The Americans by John Jakes

and widely-known FISHING SLOOP "ATLANTIC ANNE" Sale by order of the owner, Capt. E. Royce Carter stared at the notice for a long time; the date of the auction was the very next week. An ominous feeling came over him. What had forced the sale of the vessel that was Royce's whole life? For an answer, he turned back toward the end of the pier. The old seaman, net slung over his shoulder, was just stepping over the gunwale of a ramshackle barge. "Ahoy there," Carter called, waving. "I see the sign- but where's Captain Royce? Is he all right?" "Some say he's lucky to be alive," the old man replied. "Others-me among 'em-think maybe he'd be better off if they done the whole job, 'stead of leavin" him like he is." Andwitha final suspicious stare at Carter, the man disappeared into the barge's wheelhouse. What the old man said unexpectedly brought an image m to Carter's mind. He saw the vicious eyes of the man with the fishhook scar, and there in the bright sunshine beside the familiar, sail-dotted harbor, he shuddered.
    He walked a while before making up his mind to go to the Red Cod. After all, how much harm could come to him in the daylight? He knew from experience that there would be few if any patrons in the Cod at this hour. And he wouldn't be forced to explain his absence to Josie; the serving girls didn't start work until six o'clock or later. A bell was tolling in a nearby church as Carter opened the tavern door. For a moment he could see little in the dark interior. Then an unpleasantly familiar voice hailed him. "Well, if it isn't Kent. Thought the rough crowd in here had scared you off." Carter leaned on the serving counter and thumped down one of his last coins. "I'll have a beer, Phippsy-without the insults." While the wizened landlord filled the pewter pot, Carter overcame his embarrassment and forced out the next sentence: "And if anybody in the neighborhood is looking for help, I'd be glad to know that too." Phipps served the beer, clawed up the coin and deposited it in his grimy apron. From the rear of the tavern floated the smell of the day's batch of chowder. Phipps blinked and licked his lips. "You mean you're hunting a job?" "Correct." "What happened to your fancy education?" "I decided I had enough of Harvard." "Or they decided they had enough of you?" "Look, dammit-was "All right, all right!" Phipps broke in, obviously relishing Carter's plight. "I've got nothing to offer here-was And I wouldn't work for you if you did. his comb I hear the Northeast Fishery Company's hiring. They're always hiring. It's dirty work." "Where is it?" Carter asked. Phipps gestured: "The big building three squares north. Right at the head of the wharf. Can't miss it." "I'm in your debt," Carter said, offering a mocking salute with the pot. He drank, then added, "I'd hoped maybe Eben Royce would take me on, but I see the Atlantic Anne's up forstsale. What happened?" Phipps frowned. "It's too sorrowful to talk about. You better ask him." He gestured past Carter. Carter turned and for the first time saw Tillman. The fat fisherman was seated at the same table he'd occupied on the night of the trouble with Ortega. He regarded Carter with watering eyes. He was drunk. Carter carried his beer toward the man, who stirred in a slow, slothful way and drained what was left in his own pewter mug. Most of it ran down Ris chin and dripped on the stained table. Tillman looked defeated and miserable- and Carter wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to the question about Royce. Something grim had happened, that much was certain. 111 Tillman wasn't too drunk to take advantage of Carter's curiosity. Of course he'd relate the sad story of Eben Royce-if Carter refilled his mug. Carter sat down, signaled Phipps and wrinkled his nose at the fat man's sour smell. Presently, drink in hand, Tillman unburdened himself: "Goddamn shame, it is-fine man like Eben. Happened eight, nine days after the last time you was in here. Eben had his supper-that very