“Because ’tis a seafaring operation, of a sort, and there be none like the Essex men for maneuvers at sea.”
The firing from the river was steady now.
“Maybe,” said Tom. “What is this operation that takes such a picked crew? I never see salt water yet will fight a man as hard as old Merrimack when the freshets come down.”
“Volunteers!” sang out a voice nearby. A man, bareheaded, wearing a torn brown coat, stood before them holding a carefully shielded lantern in his hand.
“Eleven picked men I got. I need one more.”
“Twelve men, you got,” said Tom, shouldering his blunderbuss. “Where do I go?”
The man held up his lantern so that the dim light shone on his new recruit.
“Built for it, you be,” he said after a moment. “Long, and lean, and tough, by the look of you. Are you tough, lad?”
“Tougher’n a biled owl,” said Tom imperturbably.
“Can you swim?”