Please, Cap'n, get your flippers goin'—an' run like hell!"
"Belay, Ben, stow it!" Master Blythe scowled at a spot of dust on his buckled shoes. He stood up slowly, diminutive and gentle beside the rugged, sputtering sailor. He glanced around the room. "Ben's right and you'd all better skedaddle. That press-gang and the Scorpion's will storm Newport this night! They'll be back with blood in their eyes!"
"God love us! We're all traitors!" Old Ben choked. "We stood by while His Majesty's people were put to rout! We'll all dance from a yard-arm!"
Stools bounced, a tankard crashed on the flagstones. Old Ben's words were a blow that left every man jack of them gasping!
The fat landlord swelled out his cheeks and boomed: "Damn me—it was worth it! They can tear down mine inn! I'd stick here and fight if we had a man to lead us!"
Every man in the taproom halted and looked at Master Blythe. The gangling, ape-armed seaman rolled forward. "How about it, Cap'n Blythe? It's up to you. We follow where you lead!"
With one voice they agreed, a hearty, determined growl of approval.
Master Blythe clasped his hands under the long tails of his blue coat. He stared at the floor for a long moment then looked up and said reflectively: "There's better than a hundred men aboard the Scorpion! She mounts eighteen guns! In a pinch she could anchor just out of musket shot and bombard Newport to a bloody shambles!"
"It's up to you, Cap'n Blythe," the long sailor repeated.
"Yes, I know," Master Blythe said. "I was just casting up the odds. We can scarce muster a score of men, with all the minute-men gone, and no tars in the town. . ." Master Blythe sighed. "Well, my buckos, get home quickly, fetch cutlasses and pistols, mind you. Then meet me at the sea-wall within the hour!"
There was a scramble for the door and Master Blythe called after them. "Easy does it! They'll be coming ashore!"
"You keep them there pistols," the landlord puffed. "I've another brace!"
Thoughtfully, Master Blythe loaded the long barreled flintlocks while the landlord locked the tavern doors and slammed the heavy shutters. Thames Street was deserted. The whole town must have followed the minute-men.
Night, clear and calm, had settled on the bay. A glow to the east warned Master Blythe that the moon would be bright. He paused at the corner of Broadway and peered at the distant and somber shadow of the Scorpion. Lights moved like fireflies on the man-of-war's deck.
"Very active out there," Master Blythe mused. The landlord came gallumping down the street; he slowed to a dog-trot and Master Blythe was startled. The landlord's white apron was gone, and his vast girth was held by a broad belt with a massive brass buckle. A shining cutlass and two goose-neck pistols jutted out of the belt.
Master Blythe nodded approvingly. "We'll get to the sea-wall."
Three longboats put out from the side of the Scorpion. They moved swiftly over the open water, dark and sinister, and very quiet. Master Blythe watched them impatiently. The Newport seamen drifted up one by one to join Master Blythe in the shadow of the sea wall.
