Jim took it, accepted the light and sat by the window smoking, elbows resting on the sill. The night gathered and the haze thickened. He wanted to find out the name of the place. Somehow he must make a getaway, and a plan, indefinite as the mist, was vaguely forming. To further it he should know where they were. Looking out did him no good so he turned and started talking to Swenson about the island. He gave him many details that he had not given Kitty Whiting; directions for getting through the reef, for example, bearings, and suggestions for anchorage that Swenson made note of with little nods of his head while he gradually grew more confidential, almost chummy. But if he ever tried to make mooring or work through the lagoon with those same directions, Jim could see his command piled on the coral. If Jim was along—but he did not intend to be. Still Swenson plainly imagined him as having accepted the situation and applauded his common sense—as viewed by Swenson. He insisted upon his sharing his own flask. Jim stuck his tongue in the neck of the bottle, corking it, when it was his turn. Swenson swigged deeply and grew almost jovial, though the stuff had small real effect upon him.
At last a car came up the drive and hooted. Jim saw its lights before it sounded the horn.
“Here’s our wagon,” he said. “Do I still have to wear these bracelets?”
“Sure do, matey. We’re going by the back streets. No one’ll see you or know you. Take ’em off when we’re aboard an’ clear. Give you the run of the ship. You’re second mate. Bunk aft. Come on.”
They went downstairs out through the garage to where a flivver wheezed and panted. The driver was a stolid individual who barely looked around but sat eating something out of a small bag. Swenson greeted him.
“’Lo, Jakey. Have a little drink?”
“No. Quit it.”
“Chewin’ candy instead? Suit yourself. Git in, matey.” Swenson took seat at the back beside Jim and confidentially slid a hand under his arm. Jim abandoned a hope of getaway from the flivver. They chugged down side streets and roads where lights shone dimly in the foggy night, descending always. The smell of salt water came to them and Jim inhaled it as a desert horse snuffs the oasis. They reached a small creek, ran along its banks and stopped at a little wharf and boathouse, dimly seen, with a dull flare of orange showing in a window.
“Here we are,” said Swenson. “Reckon the boys are on deck. All ashore, matey. You first.” Jim was directly back of the silent driver who now took the last piece of candy from his bag, screwed up the sack and flipped it from him. It fell on the running board and Jim retrieved it with his fettered hands, opened it swiftly and read the printed legend upon it by the headlights as he passed in front of the flivver. Fowler’s General Store, Wareham.
Now he knew where he was and his heart quickened a beat as he dropped the bag and set foot upon it while Swenson followed, unsuspecting. The driver, sucking at his peppermint, noticed nothing.
Wareham is on the Wareham River, head of Wareham County, Mass., emptying into the head of Buzzards Bay! And Jim knew Buzzards Bay! The light he had seen must be Wings Neck Light off Red Brook Harbor. To starboard, as they would run down toward Long Island Sound, there would come Sippican Harbor with Bird Island Light. Mattapoisett Harbor, Ram Island, Nasketucket Bay, West Island, New Bedford Harbor, Dumpling Rock Light opposite Woods Hole, the steamer connection for Nantucket. And, last of all, the Elizabeth Islands with the Cuttyhunk Light at the tip, a fixed white light that Jim knew well from early days. He had been born at New Bedford.
He hid his exultation as, with Swenson’s grip on his arm, they advanced to the boathouse, and Swenson knocked on the door. Half a dozen men were playing cards by the light of a lantern. Bottles and glasses were on the rough table. It seemed that wherever Swenson ruled rum was still plentiful. Jim suspected him of pocketing profits on those quarts of rye that were trans-shipped from France—if Swenson had spoken the truth of the course. It was good enough whisky. The men were a sturdy lot, inclined to be secretive, if not surly. Jim knew their type, longshoremen of Nantucket Sound, seafood providers, lobstermen not averse to making a living at anything they might find afloat or upflung, smugglers at heart and by inheritance; good seamen, withal. They gazed at him with wooden faces that might have been carved out of walnut. None of them appeared to notice his handcuffs.
“Mr. Lyman. Goin’ to be second mate,” announced Swenson briefly. The incongruity of a fettered officer raised no comment. They were used to unusual sights, thought Jim, or else such sights were usual. “How’s the tide?”
“Turned ha’f hour ago. Runnin’ strong.”
“Then we’ll git aboard.” The flivver driver had turned the car. Jim saw the lights wavering away through the mist and silently thanked the taciturn chauffeur for his candy habit. They made their way down the wharf in a ghostly procession to where a boat swung at a painter, stretching with the tug of the outgoing tide. Jim expected a launch on account of the number of men ashore. Otherwise he had anticipated a dory, but the boat was a double-ended whaleboat into which they jumped with the celerity of saltwater men. Swenson was at the tiller with Jim beside him, and the six men took to the sweeps with a powerful stroke that, aided by the current, sent the boat dancing swiftly down the bay through the fog. They passed Butter’s Point unseen, but located by Birds Island Light and swung into the entrance of Sippican Harbor, a long narrow anchorage. Swenson steered as if it had been broad daylight, occasionally hand testing the water alongside for eddies. He brought them up to a trim-looking schooner with masthead light showing, and as they pulled forward toward the bows, the reflection of her green sidelight to starboard. Jim looked for a name, but the curve of the bows prevented that. He had seen none on the whaleboat, merely the number 4. A side ladder was rigged, up which Jim preceded Swenson, the men in the boat dropping back to the quarter falls. On deck a man met them whom Swenson called Mr. Peters. There was a crispness to his manner as well as the official handle he set to the man’s name that showed that Hellfire had taken up the reins of discipline. He did not introduce Jim but took him to the main cabin, showing him a stateroom.
“Here’s where you bunk,” he said. “All by yourself. Plenty of room aft. She was a pleasure craft, matey, but we’ve stripped off the fancy rigging an’ made her seaworthy. She’s sweetlined as a racing yacht, but she’s stiff enough for any breeze. Seventy-two footer, with a fine engine for a kicker. Dynamo, wireless, all the rigamajigs. Take the screw off ’n her an’ she’ll sail with any fisherman ever went out o’ Gloucester.”
“Sweet looking schooner,” said Jim. “Far as I can see. What’s her name?” Swenson looked at him quizzically.
“Didn’t you see it on the boat? I don’t hold in stickin’ a ship’s name all over the place, buoys an’ boats an’ everything. You’ll see it in the mornin’. Not much room for cargo, but what we’re after won’t take up much room, eh, matey? And there’s the more space for stores. I’ll see you later.”
He nodded and went out. A bolt slid outside the door. There was one on the inside also but it wouldn’t do him much good, Jim reflected. He climbed on the bunk and gazed through the porthole at the blackness. Overhead he heard the familiar scuffle of action, short commands, the inhaul of the anchor, the grunts of men as they hauled on the halyards, swaying up the sails. There was little wind in the fog, yet they had elected to use canvas rather than the engine Swenson mentioned. It made for silence. But if this craft was going down to the South Seas she must have papers of some sort for clearance, or she would find herself in trouble at foreign ports of call. The truth probably was that Sippican Harbor was not her usual anchorage, and for some reason Swenson preferred to slide out without attracting undue attention. Jim fancied that the schooner had used such tactics more than once. Hellfire Swenson, he imagined, was peddling firewater. But his own affairs concerned him more closely. If he was kept immured in the cabin until the ship gained open water it was likely that he was booked for a trip to the Panama Canal, the first stop Colon.
Carried on the current, more than aided by the light airs, the schooner made good progress. Through the porthole Jim saw Bird Island Light. Now they were heading down Buzzards Bay toward the entrance to Long Island Sound where they would work out to the free