Davenport Steward

BLACK SPICE

To

Jack and Rose

Steward, Davenport, 1913-

Producer's Note

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P.S.: Вычитано поелику возможно (ancient-skipper).

1

LIKE a gaunt wolf on the prowl, the American privateer Jasper, a weathered brig of eight guns, lazed along under shortened sail. In the cool predawn blackness, as the tropical stars began winking out one by one, she was hushed except for the protesting creak of tackle and the sibilant whispering of phosphorescent water at her prow. On her larboard bow, night-veiled and hidden over the horizon, lay lush, mountainous Jamaica, the principal British bastion in the Caribbean. In Kingston harbor lay merchantmen, the sheep the commerce raider sought, and there, too, were the sharp-toothed watchdogs, warships of the West India Squadron.

On this calm morning of January 20, 1815, Scott Rogers, mate of the privateer, mounted to the poop and turned his gaze northward, unconsciously trying to convey his thoughts to Charleston. He was a lean, muscular man, blond and sunburned to a mahogany shade, with high cheekbones and serious, farseeing gray eyes; and in him was the same pent-up restiveness that characterized the low-hulled brig. His eyes softened and some of the hunter's hawk-look went out of his face as he reached inside his loose shirt, touching with long fingers the golden locket containing the exquisite ivory miniature of his girl-wife Rowena. And out of his longing for her was born the wish for decisive action or an end to days and nights spent in ceaseless combing of the intensely blue sea.

"Mr. Rogers," the helmsman said after awhile, his voice hesitant, his eyes on the compass.

Scott turned his head. "Aye?"

"Me an' my mates ain't complainin', sir, but some of us do think this is a bad-luck cruise. In ten months, sir, an' you know it yourself, nothin' good's happened to us. We ain't taken a prize. . ain't even seen a vessel that wasn't a warship or in convoy. We've lost two hands overside in a storm an' one to sickness. An' now th' rum's exhausted, th' little water we've got is stinkin', th' ship's bread is crawlin' with bugs, an' th' salt horse has got more maggots in it than a week-old corpse."

"Our luck'll change," the mate answered with optimism he really didn't feel.

A barefoot seaman, moving as silently as a ghost, materialized on the poop. "Mr. Rogers."

"What is it, Wilson?"

"Cap'n Rousseau wants to see you, sir. In his cabin, he is."

"Very good, Wilson. . Steady as she goes, helmsman."

"Steady as she goes, sir."

Hastening to the cabin, Scott reflected on how much he owed David Rousseau. He'd left an orphanage to ship before the mast in a vessel commanded by the man, and in the ten years that had elapsed since he was thirteen he had risen to be an officer. He rarely thought of his debt to Rousseau, but he knew there wasn't much he wouldn't try to do for him.

Rousseau, a weather-beaten, leather-tough little man with a wizened, rather monkeylike face under thin white hair, was drinking tea when Scott reported. There were two other mugs on the table and he signed Scott to take one. "Mr. Peary's on his way, Scott. We'll talk after he gets here."

Scott sipped the steaming beverage, noticing that it had been sweetened slightly with molasses. A minute after he sat down Clay Peary, the second officer and his brother-in-law, knocked, then entered. He was about Scott's build, but naturally dark-complexioned and a trifle thicker through the middle. His eyes were cold, shrewd and light blue.

" 'Morning, sir," he said, picking up the third mug. " 'Morning, Scott."

" 'Morning," Scott responded mechanically, thinking as he occasionally did that without this man life in the Jasper would be more pleasant. He and Peary tolerated each other, and that was about all. As for Rowena, Scott knew that she despised her brother, although he didn't know why.

"Well," Captain Rousseau said after a few moments of silence, "do you lads think we should keep on with this cruise or make sail for home?"

Peary spoke up quickly. "I think we're wasting our time in these waters, sir. And the crew's turning sullen."

Rousseau turned to Scott. "What do you think?"

"I'd like to stick it out awhile longer. I need a share of prize money."

The captain smiled wryly. "So do I. I've got almost everything I own tied up in this venture."

"We're going to have trouble with the men if things go on the way they are now," Peary said bluntly. "They want to go home."

Scott thought longingly of his wife. Gently born, used to luxury, she had eloped with him after a whirlwind courtship. Now she lived again with her parents, which wasn't to her liking or his. She deserved a home of her own, and with prize money he could give her one. With enough of it they could buy some South Carolina acreage. . begin building the plantation estate they both wanted. He looked at Peary, the rich man's son, and thought he glimpsed malice in his eyes.

"I'm sure my sister would be glad to see you, rich or poor, after so many months, Scott," his brother-in-law said silkily. "After all, you'd been married only three weeks when last we sailed."

Yes, Scott thought bitterly, and neither her parents nor you had forgiven her then. I doubt that any of you has yet. Damn you, you resent me because I wasn't born a Charleston aristocrat. . because I fell in love above myself. . because I made Rowena happy. None of you disliked me before I met and married her. He looked coldly at Peary. "I've said my piece."

"Come, gentlemen!" Rousseau said, his voice slightly edged. "Mr. Peary, your father has a substantial stake in this cruise. He'd appreciate a profit on his venture."

"One loss won't hurt him," Peary said carelessly. "We did all right for him last time."

The captain spoke half to himself. He was an old man, and his years showed in his indecisiveness. "To return now would cripple me financially. I've got all I made on the last cruise and then some in this venture. As for Scott, it would mean that his time away from his wife has been wasted. For the crew, no prey, no pay, as the old buccaneers used to say. Speaking for myself, I vote to hunt awhile longer, but I won't insist on it."

"I vote to remain at sea, sir," Scott said promptly. "Luck can't always run against us."

Peary shrugged his shoulders. "I'm outvoted. But I still think we're wasting our time. Last time we took two rich prizes within six months of leaving Charleston. For all we know, the war's over."

Then they heard the lookout's excited cry.

"A sail! A sail! Sa-ail — ho!"

The exultant shout, followed by the chorusing yells of seamen, lifted die officers to their feet. Together they hurried into the brightening light of new day.

"Where away?" Rousseau rasped, looking up from the waist.

"On th' larb'd bow, sir."

The crew cheered lustily.

"A prize for breakfast!" bawled a sailor.

Rousseau darted back to the cabin for his long glass. The mates leaped into the rigging and climbed agilely.

"I see her!" Scott shouted. "Deck, there! Crack on all sail! Lively, now! Lively!"

The captain returned to the deck and studied the stranger. "She looks like a merchantman," he said to his officers, who had descended to flank him. "Steer for her, Mr. Rogers."

"Aye, aye, sir!. . Steer more to windward!"

"Steer more to windward, sir!" the helmsman responded cheerily.

Canvas blossomed and flapped on the yards. The privateer heeled over eagerly, taking the bit in her teeth.

Within the hour they were certain the quarry was a British merchantman, a deeply laden brig. They could see that she was under all sail.

"She's making for Kingston," Peary said.

"We'll head her off," Scott said grimly. His ring hand strayed to the locket hanging from his neck by a gold chain. "Rim up our colors, Mr. Peary."

Excitement gripped Peary now. Leaping to obey, he answered smartly. "Aye, aye, sir!"

Scott made his way to Rousseau, who was standing beside the helmsman now. The little captain grinned at him. "We're faster than she is, my boy. Load our guns with grape and issue arms from the locker."

Scott spoke calmly despite growing excitement. "We're going to board her, I take it?"

"That we are," Rousseau answered. "We're going to take her."

Scott touched his forehead in a salute. "We'll take her, sir."

The British merchantman Mary Bell, bound from Bristol to Kingston with tea, paper, silk and cotton cloth, wheat, ironware, and three thousand pounds sterling, had been at sea since early December. Her passage had been plagued by storms and American privateers: she had weathered two gales and outsailed three commerce raiders. She was pierced for fourteen guns and actually mounted twelve. Manned by a crew of forty, she carried as passengers twenty artillerymen to beef up royal troops in Kingston. And she had almost reached her destination this morning.

Thus she responded to the Jasper’s hostility with a round shot that skipped off the sparkling sea and hulled her well forward at the water line. The privateer shuddered under the impact of the twelve-pound ball that let water into her hold.

She's not just making a show of resistance, Scott thought; she's going to make a fight of it. He licked his lips, wondering if Peary was as nervous as he. He supposed a man never really got over being apprehensive when sailing into determined fire.

"Steady on!" Rousseau ordered the helmsman.

Scott could see the scarlet coats of the artillerymen among the Englishman's gunners. He saw two puffs of smoke, quickly whisked away by the wind, and he heard a ball screech harmlessly through the Jasper's rigging.

Most of the privateersmen had fought at sea before, and they answered defiance with a spontaneous outburst of jeers and curses.

The Jasper bore onto the British brig's larboard quarter, her men crouched on the gun deck and in the waist. Sunlight glinted on muskets and cutlasses. Scott walked among the seamen amidships, showing a nonchalance he was far from feeling. He knew they had to risk being pounded to pieces in order to lay alongside the quarry.

The Mary Bell fired a broadside of twelve- and eighteen-pound solid shot. Her gunners were good. The Jasper shuddered under the impact of iron that hulled her. Another ball went through the forecastle, showering men with splinters and carrying away the head of a sailor. Cries of agony mingled with shouted imprecations. Scott's hand tightened on the hilt of his cutlass.

Still the Jasper held grimly to her course, making straight for the Mary Bell. She was closing fast now and her men were tense under the insistent hammering of the Englishman's guns.

Rousseau's voice rose loud and clear.

"Make ready to come about!"

A round shot chipped the main mast of the privateer. Wood splinters stung Scott's face. He touched his cheek and felt the stickiness of blood there. Then he became aware of a man sobbing and moaning almost at his feet. The ship's sail-maker lay on the deck, one leg shot away. Scott's instinct to kneel by him and try to help took over. Suddenly the man's cries died away. He was dead.

Rousseau clung to the course. The Jasper was so close now that the shouts of her people carried to the merchantman. Scott wondered when the captain would bring the privateer about. With calmness that surprised him, he made ready to grapple.

A man tugged at his arm, yanking insistently.

"Mr. Rogers! Mr. Rogers!"

Scott turned impatiently. The sailor pointed aft. The wheel was unmanned.

"Stand by!" Scott ordered sharply. "We're coming about to grapple and board."

He ran aft to the poop. Peary got there ahead of him. Rousseau and the helmsman lay in a welter of blood. The captain was alive, though, and Scott read his moving lips.

"Come about!" he ordered. "Fire — grape — and — grapple!"

Scott sprang to the wheel just in time to prevent the Jasper from broaching to. The Mary Bell swept her with grapeshot.

"I'm coming about, Clay!" Scott shouted. "Fire a broadside when I do. Then grapple."

Peary's voice was cool. "Aye, aye, sir!"

Scott spun the wheel hard over. The ship heeled sharply, answering her helm smartly. She came alongside the merchantman, with only a few feet between them. Peary let go a five-gun broadside of grapeshot, blasting the English gunners from their pieces. Rigging and tackle showered down on the Mary Bell's deck. Her wounded screamed above the defiant shouts of valiant men still able to stand and fight.

"Take in sail!" Scott roared.

Men leaped to obey, swarming into the rigging like monkeys. Scott lashed the wheel and ran forward into the waist. He caught up a grapple and flung it toward the other ship. The boatswain threw another. Both irons caught.

"Haul away, lads!" Scott bellowed. "Haul, damn you, haul!"

The Mary Bell wasn't whipped yet. A sailor cut away one of the grapples. One of the Jasper’s men flung another. Peary and the sweating gunners swarmed on deck to lend a hand. Under pelting small-arms fire the privateer was hauled close against the merchantman, so that wooden hull rasped against wooden hull.

High excitement swept Scott's mind clean of everything but the red fury of battle. He fired his pistol at a red-coated soldier who was aiming a musket at him. He lifted his voice.

"Away, boarders!"

He led the way, naked cutlass in his right hand, and screeching men followed him with pistol, cutlass and boarding pike. They jumped into the Mary Bell in the face of musketry and in defiance of steel that gleamed in the tropical sunlight.

Scott's voice rose in a wordless hunting cry as his feet hit the merchantman's scarred deck. He slashed at the nearest man, a brawny fellow whose face and chest were black from burned gunpowder, and the stroke felled the seaman. He didn't hear the cries of the men at his heels. He fought boldly, recklessly. . fought to kill… to win as quickly as possible.

The master of the Mary Bell, a red-whiskered bundle of muscle shaped like a barrel, had no thought of surrendering. Bellowing like a baited bull, he fought his way to meet Scott, and his men and the soldiers drew fresh courage from him.

In the heat of man-to-man combat on a deck slippery with blood and tangled with grape-slashed cordage and smashed gear, Scott fought as a man alone. He attacked with all the fury of the wild buccaneers of the seventeenth century. His face was set in a terrible grim mask. The merchant captain appeared in front of him and they clashed like two fiends. The blades of their cutlasses rang in slash-parry-stab-and-slash give-and-take. Each man knew he would never cry for quarter.

"Bastard!" the Englishman snarled, baring yellow teeth.

Scott's own teeth gleamed wolfishly in a face streaked with blood, sweat and grime. He neither knew nor cared what the Englishman said. He bore in desperately, bent on slaying this man who opposed him so courageously.

Suddenly he scored with a slashing cut that broke through his opponent's guard and laid his head open. The man's knees buckled. He pitched forward, dropping his bloody cutlass.

The Mary Bell's crew fought well so long as their captain led. When he fell, though, those nearest him flung down their weapons and bawled for mercy. Their voices carried, and others took up the cry.

"Quarter! Quarter! We surrender!"

Arms clattered on the deck.

"They yield!" Scott cried ringingly. "Hold!"

He turned to find Peary at his side, breathing hard and gripping a reddened cutlass. "Secure the prisoners, Mr. Peary."

The second officer's voice rose in a shouted command. Men fell in behind him to herd the captives toward the main mast. Giving no further thought to the English captain, Scott leaped back into the Jasper.

Rousseau still lay on the poop. He was conscious and he looked up inquiringly at Scott.

"Aye, sir," Scott said, kneeling beside the wounded officer and looking for the wound draining away his life, "we took her."

Rousseau managed a faint smile. "I–I'm — hit — in — the— belly — I think."

Scott probed with a dirty hand, finding a splinter of wood about the size and shape of a sheath knife. When he pulled it out, the captain fainted. Scott noticed with relief that the hurt was not really in the belly, but in the flesh to one side. Tearing a piece of cloth from his sweat-soaked shirt, he jammed it against the wound in an effort to staunch the blood flow.

"Bosun!" he cried, looking about him. "Bosun! Lay aft to the poop, bosun!"

Surprisingly, the boatswain, who was aboard the captured craft, heard him and recognized his voice. He came running on bare feet.

"Find somebody who knows how to staunch this wound," Scott ordered.

The petty officer, a grizzled man of middle years, dropped to his knees for a closer examination of the hurt. "I think maybe I can do it, sir."

It came to Scott suddenly that, in effect, he was captain now. He could not remain at the side of his friend to the exclusion of all the other things that must be done as the result of the morning's bloody business. Reluctantly he turned away and descended into the waist. His mind snatched at things that must be done: care for the wounded… commit the dead to the sea in a Christian manner. . inspect both ships and clear away the shambles in the wake of bitter combat. . get under sail. Especially make sail. It was imperative to get under way as soon as possible. We're too close to Kingston, he thought; much too close to the warships there. One or more may come over the horizon any minute and take away the prize.

2

LINKED by the grapples of the privateer, the two vessels drifted on the blue, calm Caribbean like clinched boxers too spent to raise their fists and strike. Their poles were bare except for fluttering shreds of dirty-gray canvas, their sides were pitted, their housing stove in, and their decks sticky with drying blood and strewn with shot-cut cordage and smashed tackle. Work parties labored at clearing the merchantman of litter and repairing her rigging. Over and about the drifting ships white gulls wheeled, dipping and mewing, their wings flashing in the sun.

Moving about the deck of the captured craft, directing here and lending a hand there, Scott was conscious of depression gnawing at the edge of the triumph he felt. The prize was rich; his share would suffice to pay for a substantial amount of good South Carolina land. . get him and Rowena truly started on a life of their own. But the price of victory had been high. He had committed seven Americans and twelve Englishmen to the sea, commending their souls to God. Rousseau and several others, including the English captain, might yet die of wounds. And the Jasper, clinging stubbornly to the side of the ship she had taken, was making water.

Peary, however, was merely elated, particularly by the cash he had found in the Mary Bell's strongbox. His manner toward Scott was almost friendly. "What'll we do with the Jasper?"

"We could keep her afloat with all hands at the pumps," Scott said tiredly, "but it wouldn't be worth the effort. We'll clean her out, salvage her guns, and cut her adrift. Think we can make sail by midafternoon?"

The second looked up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead. "I think so. You know, this'll be as fine a prize as ever was sailed into Charleston harbor."

Scott nodded agreement. "Drive the men, Clay. We're barely forty miles off Kingston. We've got to get out of these waters quickly — or, at least, be ready to fight again."

Peary, who had fought as valiantly as any man, laughed shortly. "Let's not talk about fighting. I'm too tired. How's the Old Man?"

"He's alive, and that's about all. He doesn't even know we've moved him into the Mary Bell." Scott paused. "I'm going to have a look around in the Jasper before we cut her free."

Aboard the privateer, Scott didn't have to go below to know there already was a great deal of water in her. He went into the cabin and, on an impulse, sat down at the table and opened the logbook. The entries read at random were depressingly similar: "Nothing sighted. Wind light and from northeast all day. . Nothing sighted. Light airs. . Chased by enemy warship. Got away in rain squall. . Nothing sighted. Gale brewing. . "

Picking up a quill pen, Scott rolled it in his fingers. Then he laid it down and opened the locket suspended from his neck. The face painted on the ivory was beautiful, patrician, and somehow loving. Just looking at it reassured him of her reality… of the goodness of their love. The last of the battle-harshness went out of his bony features as he closed the locket and restored it to its place inside his torn shirt. I'll be home in a couple of weeks, he thought, and we'll find a place to live away from your folks' home, Rowena. We'll find the land we want. Damn this seafaring life, especially in wartime. You'll never be sorry you ran away and married me.

Suddenly he caught up the pen again, dipped it in ink and poised it over a blank page. He wanted to make one final entry in the Jasper’s log.. end it on a note of victory for Rousseau and for himself. Finally he began writing, moving the pen slowly, as does a man not given to expressing himself in ink. Painfully the entry came into being:

20 Jan. 1815

This day took English brig Mary Bell, Bristol to Kingston, Capt. Nehemiah Tait. Fighting began 7 a.m., ended 8:40 A.M. Killed: 7 of ours, 12 of theirs. Estimate prize worth about £ 14,000. Jasper unseaworthy and being set adrift.

Scott Rogers, Mate

When he had finished, he wrapped the book in a piece of canvas, planning to take it to Captain Rousseau. The man would appreciate it, he knew — if he lived to read it. Then he returned to the deck just in time to hear the masthead lookout in the merchantman sing out:

"Sail on th' starb'd quarter! Sail… sa-ail!"

It was a cry to be dreaded now. Clutching the log, Scott rushed back into the Mary Bell. His brother-in-law eyed him questioningly.

"Clear for action, Mr. Peary!"

Peary grimaced. "Aye, aye, sir. But what about the Jasper? We haven't had time to get her guns out."

"Salvage her powder and shot, then cut her free, guns and all."

"Those guns are worth money, Scott."

"I know. But we may have trouble holding what we've got. We've got fewer than thirty men able to fight, and all of them tired."

Peary nodded. "Bosun!"

"Sir?"

"Cut the Jasper adrift."

Again the lookout hailed the deck. "She looks like a frigate, sir!"

Peary frowned darkly. "Frigate? She couldn't be American — not in these waters."

Scott nodded coolly. "She probably isn't."

"And you're willing to fight a frigate?"

"If I have to."

"One moment, Scott. Fighting an armed merchantman is one thing, fighting a warship another."

"We have no choice, man. Clear for action."

Peary set his jaw. "Look, I know you and Rowena need money; but you don't have to be a fool. Damn it all, man, a frigate'll knock us into smithereens without turning a hair. And there'll be no gallant boarding of a man-o'-war carrying three hundred or more sailors and marines. You realize that, don't you?"

Scott bit back angry words and spoke calmly. "Leave my wife out of this. Aside from everything else, the Old Man needs this prize; and if ever one man was beholden to another, I am to him. He's just barely alive now; it could kill him to lose this ship. I'll fight on the off-chance of winning and staying clear of an English prison."

"Hell," Peary said nastily, "you're thinking about getting back to my sister with your pockets a-jingle. You'll get us all killed so that you can be a great hero… so she'll keep on thinking the sun rises and sets in you. Well, I'm as brave as and next man, as you well know, and I say to hell with this bilge about fighting a frigate."

"Are you refusing to obey?" Scott demanded in cold fury.

Peary avoided answering directly. "We can't get under way, we're outgunned and outmanned, and we've got some pretty lively prisoners 'tween decks, to boot. If it comes to a choice, we'd better surrender and take our chances on fair treatment."

Scott's temper exploded. " 'Vast! Stow that talk!"

Peary's face purpled. "By God, I won't stow it! You're a fool!"

Scott got an iron grip on his wrath and spoke icily. "Mr. Peary, you'll obey me or I'll iron you and throw you in the chain locker. Now clear for action!"

Peary's eyes reflected pure hatred for one unveiled moment, and Scott did not fail to read what he saw; but after a strained moment the second officer bowed to the stronger will. "Aye, aye. . sir."

Fuming inwardly because of the exchange of words within earshot of some of the crew, Scott nevertheless sought to dismiss the incident from mind. Satisfied that Peary was carrying out his command, he sent one of the captured English sailors aloft, figuring the man might more quickly identify the warship, which already was well over the horizon. He hid his own disquiet as well as possible while awaiting a report.

"Deck, there!"

"Well?"

The seaman made no effort to strangle his elation. "She's English, sir, an' 'arf a crown says she's 'Is Majesty's sixty-four-gunner Bucephalus. I know 'er well, sir."

Peary reported to Scott. "The Jasper’s been cut adrift. Our decks are as clear as they're likely to be, and the guns are loaded with round shot."

"Very well," Scott said formally, turning his face upward. The red ensign had been hauled down, but not replaced. "Call all hands into the waist, Mr. Peary."

I'm a fool, Scott thought, alternately eying the frigate and the men assembling amidships. Clay's right: I am a fool. But I'm not going to hand over this vessel without a fight.

"The crew is assembled, sir," Peary said sourly.

Scott eyed them, seeing that many wore stained bandages. The trepidation they felt was plain in their anxious faces as they stood quietly, some clutching weapons. Peary's face was dark with ill-suppressed wrath and apprehension.

Without speaking, Scott shifted his gaze to the oncoming Bucephalus. Her colors floated jauntily above her. She was formidable-looking, bristling with cannon and swarming with men; an eagle preparing to pounce on a crippled sparrow hawk. The wind brought to the brig the faint sound of drumming: she was beating to quarters. The American sailors shifted nervously, staring at the warship and at the quiet man confronting them. They were hardy men accustomed to iron discipline, and none dared voice the doubt that each felt.

"Bosun!" Scott said sharply.

The petty officer stiffened to attention. "Sir?"

"Run up our colors!"

The men stirred as the American flag climbed over them, snapping in the sea wind. Scott knew their spines were prickling with pride, just as his own was; and he knew that this was the time to exhort them. Remind them of their mates who died in taking the Mary Bell, he thought coldly. Dwell on the horrors of English prison life, ashore and afloat. And give them an idea of how much money they'll have if we can take this prize home safely.

The words were forming in his mind when Peary cried out suddenly, his voice rich with wonder. "She's signaling! She's making a signal that she wants to talk!"

Scott looked unbelievingly, and saw that his brother-in-law spoke truthfully.

"I wonder why!" Peary exclaimed.

Scott's mind boiled. "She could be out of ammunition, or have a lot of sickness aboard. . Well, we'll talk with her. . Battle stations!. . Make an answering signal, Mr. Peary."

Heaving to just beyond cannon range, the Bucephalus sent her longboat dancing daintily over the sparkling sea toward the Mary Bell. In her bow stood a fresh-faced young officer, a speaking trumpet in his hand. Finally he lifted it to his lips.

"Ahoy, Yankee, what's the trouble?"

Scott cupped his hands to amplify his voice. "No trouble, mister. What do you want?"

The Englishman grinned rather fatuously, then spoke again. "Thought you people might not know the war's over."

"What?"

"The war's over, Yankee… been over since Christmas Eve. Did you know?"

"Good God!" Scott exclaimed. A spontaneous cheer broke from his men, a great swelling sound born of relief from tension.

"You didn't know, eh? May I come aboard?"

Scott licked his lips. He was first to realize all that the news meant to them. To attempt to keep the Mary Bell now would lay them all open to a charge of piracy. He looked at Peary, seeing understanding dawn in the man's face. Then he answered wearily. "Come aboard."

"We've played hell, for sure," Peary said abruptly.

Scott thought of the nineteen men who had died fighting after the war had ended. He supposed such things had to happen occasionally.

The naval officer, a lieutenant, clambered aboard and calmly surveyed the shambles yet remaining. He noted gunners with smoking matches still in their hands.

"You would've fought us?" he asked wonderingly.

Scott nodded. "Aye."

The lieutenant's eyes turned shrewd. "Judging by that drifting ship yonder, I'd say you just took one of ours, captain."

Scott smiled thinly. "You're in the one that was yours."

The young officer rubbed his chin reflectively. "Damned if I know what to say to you, captain. You'd better come with me to see our skipper."

"You fetch him here. Better still, send your longboat. You stay with us."

"Don't trust us, eh?" the lieutenant asked coolly, his eyebrows arching. "Worried about piracy, maybe?"

"No. We didn't know the war was over. We haven't spoken a ship in three weeks."

"Well, you've got the upper hand of me for the moment, Captain — er — Whatever-your-name-is."

"Rogers."

"Well, Captain Rogers, I'll send for Sir Percy. I think he'll be interested in this case."

Captain Sir Percy Hardwicke boarded the Mary Bell soon afterward. He was a middle-aged man, stout and red-faced.

"Suppose you tell me all about this engagement you were in, Captain — er — Rogers."

Scott told him, detailing what he thought needed amplification. Before he was finished Sir Percy was openly intrigued. "Extr'ord'n'ry, captain! Most extr'ord'n'ry! I know that things like this come off after every war, but they've never come off where I was. And this is the second instance I've heard of."

"So?"

"Aye, man. Demme if your General Andrew Jackson — feller they call Old Hickory — didn't slaughter poor General Sir Edward Pakenham and a couple of thousand of Wellington's veterans at New Orleans just the other day. Just heard of it. After the truce was signed in Ghent, too. Damned wars are getting too global, eh? Man can't keep up with things."

"What's the solution in our case?" Scott demanded bluntly. "We're not pirates."

"Damned if I know, sir, be damned if I do. We can't punish Jackson, so I see no reason to make an example of you. On the other hand, I can't let you keep this ship. You wouldn't want to be branded as a pirate, would you?"

"Of course not, but—" Scott broke off abruptly, meeting the speculative gaze of the Englishman.

"We could knock you apart in half hour, sir," Sir Percy said calmly. "In fact, I've left orders with the first lieutenant to move in and open fire if I'm not back in my own ship inside of the hour. Will you throw more lives away… on piracy? Your own government wouldn't support you under the circumstances. Couldn't, you know."

You've got me there, Scott thought forlornly. The war's over, and I'll have to go home without a penny to show for ten months at sea. He glanced at the drifting Jasper, now settled deep.

Sir Percy pressed him. "You can return to your own ship, taking what was yours. Some strong backs at the pumps should keep you afloat long enough to make an American port. Or I'll take the lot of you into Kingston as distressed seamen."

Scott repressed a sigh. "We'll go home in the Jasper. But first, could we borrow the services of your surgeon? Captain Rousseau, you know, and Captain Tait. ."

"Of course, captain; most certainly." Sir Percy cleared his throat and smiled without malice or triumph. "Er — well— fortunes of war, and all that. Captain — er — Rogers. Why don't you let me revictual your ship from our stores? We've plenty and to spare."

Scott looked at him in surprise. Then he found his tongue. "Thank you, sir. You are very kind."

"Not at all, man; not at all. Rather admire a good fighting man. Hate to see him lose his shirt. We'll stand by while you transfer to your own vessel."

3

LONGING for his wife, yet somehow dreading the moment of meeting because he still was a penniless seafarer, Scott stood in the Jasper’s bow as she limped into Charleston harbor. He was weary, bone-weary, as was every able man in the ship; for they had been at the pumps day and night, with only short breaks for rest, for eleven days. Peary stood nearby, frowning slightly; and, looking at him, Scott's dislike approached acute envy. His brother-in-law had no troubles: his father could stand the loss incurred; and he himself didn't have to come home with a prize in order to bolster his own self-esteem. He thought suddenly of what the man had said to him in a blaze of temper and wryly admitted to himself that it was true: he did want to come home with pockets full of money, and he did want to be a hero in Rowena's eyes.

"I reckon Rowena'll be down to meet us," Peary said casually.

Scott hoped so. Nobody, probably not even Rowena herself, ever would know how much he wanted to see her. He knew he wasn't too good at saying such things. And he knew that word had preceded them in the fast-sailing sloop that had overtaken them two days before. They'd put Rousseau and one of the more critically wounded sailors in the craft, which promptly had shown the water-logged Jasper her heels. Some of the bitterness went out of him when he reflected that Rousseau definitely was on the mend.

Looking out over the whitecaps in the spacious harbor, shivering in the raw January wind, Peary spoke again, still casually. "I think I'll get drunk tonight."

"Damn it all," Scott burst out angrily, "why did that British frigate have to show when she did? A few more hours and we would have been away from there. Now I've got to put to sea again as soon as I can get a ship."

"I wouldn't think seafaring was much of a life for a married man," Peary said conversationally. "Do you really like going to sea?"

"Not particularly. But since leaving the orphanage I've known nothing else. It's been a way of existing; and it was all right before I met Rowena. But now I want something better. . not just for me, but for us."

"Maybe you can find work in Charleston."

"Doing what? Clerking for some merchant? Selling ribbons to ladies? Or groceries? The hell with that. I want to be my own man. When I was a boy I worked on the orphanage farm, and I sort of liked seeing things grow."

"You can't do your own work in plantation country, man. You'll need niggers to chop cotton and whatnot."

"What I need is land. The rest will follow." Scott checked himself, amazed at his own loquaciousness. Then he continued grimly. "In time I'll get what I want.. what we want."

Peary rubbed chapped hands together and changed the subject abruptly. "This damned raw weather is terrible after being in the Caribbean. I still think I'll get drunk tonight."

Tonight. This time the word stirred memories in Scott, heating his blood so that he forgot the cold. He had known women in a dozen ports in half as many lands before meeting Rowena. Most of them had been hard and bold, but none had been loving. Loving! That was the word for Rowena, he thought. She came to him without experience in the art of love, but she loved him truly and for that reason sought to please him. Maybe that was why she was the only woman ever to lay claim to any part of his heart. For her he wanted to achieve things undreamed of before she entered his life. He couldn't shrug off his disappointment in not bringing home treasure to lay at her feet.

In midafternoon they tied up at a pier owned by Philip Peary, father of Rowena and Clay, and Scott looked anxiously for his wife among the crowd of people who had come to meet the ship. His spirits dropped even more when he could not spot her.

"Hey!" Peary exclaimed. "There's Abe, our houseboy. . Abe!"

The white-wooled Negro trotted toward the Jasper.

"Hey, Abe," Peary shouted, "where is everybody? Where's Master Philip. . Miss Rowena?"

The slave rubbed his slack mouth with the back of a big, pink-palmed hand. "Tha's whut I come to tell you, Mas' Clay. Yo' pa, he at de house. An' Miss Rowena — Miss Rowena— she.."

His hesitation triggered apprehension in Scott. "Out with it, boy!" he rasped. "What about Miss Rowena?"

"Miss Rowena, suh — she — Miss Rowena…"

Peary lunged for the old man and caught him by the lapels of his warm coat. His face was white and drawn. "Goddammit, boy, what about Miss Rowena? Speak up!"

"She — she done dead, Mas' Clay."

Scott felt that he had been hit by a massive hammer. His senses reeled drunkenly under the blow of the half-whispered words. Dead. Rowena. . dead. He opened his mouth and closed it without saying anything.

Peary grabbed his arm tightly and shouted in his ear. "Scott! Did you hear, Scott? Did you? She's dead!"

"I heard," Scott said numbly. His voice seemed to come from far away.

"I–I come to fetch you gen'lemun," Abe said anxiously. "You wanted at de house."

Peary started first, lunging into the crowd on the pier, pushing people aside savagely, the Negro tagging at his heels. Scott, however, remembered that he was the captain; he couldn't just rush off. He set his jaw hard, fighting for control of himself. She can't be dead, he thought. She can't be. But still he knew Abe hadn't lied.

"Bosun!"

The man looked at him wonderingly. "Sir?"

"Tell the men I'll try to rake up a little money for them. . enough for tobacco and a few drinks, anyway. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Aye, aye, sir." The petty officer hesitated. "Bad news, Mr. Rogers?"

Scott passed a sinewy hand over his face. He felt tight inside; empty and sick from shock and loss. The muscles stood out in his bony cheeks, and he spoke with an effort. "Aye. Just take over for a little while. And if there are any stores left, divide them among the men."

4

WAITING alone in the polished, gloomy elegance of the high-ceilinged living room, Scott was astonished to observe in a long mirror that he appeared quite as ill as he felt. To the strain of the hard trip home, with his best friend fighting for life in the cabin while the ship made water as fast as exhausted men could pump it out, had been added shock and almost unbearable grief; and his eyes now shone feverishly in a thin, drawn face bristling with wiry whiskers. He gave no thought to his unkemptness, though, no longer caring whether or not the Pearys were impressed by his appearance. Rowena's gone, he thought dully; she's gone, and I never really got to know her. All she ever had from me was my love; I never was able to give her anything else, not even a roof of her own.

He tried to sit composedly in a chair, but he could not remain still with so much turmoil inside him. Rising, he began pacing the limited area, nervously awaiting the arrival of some member of the family. He was stirring about agitatedly when he heard a cry that froze him into stillness. He was certain his ears were playing him tricks until he heard the sound again.

It was the thin, wailing cry of a hungry infant, a plaintive demand for food and attention.

"Good God!" he whispered.

Just then his parents-in-law entered the room, both somberly dressed in black. They greeted him without warmth, but with studied politeness. His resentment at the reception was tempered immediately by the sadness stark in their faces. The one thing they all had in common was grief.

Mrs. Peary, a frail woman with the ramrod back of a guardsman and a thin, pale face, said nothing. Her husband, a stoutly built man with the same cold, shrewd, light-blue eyes that distinguished Clay Peary's features, spoke with an effort. "You know, of course?"

Scott wet chapped lips with his tongue. "Aye."

They looked at him without compassion, almost as if he were a thing as inanimate as the furnishings.

"Tell me — about. ." Scott's voice trailed off into the void of his own loneliness.

The baby wailed again. Mrs. Peary turned her eyes upward and a worried frown softened the rigid mask of her face. Peary bit his lip. "She died of childbed fever five weeks ago today."

Scott's face worked slightly in mute sorrow.

"The child survived her," Peary went on tonelessly. "A boy."

"Christ," Scott said softly, even prayerfully. "Christ."

"She wanted him named for you — Scott." Peary had a hard time getting the name out. "I promised. His name is Scott Rogers, Jr."

In those joyous times of love, those few times so long ago when he and Rowena had sought happiness and fulfillment, Scott had never thought of the possible consequences. It was enough then that his wife wanted him. Now he had a son, but no wife. Men were supposed to want sons. He didn't want a son. He only wanted Rowena.

Mrs. Peary, her features again an expressionless mask, still said nothing. Peary spoke again. "Do you want to see him?"

"My son, you mean?" Scott asked dully.

The senior Peary's voice sharpened a trifle. "Of course. Who else?"

He didn't, really. But he said what he felt Rowena would have wanted him to say. "Aye, sir."

"Then come with me."

Mutely miserable, conscious of their hostility, he followed both the Pearys upstairs. They entered a small room, where a Negro wet nurse suckled a pink and white child. The infant's face had a pearly cast in contrast with the ebony skin of the woman's breast.

Mrs. Peary spoke suddenly, softly, "He's all we have left of our daughter. Will you take him away from us?"

Standing in silent contemplation of the now contented baby, who made slurping, gurgling sounds in his greed, Scott couldn't say anything. He felt nothing toward the child, neither affection nor resentment. When at last he could speak, he didn't answer the question. "I'd like to go outside… be alone for awhile."

Peary escorted him downstairs, leaving Mrs. Peary with the baby and the nurse. Scott wondered vaguely, without really caring, where Clay was. At the door his father-in-law spoke evenly. "What will you do with — with your son?"

Grief and anger suddenly burst from Scott in harshly spoken words. "How would I know? Depend on it, he won't be a burden to you. Now, damn it, leave me alone for awhile! I can't think now! Why did it have to happen?"

Clay Peary appeared noiselessly, coming up alongside Scott and blinking at him with puffy-lidded, bloodshot eyes. He had heard the vehement outburst, and his voice came wonderingly. "You really did care for her, didn't you, Scott?"

Scott knotted his fists helplessly. "God damn you, you know I did! More — more than I realized, too — until now."

The younger Peary drew his stern-faced father back from the door. To Scott he said in an almost kindly fashion: "Go out and walk around a bit. Clear your head. Then come back."

Scott hurried away. For the first time he almost liked his brother-in-law.

5

IT WAS not in Scott's make-up to weep or beat his breast in hope of gaining sympathy; nor was he inclined to wander aimlessly through the narrow, muddy, pig-and-buzzard-infested streets of the city. Once the initial shock wore off, as soon as he accepted the irrevocable fact that his idyll with Rowena was over and his dreams must be recast, his mind began functioning logically. Within an hour of leaving the Peary house he was in the shop of a Jewish moneylender with whom he had previously done some business. Between the two of them existed mutual respect; and he went directly to the point of his visit.

"Mr. Solomon," he said bluntly, "I want to borrow one hundred dollars. The only security I can offer is a silver watch for which I paid sixteen pounds in Liverpool seven years ago."

Solomon eyed him perplexedly. "I know you, Mr. Rogers. You are a man of honor and sense. On the face of what you've just said, I can only refuse. But tell me more; maybe we can do business."

"All right, I'll tell you. We just brought the privateer Jasper in from a highly unsuccessful venture. There were no profits, so my share is exactly nothing. I have no money and no prospects at the moment. But you will be repaid, with interest at 10 per cent, if I live and keep my health. Just when, though, I can't say."

The moneylender shook his head wonderingly, not negatively. "I am no man to pry, Mr. Rogers, but tell me why you need this money so urgently? Your father-in-law is one of the richest men in South Carolina. Surely he will let you have money without interest."

Scott hesitated momentarily. "Half of it I need to keep myself and my son until I can find employment. The other half — well" — he looked Solomon straight in the eyes, as if daring him to condemn what he was about to say—"the other half I want to divide among the crew of the Jasper. Like me, they'll get nothing from our bootless voyage of more than ten months. What I hope to give them will amount to little enough, God knows — less than two dollars apiece. But a little tobacco and a little grog — maybe an hour or so with a woman — can mean much to men who ship before the mast."

Solomon cocked his head and scratched it. "Mr. Rogers, if you'll excuse my saying so, you're a fool. But it ain't often that such a fool comes into this place with such an idea for foolishment in his head. The money's yours… at only 8 per cent."

"Thank you. Here's the watch."

"Keep it, sir. I trust you. Your word's good enough for Marcus Solomon, and there ain't many I can say as much for."

Returning to the battered Jasper, which now had been hauled up to a point where she rested on the bottom, held almost upright by the bow and stem lines attached to the pier, Scott called all hands and signed them off. To each he gave without comment an equal share of the fifty dollars. Gamblers who had lost, they accepted the money gratefully. Soon the ship was empty of even the wounded.

With his few possessions in a sea bag, Scott made his way to Meeting Street and through it to the home of Captain Rousseau, which was little less pretentious than that of Philip Peary. Mrs. Rousseau, small, quiet and almost as wizened as her husband led him to the wounded man's bedroom. There Rousseau sat in an armchair, carving a dolphin on the head of a stout hickory walking stick.

"I figured you'd be by to see me, my boy," Rousseau said by way of greeting. "I'm glad to see you again. I'm sorry an unlucky voyage was capped for you by loss of your wife. She was a lovely little lady."

"That she was, sir," Scott responded, feeling his loneliness keenly. "You know that I have a son?"

"Aye. Phil Peary told me. He's pretty cut-up about his daughter. Thought more of her than of his boy."

"I know. I think he blames me."

"Maybe it's natural for him to do so now, especially since he never approved of the marriage. But it'll pass — I think. I don't reckon he said anything to you about the venture."

Scott shook his head. "He didn't say much of anything."

Rousseau nodded, his eyes fixed on what he was doing. "The doctor says my seafaring days are over. I guess they are for quite awhile, anyway. I'm not as young as I was. Did you think I wouldn't pull through?"

"I didn't know, sir."

Rousseau laid aside stick and knife and charged a clay pipe with yellow tobacco. Scott struck fire for him with flint and steel. The captain accepted a light from glowing tow, then blew smoke upward. "It was a hard-luck voyage, Scott. But a man can't be lucky every time."

"No, I suppose he can't."

"Phil Peary finally got around to talking about our losses when he came to see me. He's made money and kept a lot of it. He always did have a head for money; had it when we were cabin boys together years ago."

"He's been to sea? I didn't know that."

"Just one long voyage to China. We've been friends ever since. The point is, though, that I've never kept much of what I made. About all I've got left in the world is this house. And my wife's got a few hundred acres of wild land; we never did get around to clearing it, and it isn't worth much as it stands."

Scott managed a wry smile. "At that, you're ahead of me. I've got a son to support."

"Do you have any money at all, boy?" Rousseau asked kindly.

"Fifty dollars I borrowed from Solomon, the moneylender. I've got to find employment soon. I'm not going to leave my son with the Pearys indefinitely. It was bad enough that Rowena had to stay there."

Rousseau blew a smoke ring and stuck the short stem of his pipe through it. "You've got a problem, son. Why don't you move in with us until you can get a ship?"

"Thanks. But what about my boy?"

"Let your in-laws keep him awhile longer. I can tell you that they're fond of him."

"Too fond of him," Scott said dryly. "They want to keep him."

"And you don't want them to?"

"That's right, I don't. You know, though, I can't honestly say I feel toward the boy as a father should — or, at least, as a father's supposed to. Maybe I'm just not used to the idea. But I intend to provide for him. He's not going to depend on his grandparents for bread and shelter."

"Well, let him stay awhile longer with Phil and his wife. You can't do for him while he's so little."

"I don't want to be beholden to the Pearys. And I don't want him to be."

"He won't be and neither will you…. Now, listen. Just this morning John Lloyd — he and Phil and I were partners in the Jasper, you know — dropped by to see me. John's like me — an optimist. And he's got as much money as Phil, I reckon. Enough, anyway. Well, he's got a scheme for going into the pepper trade. He's going to try to sell Phil on it."

"What about you?"

"I'm sold. I'm a gambler and, from what John said, I'm willing to gamble this house and my wife's land in an effort to recoup and even make a profit."

Scott frowned. "I don't exactly follow you, sir. You just said you couldn't go to sea again."

"No, but you can. You're qualified to be a shipmaster."

"But I don't know anything about the pepper trade. Hell, I don't even know where the stuff comes from. China?"

Rousseau smiled. "From an island called Sumatra. It seems that about the only American ships that've ever touched there were Salem vessels. John figures they'll be going back, now that the war's over, but he doesn't figure they should hog all the trade. He figures we can make at least one very profitable voyage, if we get there early enough."

"Ahead of the Salem ships, you mean?"

"Aye."

Scott was intensely interested. "You're willing to risk everything you have left on such a venture?"

"If it works out, yes. Why not? Only first, Phil's got to be sold… on the venture and you as captain."

Scott rubbed his chin. "That may not work out. . the part about me, I mean. You've got an idea how Mr. Peary feels about me."

Rousseau pressed a horny thumb on the glowing coal of tobacco in his pipe. "Phil liked you well enough before you married his daughter. And he knows you're a good ship's officer. In a few days I'll know more about this notion of John's. He's expecting some fellow to call on him.. man who's been in the pepper trade and even been to the Pepper Coast. Meanwhile you stay here with us, and put in some time getting acquainted with your boy. I'm told that all babies look like the devil at first; but they change. How'd the boy look to you?"

"I didn't really get a good look at him," Scott confessed. "I could have, but I just didn't seem to care at the time."

6

DURING the first week of February, while fretfully awaiting news from Rousseau, Scott became acquainted with his son, who still was at the Peary home. In that period of inactive days and lonely, restless nights the baby, whom at first he had regarded with indifference, took a round turn and two half hitches on his affections. The ambition which Rowena had sparked in him was set aglow again.

"Little man," Scott said aloud one day when the nurse had stepped out of the room, "things are going to be all right for you someday. . better than ever they were for me. You're going to have all the things I wanted for your mama. You can lay to that."

Mrs. Peary, who had entered the room unobserved and heard it all, startled him by speaking at his shoulder. "You're not going to take him away from us, are you?"

Scott met her eyes. "In time, yes."

"But how can you give him the care he needs?"

"The plain truth, ma'am, is that I can't as yet. So I'm beholden to you for what you've done and what you're still doing. But he's my son and my responsibility."

"You resent his being here, don't you?"

He nodded. "Some. I don't like being beholden to you. And the other day you said he was all you had left of Rowena. Well, he's all I've got of her, too."

His mother-in-law's narrow shoulders drooped suddenly and her glacial eyes misted. "You aren't beholden to us for keeping him. We want him. We could give him so much, Mr. Peary and I."

Scott felt a twinge of pity for her. He spoke tentatively. "Ma'am. ."

She straightened, and reserve returned to her voice. "Well?"

"I was only going to say, ma'am, that you could keep on giving him a grandmother's affection. I never had a father's affection nor a grandmother's, and I think this boy ought to have both, don't you?"

Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth hastily as if to halt words. Then she turned and left the room. For a moment he was resentful; but he shrugged it off and returned his attention to the infant. "Damnation, son, I didn't mean to upset her."

Leaving the house, stepping into the bone-chilling wind straight off the broad harbor, he met his brother-in-law, whom so far he hadn't encountered during his daily visits. Although the day was young, Clay Peary evidently had been drinking heavily. He looked owlishly at Scott.

"Scott," he said thickly.

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking 'bout you. . 'bout you an' me. Know all 'bout your calls to shee baby. Know where I've been?"

"No."

"Rowena's grave, thash where. Want to go there?"

Skunk-drunk, Scott thought, keeping his irritation in check. He said, "Later."

Peary squinted in an effort to focus reddened eyes. "I'm drunk, Scott. Know it. Hell of way to mourn, I know. But can't help it sometimes." He paused, squinting closely at Scott. "Rowena thought you were all right, Scott. Know. Tol' me. Tol' me right after you 'loped. Everybody angry then. Hated you. Don' mind my tellin' you, do you, Scott, boy?"

"No," Scott said shortly. "But you'd better get some sleep."

Peary caught his arm firmly. "Wait minute, Scott, lad. Father don' like you. Mama don' like you. But I–I like you fine now. Didn't use to, but do now. Forgive you. Been thinkin' lot 'bout it."

"Thanks," Scott said, attempting to steer the man inside the house; but Peary resisted his effort and kept on talking. "You know my father's in — influential man here 'bouts. He might black-list you."

Scott stiffened. "Black-list me? Why?"

Peary shook his head solemnly. "He thinks you good fightin' man, Scott, boy, but no good otherwise. Don' like you."

Taking the man firmly by the arm, Scott propelled him inside the house with more force than tact. What had been said drunkenly made him seethe with anger. Without employment — and Philip Peary could keep him from finding a berth in Charleston — he would never be able to buy or hire a nurse for his son. Maybe Rowena's father was thinking of striking at him that way. Clay must have heard something to set him to talking so. He set out rapidly in the direction of Rousseau's house.

Warmly wrapped against the damp chill of his bedroom, Rousseau sat by the blazing oak fire and smoked calmly while Scott paced the floor, angrily railing against the strokes of fortune which had placed him within reach of Philip Peary. When finally he paused for breath, the captain spoke up.

"I've been listening to you, Scott," he said. "Now you listen to me. I've been talking with Phil Peary — talked with him about you — and he's never mentioned anything about any possibility of black-listing you. I admit that Phil can be harsh, and I know he's dead set against your having command of any ship he's got a finger in. However, I'm just as set on your being the master. I don't know which way John Lloyd'll go, if and when the time for a decision comes."

"Hell vote with Peary, of course," Scott said bitterly. "They're both merchants."

"Damn it, don't jump to conclusions, son. Simmer down. I think we'll know more about what we're going to do this afternoon."

"What do you mean?"

"The man Lloyd was waiting on is in Charleston."

"The fellow who was in the pepper trade before the war?"

"Aye, Lloyd brought him by this morning while you were out. His name's Hosea Fox, and he's from somewhere up around Salem. He claims to be a ship's officer, and I reckon he is. And I think he really does know a lot about the pepper trade. I'd like to visit the Pepper Coast myself."

"Are you, Peary and Lloyd going to make up your minds this afternoon?"

"I hope so. But I'll tell you one thing: I'll never accept this Fox as master of the ship."

"He wants that?"

"Aye. But it struck me that what he mainly wants is to get back to Sumatra. I believe his story, as far as it goes, but there's something about Fox that I don't like. I can't put a finger on it and so can't say why, but that's the way I feel."

"Well, let me say one thing right here, sir," Scott said earnestly. "Don't let your friendship for me stand in the way of a profitable venture for yourself. I'll find employment in another port, if need be."

"Friendship be damned!" Rousseau exclaimed gruffly. "I'm thinking of myself. If I sink everything I can beg and borrow into a trading voyage to some heathen island in the Indian Ocean, you can be damn' certain I'm going to put it into the hands of a captain I trust. I'm a gambler, as you know, and have been all my life; but I believe in using my own dice."

Philip Peary came home for his dinner in the middle of the day. It was on the table, hot and ready to be eaten, and he looked around impatiently. "Let's eat. I'm famished. Besides, I've got some important business this afternoon, and I want to take a nap first. I can't think unless I sleep awhile after I eat dinner." He paused. "Where's Clay?"

"Asleep," Mrs. Peary said.

"Asleep… at this hour?"

She looked worried. "He's been drinking too much. I'm afraid Rowena's death has upset him overmuch, Mr. Peary."

"Nonsense. All young bloods drink, especially when they have more money and leisure than is good for them. What Clay needs is another long voyage, since he shows no promise in the business, and I think I've got one for him."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. . This hot bread is just right, but that stupid cook burned the venison again. I ought to sell her as a field hand… John Lloyd's got a venture in mind for himself, Dave Rousseau and me."

"Has Captain Rousseau any money to spare? I thought you said the cruise of the Jasper nearly ruined him."

"It did. Pity, too. But maybe this business of Lloyd's will put him on his feet again. It's a risky venture, probably as dangerous as privateering."

"What is it?"

"Just an idea so far. But it has to do with sending a ship to the Pepper Coast of Sumatra."

"I never heard of the place, Mr. Peary."

"Few people have; but it's in the East Indies. I never use pepper myself, but a lot of people do — especially in Europe. Lloyd says — and he got it from some fellow who's interested him — that pepper grows wild on the northwest coast of Sumatra. You get it by trading with the natives, some of whom are a savage, thieving lot, I gather. We're going to need the right shipmaster." He paused, stuffing his mouth with a chunk of meat and chewing vigorously. "Rousseau wants to send our beloved son-in-law as captain."

Mrs. Peary looked up. Her eyes were softer than usual. "That reminds me, Mr. Peary. Only this morning I overheard him talking to the baby."

"Talking to the baby? Why, that child's not two months old."

"I know. He didn't know I was listening. But what he said to little Scott then and afterward to me gave me a new opinion of him, Mr. Peary."

Peary laid down his knife. "Indeed?" he said dryly.

"Yes," she said with conviction. "It gave me a much better opinion of him. Perhaps our Rowena was a better judge of his character than we."

"I'm waiting to hear what he said to the baby and you, madam."

She told him. He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. Then he said, "You're fond of the child, aren't you?"

"I am. But I no longer feel he should be taken away from his father."

Peary prided himself on his fair-mindedness. "Perhaps you're right, madam. Perhaps you're right." He was silent a moment. "In such matters you often are."

7

PEARY, Lloyd and Rosseau met in Rousseau's house. In less than an hour from the time they sat down together Scott was summoned by his old commander, whose excitement was poorly concealed. "Well, lad, we're going to send the ship with you as captain."

Scott, who had not permitted himself to hope too much, looked at Rousseau almost unbelievingly. "Me? How did you come to an agreement so quickly?"

Rousseau shrugged. "Something's happened to change Phil Peary's opinion of you; I don't know what. Anyway, come into the meeting; Phil wants to talk to you."

Scott felt both elated and uncertain as he entered the room at his friend's heels. Peary regarded him seriously; but Lloyd, a smartly turned-out bean pole of a man with a friendly face, grinned and lifted a hand in salute.

"We've come to a tentative agreement to send a ship to Sumatra to trade for pepper, Captain Rogers," Peary said formally and without preamble. "We are agreed that you shall be captain, my son Clay first officer, and Mr. Hosea Fox of Essex County, Massachusetts, second officer. You will be guaranteed one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, the first officer eighty, and the second sixty-five. Each of you shall have a share of the profits, and each may trade on his own account. Is such an arrangement agreeable to you?"

Scott nodded. "It is, sir."

"Very well. We have sent for Mr. Fox who, I may tell you, had hopes of being master. He may not agree to being second mate; and if he doesn't, the venture may get no farther than this room. As for my son Clay, I can speak for him."

"I think Fox will go along with our offer," Rousseau said coolly, "though he may be disappointed over not being given command."

"Do you have any questions, Captain Rogers?"

"When will we sail?"

"As soon as we can outfit a brig for the trade. She will be armed, of course; the voyage may be hazardous. We have been given to understand that the Malays of Sumatra's northwest coast are given to treachery and piracy. Moreover, you'll have silver specie to buy the pepper, since that seems to be the established practice. I am sure you can appreciate the dangers of trading in heathen parts when your ship is carrying a very large sum in coin. Finally, my own knowledge of the pepper trade is vague, but I do know its profits can be enormous. I'm afraid you'll be heavily dependent on Mr. Fox for knowledge of what you're about; but we all feel that you have the courage and the good sense to bring this voyage off profitably to all concerned."

"Thank you, sir. One other thing."

"Yes?"

"I must make certain my son will be cared for while I'm gone."

Peary looked at him closely. "He can remain with Mrs. Peary and me." He paused. "We'll be glad to have him, Scott."

The new friendliness in Peary's voice surprised Scott. He spoke warily. "He will not be yours to keep."

Rousseau broke in. "Mr. Peary means well by you, Scott."

"I'm sure he does," Scott said a little less cagily; "but I want the point understood."

"I understand," Peary said shortly. "He will be well cared for. Mrs. Peary is devoted to him, but she recognizes your rights as his father."

Fox's arrival was announced just then and he was ushered into the room immediately. Scott's first impression of him was favorable, despite what Rousseau had said earlier. Fox was a shade shorter than Scott, but longer-armed and wider in the shoulders; his head was balding, so that he had little more than a monk's fringe of brown hair on his pate; his eyes were green and alert, and set wide apart in a sallow, dished face in which nose and chin were destined to meet if he lived long enough. Dressed well in blue broadcloth, appearing to be a little more than thirty years old, he had the outward appearance of a man who knew what he wanted and how to go about getting it. He looked directly at Peary while listening to the proposition of the partners, and Scott watched his face closely for any sign of disappointment. There was none, and this was pleasing to Scott, who wanted no disgruntled officers. Having Clay Peary as second in command might in itself prove problem enough.

Fox turned directly to Scott after accepting the berth as second mate. "Captain Rogers, it will be pleasure to serve under you. You'll find me a man who knows his place in a ship."

The latter comment did not altogether set well with Scott, who had no use for servility; but he passed it off. On the whole, his initial impression of the second officer remained the same.

Peary got up from his chair. "Now, gentlemen, I must be going. I think it would be well for you, Captain Rogers, to give ear to Mr. Fox."

"I will serve in any way I can, sir," Fox said to Scott. "Call on me at any time."

Scott smiled. "Now's as good a time as any, Mr. Fox."

"I am at your service, sir."

Scott's first carefully controlled exuberance passed quickly. His pride and pleasure in the newest turn of his wheel of fortune were tempered by regret that Rowena could not share them. The mood induced by mingled feelings inclined him to silence as he and Fox sat down to noggins of hot buttered rum in the taproom of a good hostelry in King Street; but he felt the necessity of learning all he could from his new officer as soon as possible. Fox proved to be voluble and informed.

"Let me be fair with you, Mr. Fox," Scott said, the rum warming him. "I know next to nothing of Sumatra and the pepper trade. The owners, of course, know much more than I do."

"That's not to be wondered at, sir. There are no official charts of Sumatran waters — at least, as far as I know. Happily, I've got one of my own making."

"When were you there?"

"In 1807 and again in 1810. In between there was Mr. Jefferson's Embargo of 1808, of course, and afterward the late war with England. I was in the ship Betty Peele both times."

"As an officer?"

"Boatswain the first time. Second mate the next." He stopped talking and drank deeply. "I only presumed to offer myself as captain — I'm qualified, all right — because of my knowledge of the coast, the people and the trade. I speak the language, you know."

"I didn't know; but that'll be a help. I don't know yet when our ship'll be available and ready to sail, but when would you say we should reach the Pepper Coast."

"We should, by rights, be there now. The season usually begins in January. Weather permitting, most of the crop is harvested between the first of March and the last of May. The best pepper usually is gathered in May. I told all this to the owners, of course."

"Of course."

Scott drank again. "How long will it take us to get to Sumatra?"

"Ten weeks to four months, if all goes well, sir."

"Looks like we'll have to hurry to get there in time."

"I explained all that to Mr. Lloyd and the others, Captain Rogers. You can often get good pepper in the middle of the summer… in July and even in August. Besides, we should be among the first ships off the coast since the war's end. We're certain to get a full ship. I know the Malays and how to dicker with them."

Scott spoke carefully. "From what Mr. Peary said to me — and he must have gotten it from you — the coast is dangerous."

"It is. The waters are treacherous and so are the people. But, as I said, I can dicker with them. We have nothing to fear. The Salem ships haven't been to Sumatra in several years, and I've no doubt that there'll be pepper in plenty at reasonable prices."

"Were Salem vessels the only ones to trade in pepper?"

Fox shook his head. "There were some others, including East India men. But they were the only ships of American registry, to the best of my knowledge and belief. The Crowinshields, Peeles, and some other families made fortunes in the trade. It's fabulous."

"Why," Scott said bluntly, "aren't you shipping out in a Salem vessel with a captain experienced in the trade, instead of coming to Charleston to find a ship?"

Fox smiled. "I thought you'd ask that, Captain Rogers. First, I'd hoped to find a place as captain, which I couldn't do in Salem — or, at least, I figured I couldn't do. Second, if I can open a new and immensely profitable field to Charleston merchants, why, it stands to reason I may benefit the more from it. That's the fairest way I know of putting it, sir."

"Fair enough, I'd say. What sort of country is Sumatra?"

"Hot. Sticky-hot, even in the dry season, on the coast. But I've heard it's cool enough inland, back in the mountains. The wild pepper comes from the western slopes of the mountains, you know. The country's a jungle, full of all sorts of varmints, and the coastal waters are full of coral reefs and shoals."

"Sounds pleasant," Scott said dryly.

"Well, sir, I've known men to go nearly mad there, especially when they had to await the next pepper season in order to fill the hold, but I like Sumatra. I even like the Malays and Achinese — the better class of them, that is."

"I thought you said they were treacherous."

"Most are. But I figure I'm smarter than they are and thus have nothing to worry about." He picked up his second noggin and drank deeply. "There are no Americans, no white men of any sort, living on the Pepper Coast. There are a few Englishmen and a few Dutchmen on Sumatra itself, and a Dutch fort on Bangka, but they're hundreds of miles from, say, Quallah Battoo, Stallappo, Baccoongung, or any of the other real pepper ports. You'll find Chinamen, though; you'll run across them everywhere. They're in business in every bazaar."

"We'll do our trading with natives altogether, I take it?"

"Aye, sir. All you have to keep in mind is, use them or they'll use you."

Scott finished his drink and rose. "We'll talk more later. Fox. You'll hear from me as soon as I know something about the ship."

Standing also, the New Englander offered his hand. Scott was pleased to find it hard and the clasp strong.

Returning to Rousseau's house in the early twilight, Scott reflected pleasantly on the upswing of his luck. He was grateful for Rousseau's staunch friendship, and for Peary's unaccountable change of heart. While he would not have selected Clay Peary as first officer, he was not displeased with the choice of Fox as second mate. A talker and fond of himself, true; but likely to be a more compatible shipmate than Peary.

Fox remained in the taproom another hour, drinking steadily and occasionally smiling to himself. On the surface, he was a man getting pleasantly drunk; and drunk he was when at last he went to the private room he had engaged on the second floor of the inn. Once in his quarters, he bolted the door and set his candle on a table, then opened a sea bag and took out a thin, flat, canvas-wrapped parcel. This he unwrapped carefully.

Light from the guttering candle gleamed on a bolt of shimmering yellow silk. Eyes glittering, Fox stroked the rich, heavy cloth caressingly.

8

ON a sunny afternoon in mid-March Scott set out elatedly to report the brig Caroline ready for sea. She was a reputedly swift sailer, eighty-six feet overall, with a beam of twenty-two feet. Of her two decks, the lower linked cabin and forecastle and also served as gun deck and storage area; and she was armed with two twelve-pounders and two nine-pounders, plus swivel guns on forecastle and poop. Ballasted with sand, she was manned by a carefully picked crew of twenty-four, most under twenty-one years of age but all former privateers-men used to naval-type discipline and experienced in combat.

Philip Peary, the principal owner of the vessel, received Scott with politeness bordering on cordiality. In the time that the Caroline was being acquired and fitted out for the voyage the two men had come to have considerable respect, even some liking, for each other.

"We can sail as soon as the specie's taken aboard, sir," Scott said.

Peary frowned. "There's been a hitch." Scott eyed him questioningly, but said nothing. "We're two thousand dollars short of the twenty thousand we need, Scott," the merchant went on. "We've gotten Spanish silver dollars from as far away as Baltimore, but we're waiting on money promised from Savannah. Getting so much silver together this soon after the war is something of a job." He paused. "Trade goods would have been much easier to get, but it seems that the Malays are used to coin."

"Fox assures me that's the accepted medium on the Pepper Coast," Scott said. "We're going to hide the stuff in various parts of the ship, instead of relying on a strongbox." "Where, for example?"

"We'll put some under the floor boards of the cabin, some in the powder magazine, and probably some between the inner and outer planking of the hull. Only the mates and I will know exactly where, of course."

"Of course. Tell me, what do you think of Mr. Fox?" "Why, I'd say he knows his trade, sir. The men respect him." "You know that Captain Rousseau distrusts him, don't you?" "Aye. But he can't give me any reason why." "I know. But Dave Rousseau is a keen judge of men… better than I am."

"I've watched Fox closely, sir. He gets on occasional talking sprees, but I haven't been able to spot anything really wrong with him. I believe he's going to be an asset, what with his knowledge of the language, the people, the coast, and the trade itself."

Peary smiled thinly. "I'm sure he will. Still, keep a sharp eye on him. Captain Rousseau is more often right than wrong when it comes to judging character."

"I'll do it, sir. When do you think you'll have all the money in hand?"

"Tomorrow, I hope. The day after, anyway. It was promised yesterday."

Although he had the highest respect for Rousseau, Scott did not let the man's opinion of Fox disturb him. He was saddled with Fox, just as he was saddled with Clay Peary, and he had made up his mind to judge each solely on performance of duty. So far, he much preferred Fox's company to Peary's. He dismissed both from mind, though, when he stopped at the Peary home to see his son. Afterward, dining with Rousseau, the subject of the second mate came up briefly again, but was dropped upon his assurance that he would keep his weather eye peeled for any signs of trouble from that quarter.

When he returned to the ship, he granted overnight shore leave to all men with families in the city. He himself retired early, spending his first night in the Caroline. Keyed-up, anxious to be under way, he tossed restlessly in his bunk a long while before falling asleep. On the longest voyage he had never been so lonely as now.

9

THE silver from Savannah did not arrive next day, nor the day after. The victualed ship lay at her moorings, a creaking, seemingly animate thing protesting against the lines that kept her from slipping away with the outgoing tide. And Scott fretted increasingly. He had worked hard to make ready for sea, spending his energy prodigally. Now he had nothing to do but wait, and waiting was hard. It was the harder because he felt shame in recognizing his need for a woman. From the time he was sixteen until the day he met Rowena he had been accustomed to going to women when in port. He went to them without shame, in pagan freedom. Some he bought with money and some with drink, and a few went to bed with him simply because he was young, strong, and amiable toward them.

He would have been faithful to Rowena. Even now he felt that he should be faithful to her memory. She had been dead less than three months. If only the damned money would arrive! Then he could make sail. There was always something to do at sea. Responsibility and work were opiates for the desires of the flesh.

Toward ten o'clock that second night he could stand the close confinement of his cabin no longer. He went topside, into clear, windy cold faintly lighted by the glittering stars. The men of the anchor watch paid him no attention. One figure moved toward him. Fox.

"Beautiful night, sir."

Scott glanced at the riding lights of a half-dozen ships anchored or tied up nearby. He didn't want to talk. But he said, "Mr. Peary aboard?"

"No, sir. He left before dark. He said—"

Scott cut off the flow of words. "It doesn't matter. No reason he should be. Nothing for him to do."

Fox looked seaward. "We've lost two fine sailing days."

Scott grunted, now staring toward the inviting land, where warm streaks and puddles of yellow light escaped from taverns and brothels fronting on the water. From far away came the faint, lively sound of accordion music. Suddenly he knotted his right hand into a fist and struck the palm of his left three or four times, making a staccato sound.

Fox eyed him curiously. "Mr. Lloyd was aboard this afternoon while you were ashore. He said they'd started a clerk to Savannah on horseback to find out what's holding up the money."

Scott struck fist into palm again. "Both Mr. Peary and Captain Rousseau told me." He paused for a minute, feeling himself drawn by the lights and the distant music. He'd been in most of the places whose lights he could see; but not since he had met Rowena. Not a city block from the quay where the Caroline was tied up was the Silver Palin, a tavern which once he had frequented. "I'm going ashore, Fox."

The second officer approved the idea. "You need to relax, sir. You've been working pretty hard."

Scott went to his cabin to get his hat and coat. There he stood for a moment in indecision, feeling himself torn two ways. Finally he took off the locket containing his wife's picture and stowed it in a drawer of his desk. Then with a sigh, he went ashore and set his course for the Silver Palm, which occupied a two-story frame building.

The taproom was fairly crowded by a dozen noisy seamen, half as many women, and one fellow who sat a little apart and who appeared different from the sailors because he wore a buckskin shirt with fringes at the shoulders. The room itself was much as Scott remembered it, reeking of spilled liquors, stale tobacco smoke, cheap perfume and sweaty, unwashed humanity. It was lighted by a couple of smoking oil lamps, which put out a stink all of their own; and at one end of the bar was a shadowy flight of steps leading to the small upstairs cubicles which patrons could rent by the week, day or hour.

Jack Silva, the man who ran the place, recognized Scott after a half-minute of squinting. He spoke with a mixture of familiarity and obsequiousness. "Captain Rogers, sir! It's a pleasure to see you again, sir!"

Scott didn't bother to make conversation with the fellow. He spoke shortly. "Grog."

"Sit down, won't you, sir? Take the end of that long table, where you'll be apart from the others. Julia'll bring your drink. She's new, sir."

The man in the buckskin shirt, a trader from the Cherokee country, regarded Scott appraisingly, but without rudeness. He was a loose-limbed, almost gangling fellow with clubbed hair, dimpled chin, and small, round black eyes; and on him the veneer of civilization was little more than a thin shellac. The sailors, half of whom were from a French merchantman, simmered down a little. Recalling his own days before the mast, Scott felt a little uncomfortable. The Silver Palm, after all, was not a tavern frequented by reputable shipmasters; and Silva, the owner, was no more than a Portuguese whoremonger.

A small, dark girl, pretty despite an overabundance of rouge, detached herself from the Frenchmen at a signal from her employer. A few moments later she brought Scott his grog and, without invitation, seated herself beside him. The seamen she had been with frowned their displeasure, which Scott noticed.

"Ain't you too much the gentleman to be in a place like this by yourself?" she asked abruptly.

He eyed her, seeing that her figure was good, something her too tight dress did nothing to conceal. Against her animal magnetism, which drew him immediately, was arrayed the combination of too powerful perfume, the thick overlay of rouge, and rather grimy hands. He smiled slowly, thinking that a year or so ago he would have observed none of these things. "I've been here before. But not in a long while."

She put her elbows on the plank table and rested her chin in her hands. "Well, you look like the kind of man who'd climb in the world. You're the kind of man for me."

He nodded toward the surly foreign sailors. "What about your friends over there?"

She shrugged. "Them Froggies! They wont give me no trouble. I'd rather be with you. Besides, they're stingy."

"Ill buy you a drink for that," he said dryly.

"You already have. Didn't you notice?"

He looked at the cup in her hand. "So I have. I'm not surprised."

"Ain't it the same everywhere?"

"Pretty much, I guess."

She moved a little closer, making it easier for him to peer into the cleft between powdered breasts. "You didn't come here for a drink. I can tell that. I don't go to bed with every customer of this place, but I can be had by the right one."

His eyes rested on her hands and turned sad. Places like this and women like her weren't for him any longer, but he'd had to come here to find it out. The tension in him tightened.

"You want a woman, don't you, sugar?" she asked, leaning against him.

Yes, I do, he thought, unhappily aware of his new inhibitions; but I want one I can take without reservations. The things about you that set my teeth on edge are things that never used to upset me. But I suppose it'll have to be you; I don't see anybody better here.

"Well?" she persisted huskily, laying a warm palm on his I thigh. "Don't you want me?"

He didn't have to answer; for suddenly the French seamen stood across the table from them in a body. Their leader was a huge fellow with a small, pear-shaped head and the long arms and massive shoulders of a gorilla. Scott, who had faced up to such situations before, knew he probably had a fight on his hands. He tightened his grip on the half-emptied cup of rum and water as he coolly returned the glowering stare of the big sailor, who appeared much more belligerent than his fellows. Whip him, he thought, and the rest'll turn tail; they don't really want any trouble with me.

The trader turned to the American seamen, who were watching interestedly. "You fellows ain't goin' to stand by an' see them damn' furriners beat up a good American, are you?"

A tar spoke out of the side of his mouth. "I c'n tell from th' cut of his jib that he's a shipmaster, an' if a shipmaster ain't got no more sense than to come into this place, then he'll damn' well have to look out for hisself. That gal was with them Froggies an' lovin' 'em all until he come in."

Silva came from behind his bar, a heavy stick in his hand. "Let's don't have no trouble, men."

The Frenchmen jabbered among themselves, all except their leader. His brutish face darkened dangerously as he met Scott's unwinking gaze. Then he pounded his chest with a huge fist. "Je suis Georges Cordeau."

The boastful tone irritated Scott. "So?"

"Big Georges — me!"

Big son-of-a-bitch and mean, too, Scott thought, watching the fellow's face. He said nothing more.

Cordeau moved with surprising speed, reaching across the table and catching the girl by the arm. He jerked powerfully, yanking her toward him and overturning the long table in the process. She let out a screech of mingled fury and fear.

Scott reacted with the cold precision he long since had learned to use in dealing with dull-witted fellows who respected only brute force. He had come up in the hard school of fist, boot, marlinespike and belaying pin; the academy in which the officer had to win to preserve discipline. In a series of reflex actions he got up, balanced himself on the balls of his feet, flipped the remainder of his drink into the fellow's face, caught up the bench on which he had been sitting and swung it sideways against the giant's head. Half-blinded, the man staggered under the blow, letting go the girl and venting his rage in a roar that bounced off the dirty walls. Swiftly Scott struck again, but this time the fellow fended the blow with an arm in which the muscles were like thick cords, then reached hungrily for him.

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.

"She's flyin' a red an' yeller flag, sir!"

Peary snorted surprise and grudging admiration. "So she is! Must be a Spaniard." He lowered the telescope and spoke to Scott. "That's your man Hurst aloft… as no-account a sailor as ever shipped out of Charleston, but with the damnedest pair of eyes of any man I ever knew."

Taking the glass, Scott looked for himself, confirming the report. Fox picked up the subject of Hurst. "He's a tough bastard, too. Says he used to be an Indian trader. Funny sort of fellow to turn to the sea."

"He probably got into a scrape ashore," Peary said carelessly. "He'd been in a brawl the night the captain brought him aboard."

Scott heard, but chose to ignore the possibility that Peary had aimed a barb at him. He and his brother-in-law had been getting along very well in the Caroline, and life was more pleasant that way. He thought a moment about Hurst. The muscular borderer had won his place in the fo'c'sle by whipping three different seamen in as many days soon after the brig cleared Charleston. And if Hurst cared for any one thing in the world, it was his rifle. He frequently sought permission to clean the weapon, and once he demonstrated his marksmanship to Scott by shooting three gulls on the wing out of four tries.

"I think you're right about her being a Spaniard, Mr. Peary,' Scott said after a few moments. He tucked the telescope under his left arm and frowningly wondered if the United States and Spain were at war.

"I never saw a Spaniard in these waters," Fox commented. He hesitated a moment. "Of course, pirates could fly any flag. Don't forget that piracy is common out here."

"Well," Scott said dryly, "we'll avoid trouble if we can, but not by running from it. Mr. Peary, you'll keep most of the crew 'tween decks until I give the word to open 'em you'll keep the gun ports closed."

Fox took the glass and went aloft. He studied the oncoming vessel for several minutes, then returned to the deck and sought out Scott. "Sir, she may be a Spaniard with a lascar crew; but from their dress I'd say her people are Malays. Take a look. See for yourself, sir."

Scott did so. "Anything necessarily wrong with that."

"No, I suppose not. But there are plenty of Malay pirates in these waters, and sometimes they get hold of a pretty good-sized ship."

"Whatever they are, there are a lot of 'em," Scott said, still looking. "They're all wearing loincloths and red caps, except one fellow in a yellow jacket and cap. He's wearing a white skirt."

"I noticed, sir. The fellow in yellow probably is royalty, or at least a big chief. Only the rulers can wear yellow or have gold ornaments. White's for the ruling class, too."

Scott studied the ship herself more closely. She was smaller than the Caroline and apparently more lightly armed. Her master was a poor seaman, too, by Scott's standards: her sails were ragged and her rigging slack. Finally he lowered the telescope and rubbed his eyes.

"I think," he said slowly, "that we'll do our talking at a distance. . just in case. It's common knowledge that pepper traders carry considerable specie, isn't it?"

Fox nodded. "Aye, sir. And there ain't much a Malay date wouldn't do for twenty thousand Spanish-milled dollars."

When the bark was within hailing distance, Scott spoke her through his trumpet. "Ahoy! What ship is that?"

He got no answer.

"Ahoy!" he shouted again. "What ship?"

Still no reply. Scott set his jaw. "Mr. Peary!"

"Sir?"

"Show her our teeth! Run out the guns!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Then Scott spoke the stranger again. "Sheer off — or we fire!"

This time agile Malay seamen swarmed aloft in the bark and began taking in sail. That's better, Scott thought. Once more he demanded the name of the ship. Now the man in the yellow jacket and cap rose from the chair in which he was sitting-

"Santa Ines de Manil," he bawled across the shining water.

"Speak English, damn you!" Scott shouted.

"Let me try my Malay on him, sir," Fox said.

"Go ahead. And tell him to stay clear of us or we'll blow him to hell."

Fox's Malay was good, if not fluent, and he and the captain of the bark exchanged a good many words. Finally he turned to Scott again. "He's a Malay, all right. He says he trades out of Manila under the Spanish flag; that he's off course and short of both food and water. He wants us to let him have some of both."

Scott frowned. "I can't say no to that; but I would like to know why he wasn't steering for the Sumatran coast."

Fox smiled thinly. "It could be that he's not welcome on the Pepper Coast. These people fight among themselves a lot, village against village. I'll ask him, though."

A few minutes later he turned to Scott, who meanwhile had ordered the first officer to shorten sail. "He says he's afraid of shoals near Tapanuli; that he doesn't know the waters. And he says again that he needs food and water. . enough to last three days. He can go into Benkulen, he says, but he's afraid to go inshore north of there."

Scott rubbed his chin. "According to your chart, there are plenty of coral heads and sand shoals north of Benkulen. Still, Fox, I've got the feeling he's lying."

The second officer shrugged. "Could be, sir. It's hard to get a straight answer from a Malay."

The captain frowned. "Damn it all, I still can't say no to a request for food and water. I'd like to look around his ship myself, but that wouldn't be wise."

Fox grinned. "No, it wouldn't. If they're pirates, they'd like nothing better than you as a hostage."

"Tell him to heave to and send over a boat. . Heave to, Mr. Peary. Keep all hands ready for action."

By the time the Malay captain boarded the Caroline the two vessels had drifted nearly a quarter of a mile apart. Scott eyed the man interestedly, seeing a small, bold-looking, brown-skinned fellow carrying a sheathed sword in addition to the gold-hilted creese thrust in the waistband of his skirtlike kain sarong. Two of his seamen accompanied him aboard, both armed with razor-sharp, wavy-bladed daggers which differed from their leader's only in that the hafts were bone. Fox took over as interpreter.

"His name is Suran," the second mate said. "He's a dato or chief."

If Suran had been on short rations, it had been for a very limited time. Both he and his boat crew looked well fed to Scott. While Fox translated, he stared about him in an insolent fashion irksome to Scott; but his words, as repeated by the second officer, were extremely polite.

"All right," Scott said. "Tell him we'll let him have three days' water and rations. He must have a hundred men in that ship."

Fox told him and Suran bowed and smiled in Scott's direction. Then he said something in a low voice to one of his men and the fellow started aft toward the ladder leading to the 'tween deck.

"Stop that man, Mr. Peary," Scott called. "Keep him off the gun deck."

Peary spoke sharply to the Malay,who paid him no attention. Flushing, the first officer knocked him down with his fist. "You son-of-a-bitch, when a white man speaks, you jump to obey!"

The man who had been felled suddenly yanked his creese free and leaped to his feet. Peary covered him with his pistol, and the willingness to kill was plain in his angry face. Suran suddenly spoke up, calling his man to heel. Then he spoke apologetically to Fox.

"He says no harm was intended, sir," Fox told Scott. "He was just curious."

A lie, Scott thought. He eyed Suran, who met his gaze blandly. Without turning his head, he spoke to Fox. "Give him what he wants."

More talk in Malay ensued.

"Now what?" Scott demanded impatiently.

"He says he will be forever grateful and Allah will bless you. Also, he's got to summon another boat."

"Damnation!" Scott exclaimed, inclining his head toward the Malay chief, who was waving his yellow cap over his head. "He's doing so now."

Almost immediately three boats came around from the land side of the Santa Ines and started swiftly for the Caroline. One was laden with casks, but the other two seemed overly burdened with men who were not rowing.

"Here!" Scott said sharply. "Tell this Suran fellow to remain where he is. And tell him that only one other boat is coming to the side of this ship."

Fox told him. The Malay chief spoke at length, his tone apologetic. Meanwhile, though, the boats from his vessel drew steadily nearer. Scott's apprehension bloomed, but he kept his voice calm. "Did you tell him, Fox?"

"Aye, sir," the second officer replied worriedly. "But he says he's got six score people to feed."

"A hundred and twenty! He's no trader!" Scott caught Suran roughly by the shoulder. "Stop those boats!"

The man twisted free. His boats already were too close for the Caroline's guns to be used on them, even if the pieces were loaded with grapeshot. He knew it and Scott knew it.

Scott made a grab for Suran, intending to use him as a hostage; but the man anticipated the move and leaped back, drawing his creese and uttering a shrill command. Scott felled him with his fist, then leaped back with Fox to avoid being butchered by the two Malay sailors.

"All hands!" Scott roared, tugging his pistol free of his belt. "Repel boarders."

Fending a creese cut with the long barrel of the pistol, he leveled the weapon at his attacker and pulled the trigger. It missed fire. Desperately he booted the grimacing native in the belly and flung the pistol at the head of a pirate coming over the rail from Suran's boat. Then he drew his cutlass and rushed the chief, who had regained his feet and unsheathed his rapier-like parang.

Suran stood up boldly to Scott, sword against the heavier cutlass. And it seemed to the Caroline's captain that Malays were everywhere he looked. Grimly he slashed and stabbed at Suran, trying to cut the man down and thus perhaps check the assault. But the agile dato fended every slash and lunge, using his parang skillfully.

The waist of the ship swarmed with men, white and brown, fighting with cutlasses, swords, boarding pikes, knives, spears and pistols. Scott kept his attention fixed on Suran, taking long chances in his effort to slay the man. He forced him back gradually, until the dato fought desperately with his back to the mainmast.

Suddenly Suran seemed infused with fresh strength. He counterattacked furiously, making Scott give ground; and his eyes glittered with fury amounting to madness. Slipping in blood, Scott almost fell; and in his anxiety to kill, Suran leaped toward him almost blindly. Dodging a whistling cut of the sword, Scott lunged and drove his weapon clean through his opponent. The fellow sagged on the blade, almost twisting the cutlass from Scott's grip. With a mighty jerk Scott freed the weapon of the dinging flesh. Then, on impulse, he bent and snatched the yellow cap and waved it aloft with a roar of triumph.

The chief's death broke the attack with amazing suddenness. Making no attempt to avenge the slaying, the Malays bolted. In twos, threes and dozens they leaped into the sea, swimming for their boats and climbing in.

Breathing hard, Scott looked about him. Peary was on his feet, bloody cutlass in hand. So was Fox. So was Hurst. In fact, he saw only one of his men lying inert on the deck. About a dozen Malays were sprawled where they had been cut or shot down. The ferocious fight had lasted only five minutes.

"Hurst!" Scott bawled.

"Sir?"

"Get your rifle and start picking off every Malay you can."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"All hands! All hands!"

The crew closed in about him, faces and bodies wet with sweat and blood, eyes still alight with the fury of battle.

"Mr. Peary, get on sail and bring the ship about. We're going to blow that damned bark out of the water. We'll move in close and alternate round shot and grape."

The men cheered. Peary grinned happily. "Aye, aye, sir!"

Hurst's long rifle cracked with almost monotonous regularity as the crew made sail and prepared to bring the Caroline about. Scott paced the poop tensely, his eyes darting from the work to the fleeing Malays. His mind was made up: he would destroy the Santa Ines and every native in her.

The Caroline came about smartly. Her starboard gunners opened fire with round shot, and the first nine-pounder snapped off the bark's foremast. Again and again the brig quivered and shuddered to the recoil of cannon. The Santa Ines was armed, but her people never brought a gun to bear on the brig. They were too demoralized even to set sail. Scott worked the Caroline closer. Grapeshot slashed the bark's rigging. Round shot stove in her housing and hulled her. A twelve-pound ball brought down the mizzenmast.

"Scott! Captain!"

Scott turned to face his brother-in-law, who was begrimed from burned gunpowder.

"Let's board her, Scott. There may be something worth taking out of her."

That made sense. Besides, there was no point in wasting more gunpowder. Scott looked and saw that two boats were pulling away from the Santa Ines; while sharks, some of them twice the length of a tall man, already were tearing and jerking at bodies in the water. For a fight that had started out so fiercely the ending was almost ludicrously anticlimactic, mere vengeful destruction. Some of the ferocity died out of him. "Very well."

Peary laughed, and the captain eyed him curiously.

"I was just thinking," Peary explained, "that these damn' Malays are better starters than finishers."

The Caroline shuddered again as cannon leaped back against their breachings. Splinters flew from the bark.

Scott lifted his voice commandingly. "Cease fire!. . Lay her alongside, Mr. Peary."

No hand opposed the boarding of the Santa Ines. On the whole, it was a sad business, with the victors awed into silence even before their feet hit the scarred, blood-spattered teak deck. The bark was finished, making water fast, settling with a gurgling sound in the warm, wet bed of the tropical sea. In the waist, on the foredeck and on the poop, amidst the shambles of torn cordage, shredded canvas and splintered wood, lay the brown bodies of twenty-odd pirates, their bodies horribly mangled. Some had been hastened to paradise by the creeses of sympathetic comrades. All who had been able to abandon ship were in the two boats, which were well beyond reach of small arms.

Like his men, Scott was temporarily dumbfounded by the carnage and destruction wrought by the merciless pounding at point-blank range; for the Caroline had lost but one man, a seaman named Boyd; but no regrets beset him. There was in him no softness for treachery, even though he was unable to escape the feeling of depression. While he stood looking about before giving the order to search the sinking craft, he was startled by the sudden emergence from the shattered cabin of two figures: a slight, ash-blond girl of perhaps twenty, her long, full skirt sweeping the deck, and a thin, stooped man of middle years who wore silver-rimmed spectacles. Still shocked by the cannonading, they moved slowly into the brilliant sunlight, blinking fearfully and questioningly at the surprised men of the Caroline.

Amazement showing in his face, Scott stepped toward them, bloody cutlass in hand. "Who are you?"

The girl tightened her grip on her companion's arm and met Scott's eyes with her own, which were dark brown and in vivid contrast to the fairness of her hair and skin. The man looked at the starred, striped flag the Caroline flew, and his eyes, as darkly brown as his daughter's, misted behind the thick lenses through which he squinted at the world.

"We," he said slowly, "we are Americans, sir. I am Forbes Russell, a native of Philadelphia, and this is my daughter Dorcas.

"And I," Scott said wonderingly, "am Scott Rogers of Charleston, master of the brig alongside. Tell me, what are you doing in this pirate ship?"

"We were going home," Russell said simply.

"To. . Philadelphia?"

Russell passed a thin hand through thinning hair. "Ultimately, sir. Or so we planned. I had begun to think we might not get there."

The girl patted his arm and spoke for the first time. "We're all right now, Father." She hesitated and a dimple appeared fleetingly in her left cheek. "I won't be anybody's slave."

Scott looked at her again, her real beauty registering with him. She stood a little higher than his chin; and her face was narrow and delicately shaped. Beside him Peary cleared his throat loudly; and Scott made the proper introductions. Then he said:

"Make a quick, thorough search, Mr. Peary. Bring off any wounded and anything of value. Then set her afire."

"I–I have some books and things," Russell said hesitantly. "I'd like to save them."

"And I have a few articles of clothing," the girl said. "They took everything else."

Scott rubbed his chin. "Suppose you show me what you want to save. Then we'll go aboard the Caroline."

A goggle-eyed Fox helped the Russells into the brig.

"Mr. Fox," Scott said, "you and Mr. Peary will move for'ard, so that Miss Russell can have your quarters. Mr. Russell will share the cabin with me."

"Aye, aye, sir! We are delighted to have you aboard, Miss Russell. . you and your father, of course."

"Captain!" cried a voice from the Santa Ines.

"Well?"

"We found another white man, sir. Dead, though. Throat cut."

"That would be Captain Alvarez, I'm sure," Dorcas Russell said. "Besides us, he was the only one spared when the ship was taken."

"Bring the body aboard and sew it in a shroud. We'll commit his body to the sea along with Boyd's. And bring aboard any gunpowder and good arms that you may find."

Fox, who had disappeared briefly, now spoke up. "Sir, I was wondering if Miss Russell might not like a cup of tea or a glass of Madeira. She's had a — well — hard time of it, I'd say."

"Tea, please," Dorcas said. "And thank you for thinking of it, Mr. Fox."

Fox beamed and turned to Russell. "And you, sir?"

"Er — spirits, if you have any."

"Have the steward bring rum, water and tea to my cabin, Mr. Fox," Scott said. "And issue an extra ration of rum to all hands as soon as we're under way again."

In the cabin, sipping grog, Russell explained their presence in the Santa Ines.

"We were living in Manila," he said, "and it became expedient to leave hurriedly. So I contracted with Captain Alvarez to take us to any port where we could find an American or British ship. Six days out of Manila, having successfully eluded the Spanish Coast Guard, we were taken by this pirate Suran, who butchered everybody aboard but my daughter, Captain Alvarez and myself." He paused and sighed. "If Alvarez had remained out of sight today, as we did, he might not have been slain; but he got panicky while you were shelling us and ran among the Malays. I think we were forgotten in the confusion. At any rate, Captain Rogers, we are indebted to you for our rescue."

"What did you mean when you said, "having successfully eluded the Spanish Coast Guard'?" Scott asked.

"Just that, sir."

"Oh, Father," Dorcas broke in, "Captain Rogers thinks you may be a criminal or something. Tell him the whole story."

Russell finished his grog and Scott made more for him, pouring two parts of water to one of rum. He took off his glasses, blew on the lenses, and polished them with a ragged handkerchief.

"It goes back a long way, Captain Rogers," he said finally. "You see, I have been an expatriate American for twenty years. It was that long ago that I went to Spain as an English tutor in the employ of a Spanish grandee. While there I married a Spanish lady, the mother of my daughter; and I continued to tutor, the only way I had of making a living. Ultimately my employer at the time — another Spanish nobleman — was sent to Manila as an officer of the colonial administration. He asked me to continue tutoring his children, and I agreed. Thus my wife, Dorcas — she was a child of ten then — and I went to Manila.

"We fared quite well there while my patron lived, but things became a bit difficult after he died. For one thing, I am not a Catholic, though my wife was, and I always resisted the idea of rearing Dorcas as a Catholic. It is not that I'm opposed to the Church as such, although I don't agree with it, but I've always thought that people should make up their own minds after growing mature. Anyway, my wife was not insistent and my patron was especially tolerant for a Spaniard, and tilings went along.

"But soon after my patron died my wife, who had some property of her own, also died. And suddenly the zealots of the Church turned on us. They were aided and abetted by distant relatives of my wife, people who stood to benefit if I were dispossessed of what she left me.

"To shorten the story, I not only was robbed of what my wife left me, but also of what little I had accumulated. Oh, it was done legally, all right; as a Protestant, I had virtually no legal rights in Manila. When it began to look as if both Dorcas and I were to be put to the question by the Inquisition, I grew thoroughly frightened. I found this Captain Alvarez and I bargained with him to smuggle us out of Manila in the Santa Ines. It was a risky business, but I gave him a diamond bracelet and a ruby which had belonged to my wife and which 1 had hidden for Dorcas. After his fashion, he was a man of honor, this Alvarez; he took us aboard — at great risk to himself — and he set out for Madras, in India. There I hoped to find help in getting home, especially since I knew the war between the United States and Great Britain was over."

Scott rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You are more than welcome aboard the Caroline; but I can't promise when you'll get home. We're going to Sumatra to trade for pepper with the Malays there. I'm hoping they'll be more peaceful and trustworthy than our late friend Suran."

"And if they are not?" Dorcas asked interestedly.

Scott smiled grimly. "We've come a long way to get pepper, ma'am, and we're going home with the hold full of the stuff — or not at all. If there's pepper in Sumatra, I aim to get it."

There was a knock at the door, and Peary presented himself. "I took sugar, tobacco and gunpowder out of the bark, sir. Such arms as I found were no good."

"Very good," Scott said, rising. "I'll read the services over Boyd and Captain Alvarez, while you fire the Santa Ines. A little later I'll want to look at Mr. Fox's chart, and I want both of you to study it with me. We should make a landfall tonight.

"And another thing, while I think of it: I want the anchor watch doubled and kept armed at all times. Guns are to be kept loaded with grape."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Scott bowed slightly in the direction of the Russells. "Miss Russell. . Mr. Russell. . you'll excuse me."

11

WHILE by nature hospitable, and surely human enough to enjoy the company of a beautiful young woman after weeks at sea, Scott nevertheless paid next to no attention to the Russells during the eighteen hours immediately following their rescue by the Caroline. The clash with the pirates had underscored his responsibility to all aboard and to the owners. Thus, theorizing that the pirates who escaped the destruction of the Santa Ines would head for Tapanuli, the nearest port known to Fox, Scott took advantage of a brisk southerly wind to stand in well above there. He made his landfall off Troumon, a village the second officer assured him was of small importance, then coasted in a northwesterly direction for Stallapoo. In the decision as to the first port of call he allowed himself to be influenced by Fox.

"We'll get pepper at Stallapoo if there's any to be had anywhere on the coast," the second mate said confidently. "I've been there before. Perhaps Pa' Mahmud is still the rajah."

"You know him?" Scott asked, wishing for the thousandth time that he knew the coast and had more knowledge of the trade. As it was, he was heavily dependent on Fox. The man so far had given no indication of being anything other than a competent officer and seaman, but the captain could not entirely dismiss from mind Captain Rousseau's impression of him.

"Aye, sir," Fox said a little importantly. "He's quite a big man on the Pepper Coast, is Pa' Mahmud; and I'm certain he'll have pepper ready for sale."

"I guess he'll be decked-out in yellow, too," Peary said in a rancid voice.

"Probably," Fox said shortly. "I wouldn't make too much fun of it, if I were you. Only big men can wear it."

The first officer made a derisive noise. "Big men, my arse! Like Suran, I suppose. Now that I know what these brown sons-of-bitches are really like, I know how to handle them. I'll drive them just like I would a passel of niggers."

Fox mopped the bald top of his head. "Don't make that mistake, man. It's not a good idea to bat them around. They're proud and they have long memories. Besides, it won't be long before everybody in Stallapoo knows what we did to Suran."

"So much the better, eh, captain?" Peary asked.

Scott looked up from Fox's crude chart of the coast. "Maybe. Still, I don't want trouble. We've come out here to pick up a profitable cargo." He paused, frowning. "As of now, both of you, don't ever let more than one native boat at a time come close alongside; don't permit more than a half-dozen Malays aboard at a time, and see to it they're unarmed; and keep ten armed men in the ship all the time we're at anchor. I know just enough about the Malays not to trust them."

"Deck there!" bawled the lookout. "Town on th' starb'd bow."

"That'll be Stallapoo," Fox said.

"According to this chart of yours, we'd better anchor well offshore," Scott said.

"That's right, sir. The anchorage is about a mile and a half off the town. You can't go any closer on account of the coral heads and mud flats."

"Very well, gentlemen. You may go."

Fox went first, mopping his sweaty face and pate. Peary lingered. "Aren't you taking a lot of advice off him?" he asked, nodding toward the cabin door.

Scott smiled slightly. "I have to. I don't know this coast and neither do you."

Peary hesitated. "To tell you the truth, Scott, I don't trust him."

Scott looked up, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Peary shrugged. "Last night he didn't say anything about knowing this native ruler. Today he says he does."

"I didn't give him much opportunity last night, I suppose. I didn't feel like talking. Anyway, that's hardly grounds for suspicion. Don't you have any better reason?"

"Yes, I do. My father doesn't wholly trust him. Neither does Captain Rousseau. John Lloyd sold them on him, you know, and Lloyd himself hardly knows the man."

"I know," Scott said impatiently, "I know. But I've watched him closely without finding anything to criticize in him. He's a good officer, and he fought as well as any of us yesterday."

"Oh, I'll give the devil his due, all right. But you mark my words, Scott."

When Peary had followed the second mate on deck, Scott stared out the cabin window, looking at the land on the starboard beam. Viewed from a few miles offshore, the thousand-mile-long island was almost incredibly beautiful, and at a distance not unlike Hispaniola, Jamaica and Cuba. In the first hour of light, clouds capped the volcanic inland mountains and dense white mist hung over the damp jungle that ran down the slopes to the narrow fringe of white beach. Now, toward noon, massive cumulus clouds were building up over the land mass and starting to drift lazily in the brilliant blue sky.

Scott actually gave little thought to Peary's words. Officers living together in cramped quarters for long periods of time were apt to become the best of friends or the worst of enemies. So far there was no indication that Fox disliked his fellow mate, although he had been a little sour about Peary's comment on royal yellow. Scott ran his hand through his hair and yawned, thinking suddenly that the cabin was intolerably close. Putting on his cap, he rose and went on deck, mounting to the poop.

He was not surprised to see Forbes and Dorcas Russell forward with Fox, who was pointing toward Stallapoo. He smiled tolerantly. Miss Russell was a good-looking woman, no two ways about it; and he rather imagined Fox was building himself up as an authority on the coast. By comparison with me he is, too, Scott thought, sobering. I've got to start learning.

Nearing Stallapoo under shortened sail, Scott ordered a leadsman into the chains and put Fox at the wheel. The water, which had been all clear blue and green, now was streaked in places with brown from mud flats and occasional coral heads were visible closer inshore.

"Picking up the Russells was a bit of luck," Fox said after awhile. "I mean, it's nice to have new faces aboard. I never met a woman like her before."

Scott grunted. For the time being he was too concerned with the venture to think much about Miss Russell.

"Most women in Spanish countries — nice women, I mean — lead pretty sheltered lives," Fox went on. "I think Russell's given her her head a good bit of the time. He's sort of a scholar, you know. Doesn't have too much common sense, I'd say. But she has."

Scott paced the poop nervously, eying a dozen proas of various sizes putting out from the town.

"By the mark seven," droned the leadsman. . "And a quarter seven. . Deep eight. . And a half seven. . "

"Water's deeper than I remembered," Fox commented. "You know, sir, I'm a man who knows his own mind. I'm ready now to take Miss Russell on for life. She's a lady, if you follow me, besides being smart."

"Mark three," called the leadsman.

Scott stopped beside the wheel.

"Mark twain!"

"Getting damned shallow, Mr. Fox."

Fox held the course. "It'll be shallow in spots until we reach the anchorage in the roadstead."

"Deep six. . And a half six. . Mark five. . And a quarter six. . Mark twain!. ."

Scott looked closely at the helmsman, but said nothing. Then he stared thoughtfully at the proas, which were congregating in the roadstead. "As soon as we anchor, Mr. Fox, make clear my orders. We're taking no chances."

"Let me talk to Pa' Mahmud," Fox said. "I'll fix everything."

Each manned by from two to two dozen loinclothed men, most of them wearing creeses, the small sailing craft from Stallapoo started swarming about the Caroline the moment she began losing way. They came nearer as soon as she dropped her hooks.

Peary fingered the butt of his pistol. "A mighty lot of them are armed."

Fox looked at him rather scornfully. "Most Malays would rather go naked than go without their creeses. Hell, these people are friendly."

Scott studied the grinning and smiling brown faces and felt inclined to agree; but he had not forgotten the recent lesson learned from Suran.

Fox glanced at Dorcas and her father, who were standing apart from both officers and sailors, then stepped forward, swaggering just a little. He liked being the center of attention. Then he began speaking, and Scott noticed that some of the smiles and grins disappeared. I wish I could palaver with them myself, he thought enviously; I like to know exactly what's being said.

Finally one boat laid alongside, the half-naked native at the tiller looking up attentively and talking with the second officer.

"We're in luck, sir," Fox said after awhile. "My friend Pa' Mahmud is still rajah here."

"Is he in one of the boats?"

"Oh, no, sir. He's waiting in his palace for us."

"Big man," Peary said sarcastically.

Scott gestured to him to be silent. "We'll go. I'm ready to commence trading now."

"Another thing," Fox continued. "We're the first American ship to put in here since just before the war. Pa' Mahmud should be up to his ears in pepper berries."

"And anxious to make us a good price," Scott added.

"Exactly, sir."

"Good. We'll take an armed boat crew and shove off. But first, see that fellow over there — the one with all the green vegetables and fresh fruits? Strike a bargain with him. We need fresh meat, too."

"Best thing to do about the meat is to buy a young buffalo and slaughter it ourselves, sir. That way we'll know it's fresh. We ought to be able to get some chickens, too."

"I'll leave all that to you. Get the boat crew and let's lower away…. And you, Mr. Peary, keep a sharp watch."

As the boat pulled away, Scott looked back. Dorcas was leaning on the rail. Catching his eye, she lifted her hand gracefully.

" Buena suerte!" she called. "Good luck!"

12

SCOTT had difficulty controlling the excitement welling up in him as the boat neared the land. He had been on trading ventures before, but always Captain Rousseau had done the bargaining and made the decisions. Moreover, he never had landed anywhere appearing as uncivilized as Stallapoo. Acquaintances of his had visited such places, according to their tales, but he himself always had put in at populous port cities of Europe or America.

"You'll find Pa' Mahmud is a pretty shrewd fellow," Fox said suddenly. "At first, he'll probably pretend that pepper has been hard to come by and that he's not anxious to trade.'

"What sort of fellow is he?"

"Shrewd, like I said, and, like all Malays, touchy. Actually he is a pretty big man, as I said before. I guess he has two hundred fighting men, and I know for a fact that he's done his share of fighting."

"With whites or other natives?"

"Other natives. He's always gotten along with the Salem people. I've always made out fine with him. See that big building yonder. . the big hut? That's his palace."

Scott saw the hut, which was distinguished from others principally by its size. He noted also that the town was laid out in crooked streets, which were shaded by trees, including coconut palms.

"A little farther inland is the fort," Fox went on.

"Fort?"

Fox nodded. "Every ruler of any consequence has his fort. Pa' Mahmud's used to mount eight or ten cannon."

Scott hesitated, then spoke. "You and I will go to the palace. The boat crew will remain with the boat."

Fox was approving. "Good idea, sir. You can't appear timid in dealing with these people. The trick is to be polite enough to keep from walking on their toes, but not so polite that you seem to be afraid. Do you follow me, sir?"

"Aye," Scott said gratefully. "I'll make out. . with your help as interpreter."

The boat's keel grated on sand, and natives ran out into the surf to haul the craft partly out of the water. Scott jumped onto sea-packed sand, outwardly ignoring the curious throng of both sexes and all ages. A smooth-faced, pigtailed fellow, obviously a Chinese, spoke to him.

"Welcome, 'Melican!" he said smiling broadly and bowing. "Welcome!"

Fox came up alongside him, "There are a good many Chinamen on the coast. Sometimes they make good middlemen."

Scott turned to the coxwain of the boat crew. "Stand by! Watch yourselves and the boat. And no drinking."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Scott and Fox set out for the palace, walking briskly in the debilitating heat of early afternoon. Sweat drenched their clothing before they had covered a hundred yards. Children trotted at their heels. From every hut eyes watched them openly.

Guards with muskets stood at the main entrance to the palace which, on closer inspection, appeared quite solidly built, for all that the roof was of palm-leaf thatching. Fox spoke to them respectfully, and one turned and went inside. A few minutes later he returned and beckoned them inside. Scott was delighted to find the place comparatively cool.

Wearing a yellow sarong and a white jacket with gold buttons, Pa' Mahmud sat in a great chair which served as a throne. He was a slender, muscular man of indeterminate age, with quick brown eyes and a perpetual petulant frown. He did not rise when Fox greeted him. However, he did appear more friendly after the first few words, and presently he deigned to speak.

Fox smiled. "He remembers me, sir. Favorably, too. I told him you were a greater man than the other captains who've been here." He paused, then added in a lower voice, "He understands and speaks a little English."

"Good. Now let's get down to business."

This time Fox and the rajah talked at some length before the former again addressed Scott. "He says he has a great quantity of fine pepper, perhaps enough to fill the hold of the Caroline, but he isn't sure he wants to sell now. He figures other ships will be here soon."

"No doubt. . and all the more reason for us to reach a quick agreement. Well weigh anchor today if he doesn't want to sell."

More talk.

"Well?" Scott asked when they grew silent.

"He's asking fifteen Spanish-milled dollars per picul."

Scott knew that a picul was one hundred and thirty-three and a third pounds, roughly the load a man could carry; he also knew that the owners of the vessel were prepared to pay up to fourteen dollars; and he deduced that Pa' Mahmud expected to get less than he asked. So he shook his head. "Nine dollars."

Fox and the ruler talked again, and this time the latter's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Scott watched a bare-breasted woman herd a half-dozen naked brown children through a door behind the seated Pa' Mahmud.

"Sir," Fox said after awhile, "this is going to take time. If you'll give me the authority, I believe I could work this out for you. After all, we are old friends, Pa' Mahmud and I." He turned his head a little and winked slyly at the captain. "I'll have a look at the pepper, too."

"You know how much we're prepared to pay, don't you?"

"I'll get it for less," Fox said confidently. "And I'll get the best."

"Go ahead, then. I'm relying on you."

Fox looked pleased. "Thank you, sir. While I'm about it, I'll buy that buffalo for meat, too. And I'll arrange for shore leave for the men, if you wish." He hesitated briefly. "It would be — well — diplomatic to ask permission. It's Pa' Mahmud's town."

Scott nodded agreement. He noticed that the rajah thawed noticeably as he and the second officer talked again. Then Fox swung about, a rather smug smile on his face. "The buffalo will be led to the beach this afternoon, sir, and the men can come ashore at any time you say. They'll find girls and arrack in plenty, both cheap. As for the pepper, I'll have a deal made before sundown, I promise you. A good deal."

Scott mopped his sweaty face. "There's no reason for me to remain here, is there? I'm something of a fifth wheel on the wagon now."

"Pa' Mahmud wants us to have a drink with him before you leave, sir."

The two officers from the brig drank arrack, a potent beverage distilled from molasses in this instance. The rajah, a devout Moslem, drank hot tea from a small cup.

First telling off two men to help the cook butcher the buffalo cow which was promptly delivered to the water's edge, Scott gave the larboard watch permission to go ashore in charge of the boatswain.

"Your men can skylark tomorrow," he told Peary.

"How'd you make out?" the first officer asked.

Scott passed a hand wearily over his smarting eyes. He hadn't slept much since the fight at sea. Now that he had left the actual trading in Fox's hands, he was wondering if he had acted wisely; but he answered Peary confidently. "I left that to Fox."

Peary looked sulky. "You know how I feel about him."

"Yes," Scott said irritably, "I know how you feel about him. I also know that he's the only one of us who can speak Malay. Where're the Russells?"

"She's in our cabin and he's in yours," Peary replied acidly. "I'm going to sling a hammock on deck tonight; I'm damned tired of the fo'c'sle already."

Scott restrained a smile. His brother-in-law had come through the cabin window, as the saying went; he'd never shipped before the mast, lived in fetid, often wet quarters or spooned up food from a common mess kit.

"It stinks," Peary added.

Scott closed his eyes against the glare, feeling the tropical heat sapping the little energy left in him. "I'm going to turn in. Call me when Mr. Fox returns."

Russell looked up from the book he was reading as Scott entered. Without speaking, the captain stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt, kicked off his shoes, and flopped in his bunk. The older man remained sympathetically quiet, returning his attention to the volume in his hand.

"Tomorrow," Scott mused aloud, stretching himself in an effort to relax and bring on sleep, "I'm going to start learning Malay."

"It's easy," Russell said.

"Oh?"

"Both Dorcas and I picked up a good bit while we were prisoners, sir. I hope to perfect myself in it while we're on this coast. Perhaps I can be of service to you in that way."

"Maybe you can, at that," Scott said sleepily. .

Fox returned to the ship shortly before supper and Scott talked with him in the cabin.

"Pa' Mahmud's pepper is first-rate, sir," the second offcer reported triumphantly, "and I got it at eleven dollars a picul."

"Well done," Scott said, pleased. "How much can we buy?"

"Five hundred piculs, at least. He's got that much in Stallapoo now. And I think he can get more from the inland country. I'm going to cultivate Pa' Mahmud, sir. . get to know him better. It could be beneficial."

"I'll buy that idea, Mr. Fox."

"He's a decent sort of fellow. . for a Malay, anyway. As I told you in Charleston, I like the better-class natives. You just have to know how to handle them."

"You seem to have the knack, all right."

"I do, sir, and it can be made to pay."

13

WEIGHING and lading of the bagged pepper berries began soon after daylight within sight of the anchored brig. Once the procedure was established and functioning smoothly, Scott put Peary in charge of the station and freed Fox to further trade relations with the rajah. He himself returned to the Caroline, where the boatswain, a reliable man named Elias Kimbrell, was enforcing strictly the orders given for the safety of the vessel. Dorcas Russell and her father were watching deliveries to the ship's deck. This morning she wore a long-sleeved white cotton dress, which fitted snugly enough to disclose the firm contours of her bosom, and a wide-brimmed straw hat tied under the chin with white ribbon. To Scott, who now felt that all was right with the world, she appeared particularly fetching, so much so that he wondered that he hadn't noticed before; and he went over to where she stood with Russell near the main cargo hatch.

"Captain Rogers," she said without preamble, "we haven't set foot on the ground in nearly five weeks,"

"And you'd like to go ashore?"

"Mr. Fox said last night that he thought it would be all right."

The reference to the second mate irritated him slightly, but he dismissed from mind the thought that Fox was getting more self-important. "He and Pa' Mahmud seem to be hitting it off well."

"Yes, he told us," she said innocently. "We had quite a long talk after supper. He and Father are getting along famously."

"We're both interested in the Malay tongue," Russell put in. "I've been thinking that, with his help, I might attempt compilation of a dictionary. Not a complete one, of course, but something of value to mariners, such as yourself. It could be a step toward establishing myself at home. . earn a few dollars, you know. Unfortunately Americans don't value scholarship very highly… unless they've changed in the past twenty years."

"Mr. Fox wants to take us to meet Pa' Mahmud," Dorcas said. "Even after our experience with Suran, I confess to being curious."

"You musn't judge all Malays by Suran," Russell said mildly.

She smiled. "So Mr. Fox said, and I m trying not to."

"It's like judging the alcalde of a city by the leader of ruffians who lobbed you within the gates," Russell said pointedly.

"You're just quoting Mr. Fox, Father," Dorcas said.

Russell looked fondly at her. "She feels I'm too much of an innocent, Captain Rogers. Too bookish. Her mother felt much the same about me, I know."

She brushed the comment aside. "I do want to see the palace, Captain Rogers — and the rajah and his four wives."

"He's allowed that many by his religion, Dorcas."

"I know, Father." She looked directly at Scott. "Are you married, Captain Rogers?"

"My wife died this year, soon after my son was born."

Her face reflected genuine concern and her voice was warm with sympathy. "Oh! I'm sorry."

He hadn't thought of his loss recently; he'd been too busy being master of the Caroline. Now he remembered poignantly the love he and Rowena had shared. He spoke abruptly. "I'll escort you ashore after dinner, if you like."

"Thank you," she said gravely.

Scott walked over to the boatswain. "Everything going smoothly, Kimbrell?"

The petty officer, a broad, sunburned man with a square bulldog face, touched his forehead. "Aye, sir."

"I gathered that everything went off all right ashore last night, too."

The boatswain grinned. "It did, indeed, sir. That feller Hurst made out better'n anybody. That backwoodsman gets along with the natives, especially" — he shot a quick glance at Dorcas and lowered his voice—"the women. He could get together a harem in no time."

Scott turned away, full now of his own loneliness. If she hadn't asked me that question, he thought angrily, I wouldn't be feeling like hell now. I felt fine until then.

He was at midday dinner with the Russells and Peary, who had returned to the ship to eat, when the cry was raised from the deck: "A sail! A sail!"

Peary rose hastily. "I'll have a look, sir. Excuse me."

Scott restrained his own curiosity. Russell looked concerned. "I hope she's friendly, captain."

"We'll soon know. Meanwhile we may as well finish eating."

Peary was back in a few minutes. "I went aloft for a look through the glass. She's heading in. Brig."

"Probably another trader," Scott said thoughtfully as Peary returned to the food he had left. "Maybe one of the Salem ships. Good thing we've got the pepper at Stallapoo sewed."

"If we have," Peary grunted. "It seems to me it could be coming to us a lot faster."

"You're not having difficulties, are you?"

"Not yet. The rajah's man and I read the scales together. The trouble is, the stuff's just trickling down to the beach."

"We can lay that to native slothfulness, I suppose. Have you seen Fox since this morning?"

Peary grunted. "He and his lordship came down and stood around awhile, both of 'em under umbrellas held by native boys. They're pretty chummy, I'd say. Birds of a feather, maybe. Why don't you tell Fox to nudge the rajah a little?"

"I will."

"Well, I'd better shove off. You coming ashore?"

"After a bit."

An hour later, satisfied that the stranger beating her way inshore was an American, Scott took the Russells into Stallapoo. There were no natives about, and Peary and two sailors moved slowly from the sparse shade of a coconut palm to help haul the ship's boat higher on the beach.

"Business appears to be slack," Scott observed.

The first officer shrugged. "Nobody's showed up with any pepper since that ship appeared offshore. I think Pa' Mahmud's getting ready to do some more bargaining.''

Scott rubbed his chin reflectively. "He hasn't delivered a tenth of what he promised. We'll just walk up in the town and look for Mr. Fox. Maybe he can shed some light on things."

Dorcas walked between Scott and her father, seemingly not minding the blinding heat that had driven much of the population indoors. Nor did she appear either surprised or shocked at sight of an occasional woman nude above the waist and good-sized children entirely naked. Scott assumed she had seen such before in the Philippines.

"Do you know," she asked as they neared the palace, "you and the people of the Caroline are the only Americans I've ever seen, besides my father?"

"Is that so strange for someone who has never been to America?"

"No; but, you know, in Manila everybody said Americans were barbarians."

"Not everybody, my dear," her father corrected gently.

"Well, nearly everybody. It used to infuriate me… on account of Father, you know."

Scott smiled, thinking that few people could be less like a barbarian than the stooped, scholarly looking Russell. "The few Spaniards I've come across have been rather sold on themselves."

"We Spaniards are a proud people."

Now they were at the palace. Fox was inside, and they gained admission immediately, the second mate himself ushering them in. Pa' Mahmud was polite, but not effusive. His wives were nowhere in sight. As soon as he could, Scott told Fox that no pepper had been delivered since the strange American brig appeared offshore.

"I'll ask Pa' Mahmud about it," Fox said.

"We contracted for five hundred piculs, Mr. Fox, and I mean to have them. And at the price agreed on."

After a minute or two of conversation with the rajah the second officer advised Scott the deliveries would be resumed at once. "The other ship had nothing to do with it, I'm certain," he added. "Pa' Mahmud didn't know they'd stopped."

I wonder, Scott mused, studying the impassive face of the Malay. I wonder.

But pepper again was being brought to the weighing station when, after drinking tea with the ruler, they returned to the shore.

"All right now?" Scott asked Peary.

The man wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. "They're slower than they were this morning, and the bags are lighter. But at least we're getting some." He paused and looked out at the strange brig, which was now anchoring less than a cable's length on the larboard beam of the Caroline. She was a trim craft, a trifle smaller than the Charleston vessel; and already native proas from Stallapoo were clustering about her. "I can guess why she's here."

"So can I.''

"Will you share the available pepper with her? I seem to recall Fox saying something about such being the custom out here."

"He said it was done if the captains reached an agreement."

"Well, will you agree to such an arrangement?"

"That depends on the skipper of that ship. I've a notion he'll pay us a call about the time I get back to the Caroline."

Nearing his own vessel, Scott read the name of the stranger. She was the Sally Culbreath of Salem.

14

SCOTT observed that the master of the Salem ship equalled him in distrust of the natives, permitting no more than one proa at a time to lay alongside and allowing only a handful of Malays aboard. He also noticed that no boat put out from the brig to visit Stallapoo. However, he was disappointed and annoyed when by supper time he had neither seen nor heard from the vessel's master.

"If you ask me," Peary said dourly at the meal, "the Sally Culbreath spells trouble for us. What sort of American would put into a forsaken place like this and not even pay a courtesy call within an hour?"

Scott, who had been reluctantly thinking along the same line, rubbed his chin. "What do you think, Mr. Fox? Do you know the Sally Culbreath?"

Fox, who had just returned from his lengthy visit to the rajah, shook his head. "She's new to me, sir. I do know that Pa' Mahmud sent out to her, though."

"I hope he isn't figuring on selling her the pepper he agreed to let us have. I'm not letting him out of that bargain, no matter what he's offered."

"I don't think he'd welsh on it, sir," Fox said, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Well, I think he'd try to," Peary interjected. "For my money, he's cut from the same cloth as Suran. You know, don't you, that we got less than a hundred piculs of pepper today. . considerably less?"

"He told us he knew nothing about the slowdown."

"Oh, come now, Fox. Surely you don't believe that."

"I only know what he said."

Peary sneered. "I'll bet we get no pepper at all tomorrow."

"So?"

"And if we don't, the best thing we can do is swing the ship around and knock seven bells and the Ten Commandments out of Stallapoo."

Before speaking again Fox glanced at the Russells, who were listening to the conversation. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't mind, since you ask. I don't believe in truckling to natives who are no better than niggers, when you get right down to it. The captain tried to be decent to Suran — and look what happened."

Scott spoke up. "All right, gentlemen, belay such talk. We're going to get the pepper promised us. I made that clear to the rajah this afternoon, I believe."

"You did, sir," Fox said quickly.

From under the cabin window came a hearty hail. "Ahoy, the Caroline! We'd like to come aboard."

"There's the master of the Sally Culhreath" Scott said, excusing himself and going on deck.

Captain Zenas Bryant, master of the Salem brig, was a handsome sunburned man with sandy hair and a peeling nose. He was a couple of inches shorter than Scott, but a trifle broader across the shoulders. He radiated self-assurance and good humor. Scott liked him immediately.

"Sorry to be so late in paying a call, Captain Rogers," he said breezily, "but we've got several cases of scurvy in my ship, not to mention two quarrelsome fellows who carved each other up in the fo'c'sle this morning. And, of course, I've had the usual delegation from the town to contend with."

"We were just having supper," Scott said. "Will you join us?"

"I'll join you in a drink, if that's agreeable. I've had supper. Mostly raw onions, as you may have noticed; I've been on the ragged edge of scurvy myself."

In the cabin Bryant looked with undisguised interest at Dorcas. "Miss Russell, is it? Mighty rare to see a white woman in these parts. . especially a pretty unmarried one."

"Captain Rogers rescued us from Malay pirates," she said with a smile. "We had no intention of coming here when we left Manila."

"You'll have to tell me more about it," Bryant said heartily.

"Glad to meet you Mr. Russell. . Mr. Peary. . Mr. Fox… Don't I know you, Mr. Fox? You're an Essex County man, I'll bet."

"I'm from Essex County, all right, but we haven't met before, though your name is familiar to me."

"I'm good at remembering names and faces," Bryant said slowly. "I must have seen you somewhere, man. Have you been on this coast before?" Aye.

Bryant frowned slightly, dredging his memory. "I'm sure-well, never mind. ."

Scott had the steward break out a bottle of port wine, one of a few he carried for occasions such as this. Bryant lifted his glass to Dorcas. "Your health, ma'am."

She flushed slightly at the gallantry, liking it. Fox watched her over the rim of his glass as he drank the dark purple wine. Then he excused himself on the pretext of having to see the boatswain. The Salem skipper frowned slightly at his departing back, but said nothing. Then Russell rose. "If you'll excuse us, gentlemen…" Peary left with them.

"Interesting rescue," Bryant said when he and Scott were alone.

Scott nodded and refilled the man's glass. In turn, Bryant drew a couple of long brown cigars from the breast pocket of his jacket and proffered one to Scott, who declined in favor of a pipe.

"Been on the coast long?" Bryant asked when they were smoking.

Scott shook his head. "Anchored yesterday."

"I noticed you were trading. Plenty of pepper available?"

"I really don't know. We've made a deal for some."

"Having any trouble with Pa' Mahmud?"

"You know him?"

"Aye." Bryant took the cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing tip thoughtfully. "I've traded with him before. I haven't seen him since sometime before the war with England, though."

"He slowed down considerably on delivery as soon as your ship appeared offshore," Scott said cautiously. 112

"That's Pa' Mahmud, all right," Bryant said slowly. "What are you paying?"

Scott hesitated. "Eleven dollars a picul. He wanted fifteen, but Fox jewed him down."

The Salem captain puffed on his cigar. "I swear I've seen Fox before. I know I have… in Salem and on this very coast. I know him by reputation, too. How did you happen to get him?"

Scott told him the story briefly.

"Well, no matter," Bryant said when he had finished. "To go back to the business at hand, I'll tell you that Pa' Mahmud's offered me all the lada in Stallapoo for fourteen dollars a picul."

"Including what he contracted to deliver to me?"

Bryant nodded. "Every berry."

"Why, that son-of-a-bitch!"

Bryant held up his hand. "You've got to expect such on the Pepper Coast, Captain Rogers. I came over to trade information with you, and to tell you that I'll have no part of getting the pepper promised to you. For one thing, I believe we captains must stick together in this part of the world. For another, I know, as should every other man who's been on this coast, that Pa Mahmud is a tukang hohong!' He paused. "Which is to say, he's a natural-born liar. You can't trust him."

For a few moments Scott smoked in silence, digesting what he'd been told. His first impression of the Sally Culhreath’s master was strengthened. Finally he took the pipe from his mouth. "I appreciate your position, sir. . appreciate it more than I can really say."

Bryant smiled deprecatingly. "Don't misunderstand me, captain; I'm not really noble. There are other considerations besides those already mentioned. Fourteen dollars is three or four dollars too stiff a price, in my opinion. Moreover, I can fill the Sally's hold in the next few weeks without antagonizing you by paying an exorbitant price to get pepper you've made a deal for. I'm rather certain we're the first Salem ship to get here since the war, and I wouldn't be surprised ii your ship and mine aren't the only American vessels on the Pepper Coast today. It'll be smarter for us to work together than to try to outbid each other. We'll have competition enough before long, if I know the Salem merchants — and I do."

"You're on your own?"

"I have a half interest in the ship and the venture."

"What have you told Pa' Mahmud?"

"Nothing… yet. I haven't seen him. He sent me a message. Of course, he doesn't expect to get fourteen, but he is hoping for twelve or thirteen."

Scott rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Since you haven't said yes or no, I suppose I can expect no pepper in the morning."

"That's about the size of it. But I'm going to lay it on the line to Pa' Mahmud in the morning, and I'll be glad to do it in your company."

"In that case," Scott said, liking the Salem shipmaster's openness, "if you can't get pepper at eleven dollars from Pa' Mahmud, then you can have half of what I get from him at that price."

"That's handsome of you, captain," Bryant said earnestly. "Now what do you say to our working the coast together until we're both laden? I don't mind telling you that two ships are safer than one in these parts. Furthermore, I'm undermanned; there are only thirteen of us, all told."

"Fair enough," Scott agreed. "We can race home."

Bryant held out his hand. "Done, then."

Scott refilled their glasses. "We'll drink on it."

Bryant sipped the port, rolling the wine in his mouth. "From what Miss Russell said, I gathered you had a brush with pirates. Bad?"

Scott told him.

"Good for you!" Bryant exclaimed when he'd finished. "We ought to have an American warship on the coast, you know."

Scott shrugged, drank again, then set his glass down carefully. "Tell me, captain, what do you know about Fox?"

The Salem man chose his words carefully, but without hesitation. "I never sailed with him. But back in Essex County-back home — he's regarded by some as a troublemaker. No captain wants him."

"Sea lawyer?"

"Call it that. He's smart and a good seaman, and he can handle men."

"That much I know."

"They say," Bryant went on, still carefully, "they say he has delusions of grandeur."

"It goes against my grain to damn a man on hearsay."

"I see your point, Captain Rogers, and I respect you for making it. But you asked me, and I told you. From what I've heard, I wouldn't trust him too far; but if he'd been a good officer in my ship, I probably would feel as you do. It could be that he's learned his lesson somewhere along the line. Who knows?"

Now it was Scott's turn to pick his words with care, and he spoke slowly. "It's not hard for a man to earn a hard name in a ship. He protests an injustice, and he's tagged a troublemaker. I've seen it happen. He wants something better than he's got, and sometimes even his mates call him a pipe dreamer. That's happened to me."

The other nodded, his face misunderstanding. "I reckon you've shipped 'fore the mast in your time, too."

"Aye, and under the finest man I ever knew. Thank God, he didn't think I had delusions of grandeur."

Bryant got to his feet. "I'll be getting back to the Sally." He chuckled deep in his throat. "There'll likely be a squall off the land tomorrow. Our agreement on eleven dollars as the top price ain't going to sit well with our dusky friend. He'd like to get the European delivery price without stirring from Sumatra."

15

STALLAPOO stirred when the tree-dwelling lesser creatures of the mist-hung jungle hailed first light with a cacophony of howls, shrieks, grunts and squawks, but nobody met Peary, Hurst and a few other men when they landed near the weighing station shortly after the babel died away in the brilliance of new sunshine. Watching anxiously through the glass from the Caroline, Scott observed that the Malays on the beach were steering clear of the little party of whites. Tucking the telescope under his arm, he next eyed the Sally Culbreath, wishing her skipper would hurry ashore and advise Pa' Mahmud that he was wasting everybody's time by stalling. While he looked, the Salem shipmaster appeared in the waist of his vessel. "'Morning, Captain Rogers!" Bryant bawled cheerily through cupped hands. "Good morning to you, Miss Russell!"

"Mornin'," Scott shouted back, turning in surprise to face Dorcas. "You're up and about early today, ma'am."

She smiled, and he noticed that her teeth were small, white and slightly uneven. This morning she wore no hat and her wavy hair fell in loose ringlets to her shoulders. "I woke up when the boat left the ship, and I simply couldn't get back to sleep. Besides, it's nice and cool at this hour. It must be quite pleasant ashore now."

"I'm going ashore to see Pa' Mahmud now," Bryant shouted. "Stand by for storm signals!"

"They're already flying," Scott answered. "We're not getting any pepper."

"We'll soon fix that — I hope. Want to ride with me?"

"I'd like to."

"Stand by, then."

Fox spoke from behind Scott. "Like me to go along, too, sir?"

"No. You take over the ship and keep a sharp watch. Ill send for you, if I need you."

"I can bring Pa' Mahmud around, sir. I can straighten him out."

"I'm going to let Captain Bryant say his piece first."

Fox looked at him closely. "And what will that be… if I may ask, sir?"

"He's going to tell him that eleven dollars is the top price either of us will pay."

The second mate shoved his cap back. "I hope he tells him — well — diplomatically, sir." He paused. "It won't make the rajah any friendlier toward us, you know. He may say that he's not going to trade with either of us."

"He's going to live up to his bargain to sell me five hundred piculs," Scott said tersely. "He can stop then, if he wants to."

Dorcas leaned on the rail to smile down at Bryant when his boat came alongside. He grinned back. "You're looking mighty pretty this morning, Miss Russell… prettier'n I remembered."

"You talk like a Spaniard, Captain Bryant."

"Well, I've been to Spain. The difference between Spaniards and me is that I'm always truthful."

Scott glanced at her, seeing that she obviously was pleased. He rather wished he had the same easy flow of speech as the handsome New Englander. Touching his cap to her, he dropped into the Sally Culhreath’s boat.

"Mr. Fox," Dorcas said, turning from the rail as the boat pulled away from the ship's side, "is there going to be trouble?"

"Like we had with Suran, you mean?"

"Yes."

"No — not if the captain'll listen to me, that is. I don't mean this as a criticism of Captain Rogers specifically, but most shipmasters lean toward being highhanded. In dealing with the natives hereabouts you have to be firm, but also diplomatic. You probably heard me try to get that over to the captain."

She nodded, looking again at the boat, and Fox moved a step closer and spoke soothingly. "Now don't you worry. I can handle Pa' Mahmud. I just hope Captain Rogers and Captain Bryant don't rile him too much. Talking with a native rajah or dato is sort of like talking to a spoiled child… a child in command of armed men, if you follow me."

"I do," she said seriously.

"You know," he said, changing the subject easily, "I'm just the second officer of this ship, but I'm a qualified shipmaster. In time I'll be on top."

She was mildly surprised. "I'm sure you will, Mr. Fox."

He laughed mirthlessly. "I didn't mean to sound so sour, Miss Russell. But it was because of me that we came out here to trade; it was all my idea." He paused, and she looked at him closely. "Well, a man sometimes gets to thinking about things that are and things that should be. I hope you understand."

"I do," she said innocently. "I've often thought that my father wasn't appreciated… for his knowledge and real goodness, I mean. Actually he is a very learned man, a true scholar."

Fox smiled ingratiatingly. "I know he is learned. I was flattered by his suggestion I might help him in compiling an English-Malay dictionary. Such a volume would be most helpful to traders out here."

Just then Russell himself put in an appearance, covering a yawn with his hand. "I wonder if we could go ashore again. I've been thinking that in a town the size of Stallapoo there should be a teacher, someone from whom I could learn more of the language."

"I don't know about the teacher, sir," Fox said. "As for going ashore, it might be possible later."

"Trouble?"

"Not exactly, sir. We're not getting any pepper, and the captain's gone ashore to find out why."

Russell removed his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. "I'm sure he'll work things out. He's a competent man, I'd say."

In the boat meantime Scott and Bryant talked little, but as the craft neared the rough surf the latter asked, "Are you armed?"

"I've got a pistol under my shirt," Scott replied, his eyes on the idle men at the weighing station. "It makes something of a bulge."

"So have I. . just in case. You can't trust these people too far."

Ashore they found Peary fuming with anger and impatience, "That bastard Pa' Mahmud's holding out on us, captain. His man Khidzir — the fellow who's been helping me weigh the stuff — hasn't shown up, as you can see."

"Captain Bryant's going up to talk with the rajah now."

Peary grunted. "Say the word and we'll take all the pepper in Stallapoo. Hurst, there, knows where most of it's stored."

Scott looked at the erstwhile Indian trader, who sat with his back against a coconut tree, eyes closed and long rifle across his knees. He had the feeling that, for all his appearance of somnolence, the backwoodsman was as alert as any of them; and he wondered what had driven the man to the sea, for which he had no affinity.

"No point in standing around here jawing," Bryant said abruptly. "Care to accompany me to the palace, captain?"

"I will," Scott said, glad to have something to do. "I take it you know the lingo."

"Oh, hell, yes," Bryant said. "I spent six months on this coast in 1808. I wasn't an officer and half owner of a ship then, though; all I had to do was look out for my own skin."

The townspeople they encountered showed neither friendship nor hostility, Scott observed on the way to the official residence; they simply stayed clear of the two white men. The heavy pistol under his shirt was a comforting weight.

The rajah kept them waiting nearly an hour before he appeared. His restrained greeting was a shade more cordial to Bryant.

The master of the Salem brig got down to business at once, stating his position tersely. Scott, understanding only the words lada and dollars, watched Pa' Mahmud's face carefully, seeing the man's eyes narrow a trifle as he listened. When Bryant finished, the Malay responded in English.

"Not enough," he said.

"He means he won't sell for eleven dollars," Bryant explained.

"Not even the balance of the amount promised me?"

Bryant nodded.

Scott felt nervous perspiration break out in the palms of his hands, but he spoke evenly. "We made a bargain he was happy with. We've paid the agreed-on price for every ounce delivered. I expect him to deliver the rest. Tell him that, will you?"

Bryant translated. Pa' Mahmud spoke scornfully in Malay.

"He says he's not Suran," Bryant said finally. "He says he won't be cheated, and that he's not going to deliver any more pepper at eleven dollars. He says he'll sell to us both at thirteen."

Scott's face darkened. "He'll finish out five hundred piculs at the price agreed on."

Pa' Mahmud's response to that was to strike a brass gong suspended from the ceiling. Bryant, who did not see the quick motion of his hand, jumped nervously at the clanging sound. Fresh sweat broke out all over Scott as natives armed with javelins, swords, creeses and muskets began pouring into the spacious room. Then Pa' Mahmud spoke sharply, contemptuously.

"He says he has many more fighting men," Bryant said nervously.

"And in my ship I have four guns that'll reach this place," Scott said, "not to mention my pistol."

"For Christ's sake, man," Bryant whispered, "don't pull your pistol! We'd be butchered."

Scott fixed hard eyes unwaveringly on Pa' Mahmud's face. "Tell him I won't be held up, Bryant. He can finish out his end of the bargain or I'll turn the ship's guns on this palace."

Listening angrily, the rajah hesitated visibly, trying to stare Scott down. The latter, aware of threatening gestures to either side and suspecting them behind, kept a bold front. There could be no temporizing now; he'd made his speech, and he had to stand by it.

For a full minute after Bryant ceased speaking Pa' Mahmud remained silent. His dark eyes were malevolent; but Scott sensed his fear of the cannon, and now he was glad there had been the clash with Suran. It was something for the rajah to weigh carefully.

Finally the Malay spoke briefly.

"He says you'll get the pepper promised," Bryant translated.

"Then we'll go."

Turning on his heel, Scott started for the door through which they had entered. A knot of Malays barred the way, weapons poised, but he made himself walk boldly and they parted sullenly to let him and Bryant pass.

Once outside and headed for the water, the New Englander expelled his breath with a hissing sound. "I was sweating blood. Still am."

"That makes two of us, Bryant. Your ship mounts two guns, doesn't she?"

Bryant nodded. "Nine-pounders."

They walked in silence the rest of the way to where the boats were beached.

"How'd you make out?" Peary asked.

Scott told him briefly and the first officer of the Caroline nodded approval. "That's the way to talk to him, Scott."

"I'm sorry we made him lose face, though," Bryant said thoughtfully. "He won't forget or forgive it."

"It was his face or mine," Scott said. "Now I've got to see that we get delivery."

"And if we don't?"

"I'll do what I said. I've finished talking."

16

PA' MAHMUD resumed delivery with promptness surprising to Scott, who had halfway anticipated delay until the guns of the Caroline and the Sally Culbreath actually were trained on the town. Moreover, the Malays lugging bulging sacks and and heaped-up baskets to the weighing station behaved in a cheerful, friendly fashion; while Khidzir, the ruler's agent, displayed almost unctuous civility toward the whites. By dusk almost three thousand dollars had been paid out for prime pepper.

Peary returned to the ship with the day's last boatload in an exultant mood. "I reckon the old buzzard decided we meant business, Scott. I had an idea he'd knuckle under if we threatened to blow him and his stinking little town to hell-and-gone."

The captain of the Caroline nodded, vaguely troubled by the very speediness with which the rajah was complying. He knew that in Pa' Mahmud's place he would have been unyielding; and he was apprehensive that the man might yet turn on them.

"I'm glad we didn't have to make good on the threat," he said finally. "My guess is that Pa' Mahmud wants us to clear out as soon as possible."

His brother-in-law wiped sweat from his dark face. "We haven't got half the pepper stored in Stallapoo, and won't have when we get five hundred piculs. Too bad we're having to split with Bryant."

"He's acted decently, Clay. He could have made things awkward for us."

"You're right, although I personally think he's a lot happier to have us lying offshore than we are to have him. I doubt if he could force Pa' Mahmud's hand by himself."

Scott shrugged. "Be that as it may. The way things are, it's easier for both of us. Have you seen Mr. Fox?"

"Not since he came ashore and made a beeline for the palace. I thought you were keeping everybody aboard except the working party."

Scott didn't answer the implied question. He had been hesitant about making an exception of Fox, even though the man was an officer; and he had justified the action on the grounds that Fox had proven himself reliable.

"I wonder what Fox and Pa' Mahmud find to talk about," the first officer continued querulously.

Again Scott shrugged, wondering as much himself. He knew he was leaning over backward to be fair to the man.

Hosea Fox could appreciate Pa' Mahmud's hostility toward the two ship captains, the aggressive Scott in particular. They had forced him to bow to their will in a manner that could not be concealed from his own people. The rajah was smoldering dangerously when he received the second officer of the Caroline and for the moment Fox himself was conscious of gratitude for the fact Pa' Mahmud had been cowed.

"What do you want?" the rajah demanded ungraciously.

"Nothing that won't be beneficial to us both," Fox responded.

Pa' Mahmud raised his brows questioningly.

"You hate Captain Rogers, don't you?" Fox demanded.

The rajah's face became impassive. He spoke warily. "He is not a man I could love, but I respect his strength."

"To hell with respect for his strength," Fox said almost angrily. "I am your friend, I alone among all the white men in those two ships, and I ask you if you don't hate Captain Rogers for having made you lose face in your own palace."

The Malay chief's eyes narrowed slightly. "And if I do?"

"Then I will prove my friendship for you… by allying myself with you."

"Speak, then."

Fox hesitated, then plunged boldly. As he talked, Pa' Mahmud's face became more and more intent. Toward the end, even before the rajah spoke, Fox knew he had played his hand well. The ruler's eyes glittered with avarice and the hope of vengeance.

"You speak convincingly, Fox," he said.

"Do as I say, my friend, and we both will profit," Fox said. "Let me promise more pepper Lo Rogers and Bryant. Let them have what they want and take their money for it. In time we will have pepper, money and ships, in time — who knows? — we may control the pepper trade of Sumatra."

"Insha Allah" Pa' Mahmud added cautiously. "God willing. In the meantime things will be as you wish."

Torn between elation and apprehension. Fox remained long at the palace, talking at length with the rajah and dreaming dreams kept to himself until this day. In the brief twilight he returned to the Caroline in a native proa. The faint light edged darkness by the time he neared the ship's side.

"Who the devil are you?" Peary demanded harshly from the ship.

"Me, sir — Fox."

"Come aboard, then, but leave your friends in their boat. I don't want them spitting betel-nut juice on the deck."

Fox clambered aboard quickly and the native craft turned back to Stallapoo.

"Well," Peary said sarcastically, "that was a long tea session."

The second officer ignored him and turned to Scott. "Sir, I've just talked Pa' Mahmud into letting us have additional pepper at the same price."

"The devil you have! How much more?"

"Maybe all he's got. Five hundred piculs, anyway."

"Well, damnation! I'm glad I let you go ashore, Mr. Fox. How'd you do it, man?"

Fox smirked knowingly. "I sort of implied we'd had word from the rajahs at Soo Soo and Quallah Battoo to the effect they had pepper in plenty and were anxious to sell… You'll buy, won't you?"

"Of course," Scott assured him. "And depend on it, the owners will be grateful to you."

"Do we have to cut Bryant in on this, too?" Peary demanded.

"We do. You'd better discharge more ballast in the morning, Mr. Fox. Meanwhile come into the cabin and we'll drink, the three of us, to your profitable friendship with Pa' Mahmud."

Things began to go swimmingly. The rajah not only kept up a steady flow of pepper to the ships, but he visited both captains arriving under a huge yellow umbrella to drink tea with them. In return, they called at the palace, presenting him with a sword and a new musket. Their reception was gracious.

"Fox sure worked wonders with the old boy," Bryant commented wonderingly afterward. "I'm beginning to believe the Salem folks were mistaken about him."

"He's a good officer, and he's been a lot of help," Scott agreed.

Bryant spoke slowly. "It's hard for me to give him his due, Scott. He's doing his best to charm Miss Dorcas, you know."

"So?"

Bryant grunted. "So am I. How is it you're not competing, too?"

"Maybe because up until now I've been a little worried."

"It appears our worries about pepper are over," Bryant said cheerfully. He paused, critically eying a couple of nubile, brown-skinned girls with firm, proudly outthrust breasts. "Time was when I'd've been satisfied with a girl like one of those."

Scott grinned. "I've thought about 'em, too. Only I don't like the way they're always chewing and spitting, and I don't like the odor of that rancid coconut oil they use on their hair. In time, though, I will probably get over my objections, particularly if things keep going as they are now."

"Stay out here long enough and they'll look real white and smell like roses," Bryant said. "At least, that's the way it used to be. There won't be any native girls for me this trip."

"You sound like a gone gosling?"

"I am. You probably haven't noticed Scott, but Miss Dorcas has plenty of sense and a lot more book learning than either of us. She's got guts, too, I'll bet. A man could be proud of a wife like her."

Despite the new aura of friendliness in Stallapoo, Scott did not drop his guard, keeping the armed watch around the clock, but he permitted liberty to the crew. He also began studying Malay with a teacher sent to the ship each morning by Pa' Mahmud. Russell always joined him, and once Dorcas sat in on a session. Usually, though, she was on deck with Fox or ashore with Bryant during the school period.

"I think my daughter is rather pleased we didn't have an uninterrupted voyage from Manila," Russell observed to Scott one morning.

"Why?"

"In Manila she had to live a rather sheltered life. We had to conform to the conventions, and the Spaniards are behind everybody else in freedoms of any sort. It would be unthinkable for her to go around unchaperoned in Manila, say, or anywhere in Spain… Well, her mother, God rest her soul, was a rebel, too. If she hadn't been, she wouldn't have married me."

Scott and Russell were in the cabin with their instructor one day when a sudden squall blew up. They paid no attention until a shout of alarm was raised topside. Scott rushed out into pelting rain. Fox, the officer of the watch, was frantically summoning men to man a boat.

"What is it?" Scott shouted.

"That fool Bryant!" Fox yelled back in fear and anger, pointing on the starboard quarter. "He took Dorcas sailing in a proa, and now it's capsized!"

Then Scott saw the tipped-over craft, which was little larger than an Indian canoe, floating some two hundred yards away. He couldn't see the couple who had been in it. On impulse he leaped into the boat, himself taking the tiller while Fox went into the bow with a boat hook.

"Pull!" he rasped to the crew. "Pull, damn you — pull!"

"Bear to starb'd, captain," the mate called. "I see 'em!"

Scott saw them, too. Dorcas was clinging to the boat with one hand and supporting Bryant with the other.

"Damn' fool!" Fox shouted agitatedly. "He was just trying to show off in that little proa."

When they were ten yards from the overturned boat, the rain ceased as suddenly as it had started. A minute later Scott laid the boat alongside the capsized craft. Fox reached eagerly for the girl.

"Take him first, Mr. Fox," she directed calmly. "The boom hit him."

"Shark!" a sailor cried.

Scott looked, seeing the fin cutting the water fifty feet away.

Fox and a seaman hauled the unconscious Bryant over the gunwale, dumping him in the bottom of the boat, then reached again for Dorcas. They yanked her aboard as the shark rolled in the sea, opening a huge mouth set with formidable teeth.

Scott blew out his breath explosively. The monstrous fish was fully twelve feet long. Then he looked at Dorcas. Her eyes were feverishly bright and her cheeks flushed with exertion and excitement. Soaked clothing was molded to her body and there was no escaping the knowledge that physically she was equal, if not superior, to the exquisitely formed native girls.

Without thought of self she bent over the inert skipper of the Sally Culbreath. He stirred and opened his eyes when her cool, wet hand touched his bruised head.

"All right?" she asked solicitously.

He managed a grin. "Just a bump on the head." Then he frowned thoughtfully. "You must have grabbed me."

"You were unconscious."

He blinked. "But for you, I would have drowned. Even conscious I would have. I can't swim."

Suddenly she thought of her appearance and looked about for something to cover herself. Scott gravely handed her a square of sailcloth which had been stowed in the stem. Fox hastened to help her wrap herself in it.

Bryant sat up and rubbed his head. "I'm not the small-boat sailor I fancied I was. Sorry, Dorcas."

Scott gave the order to row, then steered for the Caroline. "Wind tip you over?"

The Salem shipmaster nodded. "I'm afraid I wasn't watching what I was about."

"Well, you're a damned poor sailor, then!" Fox exploded wrathfully. "You might have drowned her!"

Dorcas spoke up mildly. "I'm a good swimmer. There wasn't any danger."

"What about that shark?"

"Shark?"

She paled as he told her about the big fish; but she tried to smile. "Now I'm afraid," she said shakily.

"My God!" Bryant exclaimed. He faced Dorcas. "Forgive me. And — well — thanks for grabbing me."

The tropical sun was blazing again, heating them all, but suddenly she felt cold. Thinking of the shark, she shivered violently, as if in the grip of ague, and pulled the coarse sailcloth closer about her slender figure. Fox leaned anxiously toward her. "You're all right? You're all right, Dorcas?"

Touched by his concern, she laid a small hand on his arm for a moment. "Of course I am, thanks to you" — she paused, lifting her face to speak also to Scott and every man at the oars—"thanks to all of you."

Bryant held in until she was helped into the Caroline by her father. Then he threw up the salt water he had swallowed.

17

TOWARD the end of June the two trading vessels took aboard the last of Pa' Mahmud's pepper and made sail against head winds for Quallah Battoo — Rocky River — a short distance farther up the coast. Fox proposed stopping at Soo Soo, which was nearer Stallapoo, but Scott steered for the principal mouth of the shallow stream which gave the coastal town its name. From the anchorage in the roadstead a mile and a half offshore it could be seen that Quallah Battoo was split unevenly by a twenty-foot-wide flow of water, an inland offshoot of the river, which entered the sea just north of the settlement of stilted houses. The main branch of the river was shallow and no more than a hundred feet in width.

By messenger the inland rajah, Darus, whose hilly domain began twenty-odd miles upriver, had promised to fill the holds of both the Caroline and the Sally Culbreath with peppercorns. Darus himself came out to meet them soon after the brigs anchored early in the afternoon. He was a short, moon-faced fellow of merry disposition whom Scott couldn't help liking. Moreover, he had fifteen piculs of pepper in as many small proas in the river's mouth and he appeared pleased to get the same price paid Pa' Mahmud.

"We're lucky, I think," Bryant said enthusiastically after the first meeting with Darus. "Trading with this fellow is going to be a lot easier than dealing with the five rajahs in Qual-lah Battoo. Of course, we're going to have to keep an eye on the lot of them all the time we're in these waters."

Scott nodded agreement. They had learned that the town's various rulers normally got most of their pepper for trading purposes from the high country controlled by Dainis, who this year had decided to deal without benefit of middlemen. It was a situation which could breed trouble, especially if the inland rajah were not strong enough to check the natural greed of of the coastal rajahs he was depriving of business in the first year that American ships had returned to the Pepper Coast.

"My guess is that eleven dollars is about twice what Darus used to get in Quallah Battoo," Bryant went on, chuckling. "No wonder he's so pleased to do business with us."

"More power to him," Scott said.

The two captains went ashore to establish a weighing station outside the town, which boasted five separate forts, two of them plainly visible from the anchorage. On the advice of Darus, they refrained from entering Quallah Battoo and denied shore leave to their ships' companies. Some townspeople drifted to the site of the scales, on the southern bank of the river, but remained sullenly aloof, refusing even to sell foodstuffs. Scott observed that Darus himself was unperturbed, although his tribesmen kept their weapons handy and made no effort to fraternize with the coastal people.

Evan Hurst was one of the men who went ashore with Scott. He got along well with Darus, making the man laugh more than once, and it was actually from him that Scott learned that the five rajahs of Quallah Battoo could muster more than four hundred warriors among them. The town itself had some two thousand residents.

The initial quantity of pepper was stowed in the brigs without incident, but a number of proas from Quallah Battoo lazed about both vessels the whole time. And next day, when Darus prepared to return to his village for more. Hurst requested permission to go with him.

"Me an' Darus git along, sir," the man said to Scott, "an' I'd like to see some of th' country inland. I ain't much of a sailor, you know, sir."

Scott hesitated momentarily. He liked Hurst and felt he owed the man a favor, but he disliked the appearance of favoritism. Hurst sensed his feeling.

"It ain't that I particularly want anything that anybody else ain't gittin', sir," he said, "but I sure would like to see th' high country inland. I've been hearin' 'bout tigers an' elephants an' suchlike, an' I'd sure like to see some of them critters while I'm out this way.

"Another thing, sir, I sort of like th' Malays. They kind of remind me of Indians, an' I got along right good with th' Cherokees until I had my little trouble just afore I met up with you in Charleston."

Scott didn't ask him what the difficulty with the Cherokees had been; but he did seek to justify granting the leave. "Go with Darus, then. You can make sure he'll return."

"He'll be back, sir," Hurst said confidently. "Like I said, these people remind me of Indians I've known. You always had to keep an eye on an Indian like Pa' Mahmud, but you could trust one like Darus."

After the rajah had departed, Hurst with him in the leading proa, Fox volunteered to visit Quallah Battoo in an effort to buy fresh fruits, vegetables and meat.

"I think one of the rajahs is named Chedula," the second mate told Scott. "He's probably the same Chedula I knew here."

Scott granted permission, adding, "I'll go along with you."

A frown touched Fox's face briefly. He spoke smoothly. "It's not that there's any danger, sir, but Chedula is a fellow who has to be handled with gloves — I mean, if he's the same fellow I think he is. I'd rather go first by myself and trade on old acquaintance, if you don't object. This Chedula and the others, too are liable to be riled about our deal with Darus. After all, they've been shut out in the cold."

"Go ahead, then," Scott said. "I'll see the town later."

In a matter of three hours Fox was back, bringing the foodstuffs he had sought, and Scott commended him warmly. The weather was hot and an abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables would go a long way toward keeping the ship-bound seamen contented with their lot. Having sampled the sensual delights of Sumatra at the first port of call, they had been looking forward to going ashore at Quallah Battoo.

Darus was to be gone three days, and in the period of his absence Scott began paying more attention to Dorcas. Since she had come aboard he had been alternately attracted to her and irked by her presence. But for her, he might have enjoyed himself ashore after the difficulties with Pa' Mahmud had been ironed out. However, gaining her undivided attention was not easy, because in this period of inactivity both Bryant and Fox were vying for her companionship, a contest plainly not displeasing to her. In Manila she had never been in the company of a man without chaperonage.

One night after supper, though, Scott went onto the poop to smoke and found her leaning on the taffrail, dreamily looking out over water sparkling in the light of a full moon. A few proas had put out from the shore and in the town distant lights flickered like jewels. She did not notice him until he spoke.

"Thinking?" he asked jestingly.

She was startled. "Oh!" Then, almost defensively, "Yes, I was."

The way she said it stopped him from probing. Finally, again looking out over the calm, bright water, she spoke again. "I was wondering how it will be to live in the United States. We shall be quite poor, you know."

"I've always been poor," he said lightly.

"Don't jest," she said solemnly. "You are a man — a seafarer used to strange places — and, besides, America is your home. It is different with me. Up until the time my mother died we had the patronage of wealthy, influential people. I never had the feeling of — well — of being completely outside and dependent on myself. When we get to Philadelphia I must find employment… be a governess, I suppose. I'm told that women of good family occasionally accept such work in your country and in England."

"That's true, I believe, although I know no governesses. But why should you work? There's your father… a learned man. He can teach in America as well as in the Philippines, surely. After all, he is an American."

She turned to face him. Her smile was sad and tender. "But he isn't very practical, Captain Rogers. My mother's influence helped him a great deal… even more than he realizes. Not that I mind his being a scholar," she finished loyally.

"I suppose the idea of going to his country must be a little frightening to you, everything considered," Scott said slowly.

"Not, not exactly. But it will be so very different. Maybe exciting is the word. Anyway, I really don't think I'd mind being a governess. I get along well with children."

In his mind he pictured her catering to the whims of spoiled youngsters, and he didn't like what he saw. The work would be too much like that done by slave women in Charleston and elsewhere in the South. "Your father will find work. He can teach Spanish… perhaps write a book."

"He wants to write a book," she said softly, "and perhaps he will, as you say. But he himself says literature is a frail reed for a family man to lean on."

You are fearful, he thought compassionately, and I don't blame you. I was afraid when first I went to sea, only I wouldn't admit it. I had to grow up to admit being afraid of anything. Your father isn't the sort of man to beat learning into thick heads with a hickory stick and you're not a woman to be wasted on a bunch of snotty-nosed rich brats. You ought to be married… have a man to look out for you. He looked closely at her, liking the way the night wind blew wisps of hair about her face, and the desire to touch her rose strongly in him. For a moment he did not trust himself to move or speak.

She was conscious of the moon-madness, too, and it was both alarming and alluring. She feared that he would touch her, and she wished he would. It was most confusing. She brushed her hair back from her forehead and spoke almost abruptly. "I missed Captain Bryant at supper tonight."

"He was a little under the weather."

"I know. But — well — I did miss him. He's so good-natured and thoughtful. I think he is a kinder man than — well — than Mr. Fox, for example."

"Or me," he said.

"Yes, or you. Not that you're unkind, of course; I don't mean that. He's hoping to retire from the sea after this voyage, you know."

"I didn't know. But I suppose we all dream of that. I'd like to leave the sea myself. I had planned to."

"Oh?" She hesitated, then added, "Your… wife?"

"Aye. We were going to establish a plantation of our own."

"You must have loved her greatly, Captain Rogers," she said softly.

"I did. But the chances are that even if she had lived, I would have been right here tonight. I was not jesting altogether when I said I'd always been poor." He paused. "But once I was fairly well-to-do… for a few hours."

"What happened? Tell me."

He told her of the ill-fated privateering venture in the Jasper; of the ship taken at such great cost and so soon lost. Her interest was genuine, and he found himself telling her about his son, too.

"You must make a success of this voyage!" she exclaimed. "Oh, you must!"

"Aye. And I will. Nothing will stop me. Nothing." He caught himself up sharply. "I've talked too much."

"No, you haven't," she said, impulsively touching his hand as it rested on the rail. "It was good for you to talk."

Innocent in itself, the unthinking, kindly gesture was like putting a torch to tinder. His big hand turned under her small one, catching it firmly and drawing her into his embrace. Wide-eyed and unresisting, she regarded him steadily. He bent his head and kissed her. She trembled, closing her mouth tightly against his and turned her face away as his arms tightened. Suddenly she resisted with surprising strength, appalled at the turmoil in her breast. He made no effort to hold her.

"That never happened to me before," she whispered shakily.

He bit his lower lip, mastering himself. It had been the same with Rowena the first time he kissed her; he had felt the same rush of tenderness afterward. And Dorcas, unable to say anything or even understand the tumultuous emotions stirring her, hurried away without bidding him good night. In his embrace she had feared herself, not him.

Hastening to her cabin, she brushed past Peary at the foot of the ladder leading to the poop, and in the hurry of her passage he sensed her agitation. Curious, he clambered to the head of the ladder, halfway expecting to surprise Bryant or Fox. He saw instead Scott still standing by the taffrail. In his mind he put two and two together and a frown creased his forehead as he walked aft on cat feet.

Scott turned to face him. He spoke surlily. "Well, what is it, Mr. Peary?"

"Nothing," Peary said curtly. "Nothing — sir."

18

DARUS returned in four days, Hurst with him, bringing all the pepper his boats would carry. Scott and Bryant went ashore in shimmering afternoon heat to set up the scales and begin sending the black spice out to the ships.

"We've got a real find in this Darus, I'm thinking," Bryant said. "If he keeps delivering, we'll soon be racing for home."

"I'm ready," Scott said.

"What would you think of Dorcas and her father going home on my ship?" Bryant asked. "After all, Philadelphia is closer to Salem than it is to Charleston. I could even put in at New York."

"That's up to them," Scott replied, thinking now of the way Dorcas had been pointedly polite and distant toward him since their chance meeting in the moonlight. "Is that what they want?"

"I don't know. I haven't asked. I'd like to take them, though. You know how I feel about her."

Scott nodded.

"You wouldn't object?" Biyant continued.

The question irritated Scott, but he concealed his feeling. "Why should I? They're free to do as they please."

"That's true, but — well, I guess I will ask. Dorcas has been sort of moody lately. Have you noticed?"

Scott answered shortly. "No."

"You don't suppose she's sick, do you? There's a lot of fever on this coast. I got a little bilious myself the other day. Maybe it's the heat. My men're getting restless."

Darus and Hurst greeted them as they waded ashore through the shallows. The rajah wore a yellow cap and a spotless white jacket in addition to his kain sarong. Hurst cradled his long rifle across his body.

"Lada" Darus said proudly with a wave of his arm in the direction of the laden proas, which were guarded by almost fifty men armed with rusty muskets, swords, creeses and bamboo spears. "Plenty lada."

"You bet!" Bryant exclaimed jovially. "Let's get down to business."

"Plenty more in village," the rajah said, pointing upstream. "Plenty."

The New Englander held up and shook a canvas sack, making the heavy Spanish-milled dollars jingle musically. "Plenty wang here."

"Did you get a tiger, Hurst?" Scott asked.

The man grinned. "No, sir; didn't even see any sign. But I did find out that Darus is a big chief, all right, an' he's got pepper to spare."

"Good. I take it you and he got along well."

Hurst nodded. "Couldn't've been better, sir."

"Did you like the country inland?"

"Aye, though it's a mite tangled in places. I liked th' girls, too. I tell you, cap'n, th' more I see of th' natives here, th' more I'm reminded of th' Cherokees. I used to trade in th' Cherokee country, high in th' mountains, an' I had me a Cherokee woman for a couple of winters. She was a cross between a doe deer an' a catamount, but still easier to git along with than any white woman I ever knew. I was right fond of her." He paused, carefully lowering the butt of his weapon to dry sand and leaning on the barrel. "I reckon she's paired off with a brave now, or maybe some other white trader. Anyway, it's over an' done with."

Scott rubbed his chin. "Tell you what, Hurst. Since you and Darus are so thick, why don't you go back to his village with him again? You might get a chance to shoot a tiger or an elephant."

Hurst's eyes lighted. "I'd like that, cap'n, sir. Thank you. Matter of fact, I was goin' to ask you to let me do just that."

"Just keep the pepper coming downstream," Scott told him.

Bryant came to Scott one morning while the brigs were taking aboard the last of the fourth delivery by Darus. He found him in his cabin compounding sugar of lead and opium into astringent pills to check an outbreak of dysentery in the Caroline.

"I've got the same trouble in the Sally'' Bryant remarked sympathetically. "I'm dosing all hands with salt, vinegar and water."

"Pills are easier to get down the hatch," Scott said, wiping his hands. "I don't know what's causing it — water, food, heat or what — but the running off of bowels in this ship is getting damned serious. Half my men are too weak to pick up a fifty-pound bag of pepper."

Bryant frowned thoughtfully. "I hope we don't have any trouble with the Quallah Battoo people. They're surly bastards. I'm not letting any of 'em aboard my ship."

"Nor I," Scott said grimly. "They could give us a hard time in a fight right now. Thank God, Darus is friendly."

"I came to talk to you about him," Bryant said shortly.

Scott lifted his brows. "What's the trouble?"

"He wants a thousand dollars in advance."

"Did he give any reason?"

"He says he owes it to three of the rajahs in Quallah Battoo."

"And they're pressing him?"

Bryant hesitated. "He implied they were threatening trouble. I've an idea they were expecting to be paid in pepper, which they could have sold for twice the amount."

Scott pulled the lobe of his right ear. "Damn. We can't risk any trouble now. . Mr. Fox, send Hurst in here."

"Hurst!" Fox bawled. "Lay aft to the cabin. Lively, man!"

"This Hurst is a smart lad," Scott told his fellow captain. "He used to trade with the Indians at home."

"I knew he and Darus were hitting it off well," Bryant said.

Hurst appeared a minute later. He looked wan.

"You sick?" Scott demanded.

"Aye, sir. Hit me last night. My bowels're in an uproar."

Scott looked at him closely. "You don't look fit to go back upstream with Darus."

"I'm a mite poly, sir, an' I thought I'd stay aboard, if that's all right."

"It's all right. But tell me, do you think we can trust Darus with a thousand dollars in advance?"

"If it was me, I would, sir. For an Indian — I mean, a native — he's honest. Hell do what he says, I think, sir."

"Did you know he owed money to three of the Quallah Battoo chiefs?"

Hurst shook his head. "No, sir."

"Has he got enough fighting men to stand off the Quallah Battoo people?"

"I reckon he might. . for awhile, anyway. He's got maybe a hundred and fifty warriors. He told me they — the Quallah Battoo rajahs — don't trust each other. He don't figure on them ganging up on him."

Scott looked at Bryant, then turned back to the seaman. "Darus seems to need this thousand dollars in advance to keep from having trouble. Trouble could mean the end of pepper deliveries to us. And, as you must know, we're in no shape to fight anybody now."

"Why don't you let me go ashore and talk to Darus, sir?"

"Exactly what I wanted you to do. Find out what you can. Meanwhile you'd better swallow one of these pills. It'll make your belly easier."

In less than two hours Hurst returned and talked with both captains in the cabin of the Caroline.

"Darus figures the rajahs he owes money to are goin' to jump him if he don't pay 'em right now," he said bluntly. "If they do, he won't be able to bring any more pepper."

"That's the way I figured it," Bryant said.

"He says he's been your good friend an' that you ought to be his," Hurst said. "That's how an Indian would figure, too."

"Think we ought to ask Fox's opinion?" Bryant asked.

Scott shook his head. "I'll let Darus have the money."

"I'll put up my half," Bryant insisted. "No point in your taking all the risk."

Scott rose. "I'll go ashore and see Darus myself. Maybe we'd better both go, Zenas."

"I'm ready," Bryant said.

The rajah got the money that day and took it into Quallah Battoo before he set out for home. Of his own volition, he swore on the Koran to bring back pepper worth the sum advanced within a fortnight. And he left behind as a hostage for the spice his third son, a fourteen-year-old named Muzaflfar.

"You'll get th' pepper, sir," Hurst assured Scott after the shy, muscular lad was taken aboard the Caroline. "Darus is mighty proud of his boys."

19

THEY heard no more from Darus after his departure; he apparently had been engulfed by the steaming green jungle through which the shallow river flowed to the sea. Busy trying to stem the weakening flux among the Caroline’s company, Scott didn't really begin worrying until the fifth morning, when Peary irately reported Muzaffar missing. A thorough search of the ship failed to locate him.

"Where was he last seen?" Scott demanded angrily.

"He turned in for the night on top of the fo'c'sle," the first mate answered sourly. "If you ask me, the little bastard's swum ashore and is long gone. We should've kept him in the chain locker."

"The damned watch should have been more alert," Scott said.

Bryant was summoned and acquainted with Muzaffar's disappearance. He made a long face. "Either he got homesick, Scott — or somebody swam out from the shore last night to fetch him. It'd be no trick for a native to escape the eyes of the watch."

"That son-of-a-bitch Darus is no better than the rest of 'em," Peary commented. "He got the money he asked for and he's not coming back. Worse, he's not going to send the pepper he promised."

Scott turned to Fox. "What you think?"

The second officer shrugged slightly. "If I'd been asked, I would have counseled against letting Darus have money in advance. It's an old trick which can be worked usually on newcomers to this coast."

"I'm not a newcomer," Bryant said stiffly. "Captain Rogers and I agreed on a calculated risk."

"It wasn't very smart of you," Fox said.

Scott's voice was cold. "Do you think Darus is trying to swindle us, Fox? Confine your opinions to that subject."

Fox spoke coolly. "I beg your pardon, sir. However, I repeat that Captain Bryant shouldn't have been taken in. As for Darus…"

The New England shipmaster broke in wrathfully. "I resent that remark… especially from a man of your reputation in Essex County. Repeat it off this ship and I'll break you in two."

"Well, damn it all," Peary said, "there's truth in what he said, captain."

Scott brought his fist down on the cabin table. "Enough of such talk! I was willing to let Darus have the whole sum. We'll give him another day. If pepper isn't delivered tomorrow, then I'm going to his village and find out why. In the meanwhile, let's not overlook the possibility that the boy is in Quallah Battoo. Fox, you and I are going ashore to find out, if we can."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"I want to go, too," Bryant said.

Scott shook his head. "I'd rather you stood by in the Sally with the crew ready for action, Zenas. You'll do the same in this ship, Mr. Peary. If there's any sign of trouble ashore, open up on anything you can hit. And if you don't see us returning to the ship inside of three hours, fire on the town." He paused. "Your people recovered from the flux, Zenas?"

"Pretty much. You're sure you don't want me along? Once inside the town, you could be cut to pieces without our knowing it."

Scott shook his head decisively. "It's a chance I'll have to take. But thanks for offering, anyway. Just stand to quarters while I'm gone."

Hurst volunteered for the boat crew taking Scott ashore, and the captain accepted him. Halfway to the beach he said, "Sir, let me go to Darus' village and find out what's gone sour."

"You may have to show us the way later," Scott told him. "You didn't see anybody mistreat the boy, did you?"

"No, sir. All hands treated him real good. And I looked out for him 'specially. I don't think Darus aimed to cheat you, sir — not when he left us, anyway. He's liable to show up yet."

"There'll be hell to pay if he turns up to find his son gone."

Hurst frowned over that. "The Quallah Battoo people think Darus done 'em in, what with tradin' direct instead of through them. Darus thought it was a real smart trick he pulled."

Scott steered into the mouth of the small stream dividing Quallah Battoo. A knot of arrogant Malay men, most of them armed, stood aside sullenly as Scott and Fox disembarked and set out for Chedula's fort, which stood nearest the beach.

"This Chedula's a friend of yours," the captain said to the second officer. "I'm counting on you to get the truth out of him."

Chedula was there, but they got no information from him; he professed complete ignorance of the boy's whereabouts. The story was the same when they called on the other rajahs, all of whom seemed pleased by the turn of events.

"By God, I think they're all lying," Scott said angrily to his companion at the end of the round.

"I think Chedula told us the truth. As for the others — well, they could be lying. What we need is a tukang omang— a babbler."

"What do you think happened to Muzaffar?"

"I think he got homesick. And frankly, sir, I think you've seen the last of him and Darus, too."

"I'll be damned if that's so. I'm going to get a thousand dollars' worth of pepper from Darus or get back the thousand we paid in advance.'

"Chedula's already got part of it. You can't demand it from him or the other two Darus paid. They're not at fault."

Scott conceded the justice of the remark. He was glad now that he had lavished so much attention on getting his crew well. Moreover, he was pleased that the men had been confined to the ship for days. Edgy from sickness, boredom and heat, they would welcome a fight.

"Let's get back to the ship," he said abruptly…

That night a pigtailed Chinese paddled out to the Caroline.

"Me want to see 'Melican cap'n," he said to Peary.

The first officer led him to Scott's cabin, then stood by impatiently.

"Well?" Scott demanded.

The Chinese clasped his hands together in front of him and bowed humbly. "You want to know about boy Muzaffar, yes?"

"I do," Scott said.

"Ten dollar, then. Can tell."

"Why, you yellow monkey!" Peary burst out furiously, catching the fellow by his queue. "I'll tear your head off if you don't tell us!"

"Easy," Scott said. "Right now it's worth ten dollars to find out quickly what he knows." He counted five dollars down on the cabin table. "You get the other five if your information sounds good."

The Chinese understood. "Boy gone with Hamzah. Him Darus' man. See him swim to ship last night. Him and boy swim ashore. Me fishing."

Peary grasped the man cruelly when he finished, twisting his arm so that he grimaced in pain and dropped the silver already paid to him. "So much for that. Now I'll throw you off the ship, you bastard oriental ape."

Scott spoke sharply. "Let him go. I made a deal and I'll go through with it. I'm glad to hear the boy isn't in the town."

"Now that we've dropped five hundred and ten dollars down the drain, what're you going to do?" Peary demanded when the informer had taken his pay and gone hurriedly.

"Exactly what I said I'd do. I'm going up Rocky River to find Darus. I'll take Hurst and eight or ten others. We'll set out in the morning."

"Still anxious to play the hero, eh, brother-in-law?" Peary demanded nastily, his lips twisting. "Now that my sister's dead, you're anxious to show off for our passenger."

Scott rose so suddenly that his chair was overturned. It banged woodenly on the deck. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Peary laughed mirthlessly. "What the hell do you think? Do you think I'm blind? We pick up this little baggage from Manila. Fox starts shining up to her right away… playing the knowledgeable, indispensable ship's officer. Then Bryant shows up and starts mooning over her. Then you get into the act, still playing the indomitable captain. By God, it didn't take long for you to forget Rowena!"

The captain stared at him more in wonder than anger, puzzled by the outburst. He was even more bewildered when Peary's mood abruptly underwent a complete change. "I'm sorry, Scott. I guess I'm just fed up with this part of the world. . with the dysentery, the bugs, the heat and the stinking, lying natives."

Feeling wrath beginning to get the upper hand, Scott said nothing. Watching Peary, he reminded himself that this man was his late wife's brother and, in addition, the son of one of his employers. The mate suddenly put his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Take me upriver with you, Scott. I can help you there. I agree that going to Darus is the thing to do."

"What about the ship?"

"Let Fox stay with the ship."

"All right," Scott said, mastering his temper. "Now turn out a boat crew to take me to the Sally Culbreath; we've got to settle all this business tonight."

"That won't be necessary. Bryant's up for'ard with Miss Russell, while Fox is sulking 'midships."

Seeking Bryant out immediately, Scott acquainted him with what he had learned from his nocturnal caller. Dorcas, who felt she should leave them while they talked, was restrained by natural curiosity. She listened interestedly while Scott outlined what he intended doing.

"I think one of us should remain here," Bryant said quietly when he had finished. "Let's toss to decide who goes and who stays."

"We won't gamble on it," Scott said decisively. "I said earlier today that I'd go, and I meant it."

"It'll be dangerous, Scott."

"It may not be too safe here. I don't like leaving my ship undermanned and in command of anybody else, but I'll feel better about it with you here."

The New Englander smoothed back his hair with his hand. He spoke thoughtfully. "My mate couldn't possibly take the Sally home, and that's a fact. He's not even a good disciplinarian. Your mates, on the other hand, are good navigators and good officers."

Scott nodded. "Fox probably is the better navigator of the two; and I think he's less likely to have trouble with the Quallah Battoo people, who are none too friendly. He's more of a diplomat than Peary."

"On the latter score I agree," Bryant said, looking shoreward, then at his fellow captain. "But do you think a thousand dollars is worth the risk you're about to take, Scott? I'm willing to write off my five hundred to experience."

"It's not the money, Zenas, it's the principle. We can't let word get up and down the coast that Darus hooked us for a thousand dollars. We'd have nothing but trouble with the other rajahs."

"You're right, of course. How do you propose getting our friend to fulfill his bargain — or return the money?"

Scott shrugged. "I'll just go to his village and lay it on the line to him. It worked with Pa' Mahmud."

"Pa' Mahmud didn't have payment in advance, and you had two ships to back you up. It'll be different twenty or thirty miles inland. The cannon won't reach there." Bryant paused anxiously, then added hopefully, "Surely you have something specific in mind."

"I do. If Darus gets belligerent, we'll seize him and hold him until the account is squared one way or another."

"That's easier said than done, you know. But I'm still willing to flip a dollar to decide which one of us goes upriver."

Scott shook his head stubbornly. "I'm going at daylight. Keep a sharp watch while I'm gone."

Returning to his cabin, the captain summoned Fox. On deck meanwhile Bryant spoke in a troubled voice to Dorcas.

"There was something I wanted to talk to you about," he said, "but I reckon this isn't the time. I don't like the idea of Captain Rogers going to that village without me, but I'm not willing to leave my ship indefinitely while he's away. The people in Quallah Battoo are on edge; there are too many of them and too few of us. I could insist on going, too — maybe I should insist on it — but I can't force Captain Rogers to remain behind."

"No," she said thoughtfully, "I don't think you or anybody else could. He's made up his mind."

"Well, I'll tell you this," Bryant said candidly, "I don't really want to go looking for Darus at home."

When Fox reported, Scott advised him of the plan agreed on. The second officer immediately offered to replace Peary on the projected expedition, but he obviously was pleased to be left in command of the Caroline.

"Maybe Darus'll show up in the morning, sir," Fox offered. "Then nobody'll have to go."

"I can tell you I'm not looking forward to going," Scott told him. Then, as if to justify his own determination to go, he added, "But you know we can't let something like this pass unprotested."

"I agree fully, sir. I'll have everything in readiness at first light."

Scott was cleaning his pistols and cutlass when, sometime later, there was a timid tapping at his door.

"Come," he said, not looking up. "What is it?"

When he got no reply, he lifted his eyes. To his surprise, Dorcas stood in the doorway, her face troubled. He laid down the weapon in his hand and rose. Lifting her skirt a little she stepped over the high coaming and into the cabin itself.

"I heard all that you and Captain Bryant said," she began.

"I assumed that you did."

"You have to go, don't you?"

"I think so."

She took a hesitant step in his direction, and he came around from behind the table. It was almost as if she had touched him with her hand. The lamplighted cabin was charged with tension. She spoke hastily, almost incoherently. "I–I just wanted to say vaya con Dios—go with God — if go you must."

Reaching out, he caught her gently by the upper arms at the shoulder. She trembled, knowing that he was about to take her in his arms again, and in a sharply commanding voice she said, "No! Don't!"

Angered by words and tone, he dropped his hands at once. Suddenly she reached up, took his face between her hands and kissed him on the mouth. He was too surprised to move when she turned swiftly and left him standing there in the soft, warm lamplight.

20

UNTIL the very moment of departure from the Caroline’s side in the smaller of her two boats Scott hoped he would not have to go. And not until he was actually in the boat and the seamen were bending with a will to the oars did he see Dorcas again. She came to the rail of the brig and waved a scarf, and the last he saw of her she was flanked by Bryant and Fox. They entered Rocky River, which in no way belied its name, as the tropical sun lifted the thick white mist from the dense jungle and the inevitable cumulus clouds began forming over the mountainous land. The morning cacophony of bird and animal calls soon died out; but soon after the brilliant sea was lost to sight a troop of large gray monkeys spotted men and boat and followed them for almost a mile, howling angrily and pelting them with sticks and filth. Peary, whose temper seemed shorter than usual this morning, finally drew a pistol and shot one of the more venturesome creatures. It fell into muddy water, which suddenly was lashed to foam by a fifteen-foot crocodile making a successful grab for breakfast.

"Hell's bells!" a sailor grunted. "I didn't even see that son-of-a-bitch when we passed."

Back from the sea they were in day-long semidarkness, in a water-floored tunnel formed by the forbiddingly dark walls of the rain forest on either bank and the interlacing foliage above. In occasional spots sunlight seeped through the leafy roof, warming mud flats where dozens of crocodiles up to eighteen feet long dozed. The monstrous reptiles were sleepily malevolent creatures whose lower front teeth showed in evil grins even when their long, narrow mouths were shut. Once they glimpsed a pair of long-armed, barrel-chested orangutan, great black apes that paid them little attention; and several times they were startled by the booming cries of unseen gibbons. But most of the time no animal life was visible to the sweating men and the jungle itself was shrouded in menacing silence.

A few miles above its mouth the stream narrowed considerably and its flow became perceptibly swifter. The humid heat, steamy and strength-sapping, seemed to rise from the earth to wrap them in invisible cloaks. Once the boat rammed into a submerged rock, springing a leak which had to be calked immediately, and twice it ran aground on an unseen shelf of sand. The men who leaped into the water to drag it free came out with their legs dotted with fat gray leeches that were bloated before they could be scraped off.

Scott found himself wondering how much farther they would be able to travel in the boat. The river was growing shallower as it decreased in width.

"Th' Malays made it all th' way, sir," Hurst assured them.

" 'Course their boats wasn't as heavy as this 'un."

Less draft, too, Scott thought.

In midafternoon, when the tough seamen were exhausted by fighting the current, Scott called a halt. They beached the boat on a sand bar and, under Hurst's direction, hacked out a place to camp on the bank.

"Jesus!" Peary exclaimed in disgust. "What a lovely country!"

"It ain't too bad, sir," Hurst assured him. "We ain't but halfway now. Little higher up th' nights are cool."

They all were thankful for Hurst's presence before nightfall. A knowing woodsman, he was the only one expert with an ax and the only one who could make a fire with damp wood. He found a fallen tree, a hulk wrapped in creepers and crawling with insects, and chopped away rotten wood to get at sound wood. He built a small cooking fire for the brewing of tea, which Scott laced with rum for all hands, and toward nightfall he piled dry wood on the coals, so that flame leaped skyward.

"It's too big for cookin' now," he explained to Scott, "but it'll keep th' varmints away after dark. It's them damn' crocs that scare me. Darus told me how they'd sneak outa th' river sometimes an' catch a man by th' foot."

In the middle of the stream they had been unworried by insects; now mosquitoes and gnats attacked them in ravenous swarms. The men slapped at exposed faces and arms and cursed bitterly. None of them slept well, coming awake at the sound of distant trumpeting by elephants, starting up and grasping weapons when a hunting tiger roared with its great, hairy face close to the natural sounding board of the perpetually moist earth.

Next day all hands were in the water frequently, towing and pushing the boat over shoals and through stretches of fast water. And after each time they had to scrape off the repulsive-looking leeches infesting the stream. Once a venomous snake fell from an overhanging branch into the craft, and a man was wounded in the foot when one of his fellows slashed the reptile with a cutlass. What a hellish country, Scott thought time and again.

Late in the afternoon they glimpsed a man in the jungle, and the feeling they were being spied on tightened the nerves of every man. Hurst caught the captain's eye. "We ain't more'n a mile from th' village, sir."

Scott wiped his sweaty forehead with the damp sleeve of his shirt. His skin itched from insect bites irritated further by perspiration. He was about to come to grips with Darus and he consciously prepared his mind for it. Be calm. Be firm. He steered for the right-hand bank.

The nervous men were too tired to talk. A few smoked pipes or chewed on fresh quids of tobacco. Scott studied the shore carefully. Here there was a path leading upstream. He let the seamen rest a full five minutes. Then he spoke to them. "Hear this, all hands. Draw the charges of muskets and pistols and reload."

That put new life into them. Only four of the ten all told were more than twenty years old.

"Mr. Peary," Scott said, "you'll keep the men together when we reach the village. There'll be no straggling, no ogling of women, and no carelessness with firearms. We're not going to start anything we can't finish."

Through lips swollen by insect bites the mate answered sullenly. "Aye, aye, sir."

Scott maintained a front of cool self-assurance as they came in sight of the village of more than two hundred huts, most of them raised six or eight feet on pilings. He calmly steered for the landing, where twenty-odd boats were beached, despite the fact fully one hundred armed men and boys were waiting there. In vain he searched the faces, which were more blank than overtly hostile, for the recognizable round countenance of the rajah. He did see young Muzaffar leaning on a long bamboo spear with a fire-hardened point.

The landing was unopposed, much to Scott's relief, and he went directly to Muzaffar. "Why did you leave us, boy? You were kindly treated."

The lad looked away, keeping silent, but a powerfully built fellow with a scarred face answered for him. "His father sent me to fetch him."

"You're Hamzah?"

The man nodded with dignity. He was armed with sword, creese and a rusty musket.

"Where is Rajah Darus?"

"In his house. He mourns his fourth son, who was carried away by the Lame One."

Scott, who had made good progress with the language, did not fully understand. Hurst spoke up at his elbow. "They told me about the Lame One when I was here. He's a man-eatin' tiger."

"Lame One," Scott said, his face clearing. "Tiger. Harimau."

Hamzah drew back suddenly, superstitious fear in his eyes. Hurst explained quickly. "They never call a tiger a tiger, sir. They're afraid he'll hear and come."

Scott sought to cover his blunder. To Hamzah he said, "I am grieved for my friend Darus. I mourn with him."

"That's th' way to talk, cap n," Hurst said in an approving manner.

Hamzah now had recovered his dignity. "The rajah will see the white tuan tomorrow… after the sembahyang suboh."

Scott had to ask Hurst for help. Hamzah repeated what he had said. The frontiersman scratched his head thoughtfully and spoke again to Hamzah, who nodded.

"That's th' dawn prayer, cap'n," Hurst said. "There's five of 'em." He hesitated. "I'd wait, if I was you."

"We will wait, Hamzah," Scott said.

"There is a house prepared for you, tuan."

"What're we doing?" Peary demanded tensely when Scott gave the order to strip the ship's boat of all stores and the oars.

Scott told him briefly. Then he led them to the dwelling indicated by Hamzah. It was a flimsy-looking building located close to the biggest hut in the village, which was Darus' own residence, and it was six feet off the ground on slender pilings. It was nearly sunset when they finally got settled.

"Hell's fire," Peary commented, looking about the inside of the building, "we'll be in a hell of a spot if they start any trouble after dark."

"It's a risk we can't avoid. We'll stand watches."

Peary glanced outside. "We'd damn' well better. Look."

A score of men armed with an assortment of weapons were taking up position outside the rajah's quarters.

"Darus is as worried as you are, " Scott told him. "He isn't taking any chances on us jumping him, either."

Suddenly a shrill series of calls rent the air. Every native in sight, including the newly posted guards around the palace, prostrated himself.

"Sunset prayer," Hurst said to Scott. "There'll be another call from the muezzin after dark."

Scott rubbed his chin. "I'd like to have some inkling of these people's true feelings toward us before I talk with Darus, Hurst. Do you think you could find out anything from any of them?"

"I could try, sir. I know Hamzah an' some others. They were all mighty friendly when I come here with Darus."

"Maybe the only reason we didn't hear from Darus was because the tiger killed his son," Scott went on, "but I've a notion it's more than that. If he were going to put in an appearance later, why did he send this Hamzah for Muzaffar? At any rate, find out what you can. I'm going to talk plain to Darus in the morning."

Soon after Hurst departed two taciturn teen-aged boys lugged a huge kettle of steaming-hot meat-and-vegetable stew to the foot of the ladder outside and left it there. By the time a couple of hungry seamen had handed it into the house the lads were back with jugs of arrack and hot tea. Scott immediately confiscated the heady liquor and issued it sparingly.

The stew was good, though too highly seasoned for Scott's taste, and he ate sparingly at the common mess. Immediately after eating all the sailors except those on watch sprawled on the uneven wooden floor and went to sleep. Full bellies, their natural fatalism and the hard day of rowing and towing upstream combined to give them rest.

Scott and Peary remained awake, sitting apart in moody silence. The night was cooling rapidly and the light of a lamp brought from the ship cast fitful shadows on the walls.

Suddenly Peary spoke. "I'd like a drink, Scott. Rum, not arrack."

"Help yourself."

"You want one?"

"No, thanks."

"When do you reckon Hurst'll get back?"

"No telling."

Peary poured half a cup of rum and gulped it down. "There's something I want to ask you, Scott."

"What?"

"Wasn't Miss Russell in your cabin last night?"

Scott looked at him curiously. "She came by for two or three minutes."

"Why?"

Scott felt a surge of irritation. "There was something she wanted to say to me."

Peary poured another generous measure of rum and tossed it off. "What?"

Scott's eyes narrowed. "I don't think that's any of your business. And another thing, go easy on that rum.This is no time for getting three sheets in the wind."

"Don't be so damned snotty, Scott. I asked a civil question."

"It was a damned nosy question and you know it. Since when has my business been your business?"

"If you must know, since you married my sister, that's when," Peary snarled.

The sudden venom in his voice startled Scott. "You're getting drunk, Clay. Don't pour any more rum on top of the arrack you've had."

"I'm not drunk. And if I was, what could you do about it?"

Scott spoke with controlled fury, keeping his voice down so that the men on watch could not hear the words. "Shut up, Clay. Remember that you're a ship's officer, supposedly a responsible one."

"And you're the captain," Peary said mockingly.

"Yes, by God, I am!" Scott gritted. "You pipe down. This is no place for you to get smart. We don't know yet how tight a spot we're in."

"It was your idea to come here, remember."

Scott got to his feet deliberately. He stepped close to Peary and addressed him softly. "I told you to belay such talk. Save it until we're back in Charleston. I suggest you start sleeping that rum off."

"Captain," one of the watch called, "Hurst is comin' back."

Peary's face was dark with fury, but he knew Scott's temper. "We'll talk later, Scott."

"In Charleston," Scott said. "You can say what you please there."

Reeking of arrack, the one-time Indian trader was bursting with information. "Me an' Hamzah've been swillin' panther sweat — which means he ain't too strick a Moslem — an' he's talked more'n he realizes, I reckon. Anyway, it's true enough that Darus' fourth boy was kilt by that ol' harimau, th' Lame One, but it didn't happen until last night. You remember Suran, sir?"

Scott answered drily. "I could hardly forget him."

"Well, Hamzah told me th' muezzin Osman, th' feller that sounds off like an Indian on th' warpath to call th' faithful to prayer, is Suran's half-brother."

Light dawning in his mind, Scott snapped his fingers. "Then he's the source of our trouble?"

"You're right, sir. It wasn't until after Darus started tradin' with you that Osman learned about Suran. So he tried to stop th' rajah from doin' business with you. But Darus liked them silver dollars an' he liked you, so he wouldn't listen… not until he come back here th' last time an' heard about Osman's dream."

"Dream?"

"Aye. These Malays believe in signs, dreams, spooks, ha'nts an' all that sort of stuff. Osman told Darus that Suran come to 'im in a dream an' warned 'im you were bad medicine; that you'd make big trouble for 'im if he kept on dealin' with you."

"I guess Suran said to just forget about the money we advanced."

Hurst grinned crookedly. "I wouldn't be surprised, sir. Darus didn't mean to stick you for that money, but he ain't got any of it now an' he's just plain scairt of you. Osman's told 'im that if he lets you have just one more peppercorn, then he'll have big trouble."

"I see. But where does Hamzah fit into all this?"

"He don't, except he's Darus' man, his first mate, you might say. He's superstitious, too, all right, especially about tigers, but he don't believe Osman had any dream. Darus does, though, an' what makes it worse for us, Osman's sold th' rajah on th' idea you sent th' tiger."

Scott pursed his lips in a soundless whistle as all the implications sank in. "Why didn't Darus oppose our landing, if he believes I caused the Lame One to carry off his son?"

"He was scairt to," Hurst answered bluntly. "He thinks you've got some sort of protective magic."

"He's probably building up his courage to do something," Scott said thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't be surprised, sir. But right now th' whole village is afeard of you. They think you can call th' Lame One in.

Scott passed a hand over tired eyes. "Could you track a tiger, do you think?"

"Don't see why not."

"Like to try?"

"Aye. I've kilt b'ars an' catamounts, but I've never even seen a tiger."

"Then you're going with me to see Darus tomorrow."

21

DARUS' moon face, so good-natured when Scott last beheld it, betrayed neither fear nor hatred nor any other emotion when he received the captain and Hurst in his house an hour after daylight; but the atmosphere of the strongly guarded palace was electric with danger. Wryly grateful that the rajah himself was not the kinsman of the late pirate chief Suran, Scott walked lightly, knowing that in obtaining the audience he was trading on the ruler's carefully hidden superstitious terror. When he began talking, he wished more than ever that he had an adequate command of the tongue.

"You have been told that I sent the Lame One into the village to seize your son," he began abruptly. "That is a lie."

The blunt reference to the tragedy jarred Darus visibly, but he said nothing.

"Osman, the kinsman of the pirate Suran, told you this lie," Scott continued after a long silence.

The rajah spoke then, his voice tight with hatred held in leash by fear. "Osman is a holy man. He does not lie."

Hurst broke in. "Osman speaks with a forked tongue — I mean, he does lie. Suran was kilt in a fair fight an' in protection of our lives an' ship. Was that wrong, Darus?"

The ruler made no reply. His small, dark eyes glittered now and his chest heaved with sudden emotion.

Scott spoke again. "Your friend Hurst, this man here with me, is a mighty hunter. He and I will seek out the Lame One and destroy him."

Darus' face showed keen interest. "You will kill your own magic creature?" he demanded unbelievingly.

"He is not my creature," Scott said flatly. "He is not magic. Help us find him and we will slay him."

Darus obviously struggled with himself. Finally he spoke again. "I must think about it."

"Don't wait," Hurst pleaded. "Let us kill him."

"Come back after the noon prayer," Darus said. "We will decide then."

"He's goin' to talk with th' muezzin, sure as hell," Hurst said gloomily when he and Scott were outside.

"I'm sure you're right," Scott agreed with a matter-of-factness he was far from feeling. "Still, we've jolted Darus a little, I think. Maybe you can persuade your friend Hamzah to put his oar in for us. I've an idea he's no friend of Osman."

"You know, cap'n," Hurst said slowly, "I was thinkin' along that very line myself. I'll go look for him now."

Scott watched the former Indian trader stride away, carrying the long rifle which he had kept in his hands even during the talk with the rajah. He was glad he had such a man with him. Then he turned and walked briskly back to their quarters, observing wryly that the women and children he encountered gave him a wide berth. They must think I'm the devil himself, he thought.

Hurst went directly to Hamzah's house, but the man wasn't there. He then began seeking him at other houses. He felt much as he had when once he, a stranger, had arrived in a Cherokee town hard on the heels of an unscrupulous trader who had driven an exceptionally hard bargain by liberal use of cheap rum. Their deerskins and beaver pelts sold for a hundredth part of their value, the headachy braves were edgily dangerous, anxious to vent their rage on any white man. Outwardly serene, but acutely aware he was under constant surveillance, he went from place to place, neither finding Hamzah nor learning anything of his whereabouts. Finally he decided to return to the man's residence and wait there.

He was making his way past a house near the rajah's palace when he saw a fat, naked boy of toddling age playing in the shaded dust under the stilted structure. The sight was not unusual and his first glance was casual. Then from the corner of his eye he saw the slithering snake. . saw the youngster weave unsteadily in eager pursuit of the reptile. The hair on the back of his neck rose when the snake halted, coiled and reared its head some two feet from the ground. Its neck was dilated in the form of a painted hood.

The child halted wonderingly at the sight, standing still in front of the hamadryad. It was obvious to the horrified Hurst that the deadly king cobra would strike if the little boy made another move, even in retreat. Quickly he lifted his rifle and cocked it. To hit the gently swaying target presented by the hood, which he mistook for part of the head, he would have to send the bullet dangerously close to the child's own head.

Like many an expert marksman, Hurst shot with both eyes open, aiming the gun with the casualness that a man would use in pointing with his finger. His eyes narrowed slightly… his finger crooked about the trigger, squeezed gently.

The cobra, its head partially severed, thrashed wildly, flinging blood on the child, even as the sound of the exploding gunpowder blasted the morning quiet. Hurst bounded toward the suddenly terrified youngster and with one powerful hand yanked him out of danger. Then he picked up a stick and flailed the reptile ferociously, beating its head into a pulp. As the child opened his mouth in a wail of mingled terror and hurt, Hurst caught the six-foot-long snake by the tail and cracked its bloody head against one of the pilings supporting the house.

Not until he dropped the still writhing hamadryad in the dust did he become aware that a score of armed Malays were within a few feet of him. One was trying to soothe the screaming boy, but all the others were staring at him in amazement.

"Why, damnation," Hurst said in English, feeling the sweat of reaction in his palms, "ain't any of you ever seen a man kill a snake afore?"

The little boy was still howling when Darus himself burst through his followers and took him from the man who had picked him up. He held the child close and crooned softly for a moment after the fashion of a doting father. Then, just as Scott and all his men arrived, drawn by the crack of the rifle, the rajah went to Hurst and took his hand in gratitude and friendship.

"You are my brother," he said simply. "You have saved the life of my son."

Taller than Darus, Hurst looked over his head at Scott, who gripped a naked cutlass in his hand. With a slight motion of his head he indicated the snake, which a couple of Malays were methodically hacking into small, quivering bits. The captain looked at the cobra, then at Hurst and finally at Darus, who still held the rifleman's hand. The boy, quiet now, clung with chubby arms to his father's neck.

"You…" Scott began wonderingly.

Hurst nodded, taking his hand from the grip of the rajah. Calmly he began reloading the long rifle.

22

HURST'S feat broke Osman's grip on Darus. The rajah was penitently grateful to Hurst and his gratitude reached out to embrace all the men from the Caroline. They, who had lived apart with weapons within easy reach, now had the freedom of the village, and unattached brown girls vied for opportunities to bestow amorous favors on them. Scott found himself suddenly treated as an honored rajah, with a house to himself, while Hurst was moved into Darus' large residence. In the evening the rajah gave a great feast, killing a couple of young water buffaloes for meat; and in the light and shadows of great fires lithe young dancers postured and swayed gracefully to the orchestrated music of bamboo flutes, gongs, cymbals, drums and tinkly xylophone-hke instruments played with one hand. Toward the end of the celebration he turned to Scott and promised to carry out his original bargain. Apologetically he explained that Osman had misled him.

One thing Darus asked the elated captain in Hurst's presence: that they not forget the offer to rid the area of the striped terror that struck by night, the Lame One. Scott repeated it immediately and Hurst nodded quick, silent approval. The ruler, who had disregarded the Prophet's advice to the extent of drinking a great deal of potent arrack, beamed on them drunkenly.

"We are brothers," he said expansively. "We have — hup! — broken bread and eaten salt together. What is mine — hup! — also is yours."

Scott didn't make the mistake of taking the speech literally, but he felt a glow of good fellowship toward Darus. After all, it had not been the man's intent to break faith with him. He swallowed more of the powerful liquor and watched interestedly the pulse-quickening movements of one of the female dancers, mistaking for sexuality the innocent gestures by which she recounted a legend of heroism born in the long ago. Utterly relaxed and pleased with the way things were going, he was unworried by thoughts of the morrow.

A little later he was lighted to his house and left to himself in a room fragrant with the blended odors of colorful wild flowers. Feeling a little lightheaded from the arrack, he stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and stretched himself on a mat spread with a cotton cloth. The air was cool now, and from outside came the strangely sweet gamelan music. Drowsily he watched the shadows cast by a crude lamp filled with palm oil made aromatic by an admixture of inflammable gum. The sense of well-being that had come over him at the feast persisted, and it was good to feel so.

He was on the verge of extinguishing the light when a golden-skinned girl entered the house soundlessly and came to where he lay. More delighted than surprised, he sat up, curious and expectant, thinking he recognized her as one of the dancers who had entertained them earlier; but it didn't really matter. She was a graceful creature, neither shy nor bold; and she was clad in a tight red sarong that covered her from waist to just above the knees and a short, loose jacket of red that fell open to reveal rounded breasts with nipples the color of coral.

"Tuan," she said softly in a pleasant voice, kneeling before him and touching her forehead to the floor.

The liquor he had consumed was sufficient to deaden his sensitiveness to the coconut oil in the gleaming black hair that fell below her shoulders. In the flickering light, in this room scented by flowers, she was seductively lovely as she raised herself and sat on her heels.

"Tuan," she repeated.

He grinned at her, wanting her but also desiring to prolong a little the pleasure of anticipation. In English he asked, "Who are you, lovely one?"

She smiled then, showing teeth as yet unstained by betel-nut juice. He wondered at that, but was glad. "I am Minah. Will the sea lord accept me?"

It was plain that she desired the privilege of sharing his mat, and he appreciated that. He wanted no woman to sleep with him because she had to. He reached out touching her bare arm. It was soft and smooth and the contact sent a thrill of urgent need through him.

"Come," he said gently, pulling her toward him.

She freed herself of his grip and, without rising, stripped off the jacket and saw that he liked the sight of her. Then, rising to her feet, she loosened the skirt-like sarong and let it drop to the floor. From head to foot she was exquisitely fashioned… so desirable that Scott caught his breath audibly.

"Minah!" he said insistently.

Slowly, with the grace characterizing her every motion, she went to the lamp. For a moment she hesitated, bathed in the soft yellow light, and his blood heated almost unbearably. Then she blew out the tiny flame and in the warm, scented darkness went eagerly to him.

23

PEARY, who had avoided the captain since their bitter verbal set-to on the night of arrival in the village, made a point of being present when Hurst reported to Scott the afternoon after the feast. The lanky woodsman had been in the jungle above the village with Hamzah since shortly after daylight and the two of them had stopped by Darus' residence immediately on return. Scott, who knew what they had been about, welcomed the man with a cup of grog. Hurst downed it at a gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before setting down his treasured rifle.

"Any luck?" Scott asked.

Hurst nodded. "Some, sir. We found sign, some of it pretty fresh, but we never run onto th' varmint. Didn't really expect to, anyway, you know. I reckon we'll have to do like Hamzah wants an' use beaters to drive th' critter out where we can get a shot at 'im."

"When?" Scott demanded. He was growing anxious to get back to the Caroline; for in the clear light of day he had been wondering how she fared.

"Tomorrow mornin', if that's all right with you. Darus an' Hamzah are agreeable."

"The sooner, the better," Scott told him.

"Tomorrow, then. It can't be too soon to suit Darus. It's about time for th' tiger to pay this place another visit. I guess you want to go along, don't you, cap'n?"

"Definitely," Scott said. He had never seen a tiger and he was not unmindful of the prestige to be gained with the rajah by taking part in the hunt. "I suppose Darus is going, too."

"I'd like a shot at the tiger, too," Peary broke in abruptly. "You know I'm a good shot, Scott."

Scott shrugged. "It's all right with me, but Hurst is the skipper of this business. I don't know a damned thing about tiger hunting."

"I don't know nothin' about it, neither," Hurst said with a slow grin, "but I sure do aim to find out in th' mornin'. Th' critter's got feet bigger'n those on a mountain b'ar."

"What about me?" Peary demanded. "I want to go. I've hunted some."

"Ain't no reason you shouldn't come along, too, Mr. Peary."

"What is this business about beaters?" Scott asked.

"Oh, that. It's sort of like drivin' deer with dogs, seems like, only there won't be no dogs. Hamzah'll turn out all hands to raise hell with drums an' horns; he says a tiger'll shy away from a racket. There's two openin's in th' forest alongside th' river, places where we saw plenty of sign, an' Hamzah says he can drive th' varmint into one or th' other. You an' Mr. Peary can take one stand, Darus an' me'll take th' other. Meanwhile let's hope th' son-of-a-bitch don't come back to th' village tonight."

Great fires were set alight in the streets that night to keep the striped killer away and villagers were assigned to keep them blazing high. Once, shortly after midnight, the great cat coughed in the darkness in a spine-tingled, sweat-starting manner and the nervous watchers raised a great tumult with rattles, horns, drums and muskets. Startled awake by the man-made noise, Scott caught up the loaded musket lying on the floor beside his mat; its weight and the cold dampness of the barrel were reassuring. The girl Minah shivered.

"The Lame One," she whispered fearfully. "The Lame One is hunting."

Scott pulled her close in a protectively tender gesture and she was grateful for the haven of his arms. After awhile the racket ceased and Minah's fear left her almost immediately. "The evil one has gone, turn."

She fell asleep again before Scott did.

Nearly every able male above the age of fourteen assembled at daylight; most of them were equipped with noise-making apparatus, such as drums, horns, rattles and whistles, and all carried weapons of one sort or another. The men of the Caroline turned to eagerly with muskets and cutlasses to serve with the native beaters. After a short conference with Hamzah, Hurst led Darus, Scott and Peary upstream. The morning air was cold in the high foothills and Scott was glad to be stirring about.

They came to the first opening in the rain forest and Hurst stooped to examine huge pugs in mud beside the river. Then he looked at his companions. "He was here no more'n a few hours ago."

Scott studied closely the tracks. They were huge, much bigger than his hand. One very plain pug betrayed by its shape an injury to the tiger's foot.

Hurst spoke in a hushed voice. "Th' other openin' is about thirty feet from here. You can't see it, of course, on account of th' growth. Anyway, cap'n, if you an' Mr. Peary'll take this stand, Darus an' me'll take th' other."

Scott smiled. "You're the skipper of this hunt. We'll stay here."

Hurst scratched his head. "If I was you, sir, I'd git up in a tree — an' I'd sweeten th' powder in that musket. I've got my rifle loaded with two balls. Better watch close, too; Hamzah says tigers are almighty quiet when they want to be an' almighty fast on their feet."

Scott and Peary climbed to a thick bough overhanging the trail to water. There, twenty feet or so above the ground, they drew the charges of their muskets and pistols and reloaded with dry powder. Then they settled down to wait.

By now the normal noises of the rain forest, the cries of birds and monkeys, were dying out; soon there was silence broken only by the lulling sound of water rushing over and past rocks in the bed of the narrow stream. The perch Scott and Peary had chosen was not comfortable and, moreover, was infested by ants and ticks. The mate took a flask from the pocket of his coat and, without offering it to the captain, drank deeply.

After awhile the noise of the beaters, faint in the distance and muffled by the dense growth, came to them. Peary scratched himself, cursed in a tense whisper, and tilted his bottle again. He had not been entirely sober since the quarrel with Scott. The captain, who had little use for Dutch courage, listened to the slowly increasing sound of horns, drums, rattles and whistles. If that tiger's anywhere around, he thought nervously, he'll be popping out of the woods pretty soon. That racket would wake the dead.

"Scott," Peary said suddenly, his voice roughened by drink.

The captain looked at him appraisingly. He was startled to notice that the man's eyes were narrow, hard and malevolent in a flushed face, and that he was casually pointing his musket in his direction.

"Careful with that musket, man," Scott said irritably, feeling a slight chill run along his spine. "It might go off."

"It might, at that," Peary agreed. "Drop your musket, Scott."

Scott stiffened in real alarm. "You're drunk, Clay."

"So I am. Drop it!"

Scott didn't argue. Peary was only eight or nine feet from him and the muzzle of his weapon yawned like the mouth of a cannon. He let the musket fall to the soft humus of the ages-old forest floor.

"What are you about, Clay?" he asked angrily despite sudden cold fear.

"Drop your pistols," Peary commanded. "And don't try to use 'em."

Scott complied helplessly. "You're drunk, Clay."

"You said that before."

Scott looked at the unwavering musket. He saw and heard Peary draw back the hammer. He knew there wasn't a chance the man could miss hitting him with a one-ounce lead ball if he pulled the trigger. Sweat broke out all over him.

"Scared, Scott?" Peary asked mockingly. The smile on his face was satisfied, and evil.

The captain didn't lie to him. He was searching his mind for the reason behind this outbreak of malevolence; it had to be more than mere drunkenness. Desperately he wondered if he could reach the musket; but his position on the thick bough was such that he could not move easily. He tried to speak lightly, though. "I am — if it makes you feel any better." "It does, Scott. It does. I want you to sweat awhile." The insistent noise made by the beaters was nearer now and steadily increasing in volume, but the captain barely heard the swelling cacophony. His mouth was so cottony that he had difficulty in speaking. "You're mad, man. Mad." The mate laughed mockingly. "Perhaps. Does it matter?" Scott was convinced the man really was insane; that his mind had snapped… from heat, from drink, from fever, from brooding over some fancied slight or injury… from any one of these things or any combination of them. His memory skipped back over clashes they had had. There was nothing in any of them, in so far as he could recall, to warrant murder. And he was convinced his brother-in-law intended to slay him in cold blood. He tried to fill his mouth with saliva, so as to speak with more facility, but the glands seemed to have run dry.

"I think you've guessed it, Scott," Peary said softly. "I am going to kill you. It'll be an accident, you understand — just an understandable mishap with a musket — but you'll be dead. Very dead."

Scott's voice was a croak. "But why, Clay? Why?"

"Because you killed her, Scott."

"Killed who, for God's sake?"

Peary's voice softened even more. "Rowena."

The captain started so that he almost fell into the trail below. "Rowena! You are crazy, Clay! I was at sea and you were with me when she died."

"Don't rationalize, Scott. But for you, there would have been no baby. But for the baby, there would have been no death. You killed her and I'm going to kill you."

Scott stalled desperately for time. He knew he had to get Peary off balance, even if for only a moment. Better to die trying for life than to sit and perish. "Rowena was my wife. I loved her; she loved me. What was wrong with such a relationship?"

"Don't get any ideas about grabbing this musket, Scott, I know you pretty well, you know."

"Tell me!" Scott insisted.

"I never really got used to the idea of your being married to her while she was alive, Scott, but after her death I tried to like you. I rationalized to myself; I told myself you really had loved her and meant well by her; I almost convinced myself you were worthy of her. But already you're after other women. . that Spanish hussy, for one, and the native girl you've been sleeping with."

"Rowena is dead, man. I am not hurting her."

"There's more to it than that, Scott. Much more. I could stand your winning Rowena, but I can't tolerate your faithfulness to her memory."

"In God's name, Clay, what are you driving at?"

"Just sit tight, Scott. Don't make me shoot you before I'm ready. They'll think I'm shooting at the tiger, you know." Peary paused, then spoke on in a curiously tight voice. "I loved Rowena, too."

"Why shouldn't you? She was your sister."

"But I didn't love her as a sister. That" — Peary's face became twisted with sudden agony—"that was why she hated me. You knew she hated me, didn't you, Scott?"

The full implication of the man's words hit Scott like a bony fist in the solar plexus. His stomach revolted. Nausea threatened him. No wonder his wife had disliked, perhaps even feared, her brother. The reason was sickeningly clear.

Peary's next words hammered on Scott's consciousness.

"That makes you sick, doesn't it, brother-in-law? You can't understand it, but still it makes you ill to know it. You got what I couldn't have, and you killed her." Suddenly his voice rose shrilly. "Now, by God, you're sure I'm going to kill you, aren't you?"

In blind fury Scott lunged for the musket, hating the perverted man holding it as he had never hated anyone before. He moved so quickly that he got hold of the barrel before Peary could pull the trigger. The musket went off deafeningly even as the two men fell from the tree, both still clinging to the weapon. They hit the thick mat of decayed vegetable matter without hurt and scrambled frantically to their feet, each determined to kill.

It was then that the tiger — broad-faced, green-eyed, and reduced by age and old hurts to the hunting and slaying of humans — burst from the jungle. Maddened by the tumult set up by the beaters, terrorized by the number of his tormentors, the great beast crashed into the open. It snarled ferociously. Scott saw it as a tawny flash that struck down Clay Peary without effort, then quickly bunched its muscles to leap to a rock in midstream.

The tiger paused only momentarily on the rock, but it was long enough for Hurst and Darus to see it. They fired together. Darus missed in his shaking excitement, but both the balls in the woodsman's rifle struck its spine. It roared in anguish and fury as it fell into the shallow water.

Hurst reloaded with the speed that was the special skill of the accomplished rifleman and dropped from his perch for another shot at the partially paralyzed animal, which was trying to regain its footing on slippery rocks. He ran recklessly into the stream even as Scott caught up his musket and fired at the squirming, thrashing beast.

Then Hurst shot again, this time from closer range, and the snarling tiger collapsed with a bullet in the brain.

"That did it!" Hurst yelped in sudden excitement. "That did it!"

Scott slowly looked from the crumpled great cat in the water to the body of Clay Peary. He didn't have to peer closer to feel certain the man was dead; he could see the crushed-in face and the grotesque position of the head on the broken neck. But he went to where his brother-in-law lay and examined the body without touching it. He felt no fear, no hatred; just a churning sickness that threatened to erupt.

Hurst, who had been joined by Darus, came back from where the tiger sprawled in death. Shouts of exultation rose from the beaters forcing their way through the tangled growth of the gloomy jungle. Darus was first to notice the dead man.

"Harimau?" he asked in a voice made high by strain. "The Lame One?"

Scott nodded wearily, getting control of himself now.

"What happened, sir?" Hurst asked the captain. "I heard a shot before we saw th' tiger."

"He fell out of the tree," Scott said. "We both did."

"And th' tiger got 'im?"

"I don't think he knew what hit him," the captain said dully.

24

THE muezzin Osman disappeared from the village the day the tiger was slain. Scott, who had never actually seen the man, was inclined to share Darus' conviction that the loss, even if permanent, was small; but he could not avoid reflecting that the vengeful kinsman of Suran might try to stir up fresh difficulties for him on the coast. Thus, while returning in triumph at the head of a fleet of pepper-laden proas, he was goaded by fresh anxiety to reach the Caroline. The experience with Peary had shaken him, inexplicably bringing up doubts about the depth of Fox's loyalty under stress; and his uneasiness was fermented more by a sudden violent wind-and-rain storm that blew inland the night before departure downstream.

To some degree, he managed to dismiss from mind his brother-in-law's shocking confession of incestuous longings, although it required conscious effort to do so. Accustomed though he was to the violence, cruelty and tragedy with which the ordinary seafarer of the day lived cheek by jowl, and aware though he was of the unnatural longings besetting some men during long voyages, he really lacked either knowledge or understanding of the dark workings of a diseased mind. In his book Peary deserved what he had got and he felt the world had been well served by the tiger.

Nearing the coast, he was conscious of being under observation from the jungle, but he felt secure in his own strength and in the loyalty of the inland Malays under Darus. Coming in sight of the sea at last, he saw through the tunnel of green the Caroline riding at anchor. His field of vision was narrow, though, and he urged the men at the oars to greater efforts in his anxiety to see also the Sally Culbreath.

Then, from the lower estuary, he saw the Salem brig. She had driven aground in shallow water in front of the village and lay on her side in the grip of mud and sand. At low tide a man could wade to where she lay without wetting himself above the waist.

Good God, he thought fearfully, the storm; the storm must have wrecked her. He looked again at the Caroline, seeing the signal her people were making for him to hurry to her. Pausing just long enough to take Darus into his own boat, Scott hastened to the side of the Charleston vessel. He soon made out Fox and all hands who had been left in her; every man was armed with cutlass and musket or pistol. But he saw neither Dorcas nor her father, and their absence disturbed him.

Fox met him nervously as he climbed aboard. The second mate's face was lined with strain and his voice underscored his visible agitation.

"Sir," he said to Scott, "you saw the Sally, didn't you?"

"How could I fail?" Scott demanded irritably. "What happened? Where are Miss Russell and the old man? Where's Bryant?"

"It's terrible, sir," the second officer replied. "Terrible. The storm came up sudden-like and the Sally drove ashore. Her anchor chain must have parted; I don't know."

"Damn it all, man," Scott persisted harshly, "what happened to her people? And where are the Russells?"

"I–I don't know, sir. Dorc — Miss Russell and her father were in Captain Bryant's ship when the storm blew up. We couldn't do anything then. And when the storm died. ."

"What, man, what?"

"The Malays went out to the Sally and boarded her. They took all hands off, I suppose."

"Suppose, for Christ's sake! Don't you know?"

Fox pulled himself together visibly. "No, sir, I don't. It was still dark. The natives were hostile. Bryant put up a fight of sorts; but there were too many against him. Hundreds."

"And what did you do?"

"What could I do?" Fox's voice rose in indignation. "What could I do with about ten men? I couldn't open fire for fear of killing the Sally’s people. And I sure couldn't attack with the handful you left me. It would have been suicide. . and the end of this ship. Would you have me risk everything on a fool's mission that couldn't succeed?"

Scott chewed his lower lip, getting control of himself. The man's answer made some sense. Fox watched him closely. "You don't think I did right, sir?"

"I don't know," Scott said bluntly. "It's hard to say. Have you had no word from the town?"

"None, sir."

"Have you been to the Sally?"

Fox shook his head negatively. "That would have spread us too thin. We've been standing to quarters ever since it happened."

"The Sally's been plundered, I take it?"

Fox nodded. "They were at it all day yesterday. At the angle she's lying, sir, they could visit her safely enough." He hesitated. "I don't think all the Quallah Battoo people are involved in what happened. Some, maybe, but not all."

"What makes you think that?"

The mate shrugged. "I watched through the glass."

"Who, then?"

Again Fox shrugged. "I don't know. The village has been crowded, though; it's full of strangers."

Scott went to the rail and drummed on it with his fingers. Responsibility to the Caroline’s owners made it imperative that he take aboard immediately the pepper brought downriver, but anxiety about the people who had been in the Salem brig undercut the logic in his mind. Dorcas, he thought. What have they done to her? I wonder if Osman had anything to do with the attack on the Sally. He turned suddenly to find Hurst and Darus close by him.

"You heard, Hurst?" he demanded.

"Aye, su".

Scott inclined his head toward the rajah, who was glumly staring at his boats in the estuary. "Darus, too?"

"I translated what 'e didn't understand, sir. Er—'e's worried about 'is proas. 'E don't get along too well with them Quallah Battoo people 'imself."

"Do you think that fellow Osman could have had a hand in what's happened?"

"I dunno, sir."

"Does Darus?"

"I've already asked 'im. 'E don't know, either. But 'e thinks Osman might've." Hurst paused. "What're we goin' to do now?"

Scott answered him by turning back to the second officer. "Mr. Fox, start taking the pepper aboard. Weigh it on deck."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The captain's mind spun. One night had elapsed since the night of the storm; they'd come downriver swiftly, in just about twenty-four hours. The Sally Culhreath’s people had been captives about thirty-six hours, he estimated. Dorcas and Forbes Russell, too. He thought more about Dorcas than he did all the others put together.

"I'm going over and have a look at the Sally, Hurst," he said abruptly. "Then I'm going into Quallah Battoo. Want to go along?"

"I'm with you, cap'n," the woodsman said easily.

The Salem brig was hard and fast aground in shoal water a half mile off Quallah Battoo and nearly a mile from the anchorage of the Caroline. She canted to larboard at an angle of more than thirty degrees. No native boats were visible in the bight when Scott set out to visit the wrecked ship, and Fox said none had put out from the town that day. Scott thus assumed that the pirates had found the silver specie Bryant carried to buy pepper. Approaching the vessel, the Charleston captain surmised that the shifting sands of the bottom already had taken an even firmer grip on the hull; by now the Sally Culbreath probably could not be floated by a spring tide.

Searching the gutted ship was difficult because of the angle at which she lay, and Scott and Hurst soon were drenched with sweat. They explored her from stem to stem, topside and below, finding a few bags of pepper which had been overlooked or simply tossed aside. Every article of value, including weapons and compasses, had been removed. Both cannon were missing, either carried away or tipped into the shallow sea. The cabin deck, the deck of the forecastle and parts of the inner hull had been ripped and chopped with axes, and all glass had been shattered.

"Mean bastards," Hurst commented, fingering splintered mahogany paneling in the captain's cabin. "This was mighty nice woodwork, I'd say."

"They were looking for money," Scott told him. "He probably had it hidden around the ship."

Hurst looked down at the deck, then bent over and picked up a shiny object. He held out a Spanish-milled dollar to Scott. "I reckon they found what they were lookin' for."

"If they didn't, they'll be back. There are ways of making a man talk."

"I got a good idea of what you mean, cap'n," Hurst said grimly. "I damn near got my feet put to a fire once back home."

Scott fingered the hard silver thoughtfully. He didn't like to think about the fate awaiting Dorcas… if, indeed, she hadn't already met it. By now she might be the wife or concubine of some rajah, or she might be on her way as a slave to become one or the other in some distant part of Sumatra. He thought so much about her that he really gave small thought to the others taken from the ship. Suddenly he handed the money back to Hurst. "Keep it. And now we might as well head for Quallah Battoo. You speak the language better than I do, so I'd like to have you along."

Hurst grinned crookedly. "I want to go along. Ain't no tellin' what we'll stumble on or overhear. I got ears like a rabbit."

"You know we're asking for trouble when we go into the place, don't you?"

Hurst made a snortingly derisive sound. "iVe walked into a passel of drunk Indians in my day, cap'n. There ain't no meaner people in th' world than drunk Indians. They're meaner'n a she-b'ar with cubs."

Scott was grateful to have the man on his side. He spoke frankly. "I don't think any of the rajahs will tell us anything, nor will any of the other Malays, but there's a Chinaman in the town who came out to the Caroline with news about Muzaffar."

"I remember," Hurst said when he paused. "I didn't get a look at th' feller, though."

"I did," Scott said doubtfully, "but I'm afraid I won't recognize him even if we see him. Damn' Chinamen all look alike to me."

"Could be that he'll see you and figure what you want to find out," Hurst said comfortingly.

Much to Scott's surprise, no Malays congregated to meet the ship's boat. In fact, very few natives were visible in the blinding afternoon sunlight. However, despite the fact the streets and bazaar were virtually deserted, Scott and every man in the boat crew knew Malays were watching each move. At any moment they might be fired on or rushed by a howling mob armed with swords and the wavy-bladed creeses. Scott hoped he looked as nonchalant as did Hurst when they started for the bazaar.

They saw a number of Chinese merchants squatting in the shade of their places of business, but none looked up at them. Figuring that he couldn't deal openly with the man he sought, Scott simply let all the Chinese see him. The informant would know what he wanted to know, just as Hurst had said.

They made the rounds of the rajah's residences, but found only Chedula at home. He was bland in his speech, telling them nothing. Finally they returned to the ship's boat.

"I was kind of hopin' we might see Osman," Hurst said. "I'd like to know if 'e's mixed up in this business. What you reckon we'd better do now, cap'n?"

Even though he hadn't really expected to learn anything directly, Scott had hoped some hint might be dropped accidentally. As things stood, he could only hope the Chinese informant's palm might itch for silver enough to make him pay the Caroline a visit after dark. If that didn't happen, he supposed he'd just have to try to seize hostages or bombard the town.

"We'll return to the ship and wait," he answered. "It's all we can do for the time being… except try to persuade Darus to remain with us awhile longer."

"Darus is all right," Hurst said. "He'll stick with us now. Maybe 'e'll even give us a hand. After all, we did kill 'is tiger for 'im."

25

SCOTT himself took the watch that night. Pinched by anxiety and frustration, he couldn't sleep. Pacing the waist of the brig, where a couple of lanterns shed faint yellow light, he faced up to the fact that he didn't know what to do. He lacked the strength both to force a search of Quallah Battoo and its environs and at the same time protect the Caroline. Unless the Chinese informer appeared in the dark hours — unless he obtained specific information enabling him to pinpoint an attempt at rescue — there wasn't anything effective he could do. He and Hurst had persuaded Darus to remain in the vicinity, but it was plain that the rajah did not want to provoke the rulers of Quallah Battoo additionally.

Scott thought a great deal about Dorcas in the hours following the swift-failing tropical twilight. Fifteen people, all told, had been in the Sally Culbreath when she drove aground, but he found himself considering the fate of the others only occasionally. In the darkness beyond the glow of the lanterns Scott could almost see her… feel again on his mouth the kiss with which she had wished him Godspeed. Damn it all, he thought, there must be some way of saving her… of rescuing all of them. If only the Chinaman would appear!

Fox came on deck at midnight and offered to relieve him, but he dismissed the man almost brusquely. If the man could sleep, let him.

"I guess you know how I've felt ever since it happened," the mate ventured before returning to his hammock. "What is there to do? There isn't anything we can do without losing the ship, at least."

"Goddammit, I know that," Scott snarled. Then his voice softened. "Go on and get some sleep, man. There's no reason for both of us to pace the deck."

"I know how you feel, sir," Fox said sympathetically. "I really do."

About an hour after midnight, as the ship swung on the j ebbing tide, Scott heard a faint cry from the calm sea.

"Mr. Fox! Mr. Fox!" He shook his head violently, unsure that he had heard anything. But a barefoot seaman pattered up to him. "Sir, did you hear it… the voice callin' Mr. Fox?"

It came to them again, closer now, though still faint. It was an almost despairing sound… the cry of an exhausted swimmer.

"Sounds like a woman's voice, sir," the sailor said wonderingly. "Shall I call Mr. Fox?"

"No. Tell the rest of the watch to stand quiet — and ready. It may be a trick."

The night was lighted only by a few stars showing through an overcast. Scott strained his ears and eyes.

"Mr. Fox!"

Scott jumped. The sound was almost under his feet. He caught up a lantern and held it over the side. A face shone wanly white in the glare.

"Dorcas!"

"You!"

He made haste to help her into the ship. She stayed him momentarily. "Your coat… please!"

He thought she had taken leave of her senses. His voice sharpened as he reached down to her. "Your arm, girl! Let me have your arm! There are sharks in that water!"

Clinging to the rail with one hand and reaching down with the other, he caught one slender wrist. She came out of the water exhausted… a dead weight that he was hard put to lift.

"Catch the rail!" he ordered. "I can't lift you over it this way."

She obeyed unquestioningly.

"Now get your arms around my neck and hang on," he said commandingly. "Then I can hoist you."

Again she obeyed, and now he lifted her to the rail and with his free arm caught her around the waist and lifted her over into the light of a lantern held by a curious sailor. Other men of the watch grouped behind their mate.

She collapsed weakly against Scott, conscious but too spent to speak or stand alone. Her arms hung limply, her breath came and went in great, throat-searing gasps, and violent tremors racked her slender body. In a lush of gladness for her safety he kissed the top of her head, which smelled of the sea, and pulled her closer to him. Then, suddenly, he became aware that she was almost naked, her slender body partially covered by a thin, water-soaked cotton undergarment that clung like skin. In the light she appeared nude.

"Douse that light!" Scott rasped. "Get the hell away from here!"

The sailors jumped to obey, their eyes wide. Scott picked Dorcas up easily and carried her to his cabin. She stirred in his arms as he entered.

"Oh Scott!" she whispered painfully. "Oh, I'm — so — glad — to — find you — here! So glad."

He laid her on his bunk and wrapped her in a wool blanket, then got out a bottle of rum and made her take a swallow. She gasped and choked and coughed.

Fox burst in then, not even bothering to knock. "Dorcas!"

She managed a faint smile of recognition.

The mate looked accusingly at the captain. "She called me, they said."

"I did," she told him. "I — didn't — know — the captain — was aboard."

"Let her rest a little, Mr. Fox," Scott said.

"You — swam out here?" Fox asked, paying no attention.

She nodded tiredly.

"Get her some hot tea, Fox," Scott said. "It'll do her more good than rum."

Fox departed hurriedly and unwillingly, masking his resentment of the command that sent him briefly from Dorcas' presence. In the brief time of his supremacy in the Caroline he had spent comparatively little time with her; for Bryant somehow had managed to monopolize her attention. Now the captain was trying to do the same thing. Remembering that from the water she had cried out to him, Fox cursed the cook for his slowness in preparing the hot drink.

In the cabin Dorcas turned dark, troubled eyes on Scott. Her breathing was easier, though, and she had ceased to tremble. He saw she was about to speak and he stopped her. "Don't talk yet. Wait."

"I must tell you, Scott," she said urgently. "I—" "Wait!" he interrupted sharply. "Rest first." She subsided, not minding the harshness in his voice. He looked down at her speculatively, wondering how far she had swum… what nameless dangers she had run to reach the brig. He wanted to know, wanted desperately to know, but he could wait a little longer. She looked so small, so frail, so exhausted. He wouldn't let her talk until Fox returned from the galley with the tea; then he helped her sit up to drink the scalding liquid. The loveliness of her body was cloaked effectively by the thick blanket, but he was aware of its warmth and magnetism.

"Now," he said, when she had finished drinking, "now tell us."

She closed her eyes for a moment and her mouth twitched nervously, reflecting the strain she had undergone.

"Lie down again," Scott told her gently. "Then tell us." She lay back gratefully, sighing and trying to arrange in her mind the things she must tell, and finally she spoke in a soft, even voice. "After the ship went aground — after the storm passed — we were attacked. It was still dark, of course, and I was trying to fall asleep. My wakefulness didn't stem so much from the storm as from — well, no matter. Anyway, Zenas — Captain Bryant — did his best to save the ship, but there were too many of them. Scores. They swarmed all over the Sally Culbreath, dragging me from my cabin before the fighting was over. I saw Zenas and my father both knocked down. The fighting didn't last long. It couldn't, there were so many of them and Zenas had so few. We were taken ashore about daylight. None of us was killed, although some were hurt.

"We were taken into the jungle, not far from the town, and everybody is there now… except me."

"How did you get away?" Scott asked.

"They kept me apart from the others, in a little shelter by myself. I–I was being kept for some rajah, I gathered; at any rate, I wasn't molested, except for the rough handling when the ship was taken. I couldn't see anything that was going on, but I could hear some things — my God, I could hear! I heard poor Zenas scream twice yesterday afternoon. The guard at my door said he was being tortured."

"The money in the Sally, I guess," Scott said thoughtfully. "Evidently they didn't find enough to suit them."

"You're probably right," she said gravely. "Anyway, the guard set over me fell asleep when the camp quieted down at night. He was drunk, I think. I crawled out of the back of my hut; the walls were flimsy and the hut was set on the ground, not on pilings. In the darkness I was terrified. I couldn't think of any way to free the others. Besides, I was afraid I'd be apprehended and then nobody would reach the Caroline."

"You are very brave," Fox said suddenly. "Very courageous."

She shook her head violently. "No, I'm not. I was in terror the whole time: while I was a captive and while I was making my way here. Somehow I found the path we had used— they took us through Quallah Battoo — and I ran and fell down and got up and ran some more. I almost ran into the town. I turned to the right and finally got to the water. I entered it and waded and swam. By then I was so tired I'd even lost some of my fear of being followed… so tired I felt it would be easier and better to drown. But when I saw the ship, I just couldn't quit trying to reach her."

"You must have come down the main branch of the river," Scott said.

"I didn't go through the town. I remembered the small stream going through it and I crossed it."

"Then you passed Darus' camp on the south bank of the river."

"I don't know. I couldn't see anything much. I suppose I was in the middle of the river."

Scott rubbed his chin. "Well, thanks to you, we know your father and the Sally's company are alive. Do you think you could tell us how to find this camp in the jungle? You mentioned a path from the town."

"I'm sure I can," she said eagerly.

"Do you know whether or not the pirates were from Quallah Battoo?"

"I don't know. You're going to try to rescue my father and — and the others?"

"Of course," he said matter-of-factly.

Still swathed in the cocoon of warm wool, she sat up suddenly, her eyes glowing. "I'll show you the way. Let me!"

"No," he told her bluntly. "You've done your part. Besides, you're in no condition to march. You'll stay aboard under Mr. Fox's protection."

"Too bad Mr. Peary's no longer with us," Fox said in a funereal voice. "If he were, I could accompany you, captain."

Dorcas looked questioningly at them. Scott answered shortly. "Mr. Peary was killed by a tiger."

Recalling her own flight through the jungle, feeling now the innumerable scratches, bruises and insect bites suffered, she shuddered and lay back again. Exhaustion, mental and physical, was written on her scratched face.

"We'll get Hurst in here and then you can tell us how to find the camp," Scott said decisively. "Then you can sleep."

"You're going tonight?"

He nodded. "There's no time to waste."

"You're right, of course," she murmured. "I didn't see Zenas after we got to the camp, but — but I never heard such cries of agony." She paused, closing her eyes. "Poor Zenas. He was so full of plans for the future. He mustn't die, Scott. He mustn't."

26

REASONING that he could bisect the trail from the town about a half mile inland and fall on the marauders at daylight, Scott bestirred himself energetically, taking nine men from the Caroline and thirty Malays led by Darus. The rajah had convinced himself the people of the town had taken no active part in the piracy and thus he allied himself with the white men when Scott capped an eloquent reminder of their brotherhood with a jingling bag of Spanish-milled dollars.

Aware that surprise would be at least as effective as strength, the captain entered the inky, dripping jungle two hours before dawn with the intention of striking ferociously, regrouping and returning immediately to the ship with the freed captives. He soon marveled that Dorcas had managed to reach the principal branch of Rocky River at all. Floundering through darkness, dense growth and leech-infested swamp pools, he lost his sense of direction. The sun was lifting the morning mist and the rain forest was filled with the deafening clamor of awakening life when finally they stumbled onto the narrow trail described by Dorcas. All hands were thoroughly tired by then and the warlike ardor of the inland Malays was at a low ebb.

Scott let all hands rest, but only for a few minutes. Sensing apprehension and doubt in Darus, he was anxious to commit the rajah to battle before he could think of an excuse to withdraw. He didn't know exactly where he was, but guessed he was at least a mile from Quallah Battoo. It passed through his mind that they might be trapped between town and camp, but this was a risk that could not be avoided. He must strike swiftly and hard; the assault must be murderously effective.

Even after light appeared above the roof of the jungle there was darkness below; and the men stumbled along the narrow path in single file, tripping occasionally on roots and vines and tearing flesh and clothing on thorns. Unsheathed cutlass in hand, Scott led the party. More than anything else he feared coming face to face with a Quallah Battoo-bound Malay who might alarm his fellows before he could be silenced with thrust or cut. When at last he discerned the place he sought, his heart thumped hard and fast.

At his shoulder Evan Hurst said in a whisper, "Well, there it is, sir."

"Aye," Scott said, trying to spot the prisoners among the two score Malays moving lazily about the camp or tending cook fires, "and they've no idea we're near. Unless there's a lot more natives in those three huts, we're about evenly matched, too. We'll move in a little closer, spread out as best we can, and then rush them. Maybe you'd better go back and sort of hold Darus' hand; he likes you, and we can't afford to have him weaken."

Inching nearer cautiously, Scott finally saw the bound captives sitting on the ground near the largest of the huts in the clearing. A passing Malay kicked one of them brutally, then spit on him. Fury rose in Scott, heating into desire the willingness to slay without mercy and without warning. He was on the verge of signaling the charge when a troop of inquisitive monkeys scampering overhead spotted the concealed force and set up an earsplitting outcry. Their obvious alarm caused some of the pirates to stare curiously in the direction of the howls, while one of their number started to investigate. You son-of-a-bitch, the captain thought grimly, you'll be the first; I'll kill you myself.

It was not he who slew the man, though. One of the seamen, unable to stand the mounting pressure on his nerves, raised a musket and shot the fellow in the chest. Scott drew a pistol with his left hand as the native toppled forward.

"Follow me!" roared the captain, leaping from concealment and bearing down on a startled Malay. He shot the man in the face with the pistol as he sought to draw his creese.

Eager to close with the foe, the Caroline's men stormed from the dripping jungle in the wake of their officer. Just behind them came Darus and his friendly inland Malays, urged on by the war-whooping Hurst. The bound captives raised a feeble cheer of encouragement as the attackers slashed, stabbed and shot their way toward them.

The near panic created by the sudden violent rush was only momentary, though. The largest hut suddenly spewed nearly a score of natives, and they came out shooting wildly and yelling shrilly. In a moment the fighting was general. Steel rang on steel, gunpowder exploded, and Malay war cries blended with English oaths. Pirates who had been on the thin edge of wild flight stiffened their resistance.

A musket ball creased Scott's cheek. The unparried blade of a native sword whistled within a quarter-inch of his nose. A thrown spear impaled a friendly Malay on the captain's flank. Scott lunged viciously and expertly at the swordsman who had cut at him, thrusting the broad blade of his cutlass clean through the fellow's belly and back. The weight of the dying man almost twisted the weapon from Scott's hand; he had to put his foot on the man's body to yank clear the dripping blade.

With his eyes Scott sought the pirate leader. Kill him and the fight would be over. Men always needed someone to rally about in order to fight effectively. Then he saw the man he wanted: a tall, sinewy fellow wearing a yellow cap, a short white jacket and a knee-length sarong. He cut down one of Darus' Malays in the moment that Scott spotted him. With courage he turned to face the white captain, who leaped over a twisted corpse to get within reach.

The Malay chieftain was a strong and ferocious fighting man. He stood his ground under Scott's onslaught, baring teeth stained with betel-nut juice.

"Anjing!" he snarled contemptuously. "Dog!"

Scott wasted no breath in oaths or insults, but set himself purposefully to the task at hand. His cutlass flashed and glinted like a thing alive; he forgot the fighting around him, concentrating on killing as speedily as possible.

In valor and intent the Malay matched Scott, but the latter was stronger and more skilled with his weapon. In a minute of fierce thrusting, slashing and parrying he gained the upper hand, beating down the long parang of his opponent and cutting him down with a blow that almost decapitated him.

Fighting near Scott, Darus saw the pirate leader go down and he raised a triumphant cry that shrilled above the din of conflict. The leaderless men howled in dismay, their will to resist snapped. To a man, all who were able to flee took to their heels, seeking the dank sanctuary of the dark jungle. White seamen and Malay tribesmen stormed after them with exultant yells.

"Hold!" Scott bellowed, not wanting his men scattered.

Hurst heard him and cried out to Darus in Malay.

Scott turned immediately to the captives, one or two of whom had managed to slip their bonds during the fray. Few appeared much the worse for wear. Russell obviously was unhurt. Bryant, though, was sadly battered. He could barely sit up. Scott cut his wrists and ankles free with two sweeps of his knife.

The New Englander eyed his rescuer gratefully and spoke with an effort. "I was never so glad to see anybody in my life!"

"I can imagine," Scott said grimly. "Can you stand?"

Bryant rubbed his wrists vigorously, then his ankles. His face was streaked with caked blood and his shirt was stuck to his back. He winced when Scott helped him up. "They beat the hell out of me last night. Did — did Dorcas get to the ship?"

Scott nodded. "She told us how to find you."

"Good girl! She must have been gone quite awhile before they discovered she was missing." He turned to Russell. "Dorcas is safe."

"Thank God for that!" Russell exclaimed, his thin, sensitive face working suddenly. "I went through the tortures of the damned when they separated us and kept her apart… and again when I learned she had escaped."

"She's all right," Scott assured him, "but upset because she left the lot of you behind. She did the only smart thing in making for the ship; she would have been recaptured if she'd tried to free you, too." He paused, studying all the freed captives, who now were moving about painfully. "We'd better start making for the Caroline ourselves. I don't want those fellows we scattered to rally and ambush us. Word of this morning's business is well on the way to Quallah Battoo now, I'm certain."

"Scott!"

He turned in surprise to look at Bryant, who had been gingerly trying to unstick his shirt from his welted back.

"Scott, the pirates weren't from Quallah Battoo. They were from Stallapoo."

"Stallapoo?. . Pa Mahmud?"

"Aye. He wasn't with them when they took the ship and he hasn't been here, but that fellow in the yellow cap was his son."

Scott whistled in amazement.

"Pa' Mahmud himself is on the coast somewhere," Bryant went on quickly. "The plunder from the Sally Culbreath is not here, neither pepper nor money nor anything else."

The mental picture of an attack on the Charleston brig became vivid in Scott's mind. "Can you walk now?" he demanded.

"Of course I can walk. What are we standing here for, man?"

"All hands!" Scott shouted. "All hands!"

Scott went into the short-lived fight weary and he came out of it near exhaustion, but the suggestion of very real danger to the Caroline charged his system with adrenalin. It also fired his men and the freed captives, who could easily envision being stranded in Sumatra to rot or be hunted down. Taking stock quickly, Scott found that he had lost none of his own men and only one of the Malay auxiliaries,

"We've got to hurry, Captain Rogers!" Russell said in an anguished voice. "Got to!"

Scott understood his fear for Dorcas. He felt it himself, and he knew Bryant did, too.

"Arm yourself and your men with anything you can pick up, Zenas," he said. "And you, Hurst, see if you can find any loose gunpowder and lead in camp."

In a few minutes Scott set out briskly for the coast on the path leading to Quallah Battoo. He didn't slow his pace for the weak or the weary, and he observed approvingly that Russell kept up doggedly.

"We're going right through the damned town," Scott told Bryant and Hurst as they neared Quallah Battoo. "We haven't got time to cut through the jungle. I hope Darus will stay with us awhile, Hurst."

" 'E will," Hurst said, grinning crookedly. "Th' pickin's in that camp was pore, but winnin' so handily has got ol' Darus to feelin' like th' cock o' th' walk. Besides which, 'e's got proas in th' river, you know."

Bryant, who was limping from his beating, squared his shoulders determinedly and spoke admiringly. "I wish to God I had your aggressiveness, Scott. Maybe I would've been able to fight off the pirates when they boarded the poor old Sally C." He hesitated. "Is she still there — the Sally, I mean?"

"She'll be where she is a long time, I'm thinking," Scott told him. "Just what did happen the other night?"

"I had Miss Russell and her father in the ship for dinner," Bryant said slowly. "I was sort of putting on some fine touches for her — you know, real chinaware and suchlike. Quite awhile after dinner the squall hit all of a sudden and the anchor chain parted. Weak link, I guess. Anyway, we were aground almost before we knew what had hit us."

"You weren't paying much attention to the weather up until the squall struck, I take it."

"No, I wasn't. It's a fool's admission, coming from a shipmaster, but the weather was the furthest thing from my mind that night. Anyway, we stood to quarters as soon as I realized we were stuck close inshore. The weather had calmed down and so had we when the attack came. It was pitch-black dark, and they sneaked up to the sides of the ship before we knew it. They boarded us in a rush when somebody raised the alarm. We tried to put up a fight, but — well, we didn't make much of a showing, I'm afraid. The plain truth is, there were a hell of a lot of Malays and they beat the starch out of us. They sort of enveloped us; smothered all resistance, you might say." He paused. "I've lived the fight over a hundred times since, Scott, wondering what I should've done that I didn't. And I've gone damn' near crazy worrying about Dorcas. Thank God, she's safe!"

Scott tried to cheer him up. "She's safe, her father's safe, and you and your crew are safe… for the time being, anyway. It all adds up to something."

Bryant brightened momentarily. "At least, I didn't tell the brown bastards anything. Unless they've dismantled my ship, there's still silver money in her. I had some of it well hidden."

Scott was relieved to reach Quallah Battoo without being sniped at, and he was even more relieved to see the Caroline riding at anchor in the roadstead. Bryant looked sorrowfully at the canted-over Sally Culbreath; her sailing days were over, and he knew it. They marched boldly into the town, meeting no opposition from scores of glowering Malays watching their passage.

"They'd love to pounce on us, cap'n," Hurst observed quietly, "but they ain't got what it takes. Not yet, anyway."

His eyes on the Charleston brig, seeking signs of anything amiss, Scott nodded agreement. More than anything else he wanted to board the ship and find things as he had left them. The scornful hostility of the town Malays angered him, but he could afford to overlook it; the important thing was to regain the comparative safety of the Caroline.

"They don't want to start anything until they're sure of winnin'," Hurst went on softly. "They ain't sure now, which is good."

The captain agreed with that, too. Looking at his ship, he felt an uneasiness for her safety, even though everything appeared all right from a distance. If only I had a glass, he thought. Then I could see if she really is all right.

Suddenly a loud cry in English startled them all.

"Help!"

Scott stopped dead in his tracks and the men with him, white and brown, froze into apprehensive stillness. "That was Kimbrell's voice!"

"Aye," Hurst said, "so it was." He turned to Bryant. "Our bosun."

"Help!"

The Quallah Battoo people gripped more tightly their weapons and their scowls deepened. But none of their rajahs was with them, a fact Scott now noticed, and without their leaders they were a mob fearful of taking the offensive.

"Kimbrell!" Scott shouted. "Where are you, Kimbrell?"

"Here, sir!" came the reply. "Here, in—" His voice was chopped off abruptly.

" 'E's in a house close by, sir," Hurst said, cocking his rifle. The clicking sound was ominous in the tense silence.

Scott knew there could be no faltering now. There are twenty-four of us, not counting Darus and his Malays, he thought. Any show of weakness or indecision and we're finished right here and now. He drew a pistol and cocked it, then unsheathed his cutlass.

"That was Kimbrell, bosun of the Caroline, who hollered," he said quietly to his nervous men. "If there's going to be any fighting, well let it begin now."

"We're with you, captain!" cried a sailor from the Caroline. "We've whupped two passels of 'em an' we c'n whup another onel"

"Take command. Captain Bryant," Scott said. "Hurst and I are going to find Kimbrell."

With that he went into the nearest house. Hurst at his shoulder, and from that one proceeded to another. The silence hanging over Quallah Battoo was heavy with danger. The discharge of one firearm, the launching of one bamboo spear, would precipitate bloody fighting in which little quarter would be given. It would be a fight to the finish, winner take all; it couldn't be any other kind.

"Kimbrell!" Hurst called.

There was a rasping noise in reply. Together Scott and Hurst darted into a third house. There, on the floor, lay the boatswain and three of his mates. They were trussed up, hand and foot, and all four were gagged.

Quickly the bonds were slashed and the gags removed. The men scrambled to their feet without assistance.

"What are you men doing here?" Scott demanded. "What's the meaning of this, Kimbrell?"

Words broke from the big boatswain in a torrent. His voice trembled with fury. "Sir, it ain't no fault of our'n. It was him who done it — Fox, I mean — an' I ain't misterin' him no more. He's a dirty son-of-a—"

Scott broke in harshly, fearing to hear the truth he had to have from the man. "Never mind that. Why are you here? Why aren't you in the ship?"

"It was Fox, sir!" Kimbrell cried, tears of wrath streaking his broad, bruised face. "He was th' officer an' he ordered us to let Pa' Mahmud an' fifty more aboard. He was th' officer an' we had to obey."

"Pa' Mahmud!"

"Aye, sir. Pa' Mahmud. Fox welcomed him aboard an' told me to shut up when I started to say somethin'. They all got aboard, real chummy-like, an' then they turned on us all of a sudden, Fox with 'em. Some — some of us fought clear an' jumped overboard. Some didn't. An' some that jumped couldn't swim."

"And the lady. . Miss Russell?"

"Only God knows, sir."

Scott's knuckles whitened as his hands tightened on his weapons. Dread mounted in him. Dorcas, he thought. My ship. He took a grip on himself. "When did all this happen?"

"About an hour after you went ashore this momin'. Me an' these three got captured th' minute we waded onto th' beach. I'd just worked th' gag out of my mouth when I heard you outside. I was tryin' to tell you where we were when I was popped on th' head an' gagged again. Sir — sir, you ain't goin' to let that pirate Fox get away with th' Caroline, are you?"

Scott's mind turned cold. Hostile Malays here and hostile Malays in my ship. And Fox, that mealymouthed turncoat. If I can lay hands on him, I'll swing him from a yardarm.

"You can take her back, sir," the boatswain persisted. "You're goin' to, ain't you?"

Tom between fear for Dorcas' safety and murderous fury toward the treacherous mate of the brig, Scott didn't reply at once. Until this moment he had been too amazed to grasp all the implications of his situation. He forced himself to think logically. The people of Quallah Battoo certainly were mixed up in the piracy, if only to the extent of seizing the men who had managed to swim ashore. He could turn on them vengefully, but that would neither rescue Dorcas nor get the Caroline back. In order to husband his strength and scanty resources he must avoid an open rupture in the town, at least for the time being. With luck that would be possible; for he felt himself among vultures rather than hawks. The important thing, the only important thing, was to recapture his ship as speedily as possible. At any moment the pirates might decide to set sail, taking Dorcas beyond reach and leaving him and his men stranded. Finally he fixed the boatswain with hard, purposeful eyes.

"Well take her back, Kimbrell," he said in a flat, ominously calm manner. "Whatever the cost, we'll take her back."

So spent that even her mind was numbed, Dorcas fell, into the deep slumber of complete fatigue soon after Scott left the Caroline. She was awakened by the furor created when the Malays welcomed aboard by Fox turned savagely on the bewildered seamen. Even so, in the darkness of the captain's cabin, where she had been lulled into a sense of security, she at first was more puzzled than frightened by the commotion. Only when a musket ball pierced the door and smashed the glass of a window did she feel the cold breath of terror.

She had no weapon. Except for the thin chemise, she had no clothing. But the fear she felt was galvanizing rather than paralyzing; her first reaction was to get to the door and lock it, thus gaining time for thought. Clutching the blanket around her, she was about to slide the bolt into place when the door was pushed open so violently that she stumbled backward. Her fright vented itself in an involuntary scream.

"Hush!" a voice said in English. "Hush. You'll be all right."

"Mr. Fox!" she cried, surprised relief warming her. "Mr. Fox, it's you! Gracias a Dios!"

He put his arms around her comfortingly and for the moment she did not repel him. Then a man screamed despairingly, a sound that was broken off abruptly and followed by a ragged burst of musketry and a chorus of triumphant yells in the Malay tongue. She trembled violently, grateful for Fox's presence.

"It's all right," he said soothingly, his arms tightening. "It's almost over. You're safe with me, Dorcas. Safe."

She freed herself suddenly, unaccountably further alarmed by his coolness. In the blackness she could not distinguish his face, and still she had no clear knowledge of what had happened. The Malays still were racing about the ship and whooping in triumph.

"That yelling, Mr. Fox — what is it? It sounds as if — as if natives had the ship."

"It's all right, Dorcas," he assured her.

"All right? Then what's going on? Has the captain returned?"

"It's all right, I tell you. I'm the captain now."

"You re — what?"

"I'm the captain of the Caroline," he repeated, himself pleased by the sound of the words.

Scott's dead, she thought. Dead. That's why Mr. Fox is captain. And Zenas and my father — what has become of them? Confused by grief, she drew away a step, holding the blanket closely about her.

"Let me tell you everything, Dorcas," Fox said soothingly.

"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Fox," she said sharply. "Is Captain Rogers dead?"

Fox hesitated a fraction of a second. "I don't know."

"My father? Zenas — Captain Bryant? Is there word of them?"

"I don't know about them, either."

"Then," she cried, her voice rising, "in God's name, sir, what do you know?"

Pa' Mahmud came in then, carrying a lantern and smiling his satisfaction. His yellow sarong was spattered with blood. Dorcas shrank away from him. Noticing, the rajah laughed and looked at Fox.

"It is finished, Fox," he said in Malay.

Dorcas' apprehension turned to shock when Fox laughed shortly in turn and said, "We planned well, Pa' Mahmud."

She could hardly credit her reeling senses. She did not want to believe what was being forced on her. And even though Fox and the rajah smirked at each other evilly in her presence, she still spoke with incredulity. "Mr. Fox, you — you…"

He nodded, eyes shining in the soft light. "I said I'd tell you everything. Very well. The ship is mine now. I should have been captain all along. . from the very first. The whole idea for this voyage was mine and mine alone. I told you that, remember?"

Now she felt certain Scott was dead… Scott and Bryant and her father and all the others who were of her kind. Sickness beset her and then, flashingly, stormy anger that nullified all fear. She spoke with scorn that made Fox's face redden. "Murderer! Thief and murderer!"

He slapped her viciously, stingingly, so hard that she staggered under the blow, and the watching Malay rajah bobbed his head in grinning approval. Fox's voice lanced into her consciousness. "Sit down and listen to me!"

She hesitated, hating and fearing him, and his words rasped like a file. "Sit down, girl!"

She seated herself at the captain's table, trying meanwhile to summon all her wits and courage. Fox's glittering eyes almost mesmerized her.

"You listen to me, Dorcas," he went on. "Behave yourself and accept facts and you'll be safe enough with me. I never meant you any harm and none will come to you — if you do as I tell you."

Even in the grip of desperation she marveled at the change in Fox. Always he had been courteous, almost courtly. With an effort she kept her voice coldly steady. "What do you propose doing with me?"

"I'm going to marry you," he answered.

She gasped audibly. "You're mad!"

"On the contrary, I'm quite sane. I'm a man who knows his own mind, and from the day I first saw you I knew you were for me."

"You — you planned all this since then?"

He smiled, amiable again. "Not all of it, my dear. Just that part. The rest of it I had in mind when I left Charleston."

"You betrayed Scott… all of your own people. I thought you were an honest mariner… my friend… my father's friend. What happened to Scott and my father? And Zenas?"

He shrugged. "Truthfully, I don't know yet. For your sake, I hope Mr. Russell is alive. I shall try to have him spared. But whatever happens to him, it will make no difference in my future… or yours."

She listened numbly, comprehending all that he said. He's mad she thought. Utterly crazy. Loco. She stalled for time to think about her own appalling situation. "You really planned all this?"

"I really did, and well. Everything so far happened as I figured it would."

"How can you go back to America… to your own people?"

His smile was thin. "I'm not going back. I shall remain here and trade in the East. I shall be a rajah."

"You are a Moslem?"

He looked then for Pa' Mahmud and saw that the man had gone. Then he laughed. "That's quickly remedied. Prayer rugs are easily come by. I shall be a rajah, a ruler of many, a rich and powerful man. It is all arranged."

"Between you and…"

"Pa' Mahmud and I respect and understand each other. I have made him rich. He has made me his brother."

"And you expect me to marry you?" she asked wonderingly.

"You will marry me," he said confidently. " I love you."

"And I despise you!"

"I will make you love me," he said in the same confident way.

"Never!" she cried hysterically. "Never!"

"You'll wed me, though, and gladly. Better to be my wife than a harem slave."

Now she noticed that Pa' Mahmud had left them. First light was visible through the windows. Rising, she lifted her chin proudly and spoke scathingly. "I'll be a slave, then. I'll never marry you."

For a moment she feared he would strike her again. His face darkened and the veins in his neck stood out like taut cords. With a visible effort he brought himself under control. "We'll talk about that later. In the meantime there is work you can do for me. Wait here."

He left almost jauntily. Immediately she bolted the door behind him. Then she went to one of the windows in the stem and looked out on the lightening world. The sun glittered on the sea. To her dismay, she saw a small proa with two Malays in it close under the stem of the vessel. There could be no flight by swimming. This, too, Fox had planned, she thought.

Returning, Fox rattled the door knob angrily. "Open up — or I'll break in."

Frantically she yanked open a drawer in the captain's table, seeking a weapon, anything with which she could arm herself. Her eyes fell on a knife with a long, thin blade that caught the fresh light. Into her mind flickered scenes from romances read long before. The heroine would have stabbed herself, she thought. But not I. I'll kill him, then fight the others until I'm killed.

"Open up, Dorcas!"

"Break the door down!" she screamed, her right hand closing on the haft of the knife. "Break it down, murderer! Renegade! Pig! Terror!

The barrier between them was stout, but the wood split easily under the axes brought by the natives. Fox entered in wrathful triumph, a flat package in his hand.

Hoping to kill quickly, she launched herself at him like an arrow from a strong bow. His jaw dropped in surprise; but in time he fended the blade with his package, then caught her arm and cruelly twisted it until her fingers freed the haft.

"You hellcat!" he snarled furiously, kicking the knife away and hitting her in the face with his fist. "You she-devil! I'll tame you!"

The blow was hard enough to knock her against the table. She caught at it for support. Tears of helpless rage coursed down her cheeks. His strength was greater than hers, and they both knew it.

"I've no time for foolishness, girl," he said harshly. "Try anything like that again and I'll give you a real taste of discipline. Now, can you sew?"

"Yes," she said sullenly, not even wondering at the question.

From his pocket he produced needle, thread and scissors. Then he opened the package and took out a bolt of shimmering yellow silk cloth. She stared dully at these things as he laid them on the table.

"Listen closely, Dorcas," Fox said. "Make me a sarong and cap of this material. Make one for yourself, too, if you like. Only Malay royalty can wear yellow, you know. You should feel honored."

She lifted her eyes to look at him in silent hatred. He went on talking. "I want sarong and cap no later than noon today.

See that you have them ready. And don't try to escape. If you do, you'll be brought back — without that blanket you're clinging to."

With that he left her alone in the cabin with the splintered door. For a full minute she did not move, except to explore her bruised, swelling face with gentle fingers. Then she looked about for the knife, which he had forgotten in his arrogance. Finding it, she cut a long, narrow strip from the blanket, which now was chafing her scratched body, and with it bound the weapon to her thigh. She could think of no other place of concealment. He will return, she thought grimly, and next time I shall not fail.

27

THE promise to retake the brig was not given lightly, but only after uttering it did Scott fully realize how formidable was the task to which he had pledged himself. Lying two miles offshore in a calm sea, heavily armed and manned by half a hundred fighting men, the Caroline could not be assaulted with impunity by a vessel of her own size and armament. To attack her openly in small boats, even with twice the number of dependable men available, bordered on the suicidal. No attempt to recapture her could be a surprise to Fox and Pa' Mahmud, who were unalterably committed to her defense; and the mere fact that she still was at anchor in the roadstead implied confidence in their ability to beat off boarders.

No man to dodge an issue, Scott began making ready for the showdown with confidence calculated to shake the morale of foes afloat and ashore. Nor was he dismayed when Darus refused his help on the grounds that the men and proas left in the river had not been molested by either Pa' Mahmud's piratical crew or the townspeople. The only thing he really feared at the moment was cumulative weariness. Assembling his men on the beach, he addressed them briefly within sight of the curious natives.

"There are twenty-four of us," he said, "and all but Captain Bryant are in pretty good shape. We're better than thirteen thousand miles from home, and our only hope is to get the Caroline back. We're going to take her — that I promise you — and we're going to rescue the lady who is held aboard and send to hell the former mate, Mr. Fox."

"An' his friends!" cried Kimbrell.

Scott grinned crookedly. "And his friends."

"Tell us what you want us to do, cap'n!" called a sailor. "I got a wife in Charleston."

Scott held up a hand for silence. "The first thing we're going to do is, seize every boat belonging to the people of the town. Then we're going to search the town to make certain more of our shipmates aren't held prisoner."

"Let's burn the damn' town, cap'n," another seaman suggested.

Scott shook his head. "Not unless we run into fighting. We're not going to look for more trouble than we've got already."

Once the boats were seized and placed under guard, Scott set about making a thorough search of every house. Bryant insisted on helping, despite his weakened condition. The job was done in the face of resentment, but no resistance was encountered. Nor were any other prisoners found.

"Now what?" Bryant asked, breathing hard.

"The forts," Scott said. "In one of them we may find the loot from the Sally Culbreath. Fox and Pa' Mahmud aren't waiting around just to fight with us."

Bryant mopped his face, which was drawn with weariness and pain. "That makes sense. Lead on."

Audacity opened wide the gates of four forts, but at the fifth shouted commands elicited no response; the gate remained shut.

"This is Chedula's place," Scott reminded Bryant. "He's Fox's friend."

"I don't think there's anybody to home, cap'n," Hurst said. "But th' wall ain't high."

The captain didn't need the hint. "Follow me!"

He went over the wall first, followed by a dozen men. They found no one within the compound. They opened the gate from the inside for their less agile fellows, including Bryant and Russell. Spreading his force out into a long line of skirmishers, Scott encircled the rajah's residence even as he himself entered it with Hurst, Bryant and Russell at his heels. The place seemed deserted; but the air was strong with the pungent odor of pepper. Nostrils flaring, Scott hurried eagerly through the building, coming at last to a great heap of bagged pepper in the comer of a room. On the floor in front of the pile lay a chronometer, a ship's compass and a sextant.

"My pepper!" Bryant shouted, forgetting for the moment his weariness and pain. "And my sextant!" He snatched up the brass instrument, fondling it almost lovingly. "I'd damn the day I ever returned to this benighted coast, Scott, if it weren't for Dorcas. The thing that worries me most is the danger to her."

Eying the plunder heaped before them, Scott rubbed his chin with the back of the hand that gripped his cutlass. "We must have surprised Chedula by returning from inland. He hasn't been gone long."

"To hell with Chedula, Scott. Fox is the man we want."

"Agreed. That bastard must have planned all this from long before he first boarded my ship."

"Damn it all," Bryant fumed, "let's get on with the business of rescuing Dorcas. I'm worried about her."

"Don't you think I am?" Scott demanded sharply.

"Of course, of course. But with me it's different. I'm in love with her, man; and she's at the mercy of that renegade."

"Well, maybe I'm in love with her, too," Scott said, nettled.

"You?"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Russell said agitatedly.

Hurst suddenly hissed and stiffened into an attitude of listening. The others looked at him with mingled curiosity and alarm. He turned to Scott, speaking so softly that the latter had to read his lips. "There's somebody behind that pile of pepper."

Scott moved quickly to look, Hurst at his shoulder. The muezzin Osman heard the warning and he heard them moving toward his hiding place. The smoldering fire in his brain leaped high. The depression that had gripped his mind for days, twisting and tormenting it, filling it with hatred so malignant that he determined to remain behind when Chedula fled during the search of the town, flared into murderous madness. He was driven by the urge to kill the white captain who had slain his half-brother… to slay him and anybody else who got in the way that he must run to his own destruction. Gripping a razor-edged creese, he burst out of hiding with a maniacal scream. The high sound of his frenzy sent a chill through every man who heard it.

He attacked Scott so swiftly that the captain could not use his cutlass. The wavy-bladed dagger glinted as it descended. Twisting his body desperately, Scott avoided the point, which ripped his shirt. In a reflex action he struck Osman in the face with the hilt of his weapon, but the man seemed not to feel the blow that gashed his cheek.

"Amok!" Bryant shouted, raising his pistol. "He's running amok!"

Osman, now past recognizing anybody, leaped next on Russell, who stood dazedly in his path. He drove the creese deep into the man's shoulder. Russell reeled under the shock. White-faced, Bryant thrust the muzzle of his pistol against Osman's chest and pulled the trigger. The ball tore a great hole in the muezzin's body; but the madman turned on the New Englander even as the sound of the explosion filled the room. The dripping dagger rose again. It was then that Hurst shot Osman through the back of the head, spattering his brains in Bryant's face. The creese dropped from nerveless fingers and Osman crumpled on top of it.

" 'E took a lot of killin'!" Hurst said.

The room now was filled with armed men attracted by the furor. Scott and Bryant both turned to Russell, who was lying on his back, grasping his right shoulder with his left hand. Blood oozed through his fingers. Scott moved the hand and quickly examined the wound, causing Russell to groan in pain.

"Lift your arm," Scott ordered.

Russell complied with another groan.

"Move your fingers."

The wounded man complied.

"You'll be all right, I think," Scott told him. He tore a wide strip of cloth from his own sweat-soaked shirt. "I'll bind up the wound."

Russell lay quietly while he worked. His face was pale and he gritted his teeth against pain. Behind his glasses his eyes were wide.

"Thank you," he said when Scott finished. "I think I'm going to die."

"You'll be all right, sir," Bryant assured him hastily. "I've seen far worse wounds than that healed."

Russell rolled his head from side to side negatively. "I've got a good many years behind me. But — but I do want to be sure — Dorcas — is — safe — before I — die!"

"Don't think about dying," Scott told him roughly. "Think about livlng… about being reunited with Dorcas today."

"Time is — on their — side, Captain — Rogers."

"Rest," Scott said. "And don't think about dying."

Russell tried to smile, then closed his eyes.

Bryant turned his eyes on the dead Malay who lay in a welter of blood. Scott looked at him, too. Hurst spoke. "Know who 'e is, cap'n?"

"No."

"Osman."

"Who's Osman?" Bryant asked.

Scott answered that. "Suran's half-brother."

"Now it makes sense," Bryant said. "But where'd he come from? How did you know about him?"

Scott explained briefly. Then he added dryly, "We can't blame Fox for Osman's actions."

"No; but what are we going to do about Fox?" He nodded toward Russell, who was breathing heavily. "As he said, time's on Fox's side, not ours. He may sail at any time."

"I don't think he will without trying to recover this pepper. Likely enough, Chedula was supposed to boat it out to the Caroline today."

"You aren't going to wait for them to come ashore, are you?"

"No. But first, I'd like to try for help from Darus… get him to let some of his men serve as boatmen. Think he might agree, Hurst?"

Hurst finished reloading his rifle before answering. "I'll see what I can do. Darus don't really want to get into a brawl with th' townspeople, you know. An' I don't blame 'im, sir; our troubles ain't 'is, an' 'e's got to live here after we're gone." "I know. But if his people will serve us as boatmen, we'll be free to use firearms."

Bryant spoke up. "There's still some specie hidden in the wreck of the Sally Culhreath, I'm certain. Promise all of it to Darus; promise him anything. We've got to save Dorc— Miss Russell."

Hurst picked up his rifle. "I ain't promisin' nothin' I can't deliver. Anyway, I got a trade in mind my own self. I reckon I better get goin' afore Darus clears out for home."

"I'll go with you," Scott said. "You take over here, Zenas." The rifleman demurred. "No point in your goin' with me, sir. I ain't afraid of th' townspeople, an' what you say ain't goin' to make no nevermind with Darus. If 'e'll listen to anybody, it'll be me. Just give me your word you'll go along with any deal I make."

"You've got it. Good luck!"

In the brig Fox was disturbed, although he hid the fact from Pa' Mahmud. Flushed with triumph, the Malays roamed the ship destructively; while the rajah himself, confident in the warlike ability of his son, was almost childishly complacent. Then, some two hours after dawn broke, a breathless swimmer brought news of Scott's victory and the slaying of Pa' Mahmud's son. Fox, who had a healthy respect for Scott's fighting qualities, had great difficulty in persuading the aroused rajah from going ashore with all his men in search of vengeance.

"Wait in the ship," he counseled earnestly. "Wait — and Rogers will come to us. If you go ashore, he will elude you and make for the ship. If he retakes the Caroline, he will destroy Stallapoo with her guns, sparing no one. But if we wait here, he will come to his own destruction."

"I have heeded you before, Fox," Pa' Mahmud said heavily. "Through your scheming I have lost my eldest son, the one dearest to me. I will have the blood of his slayer."

"Then wait in the ship," Fox reiterated. "Wait in readiness. I know Rogers and I tell you he will attack."

"We will wait," the rajah said after a moment of thought.

Fox immediately turned his attention to studying the town and mouth of the river intently through the long glass, but the distance was too great for him to make out anything. When Pa' Mahmud left him finally, he decided to head for the cabin for a drink to steady himself. The news from shore had shaken his confidence more than he dared admit even to himself. To himself he cursed the rajah's son for a bungling idiot; but the damage was done. Since a fight for possession of the brig now appeared inevitable, he was glad the man had been slain. The desire for revenge would make Pa' Mahmud a far more ferocious defender of the captured brig.

Dorcas had known fear more than once since fleeing from Manila, but never had she been in such despair as now. In an effort to find some relief she worked hard on the costume ordered by Fox. She still wore the heavy blanket, despite the broiling heat; and she sought to hide her fear of the power-mad renegade by a display of undisguised loathing when he entered the cabin. Her hostile silence and the sight of her bruised face upset him, but he said nothing until he had fortified himself with rum.

"You must be hot in that blanket," he said kindly. "Would you like some of your own clothing?"

Surprised by his tone, she hesitated momentarily.

"You'll be more comfortable," he went on, pouring himself another drink.

She decided to act on the suggestion. Once properly clad again, she might be better able to cope with her situation. Laying down her work, she started for her own cabin without a word. Fox stood aside and bowed slightly as she left. Then he gulped the rum he had poured out and followed it with a healthy swig straight from the bottle.

In her cabin Dorcas closed the door before bursting into tears of helplessness and hopelessness at sight of the vandalism wrought there. Almost at once she checked her weeping, though, and made a hasty search for sufficient untorn clothing to cover herself decently. Before returning to the captain's cabin she hid the knife in her bodice.

Fox by now had recovered his confidence. "I'm glad I didn't have to come for you," he said.

She eyed him coldly, then seated herself and picked up her sewing. "If I'm to finish this by noon, you'll have to leave me alone, Mr. Fox."

"Dorcas," he said almost humbly, "you don't have to finish it that soon. I–I spoke hastily."

She touched her battered face unconsciously and he flushed slightly, ashamed of the violence he had displayed. "I apologize for my actions earlier, Dorcas. Believe me, I am sorry."

"And are you sorry for what you have brought about… for the blood that is on your head?"

His flush deepened. "There are some things that can't be helped, girl. A man must follow his star."

She bent to her task, saying nothing. He watched her silently, wishing she would say something of a friendly nature. He suddenly felt the need of a friend of his own race. He spoke appealingly. "Don't hate me, Dorcas."

The plea surprised her, but she said nothing.

"Please don't hate me, Dorcas," he continued in the same beseeching vein. "I love you. I mean you no harm."

When she held her tongue, his temper rose gustily. Catching her arms roughly, he pulled her to her feet. "Can't you say anything?"

"What is there to say to such as you?" she demanded contemptuously. "You prate of meaning no harm, but already you have harmed me through what you have done to my father and my friends… to people who trusted you."

His grip on her arms tightened until she almost screamed with pain. "Then you do hate me?"

It was all she could do to hold her voice steady. "Yes."

His face paled and the light of madness glinted in his eyes. "You fool! I would have made you a queen, a woman above all others in my life, but instead I shall make you my concubine and nothing more. Do you understand?"

She remembered the knife hidden on her person and its possession gave her courage.

"Do you understand?" he repeated, shaking her savagely.

"Perfectly," she replied icily.

In her contempt for him she was more desirable than ever. Inflamed by rum and anger, it was in his mind to force himself on her then and there, to take in raging lust the virginity that mocked him in his strength; but Pa' Mahmud suddenly shouted for him and, fearful that Scott was about to attack, he thrust her brutally from him and rushed on deck. A dripping messenger from Chedula stood there. From him and from the rajah he learned that Scott not only had cowed all of Quallah Battoo, but had seized the pepper from the wreck.

"He will come to us now, this Captain Rogers, eh?" Pa' Mahmud demanded fiercely.

Fox felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach, but still he smiled confidently. "Aye. Even as I said, he will come to his own destruction. Soon we will avenge your noble son's death, my brother."

In the town Hurst returned to Chedula's fort after an hour's absence, finding the men there making themselves as comfortable as possible, storing up strength for the ultimate effort required of them. Some were preparing food for themselves and their mates and some were earnestly cleaning their weapons. Scott and Bryant looked at him expectantly.

"I made a trade, sir," Hurst reported quietly, leaning his rifle against a wall within easy reach, then hunkering down on his heels and wiping sweat from his forehead with a bare, sinewy arm. "Darus'll even help with th' fightin', so long as th' people of th' town stay out of it."

"I don't think he has anything to worry about on that score," Scott said dryly. "They'd like to pick our bones, but they haven't the guts to set on us."

"And we haven't the men to set on them," Bryant added in the same vein. "But I do think we ought to burn down this nest of Chedula's."

Scott vetoed the notion firmly. "No, that might force Chedula's hand, which would mean that Darus would desert us. We are going to take some of the pepper, though."

Bryant was incredulous. "Now? My God, let's worry about it later!"

"I'm not worrying about it, Zenas. But I've got an idea that sacks of pepper will turn bullets almost as well as bags of sand. The stuff is pretty loosely bagged, you know."

The New Englander rubbed his chin and smiled comprehendingly. "I hadn't thought of that. Let's get on with the business at hand, then. Fox and Pa' Mahmud may weigh anchor at any moment. They could always come back for the pepper, you know."

"They won't leave," Hurst said suddenly.

"How do you know?" Bryant demanded.

"Th' cap'n killed Pa' Mahmud's son, remember? You c'n bet Pa' Mahmud knows that. 'E won't let Fox leave."

"It looks like he'd attack us, then — Pa' Mahmud, I mean."

"Why should 'e? 'E knows, an' so does Fox that th' cap'n, here, is goin' to make a stab at takin' th' ship back. All they've got to do is set on their arses an' wait. Given my druthers, I'd ruther wait until after dark. I ain't seen a Malay yet that could hit th' side of a barn with a musket; but even so, gettin' alongside th' Caroline in th' daytime ain't goin' to be no picnic. She c'n spray right smart of grapeshot from 'er cannon."

"Agreed, my friend, agreed," Bryant said; "but Dorc — Miss Russell is out there in the ship. We can't wait."

"That's putting it exactly," Scott said, grimly approving. "We've not only got to take the fight to the Caroline, we've got to do it now. We can't wait."

28

IN his weariness Scott gave no thought to his own fighting heart and youthful strength. He could think only of the danger to Dorcas, of his ship in the hands of pirates, and of Fox's treachery. These things spurred him; and his desperate companions obeyed him without question. Darus, who knew Pa' Mahmud would never forgive him for his part in the fight at the camp, joined zealously in the preparation to mount the reckless assault. Within an hour the four largest proas available were heaped with sacks of pepper which would afford some protection. In one of them was placed the barely conscious Russell, who insisted on going along.

"I won't be in the way," the man said painfully, "and I might be able to help. After all, Dorcas is my daughter."

Scott thrust his hands into the tepid water of the river and splashed his face in an effort to cool himself. Excitement, the pre-battle tension, was building up in him now; he felt new strength course through his body. Bryant and Hurst looked at him silently. Taking his time, he wiped his face with the sweat-soaked sleeve of his shirt and rubbed his hands almost dry on the coarse cloth of his breeches. Then he hitched up his cutlass meaningfully.

"Where's Kimbrell?" he asked.

"Here, sir!" responded the boatswain, detaching himself from a knot of nervous men who were seeing to their weapons.

"Here's what we'll do," Scott said, forcing himself to speak matter-of-factly. "I'll take one boat and make directly for the starb'd side; we'll board at the waist. You take one, Zenas, and make for the stem; board through the cabin windows, or any way you can. Kimbrell, you take one and approach the bow; some of you can go up the anchor chain. And you, Hurst, go with Darus in the fourth proa. Go well to seaward, keeping out of small arms range as long as you can, and come in on the larb'd side. We'll all attack at about the same time, and most of us will sleep in the Caroline tonight."

Bryant straightened himself painfully. "Fox is for me."

"Fox is for whoever gets him," Scott said flatly. "The important one to get is Pa' Mahmud. If we get him alive, we can bargain, if we have to; if we kill him, his men'll break. Dead or alive, Fox won't make a hell of a lot of difference to Pa' Mahmud's men."

"That makes good sense," Hurst said. He grinned twistedly. "Well, since me an' Darus have got farthest to go, I reckon we better shove off first. Now?"

Scott nodded. "Now. And good luck to you!"

Fox was on the poop with Pa' Mahmud when the first proa stood out boldly from the mouth of Rocky River and together they watched its arrow-straight approach. The rhythmically dipped paddle blades flashed in the hot, white sunlight of the tropical morning. Fox caught up the captain's long glass and stared through it fixedly, but the distance was too great for him to discern faces.

"Chedula?" the rajah asked impatiently.

Without lowering the glass, Fox answered shortly. "I don't know. That boat's loaded, though."

Pa' Mahmud snatched the glass and looked for himself. Finally he returned it with a grunt of disgust.

That can't be Chedula, Fox thought. Chedula never could have overcome Rogers and taken back his fort. Yet it might be; it just might be. His belly knotted with apprehension. The boat came on, riding in the tranquil sea. Fox remembered the pepper that had been in Chedula's keeping. Maybe Captain Rogers was making off with it. Fresh sweat broke out on him.

A mile from the ship, the proa sheered to larboard. The change in course was enough to decide Fox. He had every gun in the Caroline charged with grapeshot in anticipation of an attack. He rushed to the gun deck, followed by Pa' Mahmud. There he sighted the starboard nine-pounder, then caught up a linstock and blew on the smoking match until the tip glowed bright red. He laid the match to the touchhole. The muzzle spewed iron and fire. The spreading shot winked sullenly in the brilliant light. The explosion of gun powder was deafening… the recoil of the cannon against the thick breeching violent. The Caroline shuddered as black smoke was snatched and scattered by the sea breeze.

The missiles fell far short of their target. Fox cursed and ran to the twelve-pounder. It didn't occur to him that the range was too great. Elevate the muzzle, he thought. Raise the sight.

He didn't get to lay the gun, though. Pa' Mahmud caught up a linstock and laid the match on the touchhole. The gun went off with a great roar, and Fox narrowly escaped being crushed when the truck leaped backward.

"God damn it!" he shouted in English, thoroughly angered and alarmed. "You didn't even sight it, you fool!"

Pa' Mahmud was too deafened by the explosion of gunpowder to hear him. Also, he was so delighted by the noise that he didn't even notice that the shot fell even shorter of the target.

Fox got a grip on his temper. He was in no position to insult the rajah. And he wished almost devoutly that he knew more about laying a cannon on the target. Well, at closer range it wouldn't matter. As it was, they had just wasted powder and shot. Calmer now, he swabbed out the barrel and reloaded the piece.

Suddenly there was a terrific blast. Bits of metal whizzed and whined about Fox and the rajah. The ship quivered more than it had when the twelve-pounder was fired. Screams of terror and agony came thinly to Fox. Then he saw.

Some of the Malays had reloaded the nine-pounder, dumping in powder recklessly. When they touched it off, the breech burst. A half-dozen of Pa' Mahmud's men sprawled crazily on the deck, while others danced about excitedly and howled their surprise.

Fox and Pa' Mahmud rushed to the site of the carnage. The cannon was ruined. Some of the men struck down were dead. One fellow's guts were ripped out, but he still was alive. The rajah himself creesed him, easing his agony with one merciful thrust.

Fox's concern was rational and selfish. Except for the loss of useful manpower, the casualties meant nothing to him; but the accidental destruction of the cannon, which might have been used effectively at point-blank range to repel boarders, was a serious loss. Worse, it was obvious that the Malays were shaken, even the rajah. Fox knew how easily their superstitious minds might fasten on the mishap as an ill omen. Glancing through the open gun port, he noted that the proa was holding its new course southward, roughly paralleling the shoreline. Maybe it was not hostile, after all. No other craft had come out of the river.

He spoke consolingly to Pa'Mahmud, but in almost the same breath reminded him of the blood feud existing between him and the man who had slain his son. The Malay's face hardened, and Fox knew he had scored.

"We'll destroy them easily when they come against us," he went on smoothly. "Only let me handle the cannon. They are strange to your men. Give me obedient loaders, but let me lay the guns and fire them."

Pa' Mahmud agreed without question, and Fox went topside with him. The rajah's followers picked up the explosion victims, both quick and dead, and followed.

In the captain's cabin Dorcas was terrified by the series of ship-shaking explosions and by the howling that followed the third blast. She guessed the ship was under attack; and flinging aside the half-completed silk sarong, she hurried to the cabin windows to peer aft. She could only see the sea, gun-metal blue, quiet, and seemingly without end. Leaning out, she observed that the proa which had been under the stem no longer was there.

She could only hope the assault on the Caroline was by some of the ship's original company, perhaps even by some of the people carried ashore from the Sally Culbreath. It was a wild hope, but enough to steel her. She made up her mind immediately. Having swum out to the ship by night, she reasoned she could swim ashore by day. There were sharks to consider, and possibly other sea creatures equally dreadful; there was the likelihood of drowning from sheer exhaustion; but dangers known and unknown palled when she thought of remaining indefinitely in Fox's hands. Even if she failed to make it to the land, even if she could find no haven there after the risky swim — yes, even, if Scott, Bryant, her father and all the others were dead — the land yet would be preferable to the brig. Where once she had rather liked Fox, she now hated and feared him so intensely that she was filled with quaking revulsion by the mere thought of him. Feverishly determined to escape while the opportunity presented itself, she tore at the fastenings of her clothing with shaking fingers. She had no intention of attempting the dangerous swim in a costume that swept the deck.

She stepped out of her skirt in the moment that Fox, seeking more rum to bolster his courage, appeared in the cabin doorway. Comprehending at once what she was about, he forgot the need for drink; not only was she his personal prize, but she could serve as his shield in the event things took a turn disastrous to him. Stepping hastily over the coaming, he bounded across the cabin and seized her from behind.

" Vast!" he roared furiously, shaking her so violently that her teeth chattered. "I've got trouble enough on my hands without having to fish you out of the ocean."

His touch galvanized her. Despairingly she turned on him with the fury of a tigress cornered, drawing the knife as she twisted free of his bruising grasp. Her breath wheezed sobbingly as she drove the long, slender blade into his chest. A rib deflected the killing thrust, so that the knife went in less than two inches, but the combination of surprise and shock was sufficient to stagger him. He clutched at the haft dazedly before she let go, but his hand did not touch hers.

Dorcas didn't see his white, strained face, with its working blend of shock, surprise and rage, but she did hear the agonized gasp forced from him. Turning back to the nearest open window, she leaped blindly into the sea.

Hurst was the only white man in the proa with Darus. Scott assigned the weakened Bryant to the boat in which Russell lay quietly and gave him Hamzah, the rajah's chief lieutenant, to handle the Malay boatmen and man the steering sweep. Then he divided the men from the two brigs among all three boats and settled down to wait impatiently for the first craft to get to seaward of the Caroline. He knew there could be no retreat; he and his men were too near complete exhaustion to rally from a setback.

The heat grew more intense by the minute. Insects nagged them. And some of the Malays persisted in eating durian, an odorous fruit with a taste both sweet and garlicky. It seemed to Scott that of the evils they had to bear the vile odor of the durian was worst during the dragging minutes of watching and waiting. He squinted against the blinding glare of sunlight on moving sea, eyes taking in both proa and brig.

He saw the flash of the nine-pounder just before he saw the geyser of water spouted upward where the ball fell harmlessly into the sea. A few moments later the sea wind brought them the faint boom of the gun. Then the twelve-pounder spat a tongue of flame that was white in the day's brilliance. The rolling sound followed, almost muffled to nothingness. Still Darus and Hurst continued unharmed. The noise of the third explosion of gunpowder in the Caroline was preceded by no visible flare.

Bryant, the most vulnerable to the bites of mosquitoes and gnats, fidgeted visibly. Scott knew the man's strength was running out; he marveled that the New Englander was still able to move about. He's got courage, all right, he thought.

"Scott!" Bryant called suddenly. "Give me a minute, will you, Scott?"

"What is it?"

"Just something I want you to know… in case I don't weather what's coming up. I told you I wasn't paying attention to the weather the other night. That's been on my conscience since, considering the price exacted for my carelessness. But what I want you to know is that I told Dorcas I wanted to marry her… take her home with me to a peaceful life ashore."

Scott masked a twinge of jealousy. He wasn't really surprised. "And she said…"

"She didn't say. Come to think of it, I didn't ask for a yea or nay; I just told her and asked her to think about it."

Scott looked seaward, seeing Hurst and Darus change course to head outward again. So he didn't say anything to Bryant. He couldn't think of anything to say, anyway. Standing in the stern of his boat, hands on the sweep, he spoke quietly to them all. "You know the prize if we win, the price if we lose. Cast off!"

To a chorus of warlike yells the little flotilla headed for the Caroline, her captain's boat a little ahead of the other two.

29

SCOTT'S palms were greasy with the sweat of excitement and his heart pounded rapidly as he steered into the shallow waters of the bight; but he permitted himself no doubts. He was doing what had to be done, and doing it in the only manner possible under the combination of circumstances. If his boatmen didn't waver — if they would lay the proa against the brig's side, so that he would have the opportunity to fight his way to a foothold on the deck — then he had no doubt of the outcome.

The Caroline opened up with the starboard twelve-pounder long before any of the three boats were within effective range. Scott smiled tightly. They're getting panicky, he thought… Watching grapeshot ricochet off the sea at a safe distance, afraid to hold their fire. He looked down at his own crew, the white sailors now sitting quietly with weapons ready in their hands and the half-naked brown men wielding vigorously narrow-bladed paddles, and then at the other two boats, which were angling slightly to the right and left, and he waved his arm in an overhand gesture urging more speed. He could no longer see the proa bearing Darus and Hurst; the ship blocked his line of vision. She filled his eyes and mind, the brig did, and he recalled his desperate promise to Kimbrell. We'll take you back, Caroline; some of us may die in the doing, but we'll take you.

The first cannon fire didn't bother his men, but they grew noticeably restive when shot spattered down around them a half mile from the brig's side. One or two balls hit the protective bulwark of bagged peppercorns, spilling a small quantity of the black spice. A sailor raised a musket, cocking it.

"Save it, lad," Scott told him confidently. "Hold your fire until we're almost ready to board."

The man grinned nervously and nodded, uncocking the piece. "Looks like they ain't shootin' at anybody but us, sir."

"Faster!" Scott ordered in the Malay tongue. "Faster!"

In response paddles dipped, flashed and dipped again, driving the proa steadily nearer the ship. Scott's eyes searched the men crowding the brig's rail in the waist. He spotted the yellow cap and sarong of Pa' Mahmud, but he couldn't see Fox. On the gun deck, he supposed. The sound of exploding gunpowder came to him. They're firing on Hurst and Darus now, he thought. Men broke away from the starboard rail and rushed to the larboard side of the Caroline. Hurst and Darus must be closer than he figured.

"Faster!" he rasped again. "Faster!"

He could make out the damage where the nine-pounder had exploded. The gun port was jagged and black. The flashing paddles drove them closer… closer. Before the twelve-pounder belched again they had gained two hundred and fifty yards. This time a spreading pattern of iron balls liberally peppered the proa, ripping open sacks of pepper and slightly wounding one of the Malays.

Now they could hear howls of defiance from the brig. With luck, Scott figured, we'll get alongside before they can reload. He decided to lay the proa directly under the gun port of the nine-pounder.

"Hold your fire, lads!" he shouted. "They can't hit us with the cannon now!"

That was true. They were so close now that the twelve-pounder could neither be tilted downward nor slewed to the right enough to bear on them.

Scott steered directly for the gaping gun port, paying no attention to the musketry opened on them. Lead balls whined past him and splashed into the sea. Suddenly the Malays realized what he was up to, and a group made a rush for the gun deck. By the time the proa was within a few feet of the ship's side they were clustered thickly where the nine-pounder had been. They brandished swords, creeses, spears and javelins; they screeched like demons from the pit.

Scott's voice rose in a great bellow. "Fire into the gun port! I'm laying her alongside."

The seamen's volley was ragged but effective, melting away the men confronting them. Scott laid the boat alongside and just under the gaping hole. Then he fired, too, carefully picking as his target a man peering from the opening. Spears rained down on them, wounding several boatmen and one of the white men.

Scott couldn't spare the time to see where the other boats were. From the yelling, though, he could guess that Hurst and Darus must already be alongside. Risking a hand, he caught at the jagged edge of the gun port and held the boat tightly against the brig's side. He freed his cutlass.

"Away, boarders!" he yelled, climbing aboard.

Four or five Malays rushed him murderously, almost forcing him back into the boat. Disregarding their spears, swords and creeses, he swung his own weapon like a scythe, making room for his mates.

The Malays couldn't stand up against him, now that he was in his own ship again. Battle madness lighted his eyes and fired his brain. His men scrambled aboard in his wake, yelling and cursing, and in a compact little knot they drove their opposition forward. The crew of the twelve-pounder, suddenly aware of their own danger, leaped into the fray courageously, but were hampered by their retreating comrades.

"Kill!" Scott roared above the clash of steel and the shouting in two tongues. "Sweep the deck!"

He was too embattled to realize it, but his plan was working almost perfectly. The pirates were forced to divide themselves into four groups to meet the attackers swarming aboard.

Scott's fury was such that it endowed him with abnormal strength and inspired his men, white and brown alike. The defenders of the brig gave ground on a deck growing slippery with blood, stubbornly at first, then in panic. One or two leaped into the sea, while the others still on their feet fled topside, closely pursued by the attackers.

Scott consciously sought Pa' Mahmud and Fox, either or both. Suddenly he saw the Malay rajah rallying his men in the waist near the mainmast. Pa' Mahmud, who was wielding a long parang, saw him at the same moment. Neither man hesitated. They rushed at each other like two wild animals, faces distorted with fury, the lust to kill in their eyes.

"Dog!" the Malay shouted. "Son-of-a-dog! Slayer of my son!

Scott said one word and said it in English. He spat it out in contempt and wrath. "Pirate!"

Cutlass clashed against parang as white captain and brown rajah fought for supremacy. Both were inspired by desperation. Each knew this was a fight to the death. Steel rang on steel as they slashed and lunged savagely.

Pa' Mahmud was a good swordsman, perhaps better than Scott, but he lacked the judgment of the captain. He shouted continually, wasting breath in insults, while Scott kept silent and watched for an opening. Although none of his fury had evaporated, Scott was cooler now; he had sampled Pa' Mahmud's mettle and skill, finding both worth consideration.

Little flecks of foam appeared on Pa' Mahmud's lips as they fought; he was beside himself with rage. He began to take longer chances, and once he nicked Scott's left shoulder slightly. The captain didn't even feel the wound. Then Scott's cutlass snapped off at the hilt as the rajah parried a terrible slash. For the hundredth part of a second neither realized exactly what had happened. Then Scott flung the hilt of the broken weapon into the rajah's face, gashing it deeply. Pa' Mahmud staggered back involuntarily and Scott leaped on him barehanded, catching his sword arm and twisting it until the fingers let go of the hilt.

The rajah was far from finished, though. With a mighty effort he wrenched free, jumping back and drawing his creese. Scott booted him in the groin and he doubled over in agony.

But still he clutched the wavy-bladed dagger and clung to his determination to avenge the death of his son. Lunging sideways, he almost got the captain; the creese ripped his trousers. Scott struck him on the back of the neck with his fist, but the blow glanced off.

In terrible pain, Pa' Mahmud straightened up and came at Scott again. His eyes were red and his mouth spewed foam. The captain ducked under the dagger and caught the rajah by the waist, lifting him off his feet and hurling him against the mast with such force that his back was broken. And in that moment one of Darus' Malays darted in and stabbed the stricken pirate in the throat. He, not Scott, snatched the rajah's yellow cap and waved it over his head with wild screams of triumph.

Scott caught up the fallen Pa' Mahmud's parang and charged into a mass of fighters.

"Pa' Mahmud is dead!" he roared. "Where is Fox?"

The defense in the waist of the brig deteriorated with astonishing suddenness. Without Pa' Mahmud the pirates' ferocity turned to terror. Breaking, they scattered frantically, each man seeking safety. A score leaped into the sea, striking out for shore. A few took to the rigging. Some allowed themselves to be chased along the deck and killed when there was no place left to run.

Scott didn't try to call off the killing. But he did look for his own men. He saw Bryant, wounded and supported by Hurst, and he saw big Kimbrell throw a screaming native into the water. Darus' yellow cap flashed in the sun as he joined in the butchering of pirates who had thrown down their weapons and were entreating mercy.

"Where's Fox?" Scott demanded.

"Dead," Hurst said.

"You killed him?"

Hurst nodded. " 'E was serving the twelve-pounder on our side of the ship. I got a shot at 'im. Got 'im between th' eyes."

"Dorcas!" Bryant cried. "Where's Dorcas?"

Scott rushed to the cabin. Then he searched the other two cabins quickly. He ran to the forecastle, where a wounded pirate tried to creese him. He killed the man with Pa' Mahmud's sword. Fear for Dorcas' safety mounted in him, approaching hard-to-control panic. He returned to the deck to be confronted by Bryant, who clung pitifully to Hurst for support.

"Did you — find her — Scott?" the New Englander whispered.

"Not yet," Scott answered grimly; and the man's face worked in visible expression of his own fear. "But I will, Zenas. I'll go through the whole ship."

"My God," Bryant mumbled. "My God."

Scott fought down the desire to shout that he, too, was worried, and so tired that he could barely think or get about; that he had all the wounded to consider. He laid a gentle, comradely hand on Bryant's shoulder, and spoke to Hurst. "Help him to my cabin. Put Mr. Russell in there with him."

He got a half-dozen unhurt seamen who were familiar with the structure of the vessel and made a swift, thorough search from stem to stern, looking in every likely place. By now he was afraid Dorcas had been murdered, but he kept that to himself. Finally he went to the wounded, whom Kimbrell already was attending. Then he took a look at Fox's body, which still was sprawled on the larboard gun deck; he noted that the man had been stabbed in the chest as well as shot cleanly through the forehead. But for you, he thought unforgivingly, none of this would have happened; it all originated with you.

Kimbrell came up while he was looking down at the mate's body. "What'll I do with him, sir?"

"Throw him to the sharks."

"Good shark poison, I'd say," the boatswain grunted, turning to the task.

Scott later came on Hurst in the waist with Dams, who had a superficial face wound. The rajah looked so pleased with himself that it occurred to the captain that he didn't know the terms Hurst had made with him. It didn't really matter. Nothing mattered but finding Dorcas. Nevertheless, he spoke to Dams with warmth. "You fought well, brother, and I am grateful."

The rajah grinned genially and winked almost merrily.

"How many'd we lose, sir?" Hurst asked.

"Two. Six more wounded, not counting my pinprick."

"Darus lost a couple, too, and had three wounded pretty badly."

"How'd you leave Captain Bryant and Mr. Russell?"

Hurst shrugged. "Tol'able, I reckon. They're hangin' on, anyway. Both of 'em are a little out of their heads. I'll dose 'em with morphine. That'll let 'em rest. What about th' lady?"

Scott passed a hand over his face in a gesture of utter weariness and near despair. "She's disappeared. Just. . gone."

"Fox," Hurst murmured. "That no-good son-of-a-bitch. What do we do next?"

"Well have another look through Quallah Battoo, though God knows she wasn't there when we set out."

Hurst looked in the direction of the town. His eyes widened and his lower jaw dropped. His amazement registered on the captain and he looked, too, seeing the small proa being sailed out to the Caroline. It was manned by two men and carried a single passenger clad in a native sarong. Dorcas.

30

UNPREPARED for the weakening wave of relief that swept him at sight of Dorcas returning safely, Scott lurched to the rail and leaned heavily on it. Until now there had been no sweetness in his triumph. She saw him looking her way eagerly and her upturned face became radiant, a clear mirror for her love. For them both, hours seemed to elapse before he helped her into the Caroline; but time stood still when at last they cling fiercely to each other, forgetful for the moment of the existence of any others.

"You're safe, Scott!" she whispered almost unbelievingly, her fingers caressing the thick hair at the nape of his neck. "Safe!"

"After we took the ship I searched for you," he said huskily. "When I couldn't find you — well…"

"I know, darling," she said softly. "I know so well. You see, he — Mr. Fox — never said whether you were alive or dead. Even when I jumped out of the window, I didn't know. I didn't know until I got ashore. And by then you were almost out to the ship."

"You didn't see us?"

"I heard the firing of the cannon and I saw one boat going astern. After I got into the water I didn't see anything else until I could stand in the shallows." She drew away a little, studying him with misty eyes. "Scott! Your shoulder…"

"It doesn't hurt. But tell me…"

She kissed him again, savoring the wonder of loving him wholeheartedly.

Hurst reckoned the captain had forgotten all about the other people standing around and watching him. He turned on the small knot of grinning sailors enjoying the tableau and spoke in a tone that carried only to them. "You bastards shove off afore I knock th' fire outa you. It ain't but maybe once in a long lifetime that a man gets to feel like th' cap'n does now."

Scott persisted doggedly. "Tell me what happened to you. Everything."

Her face shadowed. "Tell me first, did — did you find Mr. Fox alive?"

"I didn't, no. Why?"

"I–I tried to kill him, Scott. Twice. I stabbed him."

He recalled seeing the wound in the man's chest. He spoke slowly. "You didn't kill him, Dorcas. He was shot while serving one of the guns."

She regarded him with clear eyes. "I think I'm glad it wasn't I who killed him, Scott. He was quite insane, I'm certain."

"Mad or not," he said, grimly unforgiving, "he got his due. He was a mutineer and a pirate. A renegade."

"You're right, I suppose," she agreed sadly. "The really important thing is that you're safe." Suddenly she started guiltily. "Scott! My father and Zenas — what of them? I–I forgot all about them, I was so glad to see you."

"And I forgot I was about to give them morphine."

"They're hurt badly, then?"

He nodded gravely.

"Let me go to them, Scott. Where are they?"

"In my cabin," he answered, thinking now of Bryant and pitying him. Then, sensing that she would prefer to go alone, he added: "Here are two doses of morphine, just enough to make them sleep restfully. Give one to each."

When she had gone, he turned to the two Malays who had brought her out from Quallah Battoo. They were standing nervously among Darus' men, and they bowed deeply when Scott bestowed his attention on them.

"Tuan," one said hesitantly.

"Speak."

"We have come seeking peace with you. We were misled by Osman… by Tuan Fox… by Pa' Mahmud."

"And by Chedula," Scott supplemented dryly.

The second Malay shook his head vigorously. "No, tuan. Chedula feared Pa' Mahmud and Fox."

Maybe, Scott thought. "What about the pepper Chedula stole from the wrecked ship?"

"It was brought to him for safekeeping, tuan. It will be returned to you, every peppercorn of it."

When Scott remained silent, the first native spoke up hopefully. "We returned your lady safely, tuan. She was well treated when she came to us."

You returned her because you feared to keep her, Scott thought. But he felt no malice now, only a strange blend of weariness and singing happiness that threatened to make him lightheaded. He glanced questioningly at Hurst, who stood behind the pair.

"Be friends with 'em, cap'n," the rifleman counseled bluntly. "Th' pepper's already cost right smart in blood."

The advice was good and Scott took it. To the two emissaries he said: "Because you brought the lady back unharmed, I will be at peace with the people of Quallah Battoo. Bring the pepper to the ship tomorrow morning."

The natives bowed again. "It will be as the tuan commands."

"Darus'll appreciate what you just done," Hurst said, watching the departure of the Malays. " 'E figured you'd turn th' guns on th' town, which wouldn't make life no easier for 'im afterward. Or, for that matter, for me."

"You?"

"I made a deal with Darus, sir."

"I never asked you what it was," Scott said. "Tell me now."

"I promised to stay with Darus. 'E wants to adopt me as 'is son."

Scott raised his brows. "You want that?"

"I think I'd like it. . for awhile, anyway. I ain't no sailor, an' Darus is all right."

"I know you gave your word," Scott said carefully as the full import of Hurst's promise to the rajah sank into his tired mind; "but do you really want to stay?"

"Aye, sir," Hurst replied with conviction. He paused. "I really do, cap'n. I told you I had a little trouble with some of th' Cherokees in th' mountains back home."

"I remember."

"Well, sir, I might as well tell you all of it. I was livin' with this squaw — pretty thing, she was, too — but I couldn't get along with one of 'er brothers. I got into a fight with 'im one day — it was one of them things that had to come, sooner or later — an' I killed 'im. Th' fight was fair, an she would've forgiven me, but er brothers wouldn't. So I took out for Charleston to keep from losin' my hair. When you happened into that there tavern, I was just settin', tryin' to figure out what to do. Anyway, to cut it short, I c'n have a barrel of fun in Dams' village. We get along, Darus an' me, an' there's good huntin' in th' jungle an' a passel of likely gals right at hand."

Scott held out his hand. "I never had a better man than you beside me in a fight, Hurst."

Hurst grinned. "That goes for me, too, cap'n. But I ain't leavin' until tomorrow. I'm too damn' tired to travel."

Scott summoned Kimbrell. The big boatswain had barely been winded in the fight for the ship. "You're mate, as of now, Kimbrell. Issue a double ration of grog to all hands and take the watch."

Pleased with his promotion, Kimbrell touched his forehead with the forefinger of his right hand. "Thank you, sir."

Scott felt himself close to physical collapse. But he sought out Dorcas, wanting to see her again before giving in to fatigue. She was in the cabin with her father and Bryant, both of whom were sleeping. Immediately she noticed the grayness of complete exhaustion in his face.

"I'll make a bed for you in my cabin, darling," she said, taking his hand. "You don't mind staying there a little while, do you?"

"No," he said. "Anywhere."

He swayed a little on his feet as they entered her disordered quarters.

"Sit down," she ordered.

He obeyed unquestioningly, watching her work at preparing the bunk. She still wore the snug-fitting sarong and he thought it suited her admirably. Despite sunburn and scratches, her bare shoulders, arms and legs struck him as more than ordinarily beautiful.

"Scott," she said, her back to him.

"Yes?"

"I talked to Zenas a little before I gave him the morphine. I didn't tell him anything; I didn't have to. He knows. He knew when he saw me. The way I feel about you must be written on my face."

"I guess my feelings are pretty plain, too." he said. "You know, Dorcas, with the pepper at Chedula's fort, the pepper in the proas and about one more delivery by Darus the Caroline will be laden. I was thinking we might put in at Calcutta on the way home."

"Calcutta?" she asked, turning suddenly. "Why?"

"To take on a few stores," he answered, getting to his feet and closely watching her perplexed face, "and to find a parson. We'll be a long time getting to Charleston."

Her face lighted up. In his arms again she didn't have to tell him that she wished Calcutta as near as Quallah Battoo.

End of book

Content

Davenport Steward
BLACK SPICE

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