Knowing that his opponent could tear him apart with his hands or crush him in his arms, Scott retreated a step in order to use the bench a third time. Meanwhile the other Frenchmen began closing in, eager to help their shipmate. And while the tavern owner hesitated, the rangy fellow in the buckskin shirt jumped to his feet and whooped like an Indian. Advancing from behind, he grabbed two men by the napes of their necks and banged their heads together. The others, with the exception of the preoccupied Cordeau, turned on him ferociously.
The trader showed his teeth in a snarl. "I'm a ring-tailed roarer from th' mountains! I'm a catamount with a sore paw ... a she-bear with young 'uns! I'll whup th' lot of you furrin sonsabitches an' eat you for supper! Yee-ow!"
Silva contented himself with brandishing his cudgel and admonishing the onlooking sailors to keep out of the row. So long as the battlers remained away from the bar, they could do little damage to the property.
Scott lost the bench on the next swing, Cordeau grabbing it away from him. Before the man could use it as a weapon, though, Scott stepped in close and drove his fist against his belly. It was like hitting a wooden bulkhead; and he knew now that he had real trouble on his hands. The Frenchman retaliated with a roundhouse swing of the bench, which Scott ducked. As Big Georges whirled in the wake of his blow, Scott struck him on the side of the neck, knocking him farther off balance.
Yelling furiously, the seaman turned to face a flurry of hammer blows from Scott's fists. None had any effect on him; he was bigger, stronger, and almost insensible to pain. Lowering his shoulders and spreading his arms, he charged Scott. The latter leaped aside nimbly and tripped him, so that he crashed against the wall. Following up, Scott almost ran into the wicked embrace of the long arms. Even in dodging back, he stabbed with two fingers of his right hand at the hate-filled little eyes gleaming in the brutish face. His nails drew blood, although he missed the target.
Scott was no fool. He knew that only great good fortune could save him. He needed a pistol. Yet no thought of flight entered his mind. He was a fighter to the strong steel core of him. But he did have to retreat to avoid the murderous grip of the long arms. He was fighting for his life now, pitting courage and agility against a behemoth bent on murder. He darted in suddenly, trying to hit the man in the throat; and again he narrowly escaped being bear-hugged. He danced backward, and Cordeau put down his head and followed doggedly.
Just then the man from the mountains disposed of one of his foes, knocking the fellow into the huge sailor's path. Cordeau stumbled forward, and Scott rabbit-punched him on the back of the neck with the edge of his right hand. It was a terrible blow, and he followed it with another in the same place. Groggy but still on his feet, the Frenchman sagged forward, reaching blindly for his opponent.
Scott knew it was now or not at all. Dancing aside, he lashed out with his right foot, booting the half-dazed man in the groin. The terrible kick fetched a grunt of agony; and as Cordeau bent over, clutching his genitals, Scott struck downward with his fist. This time the rabbit punch was the finishing touch. Cordeau collapsed suddenly.
Breathing hard, Scott turned to face anyone else. He saw the trader rolling on the floor with one of the sailors, trying to gouge his eyes out with his thumbs. Another Frenchman danced about them, clutching a knife. Dimly recalling that the leathershirted frontiersman had taken his part, Scott leaped on the sailor with the knife, catching him by the wrist and snapping the bone. About then the trader got a scream of pain and surrender out of his opponent.
Winded, Scott and his ally faced each other. Scott was undamaged, except for a torn coat, but the other man was bloody and bruised. Together they looked around, eying the beaten and the nonbelligerents alike.
"Well, mister," the stranger said when it was apparent that nobody would challenge them, "seems as how we've whupped th' stinkin' furrin bastards. That'll I'arn 'em to try their tricks in these parts."
Scott looked past him at the girl Julia, who was wide-eyed and silent. He felt no desire for her now.
"My name's Hurst," the trader said, sticking out a hand decorated with a freshly chewed thumb. "Evan Hurst."
Taking the hand, Scott said: "Rogers. Scott Rogers."
"Ship cap'n?"
"Aye."
"Can you use a man that ain't never been to sea?"
Scott smiled, liking this man who fought to win. "The pay's twelve dollars a month."
"I'll take it, an' thankee. Don't matter to me where you're goin', how far or for how long. Can I sleep aboard tonight?"
Scott nodded and Hurst made a sign to the tavern owner, who produced a blanket roll, a long Pennsylvania rifle, a powder horn and a shot pouch from a hiding place behind the bar. Accepting them with a quick, keen glance at the rifle, Hurst laid a shilling down. "I reckon that'll take keer of whut I et an' drunk."
Scott looked again at the girl. She appeared frightened. He reached in his pocket and handed her a dollar. "For the drinks —and the company."
"I'm ready, cap'n," Hurst said at his shoulder.
Walking to the ship, Scott felt better than he had in days. The excitement and action had helped him immensely, and he was rather glad things had tinned out so. A while longer without a woman wouldn't hint him.
Peary greeted him jubilantly as he boarded the Caroline. "Good news! The money from Savannah is only a half day away. We got the news at the house a half hour ago and I came straight here to tell you."
"Good," Scott said with surprising calm. Then, noticing his brother-in-law's openly curious stare, he gestured toward Hurst. "New hand, Mr. Peary. Show him to the fo'c'sle. He can sign on in the morning. . . . Hurst, I'll keep that rifle for you."
The man handed it over hesitantly. "Take good care of 'er, sir. She's been a better friend to me than any man, an' I prize 'er right much."
10
BLESSED with more than her share of soldier's winds, which eliminated tacking, the Caroline lived up to her reputation as a fast sailer. She spoke a New England schooner laden with salt cod off Hispaniola before March blew itself out. Toward the middle of April she refilled her water casks at Pernambuco, Brazil. Early in May she was blown off course and came close to piling up on the infamous Guinea Coast of Africa. There she sighted a Portuguese slaver not long out of the Bight of Benin; and, crossing the equator, she was tailed for a day by a British man-o'-war of the antislavery patrol. Later in the month, rounding the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean, she lost a man when pooped by a towering sea during a full gale. Finally, with pitch starting from her seams because of the broiling heat of the dry season, she reached the equator again in the middle of June. Now, barely fifty miles off the pepper port of Tapanuli, Sumatra, she was more than thirteen thousand miles from home; and when a strange bark altered course for the obvious purpose of crossing her track, Scott armed his crew and ordered them to battle stations.
With his officers, he stood on the foredeck this blistering afternoon, watching the approach of the stranger. He was more curious than apprehensive; for during the outward voyage he had trained his men well, enforcing strict naval-type discipline, and they were honed to a good fighting edge. Peary had the long glass, trying to make out the colors of the bark; while Fox squinted under the hand he had raised to shade his eyes. Impatient, Scott was about to take the glass from the first mate when the lookout hailed the deck.