"That'll be right chirk."
"You'll be there then?"
Adam looked at the Goodwill to Men, which sat apart, clean, sweet of line, all loveliness, resting in the water as though she was doing the bay a favor, light as any bird. Tears came to Adam's eyes, while across his mouth a series of small smiles slid like catspaws touching a satined sea early in the morning.
"I'll be there," he promised.
Adam looked out the window and told himself that he must not explode. Ordinarily he found it easy to keep his temper. If the other fellow wasn't worth a fist in the face, Adam turned away. If a fight looked likely, he preferred to start it—and finish it. In either case the business was soon over with.
This did not apply to collectors of customs. Assuredly it did not apply to Captain Arthur Wingfield, whose rudeness was more than just professional—was something extra, heavy, labored, loud.
This Wingfield was of course a Queen's man, a Dudley man, and new in Newport, a place he clearly considered beneath him. He was large, long, young, and arrogant with an arrogance that was not interesting, only crass. You knew what he was going to say next, though the vehemence with which he said it never failed to offend.
In the nature of his calling, Adam Long was obliged to hear a deal of blasphemy. He thought that he knew the meaning of the Third Commandment. He sure hoped he did. But the mere mouthing of the words themselves didn't seem to him to make up much of a sin, no matter which way you looked at it. That is, the sound of swearing sanded him slightly but didn't shock him. He simply couldn't see why men cussed. They said that it relieved them, but in Adam's observation it only made them hotter, just as Wingfield here, who a bit earlier had been but simmering, now, like a man fascinated, unable to help himself, was approaching boiling point.
"I'll see everyone of those whoresons in Hell first before I'll let her Majesty's service be diddled! Now if—"
Pompous officials, men filled with a sense of their own importance, Adam Long had met and could endure, though not blithely. After all, a windbag may bore but it can't prick.
With the official who goes on the assumption that the unofficial world is peopled exclusively by sneaks, cheats, thieves, liars, Adam was likewise, unfortunately, familiar. As much as possible he ignored such people. It was not good business to let yourself get huffed up. A man can't think clearly when his fists are clenched. It is hard to add a row of figures with a hand that itches to slap a certain face. And after all, the ass in question might be decent and even a good companion outside of his office. A skipper has to make allowances.
Captain Wingfield was something special. He overdid his part. He sounded as if he really meant it.
"—take this man Selden, Seth Selden. Now God damn it. Long, are you going to sit there and tell me—"
So Adam stared out of the window, trying to think of other things. Though it was still raining, more and more men came to a stop before the customs house. Wingfield's voice carried well.
"—and I tell you that this attitude that it's bright and charming to cheat the Queen's customs has got to stop! It's got to stop, mark you, man! Now about this van Bramm—"
Was this planned? Was he trying to provoke a fight?
Adam wasn't evasive. His answers were brief but they were straight, and if he didn't look at the custos while he spoke, this was only because he was afraid he would knock the man's teeth out. He admitted that he knew about the orders in forged cockets Seth had filled, but said what was perfectly true, that before the sailing he had never even heard of this trade, much less associated Seth with it. He denied that he might have done more to keep Seth and Peterson and Waters from joining the outlaws of Providence. He refused even to consider a suggestion that the money from the sale of the gunpowder should be divided among the owners of the schooner and therefore become subject to taxation; but he did remind Wingfield that he had referred to this matter, as a point of information, in his report to the owners, a copy of which the custos had before him.
Save his anger, Adam had nothing to hide. His report was in order. It was clear and it was complete, and he expected to be commended for it. The voyage had been a success. His own commission was in good order, too, and still a matter of record, as he had learned indirectly. Whether the men of the Adventurers' Table had been reluctant to admit publicly that he'd made fools of them, or even more reluctant to admit that Seth Selden had, Adam did not know—and didn't care, now. Whatever the reason, no complaint had been lodged against him, and it was not even a matter of public knowledge that he had virtually stolen the schooner.
Wingfield indeed was not so much bringing charges against Adam as he was hurling hard words at him in the hope of causing him to blurt out in anger something that in a cooler moment he'd conceal—something useful to Colonel Dudley.
Or was it more than that, the reason for this spate of abuse? Could it be that Wingfield, uncertain, seeing that he was not well liked here, had taken refuge in bluster for bluster's sake, and now hoped to make an example of this whippersnapper Long? Could he have been told— there were plenty to tell him—that Adam had always been too big for his breeches? Had he resolved to take the wind out of Adam's sails before Adam could get a mite of way on?
Whatever it was, it was becoming intolerable, Adam couldn't listen to it much longer. And the crowd outside was really large now.
"I guess that's all we need to talk about." Adam turned on his stool. "You want to know anything more you know where to find me."
"Now damn it, no bastard of a Newgate whore's going to come in here and tell me that—"
Adam did not spring to his feet, but he got up right fast.
"All right, that's enough." He drew. "Draw!"
Here it became patent that the custos had not been trying to start a fight. His amazement was genuine. Though he had seen that Adam carried a sword, surely he had not dreamt that Adam knew how to use it.
It was equally evident that, though flabbergasted, he was not frightened. He, too, rose, and with alacrity. He, too, drew. When the astonishment had faded from them, there came into his eyes a glint of joy. Adam could all but hear the man say to himself: "Oho! now I can really teach the whelp to heel!"
In fact Captain Wingfield bowed—a very small, stiff bow, scarcely more than a curt inclination of the head. He glanced at the door: there was only one, and he stood near it.
"Can't fight here. Ceiling's too low. Go on outside."
"Not while you're standing there I won't."
"What's the matter—don't you trust me?"
"No."
That really riled the custos. The anger of his tirade had been in part simulated. Then he'd been astounded and immediately afterward amused and probably pleased, being sure of his own swordsmanship. Now he was sore. His chin went down, his small dark eyes blazed.
"I'll go out my own way," said Adam, and threw the stool he'd been sitting on through the window. "Meet you in the street!"
It was a tall window, though narrow, and he sprang to the sill and jumped backward, not looking where he was going. Bits of broken glass chickered around him. His blade was in position all the time, in case of a rush; but as he jumped he saw that Wingfield was racing through the door.
Adam landed easily; it was only a few feet. Men fell away from him. He ran around the corner of the building.
Wingfield was coming, sword high.
Adam's first emotion, when they engaged, was one of chuckling triumph. He didn't think then of the position of his feet or how he gripped his blade. Nor did he even do any feeling-out, as he should have done, or plan an attack, howsoever elementary. He simply sailed in.