There were three others in the Adventurers' Corner, owners of small parts of the schooner. Indeed, they were all there excepting Adam Long and Obadiah Selden. Adam was in no hurry.
"Everything's ready, then?"
"All bung-up and bilge-free, sir," said Resolved Forbes.
"Good. Go back aboard. I'll be along soon."
When the mate went, Adam did not move. He sensed that he was being looked at—or if not looked at, thought about. He'd known the feeling before, sometimes even in church. Oh, he had some friends, though he had never sought friends! But in any given gathering here in town he could feel like a straining pile the weight of the dislike of him, the jealousy of him. Tonight it was worse than ever. Though no man glared at him, the air fairly crackled and spat, as with summer lightning. They said he was too big for his breeches. He didn't care. He'd be on the high seas soon.
Obadiah Selden came in.
Obe was a man of bulk—square, firm, solid. He walked as though wading through ankle-deep water, and his eyes, under busy brows, habitually were cast down. His lips were intwisted and tight, like those of a man who holds a mouthful of verjuice he doesn't dare either swallow or spit out.
Ignoring his associates, he came directly to Adam.
Adam rose to greet him. This was not merely because of respect for an older man. Obadiah Selden carried a heavy oak stick.
"Captain Long," in a very low voice, "may I see you outside?"
Adam said nothing, only went around the table and followed the man out, stepping aside to give him precedence at the doorway.
Every eye in the tavern was on them.
They went back to the place where Ben Blake had his well. There was a low wall around it. Even before they got there, before the older man spoke, Adam Long knew what Deborah had done; and in spite of himself, and his rage, his fear, too, he couldn't help admiring her.
Still Obadiah Selden did not look at him. After a moment Obadiah said in a low voice: "My daughter has told me about—about you."
Adam said nothing.
They couldn't see the bay from here, but they heard the querulous squeal of the chains by which Thomas Hart's body hung.
"The sailing must be postponed, so's you can get married. After that I'll pack you off fast enough! And keep you off! I'll send you here and there and everywhere— The child," added Obe Selden, dropping his voice again, "will be brought up to be a true God-fearing Christian. We can do that much anyway."
It was so easy. This merchant would move him, the sailing man, from place to place on the surface of the globe, as readily as though he were a wooden piece in a game of draughts. No hint of examination. No breath of doubt. What was the word of a propertyless bastard? Why even ask for it?
"We'll tell 'em in there"—Obe lifted his stick toward the tavern—"that the sailing must be postponed. You're the master. You can think of a reason."
"No," said Adam.
"Eh?"
It was the first time Obadiah had actually looked at him, and the look fairly frightened Adam. The man's face was extremely dark, almost purple. He seemed scarcely able to breathe.
"You haven't told me yet what your daughter said."
"God strike you, ye whelp! You know well enough!"
"Maybe if I was allowed to talk to your daughter alone—"
"No, damn your soul to hell! You'll not talk with her again till you marry her—and not after that, either!"
Adam said, very carefully, very quietly: "I didn't get her pregnant. I haven't had anything to do with her. And I won't marry her."
"Why, you—"
Adam could easily have avoided the blow. He was never to know why he hadn't. He saw Obadiah raise the stick; but he didn't stir.
He felt it touch the left side of his head like the swift sting of a beer, and slish off his left ear.
"Will ye have wore of that, ye misbegotten mongrel?"
Adam made no answer.
Obadiah raised the stick again; but after a moment, quivering, he lowered it. He turned suddenly, and stalked back to the tavern.
Adam touched the side of his head, and his fingers came away wet. There wasn't enough moonlight for him to distinguish color; but he tasted it, and it was blood all right. So he fetched up the bucket from Ben Blake's well, and using a tip of the tail of his shirt he mopped the wound and cleaned it, and held the cloth there until the bleeding had stopped. Then he patted back his hair, straightened his coat and cravat, and went into the tavern to take his place, for the first time, in the Adventurers' Corner.
It was as good as town meeting for the customers, for although the men concerned with the Goodwill tried to keep their voices at a seemly pitch they sometimes let their feelings get the better of them. In any event, even when the very words themselves couldn't be distinguished, everybody at Blake's knew what was being said.
This was no organized association or committee, never had been. Obadiah Selden and Zephary Evans were the largest owners, and ordinarily Obadiah as the older would be looked upon as the chairman or moderator. Tonight Obadiah sat in silence, his chin on his chest.
Seth Selden was no longer there: he had been called away while Adam was out back with Obadiah.
Zeph Evans did most of the talking.
"No need to go over it all again," he told Adam. "Some were for you but most were against. 'Twas said you lacked experience."
Adam made no response. His principal supporter, as everyone knew, had been Zeph Evans, who had won over Obe Selden. Neither Zeph nor Obadiah was likely to entrust any mentionable part of his property to a man who lacked experience; and they all knew that, too.
"And then, you know how we feel about the charter—"
Adam nodded. He did know this. Of the colonies, Rhode Island and Connecticut alone operated under their own charters and were not subject to royal governors, excepting naturally in admiralty matters and matters directly pertaining to the throne, such as treason. There were those in London who did not think this a good thing. The other colonies were sassy enough as it was, these men believed, without having before them such examples of all but independent states. Especially there were Lord Cornberry, the royal governor of New York, who covetously eyed Connecticut, and Colonel Joseph Dudley, royal governor of Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and vice admiral of all New England, who sought to annex Rhode Island. The best way to bring this about—that is, a revocation of the two charters and thus a squashing of the spirit of independence—would be, these two politicians were agreed, to send Home evidence concerning the notorious disregard of the Navigation Acts in these colonies, and especially in Rhode Island, and particularly in Newport. Step on financial toes and the yelp that resulted could be heard a long way. The conviction of Thomas Hart, the pirate, had helped. But there should be more.
Yes, Adam Long knew this. Everybody knew it.
"It's been said around town that you couldn't possibly have made enough money to buy a share of the vessel just by bespoke work here and the wages you made while you was at sea.You couldn't have."
"I didn't," said Adam.
" 'Tis said you must have done a bit of business now and then out at Contraband Cove."
"Why, sure. And so did you." Adam looked around. "And you and you and you and you," he added.
He leaned forward, hands on knees.
"There isn't a man-jack at this table ain't had his share of smuggling. Why make any bones about it?"
Nobody said anything. Nobody dared to.
"And as for that story that I ever had any dealings with Thomas Hart two years ago, whoever says that is a liar."