that fairly dripped with venom. Seth wouldn't do anything—now. But he was not likely to forget.

  Two days out Adam learned why Seth had been so eager to make this voyage, in whatever capacity. 28

  He was awakened by the bosun Jethro Gardner, who had the graveyard watch. Jeth, a compact old man in his forties, habitually wore an expression of disgust, and he was not given to idle chitchat.

  "Two sail. French. We're smacketty-dab atween 'em."

  Adam woke up all over, as a good sailor should, and a second later he was topside, thoughtfully scratching his rump and studying the sails.

  "Aye, they're French."

  Dawn had surprised the Goodwill in a spot almost exactly halfway between the two war vessels, a frigate and a sloop.

  Adam sighed and went below and got dressed.

  The lieutenant spoke English. He was young. The first thing he did was ask if there was any news of the war.

  "Has it been declared? We've been twelve weeks at sea."

  Adam shook his head..

  "Left Newport yesterday morning, early. No news of it then."

  The Frenchman shrugged. He looked around.

  GoodvAll to Men was trim and to her master's eye beautiful; but hove-to, close-up, she was not notably rich in appearance. The Frenchman all but sneered. His gaze was accustomed to brass and the varnished surfaces of a warship. There was nothing of that here.

  "Let's see your papers."

  Excepting the logbook and the "X"ed list of the crew, there was only one paper, a "Contrackt of Affreightment," actually nothing but a bill-of-lading. This had the cargo itemized and cleared out of Newport, but it didn't say where the cargo was to be taken—for the sufficient reason that nobody knew. There were some hoops and pipe staves, and some salted fish, too, but the greatest part of the space below was taken up with dried eels, and it was Adam's plan to peddle these around and get the best price that offered, no matter where. There was hardly a planter down in those parts, whether Spanish, English, French, or Dutch, who didn't have trouble finding fodder for his slaves. The blacks multiplied, and the land itself produced only coffee and sugar, no game, no grain, not much livestock. Food, food—they always needed food! And Adam planned to sell it to them, somewhere.

  The lieutenant pointed this out.

  "You'll probably go to an English place. By that time war will have been declared. So we'd better arrest you now."

  "You can't do that!"

  The lieutenant shrugged.

  "We're making for Havana. The Spaniards are our allies now. Appeal your case there—in Cuba. If we've done wrong, you'll be released."

  Yes, Adam thought bitterly, be released after we'd wasted months in

  the worst yellow-fever port in the world and given away all our coin in bribes; and by that time the eels would be spoiled anyway.

  He put this into words, but the lieutenant only shrugged again.

  "I'll send over a prize crew. Now if you only had evidence of destination—"

  "Don't you reckon Denmark would take that unkind, Monsecr?" said Seth Selden, who had appeared on the ladder. "Seems to me I'd heard your country's being mighty sweet toward Denmark these days."

  This was in Adam's cabin, and Adam had known that everybody else aboard would be around the slide up there, listening; but he resented Seth's intrusion.

  "Denmark? " said the lieutenant.

  "That's where these eels is to go to. Well, Ostnabrueck. Which is a Danish colony. You want I should get out that paper, Cap'n?"

  Adam grunted, more in amazement than assent, but Seth headed unhesitatingly for his, Adam's, own chest. Seth opened this and made as if to take a paper from it, though in truth he took the paper out of his own shirt, as Adam, who was nearer than the Frenchman, saw.

  It was crowded in that cabin. There was scarcely room to unfold the paper, which was the most impressive document Adam Long had ever seen and fairly crackled with ribbons and seals. Adam couldn't read a word of it; but then, neither could the lieutenant.

  A French matelot tried to climb down, but there wasn't room, so he spoke his message from one of the top rungs. Adam sensed that there had been a signal sent from the frigate, where they were waxing impatient. Whatever it was, the lieutenant gave a cross answer.

  "See, there's Ostnabrueck," said Seth Selden, pointing.

  "Never heard of it," said the lieutenant.

  "It's south of the Leewards, a mite over Trinidad way. Danish."

  "Oh."

  "And this here, this's the list of cargo. See that word 'kivkeet'? That means 'eel'—in Danish, of course."

  "Of course," murmured the lieutenant.

  "And that word, see? That means 'April.' We're late now."

  "Overdue," said Adam, catching on.

  "Very well," the lieutenant said. "You're hardly worth seizing anyway. I must get back to my ship."

  Afterward Adam looked sideways at the "stowaway."

  "Just what is that thing?" he asked at last, pointing to the document that now stuck out of Seth's shirt.

  "Don't righdy know, Cap'n. I bought it from a drunken Danish sailor one night. I think he said it was a fishing license."

  "Oh."

  "I got a lot of things like that, in different languages. Some of 'em I bought, some I wrote out. Fm a good hand with a pen, Cap'n."

  "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." isee.

  "I still got those papers and so-forth, you should ever want a handsome-looking document."

  "I'll let you know if I do."

  7 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.