Peterson, a sullen man, lumpy, grumpy, strong but not willing, and Eb Waters, who hailed from Massachusetts and was otherwise objectionable, occupied the sprit this morning. Captain Long smiled at them.
"Prayers when you're finished," Adam called. "Eight bells."
Peterson hawked, spat.
"I aim to be here a long time," he said.
"So do I," said Eb Waters.
"Five minutes," conceded Adam.
It was perhaps a good thing, this early example. Adam gave them seven minutes, and then, when they all but refused to obey an order, he made things clear. It was necessary to knock Peterson down and to all but break Waters' arm; but it was worth the trouble.
The others, with a single exception, gave forth no squawk when they learned about prayers-every-morning. Most of them reckoned they'd only have to work during that time anyway, and they'd liefer pray than work, as who wouldn't? They were the more mollified when Adam announced that the Sabbath was to be respected aboard of this vessel. Most skippers, though they might be churchgoers ashore, stuck to the slogan "No Sundays off soundings"; but Adam Long had other ideas.
"Says in the Book we should keep the Sabbath, and it don't say anything about land or sea or what-not."
Unexpectedly it was Seth Selden the sanctimonious who found the fact of daily Bible readings irksome.
"Religion is for the home," he grumbled.
"You stand up, and you close your eyes when I say the prayer," said Adam Long, "or I'll break the bridge of your nose."
Seth had a hangover that first morning, but he grumped every morning pretty much the same way. In other matters he was unexpectedly cheerful. Adam had been prepared for whining, or maybe an attempt to assert his claim to the captaincy, but Seth seemed happy. A good sailing man, he came for nothing. He had not been signed on, so he rated no wages. Not only that, but Adam charged him fourpence ha'penny for the rum he had drunk—exactly what Adam himself had paid for it—and made a note to this effect under Seth's ownership account.
There were many cases of men, skippers and mates mostly, who were mild-mannered ashore but fiends once they got out of sight of land. Seth was almost the other way 'round. So far from complaining, Seth settled down cheerfully, the chirkiest hand in the forecastle.
How much of this was real and how much put on, Adam didn't know. He gave Seth no more than the usual reasons for grumbling; but there were times when he caught the "stowaway" studying him with a look that fairly dripped with venom. Seth wouldn't do anything—now. But he was not likely to forget.
Two days out Adam learned why Seth had been so eager to make this voyage, in whatever capacity.
He was awakened by the bosun Jethro Gardner, who had the graveyard watch. Jeth, a compact old man in his forties, habitually wore an expression of disgust, and he was not given to idle chitchat.
"Two sail. French. We're smacketty-dab atween 'em."
Adam woke up all over, as a good sailor should, and a second later he was topside, thoughtfully scratching his rump and studying the sails.
"Aye, they're French."
Dawn had surprised the Goodwill in a spot almost exactly halfway between the two war vessels, a frigate and a sloop.
Adam sighed and went below and got dressed.
The lieutenant spoke English. He was young. The first thing he did was ask if there was any news of the war.
"Has it been declared? We've been twelve weeks at sea."
Adam shook his head..
"Left Newport yesterday morning, early. No news of it then."
The Frenchman shrugged. He looked around.
Goodwill to Men was trim and to her master's eye beautiful; but hove-to, close-up, she was not notably rich in appearance. The Frenchman all but sneered. His gaze was accustomed to brass and the varnished surfaces of a warship. There was nothing of that here.
"Let's see your papers."
Excepting the logbook and the "X"ed list of the crew, there was only one paper, a "Contrackt of Affreightment," actually nothing but a bill-of-lading. This had the cargo itemized and cleared out of Newport, but it didn't say where the cargo was to be taken—for the sufficient reason that nobody knew. There were some hoops and pipe staves, and some salted fish, too, but the greatest part of the space below was taken up with dried eels, and it was Adam's plan to peddle these around and get the best price that offered, no matter where. There was hardly a planter down in those parts, whether Spanish, English, French, or Dutch, who didn't have trouble finding fodder for his slaves. The blacks multiplied, and the land itself produced only coffee and sugar, no game, no grain, not much livestock. Food, food—they always needed food! And Adam planned to sell it to them, somewhere.
The lieutenant pointed this out.
"You'll probably go to an English place. By that time war will have been declared. So we'd better arrest you now."
"You can't do that!"
The lieutenant shrugged.
"We're making for Havana. The Spaniards are our allies now. Appeal your case there—in Cuba. If we've done wrong, you'll be released."
Yes, Adam thought bitterly, be released after we'd wasted months in the worst yellow-fever port in the world and given away all our coin in bribes; and by that time the eels would be spoiled anyway.
He put this into words, but the lieutenant only shrugged again.
"I'll send over a prize crew. Now if you only had evidence of destination—"
"Don't you reckon Denmark would take that unkind, Monseer?" said Seth Selden, who had appeared on the ladder. "Seems to me I'd heard your country's being mighty sweet toward Denmark these days."
This was in Adam's cabin, and Adam had known that everybody else aboard would be around the slide up there, listening; but he resented Seth's intrusion.
"Denmark? " said the lieutenant.
"That's where these eels is to go to. Well, Ostnabrueck. Which is a Danish colony. You want I should get out that paper, Cap'n?"
Adam grunted, more in amazement than assent, but Seth headed unhesitatingly for his, Adam's, own chest. Seth opened this and made as if to take a paper from it, though in truth he took the paper out of his own shirt, as Adam, who was nearer than the Frenchman, saw.
It was crowded in that cabin. There was scarcely room to unfold the paper, which was the most impressive document Adam Long had ever seen and fairly crackled with ribbons and seals. Adam couldn't read a word of it; but then, neither could the lieutenant.
A French matelot tried to climb down, but there wasn't room, so he spoke his message from one of the top rungs. Adam sensed that there had been a signal sent from the frigate, where they were waxing impatient. Whatever it was, the lieutenant gave a cross answer.
"See, there's Ostnabrueck," said Seth Selden, pointing.
"Never heard of it," said the lieutenant.
"It's south of the Leewards, a mite over Trinidad way. Danish."
"Oh."
"And this here, this's the list of cargo. See that word 'kivkeet'? That means 'eel'—in Danish, of course."
"Of course," murmured the lieutenant.
"And that word, see? That means 'April.' We're late now."
"Overdue," said Adam, catching on.
"Very well," the lieutenant said. "You're hardly worth seizing anyway. I must get back to my ship."
Afterward Adam looked sideways at the "stowaway."
"Just what is that thing?" he asked at last, pointing to the document that now stuck out of Seth's shirt.
"Don't rightly know, Cap'n. I bought it from a drunken Danish sailor one night. I think he said it was a fishing license."
"Oh."
"I got a lot of things like that, in different languages. Some of 'em I bought, some I wrote out. I'm a good hand with a pen, Cap'n."