Well, something had to happen, and happen fast. He was the skipper.
Peterson was the one to flatten—first. Then wheel on young Rellison, who was thinking of yanking out the tiller bar but who could be caught before he made up his mind. Jeth would leap on Waters—and hold off John Bond.
And of course yell bloody murder all the while, which would rouse Resolved Forbes.
Yet if Peterson didn't go down-He took a step toward Peterson, a big man.
"Boats abeam us! Larboardl"
It would not be necessary to shout for Resolved Forbes. The mate had waked of his own accord; or it could be he had been awakened by some deep instinct, some seventh sense, signaling peril. Blinking in the late afternoon sunshine which goldplated the deck, he had emerged from the forecastle—to see something none of them had yet noticed.
From the dark low shore of Cuba, a few scant miles away, boats were putting out. They were small boats, and though some had masts, none spread a sail, for canvas would have been useless in that calm.
There was no town in sight on that shore, no sign of habitation, and smoke did not rise anywhere. But there were many of these boats—dozens of them, scores.
They were making for the schooner.
Nobody hesitated to obey Adam. The family fight was over, or at least suspended.
Adam ordered out the sweeps. Every inch of canvas already was spread, and it was Goodwill's lightest suit of sails, but there wasn't enough wind to shiver the reefpoints.
The sweeps alone would not move the vessel fast enough to get away from these coasters, who could swarm over it before the coming of night, or immediately thereafter. The best Adam could hope for was to get a movement that might help pick up some stray breeze and hold the schooner ahead of the coasters until after dark. Once the sun had gone down there was an excellent chance of a land breeze that would take Goodwill away from this shore.
There were six sweeps, ash oars long and clumsy. Adam ordered the Moses over, together with a cable, assigning Peterson and Waters, stout backs, to this pull.
The coasters got closer. They did not appear to hurry. They knew what they were doing, had done it before.
Six sweeps, five men. Adam hollered for Maisie, who came promptly. He pointed to a sweep. She made no fuss, wasted no time.
Though they strained mightily, the sweat rolling down them, Goodwill barely stirred. It rained; and they toiled on; and the rain went away; but they had scarcely moved.
The coasters, the wreckers, crept closer. More and more of them kept putting out—it was a large fleet.
Adam rested on his sweep, studying them. They were scarcely working, with their small boats, yet they would certainly overhaul Goodwill before the sun, smearing the sky with red right now, scrounched down behind Cuba. They knew these blind spots off their coast. They were sure of themselves.
"This won't be enough," Maisie panted.
"Aye."
Adam thought of, and winced to think of all those dirty beastly men on his schooner, scrabbling aboard of her, swarming over her. They were vermin; and Goodwill was clean, always had been clean. Doubtless they'd burn her after stripping her of all her fittings. But it was not this thought that chilled her master. It was the thought of them polluting her, making her all sticky with their nastiness.
He went to the gunwale. He couldn't even be sure that they were moving at all. He looked up at the canvas. Reddened, it still hung without life.
"All right, stop it," Adam called. "Jeth, have the boat in."
"What're you going to do?" asked the bosun.
To Maisie, Adam said: "Go below again. I don't want them to see you."
He pulled in her sweep and shipped it, as he had done with his own. He doubted that the coasters had seen those sweeps. The Moses, yes; but there would be nothing to indicate, from that distance, that the Moses was striving to tow.
"It's something," pleaded Jethro Gardner.
"Ain't enough," Adam said.
"But we can't fight 'em!"
"No," said Adam. "We can't fight them."
He got out his glass and studied the coasters.
Here were no storybook characters. They did not sport earrings, bandannas, wide-topped boots. They did not aspire to roam the seas, never dreamed of capturing any big prize. Small pickings were what they lived on. Like carrion, like garbage-grabbing buzzards, they sat and waited until their intended victim was dead or all but dead—and then they struck. Yet petty though they were, and despicable, they were pirates. If they were caught, they'd be hanged—and they knew it. These men would not leave evidence.
They kept coming. There was no bravado among them, no show of ferocity. They acted rather like men on a picnic. They hailed one another, laughed and talked, brought their boats together in small groups, passed bottles. They did not get nearer to the schooner than about two hundred yards, and then only on the land side: they did not surround their prey.
No terms were offered; none were asked. No flags were flown or signals made. The coasters rocked where they were, obscene men in dirty little boats, their numbers growing all the time. The land breeze would not come until after dark. They'd strike before it came. That was what they were waiting for—darkness. Then, only half seen, they would creep in close. There might be a musket or two aboard of the schooner, possibly even a pistol, and this was why they waited for the darkness, not caring to take any more risk than was necessary. They were not dashing, daring fellows who loved danger for its own sake.
There were cutlasses among them and no doubt pistols and knives, but Adam saw no muskets. Muskets would be in the way. In most of the boats were knotted ropes, to one end of which were fastened steel hooks. These would be thrown to the deck when the boats came alongside, and then the human lice would swarm aboard.
They must have numbered a hundred and fifty by this time, with more coming. The word was out, there ashore. They were closing, slowly, for the kill.
"God in heaven, ain't you going to do anything?" Jeth Gardner cried. "They'll fire us afterward! They won't leave a plank!"
Adam nodded, and went on staring at the coasters. The holiday spirit out there was the more notable by contrast with the hush of the schooner. Here, aboard, nothing stirred. The sails hung slack. Nobody moved. The helm was untended. An air of hopelessness—almost, as though by anticipation, an air of death—hung over Goodwill to Men.
This was the way Adam wanted it.
The wreckers were a shabby scurvy lot, of all ages and complexions, scum of the scum of the seas. Most were in rags. There were even some women among them. Was it because the time was coming closer that there seemed a falling-off of the carnival spirit out there? Or was it something else? The coasters did not sound as chatty as they had. The bottles were not being passed back and forth now.
"Jeth!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"No—don't run to me! I want no running—now."
The bosun was flabbergasted. But Resolved Forbes, who was watching Adam carefully, seemed to sense what Adam was getting at.
"Those sulphur candles. Fetch 'em out—slow! I don't want anybody to move fast! Light 'em. One forward, one here."
Resolved Forbes said thoughtfully, when the bewildered bosun had gone: "There's one barrel of eels got left over. Spoiled by bilge. It's mighty far down. Only learned about it today. They stink."
"Lots of stink?"
"Make a skunk run."
"Good. Fetch it forth—and broach it."
Dragging his feet, his shoulders slumped, arms hanging before him, he made his way to the main hatch, the one on which in daytime the off-watch hands liked to loaf, where some of them slept nights, too, when the forecastle was unbearable. Peterson and Eb Waters were there.