"Beautiful night, sir."
Scott glanced at the riding lights of a half-dozen ships anchored or tied up nearby. He didn't want to talk. But he said, "Mr. Peary aboard?"
"No, sir. He left before dark. He said—"
Scott cut off the flow of words. "It doesn't matter. No reason he should be. Nothing for him to do."
Fox looked seaward. "We've lost two fine sailing days."
Scott grunted, now staring toward the inviting land, where warm streaks and puddles of yellow light escaped from taverns and brothels fronting on the water. From far away came the faint, lively sound of accordion music. Suddenly he knotted his right hand into a fist and struck the palm of his left three or four times, making a staccato sound.
Fox eyed him curiously. "Mr. Lloyd was aboard this afternoon while you were ashore. He said they'd started a clerk to Savannah on horseback to find out what's holding up the money."
Scott struck fist into palm again. "Both Mr. Peary and Captain Rousseau told me." He paused for a minute, feeling himself drawn by the lights and the distant music. He'd been in most of the places whose lights he could see; but not since he had met Rowena. Not a city block from the quay where the Caroline was tied up was the Silver Palin, a tavern which once he had frequented. "I'm going ashore, Fox."
The second officer approved the idea. "You need to relax, sir. You've been working pretty hard."
Scott went to his cabin to get his hat and coat. There he stood for a moment in indecision, feeling himself torn two ways. Finally he took off the locket containing his wife's picture and stowed it in a drawer of his desk. Then with a sigh, he went ashore and set his course for the Silver Palm, which occupied a two-story frame building.
The taproom was fairly crowded by a dozen noisy seamen, half as many women, and one fellow who sat a little apart and who appeared different from the sailors because he wore a buckskin shirt with fringes at the shoulders. The room itself was much as Scott remembered it, reeking of spilled liquors, stale tobacco smoke, cheap perfume and sweaty, unwashed humanity. It was lighted by a couple of smoking oil lamps, which put out a stink all of their own; and at one end of the bar was a shadowy flight of steps leading to the small upstairs cubicles which patrons could rent by the week, day or hour.
Jack Silva, the man who ran the place, recognized Scott after a half-minute of squinting. He spoke with a mixture of familiarity and obsequiousness. "Captain Rogers, sir! It's a pleasure to see you again, sir!"
Scott didn't bother to make conversation with the fellow. He spoke shortly. "Grog."
"Sit down, won't you, sir? Take the end of that long table, where you'll be apart from the others. Julia'll bring your drink. She's new, sir."
The man in the buckskin shirt, a trader from the Cherokee country, regarded Scott appraisingly, but without rudeness. He was a loose-limbed, almost gangling fellow with clubbed hair, dimpled chin, and small, round black eyes; and on him the veneer of civilization was little more than a thin shellac. The sailors, half of whom were from a French merchantman, simmered down a little. Recalling his own days before the mast, Scott felt a little uncomfortable. The Silver Palm, after all, was not a tavern frequented by reputable shipmasters; and Silva, the owner, was no more than a Portuguese whoremonger.
A small, dark girl, pretty despite an overabundance of rouge, detached herself from the Frenchmen at a signal from her employer. A few moments later she brought Scott his grog and, without invitation, seated herself beside him. The seamen she had been with frowned their displeasure, which Scott noticed.
"Ain't you too much the gentleman to be in a place like this by yourself?" she asked abruptly.
He eyed her, seeing that her figure was good, something her too tight dress did nothing to conceal. Against her animal magnetism, which drew him immediately, was arrayed the combination of too powerful perfume, the thick overlay of rouge, and rather grimy hands. He smiled slowly, thinking that a year or so ago he would have observed none of these things. "I've been here before. But not in a long while."
She put her elbows on the plank table and rested her chin in her hands. "Well, you look like the kind of man who'd climb in the world. You're the kind of man for me."
He nodded toward the surly foreign sailors. "What about your friends over there?"
She shrugged. "Them Froggies! They wont give me no trouble. I'd rather be with you. Besides, they're stingy."
"Ill buy you a drink for that," he said dryly.
"You already have. Didn't you notice?"
He looked at the cup in her hand. "So I have. I'm not surprised."
"Ain't it the same everywhere?"
"Pretty much, I guess."
She moved a little closer, making it easier for him to peer into the cleft between powdered breasts. "You didn't come here for a drink. I can tell that. I don't go to bed with every customer of this place, but I can be had by the right one."
His eyes rested on her hands and turned sad. Places like this and women like her weren't for him any longer, but he'd had to come here to find it out. The tension in him tightened.
"You want a woman, don't you, sugar?" she asked, leaning against him.
Yes, I do, he thought, unhappily aware of his new inhibitions; but I want one I can take without reservations. The things about you that set my teeth on edge are things that never used to upset me. But I suppose it'll have to be you; I don't see anybody better here.
"Well?" she persisted huskily, laying a warm palm on his I thigh. "Don't you want me?"
He didn't have to answer; for suddenly the French seamen stood across the table from them in a body. Their leader was a huge fellow with a small, pear-shaped head and the long arms and massive shoulders of a gorilla. Scott, who had faced up to such situations before, knew he probably had a fight on his hands. He tightened his grip on the half-emptied cup of rum and water as he coolly returned the glowering stare of the big sailor, who appeared much more belligerent than his fellows. Whip him, he thought, and the rest'll turn tail; they don't really want any trouble with me.
The trader turned to the American seamen, who were watching interestedly. "You fellows ain't goin' to stand by an' see them damn' furriners beat up a good American, are you?"
A tar spoke out of the side of his mouth. "I c'n tell from th' cut of his jib that he's a shipmaster, an' if a shipmaster ain't got no more sense than to come into this place, then he'll damn' well have to look out for hisself. That gal was with them Froggies an' lovin' 'em all until he come in."
Silva came from behind his bar, a heavy stick in his hand. "Let's don't have no trouble, men."
The Frenchmen jabbered among themselves, all except their leader. His brutish face darkened dangerously as he met Scott's unwinking gaze. Then he pounded his chest with a huge fist. "Je suis Georges Cordeau."
The boastful tone irritated Scott. "So?"
"Big Georges—me!"
Big son-of-a-bitch and mean, too, Scott thought, watching the fellow's face. He said nothing more.
Cordeau moved with surprising speed, reaching across the table and catching the girl by the arm. He jerked powerfully, yanking her toward him and overturning the long table in the process. She let out a screech of mingled fury and fear.
Scott reacted with the cold precision he long since had learned to use in dealing with dull-witted fellows who respected only brute force. He had come up in the hard school of fist, boot, marlinespike and belaying pin; the academy in which the officer had to win to preserve discipline. In a series of reflex actions he got up, balanced himself on the balls of his feet, flipped the remainder of his drink into the fellow's face, caught up the bench on which he had been sitting and swung it sideways against the giant's head. Half-blinded, the man staggered under the blow, letting go the girl and venting his rage in a roar that bounced off the dirty walls. Swiftly Scott struck again, but this time the fellow fended the blow with an arm in which the muscles were like thick cords, then reached hungrily for him.