The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter XI

DURING the hot night Peabody awoke to a knock­ing on his cabin door; and he had called "Come in" be­fore he was fully conscious. He sat up in his cot as someone came stumbling into the stuffy darkness. It was Midshipman Kidd, and he had hardly entered before Washington appeared with a candle lantern, his shirt outside his trousers, but ready for duty. Peabody sus­pected him of sleeping on the locker of the main cabin.

"Mr. Atwell sent me, sir," said Kidd. "There's a strange sail to leeward he'd be glad to have you see, sir."

"I'll come," said Peabody, and swung his legs off his cot. In that instant of time Washington had snatched up his trousers and was once again crouching for Peabody to put his legs in them — Washington was always alert for opportunities to perform the most menial duties. He continued on his knees while Peabody buttoned his flaps, holding the shoes ready for his master's feet.

On deck the brilliant tropic moon illuminated every­thing, showing up the familiar shipboard objects in a strange new light, and illuminating a broad path all the way down to the western horizon. It was down this path that Atwell pointed, after lifting his hat to his captain.

"There she is, sir," he said.

Certainly there was something there, an outline brighter than the sky behind it, darker than the sea below it. Peabody's eyes accustomed themselves to the light, and he could see more clearly. There were the upper sails of a ship, from the royals down to mainyard, reaching with the wind abeam on the opposite course to the Delaware's. Peabody looked again, struck by the memory of something hauntingly familiar about the ship. He took the proffered night glass and focused on the vessel, took the glass from his eye again having once more convinced himself that at night his eyes saw no better with artificial assistance, and looked again with narrowed eyes. The distance between those fore- and main-topmasts, and the odd proportion between them, meant something to him, without his figuring it out — as he might remember an acquaintance's face without thinking whether one eye was bigger than the other or the nose a little out of the straight.

"I know her," he said, decisively.

"I thought you would, sir," said Atwell.

"She's the Racer" said Peabody. "The corvette we dismantled in the Wind'ard Passage."

"Yes, sir," said Atwell.

"Turn up the hands, Mr. Atwell. I want the ship cleared for action without noise."

"Aye aye, sir."

"No lights are to be shown without my orders."

"No, sir."

"Put up the helm and go down to her."

"Aye aye, sir."

On that still night, with a favoring wind and over such a kindly medium as water, the sound of the drums calling the men to quarters might easily reach acute ears on board the corvette, and there was always the possibil­ity of surprise — faint, but in war no possible chance must ever be neglected. In all the bustle of clearing for action Peabody stood looking over the dark sea at the Racer. As the Delaware wore, he watched closely. For several minutes she showed no sign of having seen her, and then suddenly her masts blended into one. She had turned tail, and Peabody nodded to himself as he did at the solution of a mathematical problem. It would have been suspicious if she had not acted in that way — he could not imagine a King's ship not sighting an enemy at that distance, or not recognizing her at once.

His mind attacked the problem of explaining the Racer's presence here in the eastern Caribbean after he had last seen her six hundred miles away. It was neces­sary to be wary, to consider every step, in these condi­tions when any step might lead to destruction.

Murray was at his elbow, seeking his attention.

"Shall I load with round shot or dismantling, sir?"

"Canister in the carronades. Round shot in the long guns," said Peabody, "if you please, Mr. Murray."

Each of the eighteen carronades which the Delaware carried fired a thirty-two-pound missile, and a thirty-two-pound round of canister contained five hundred musket bullets. He would close with the Racer, sweep her deck with canister, and board her in the smoke. That would be the cheapest way of overpowering her, he decided, and would give her least chance of disabling the Delaware; not that such a lightly armed ship had much chance of permanently disabling the Delaware, and slight damage aloft would be unimportant in the pres­ent situation, where, unlike during the attack on the convoy, seconds would not be vital.

The chances were that her presence in these waters was a mere matter of routine — Peabody knew how easy it was to suspect an enemy of some deep design when all he was doing was merely something for his own comfort. There had been a notable instance just before the attack on Tripoli. But on the other hand, he must be cautious. He must not run the Delaware into a trap. He had spent nearly every waking moment since he left New York on the watch for traps, and his alertness had not diminished with time.

"Deck there!" came the cry from the masthead. "Please, sir, there's another sail to leeward!"

Atwell caught a nod from Peabody, and rushed aloft with his night glass.

"Yes, sir," he hailed. "I can see his royals sure enough,

sir."

"What is she?"

"Can't tell you yet, sir. But the chase seems to be making for her, sir."

If the Racer was employed in guarding some small convoy, the last thing she would do would be to draw pursuit towards the ships she was escorting. It was un­likely that the new sail was a merchantman, then, un­less she were a chance comer.

"I can see her better now, sir," came Atwell's voice. "She's ship-rigged, and heading close-hauled to cross our course. And — and — she's a British ship of war, sir."

"Mr. Hubbard! Put her on the starboard tack, if you please."

The barest hint that there were British reinforce­ments awaiting the Racer over the horizon was enough to make Peabody alter his course. This might be the trap he had expected; certainly he was not going to plunge blindly into unknown dangers during the hours of darkness. By laying the Delaware on the starboard tack he was keeping well to windward of the enemy, so that when daylight should clear the situation he would be in a position be able to offer or refuse battle at his own choice. Hubbard roared "Belay!" to the hands at the braces, well appeared on the quarter­deck.

"I'm not sure about that second ship, sir," he said, "but — but she might be the Calypso, sir."

A ship whose masts and sails had been so thoroughly torn to pieces as had the Calypso's might well not be recognizable the next time she was seen. New masts and sails would disguise her as much as a beard would dis­guise a man.

"It seems likely to me," said Peabody steadily. "Per­haps the brig's over there too."

"I don't think she was in sight, sir. Shall I go aloft again and see?"

"If you please, Mr. Atwell. Mr. Hubbard! The watch below can sleep at the guns."

If there were to be a battle tomorrow, Peabody had no intention of fighting it with a crew weary after a sleepless night. He would need all his strength if he were to fight the Calypso and the Racer together; in fact he knew already that he would only engage if he could make, or if chance presented him with, a favorable op­portunity. And after their experience in the Windward Passage he could be sure that these two ships would do their best to offer him no opportunity; he could be surer of it with them than with any other two ships out of the whole British Navy.

Meanwhile, he must consider his own position. On this tack he would weather Martinique not long after dawn tomorrow; if he were to fight the British it would be somewhere between Martinique and Domin­ica. If he did not, then the Atlantic would be open to him. If he wanted to escape he could do so; the Dela­ware could work to windward, out to sea, far faster than the British could — she would have as much ad­vantage over them as that mysterious schooner had displayed over the Delaware herself. He could run the British ships out of sight, and free himself for his next move. Having drawn them to this end of the West Indian chain, logically his best course of action would be to run down to leeward, take the Mona Passage, say, and make a fresh drive at the Jamaica trade, unless he crossed the Atlantic — as he had considered doing once already — and tried to make havoc in the Channel. As long as the British were reduced merely to parrying his thrusts he was doing his duty. Two years of anxiety in America had already taught Peabody the disadvantages of the defensive.

"If you please, sir," hailed Atwell. "The brig's in sight. Right ahead, sir, and on the same tack as us."

"Thank you, Mr. Atwell."

That was decisive, then. He would not fight if he could avoid it, or unless the British acted far more foolishly than he hoped for. Out of three ships, in a close fight, one would be able to cross his bows or his stern and rake him while he was engaged with one of the others. Even the little Bulldog in such a position would do the Delaware enormous damage. He could not fight three ships at once. The Calypso and the Racer were well out of range to leeward, silently paralleling his course; he thought for a moment of bearing down to interpose between them and the Bulldog, and put the thought aside — the interposition would not save his having to fight all three simultaneously. He decided to maintain his course; the British ships on the larboard bow could come no closer to him, and by his superior speed he would gradually head-reach on them; possibly he might overtake the Bulldog and force a fight on better terms than might otherwise be the case. He would chase her until dawn and reach his own decision then.

Peacefully through the night the four ships held their steady course; on board the Delaware there was only the low music of the rigging, and the creaking of the woodwork as the seas came rolling up to her weather bow. The watch on deck talked only in whispers, while the watch below snatched an uneasy sleep on the hard planking between the guns. Peabody stood tireless by the rail, listening to the whisper of the seas going by, watching the faint shadows of the British ships to lee­ward, and the dim outline of the mountains of Marti­nique on the horizon to windward.

At eight bells the relieved watch quietly took their turn to try to sleep; there was no bustle and small ex­citement. This crew was a seasoned one; there were men on board who had fought, sixteen years ago, all through the night under Nelson at the Nile, and others who remembered the long chill night watch waiting to attack at Copenhagen. There were a couple of Dutchmen who had watched the British line come bearing down on them at Camperdown, and even if those men who had fought under other flags in fleet actions were only few, the majority had fought pirates off Penang, or had stood to their guns against privateers on the African coast. Heterogeneous the crew may have been once, but their recent career of success had given them a common en­thusiasm, and they were bound together by a common chain of discipline, whose master link was the silent figure who stood with his hand on the quarter-deck rail.

To the eastward the sky grew pink. All of a sudden the mountains of Martinique changed from vague shad­owy slopes to sharp hard outlines which might have been cut from black paper and laid against the bright­ness. Round the sides of the outline the light came seep­ing like flood water round an obstruction. To the west­ward the sky was still dark, the British ships were still vague, and then suddenly the light reached up into the sky above them and revealed them, all sail set, in line ahead, Calypso leading, Racer astern, the Bulldog four miles ahead and to windward of them.

As the seconds went by, the mountains of Martinique took on a new solidity. The bald crown of Mont Pelee caught the sunlight and reflected it, while the hues of the sunrise faded, pink and lavender and green sinking forgotten into the blue. Still the sun was behind the mountains, which cast their long black shadow far out to sea, until with a kind of wink the edge of the yellow sun looked over the saddle between the mountains to the north and those to the south, and instantly it was full day. The mountain sides were green now, and broad on the starboard beam opened the bay of Fort-de-France, with the steep pyramid of the Diamond Rock on the starboard quarter. Behind it, through Peabody's glass, showed the colored sails of the fishing boats mak­ing for the town with their night's catch; and, beyond, the white roofs and walls of Fort-de-France itself. The dwellers in the town would have a fine view of the battle, if one were to be fought soon. Perhaps the Marquis and his womenfolk were already being roused with the news that a battle was possible.

Peabody swung his glass back to the British squadron. They were holding their course steadily; during the night the Delaware had forereached upon them only a trifle, although she had perceptibly cut down upon the Bulldog. He had only to give the word for the wheel to be put to starboard and in twenty minutes he would be upon them, amid the roar of the guns and the clatter of battle. The temptation was grave, like that of a bottle two thirds full. There was an analogy between the two prospects, too. In either case there would be an hour's mad satisfaction, and then, at the end, oblivion. Peabody knew the full force of that temptation, but he put it aside. He must play the game out to the bitter end, preserve the Delaware so that she could continue her career of destruction.

Beyond Mont Pelee lay Cape St. Martin; he could weather it easily on his present course, and, once through the straits, he could go about and vanish into the At­lantic distance. Shaking off pursuit, he would be free once more. Port-of-Spain or Port Royal or Ban try Bay; the British would not know where to seek him until he should announce his presence by further sinkings and burnings.

The shadow of the mizzen shrouds moved a little across his face, and in a vertical sense, too, not in the circular way which was the continual result of the pitch and roll of the ship. Her course was altering a little; if that were due to the quartermaster's negligence the shadow would move back in the next second, but it did not. In that one second Peabody's subconscious mind, trained in twenty years at sea, had made the whole de­duction. His glance swept the pennant at the masthead, the spread of the main topsail, the man at the wheel. The helmsman had not been negligent; the wind had backed northerly a trifle, and he had had to change course a trifle to keep the ship on the wind. Hubbard was already beside the wheel, along with Poynter, the acting master.

A faint uncertainty came into Peabody's mind, and he could see from Hubbard's attitude as he talked with Poynter that his first lieutenant felt the same. With the rising of the sun it was not unnatural that the wind should grow fluky. Another puff breathed on his cheek and the Delaware's bow came farther round still as the helmsman yielded to it. On this course it was by no means a certainty that the Delaware would be able to weather Cape St. Martin; and with every point the wind veered, by that much was he deprived of the advantage of the weather gauge. Until now the British ships had been powerless to get within range of him without his cooperation, and he could choose his own moment for battle. Now the freakishness of the West Indian wind was depriving him of the advantages which his fore­thought had won for him.

It was a random puff of wind which had been re­sponsible for the Constellation's overtaking the Insurgente when Peabody was a lieutenant under Truxtun. Thirty years ago at the Battle of the Saintes a flaw in the wind had been responsible for the breaking of the French line and for Rodney's victory — which, if it had happened six years earlier, might well have post­poned indefinitely the independence of the United States. Tremendous events sometimes resulted from the unpredictable vagaries of the wind. At this very mo­ment the fate of the Delaware, his own life, depended on them. But as the vagaries were unpredictable, as they were dictated by a quite unscrutable Providence, there was no reason to allow them to anger him; it would be childish as well as irreverent to break into recriminations over them, the way Hubbard over there was doing. Hubbard was looking at the trend of the land, and then out to sea at the British squadron, and up at the pennant which told the direction of the wind, and the long black curses were pouring from his lips. Hubbard found it hard to bear the tension when it was obvious that if the wind veered another single point the Delaware's escape round Cape St. Martin would be im­possible.

"Mr. Hubbard! Hoist the colors, if you please."

Peabody still stood by the rail, his lean face and his hard eyes expressionless as he awaited his fate, and within him he was just as unmoved, thanks to his self-mastery.

The British ships had hauled to the wind as it veered, keeping parallel with the Delaware's course. Across four miles of blue water the Calypso and the Racer main­tained their rigid line ahead, all sail set and drawing; as the Stars and Stripes went up to the Delaware's peak the White Ensign rose to theirs, fluttering jauntily, and at that very moment Peabody felt the shadows move across his face again. The wind had veered one more point — two more points.

Now the Delaware's bow was pointed straight for the foot of Mont Pelee. The Calypso and the Racer must be exultant to see her cut off from the open sea. There were signal flags going up to the Calypso's weather yardarm, and the Bulldog was answering them. Next moment she hove in stays and went about. On the op­posite tack she was heading just for the spot where the Delaware would have to change her course if she were not to go aground — just for the spot where the Calypso and Racer would intercept her so that all the four ships would come together at once. Peabody studied the blank sky, the expressionless sea. He was trying to guess what the unpredictable wind would do next. If it were to back, he still would have a chance to reach the open sea, and to pound the Bulldog into the bargain while the other ships looked on helplessly. The wind was as likely to back as it was to veer; more likely, perhaps, as it had veered so far. Peabody held his course and issued no orders. He caught his fingers in the act of nervously drumming on the rail before him, and he peremptorily stilled them.

Five minutes went by. Ten minutes went by, and at the end of ten minutes the wind had veered half a point more. Peabody broke into action again. He made his body stand stiff and immovable, and he kept his voice at a conversational pitch, not for the sake of the ex­ample it gave, but because these servants of his mind must act without weakness.

"Mr. Hubbard! Tack, if you please."

Even a losing battle must be fought out to the end; if Providence had declared against him he must fight Providence to the last, for that was the only way to earn the approval of Providence. By tacking he would delay the encounter with the British squadron and have a chance of fighting at a better advantage than if he fought at present. Something might always happen. Providence might relent, the British might blunder, the wind might change or might drop altogether. Tacking would prolong the chase and give Providence a chance. The canvas slatted and the block rattled as the Delaware came up into the wind, and stilled again as she caught the wind on the other side. Now her bow was pointed straight towards the bay of Fort-de-France, with its rocky islets and its white cubes of houses; that was the corner into which he was being driven.

The Calypso had tacked the moment the Delaware did, and the Racer tacked in succession behind her, neatly backing her topsails for a second to maintain her interval — the British could handle ships, without a doubt. Astern came the Bulldog, reveling in the safety which the veering of the wind had given her. It was she who was to windward now, who held the weather gauge, who could select her moment for battle. Peabody could not turn and tack up to her without having the other ships upon him before he reached her. In the Windward Passage he had had all the advantages, the advantage of the weather gauge, the advantage of surprise, the advantage of the fact that the British ships were separated to guard a convoy, the advantage that the power of his ship was unknown — all of these advantages which he had won by his own foresight, but which had given him the opportunity to defeat his enemies in detail.

In the present encounter the wind had been unkind, and the British had learned caution. They were keeping their squadron massed while he was being driven upon a lee shore where he could not refuse battle to their united forces. But the game was not lost yet; he still had some miles of sea room in which to prolong the chase. Standing out towards the Diamond Rock ahead was a white sail. Peabody whipped his glass to his eye; it was neither a friend nor another enemy — it was the Tigresse. Coming to see the sport, he supposed, a little bitterly. It would be an unusual experience for the French in these war-torn islands to witness a battle which did not affect them. Well, he could imagine the way boats would have poured out through the Narrows filled with sightseers three years ago if the rumor had gone round New York of an approaching battle be­tween English and French off Sandy Hook.

He could claim the protection of French neutrality if he wanted to — run for Fort-de-France and shelter under the guns and laugh at the British. He was sure that the Marquis would do his best to protect him, be­cause he remembered what the Marquis had said about maintaining strict neutrality. Since he had given the order to tack the idea had come into his mind more than once, and he had put it on one side, guiltily. It was what he ought to do, logically. If it were best to keep the Delaware afloat and as a fighting unit it would be better for her to be blockaded in Fort-de-France than sunk or captured. But he would not do it, not even though it were his duty. He would rather fight — or to word it better, he was set on fighting in preference to accepting French protection; but he felt guilty about it because he fancied that an honorable defeat was the wrong choice from the naval point of view. On this vital mat­ter, for the first time in twenty years, he was going to allow his personal predilections to outweigh his sense of duty. He was tired of running away.

He looked over at Fort-de-France and at the ap­proaching Tigresse. Time was growing short, and if he were going to fight it would be best to do it now while there was still a little room to maneuver, although God knew that once he was locked in battle with three British ships there would be small opportunity for a maneuver.

"Mr. Hubbard," he said, and in his determination to allow himself no emotion the New England drawl which his Navy service had done much to eradicate was more pronounced than ever. "Clew up the topgallants and royals, and then heave to, if you please. We'll wait for them to come up."

Hubbard's dark-complexioned face showed his sar­donic smile as the meaning of the words penetrated his understanding; he turned and bawled his orders, and the hands came running to the braces. The Delaware's way diminished as the yards came round, and she lay there in the blinding sunlight, submitting to the waves instead of riding purposefully over them. Peabody turned to watch the British ships swooping down on him, and as he did so he heard a sound on the deck behind him. Somebody was cheering, and the cheering spread, echoing from the main deck under his feet, taken up by the fighting parties in the tops. The whole crew was cheering and leaping about at the pros­pect of instant battle, and Peabody smiled as he looked over his shoulder at them. They were a fine lot of men.

But this was no time for sentiment. Peabody turned back again to his duty of observing the approaching attack; when the time should come he must have the Delaware under way again, handy and under control for the fight. The Calypso and the Racer were already shortening sail for action, while the Bulldog, still under all canvas, was moving so as to take station astern of them. Their plan would be to try to engage the Dela­ware all on the same side; he must do his best to prevent it. He eyed the narrowing stretch of blue water across which his fate was approaching.

He was surprised by the sudden appearance of the Tigresse close under the Delaware's stern — she came by under all sail, tearing through the water only at pistol-shot distance away; in fact what first distracted Peabody's attention to her was the sound of her bows cleaving the waves as she approached. Startled, he looked down at the smart little sloop. She was cleared for ac­tion, her guns' crews standing ready round the dozen popguns which stood on her deck, and aft there was a glittering party in blue and gold. Standing out among them was the Marquis, conspicuous with his blue ribbon over his shoulder and the orders hung on his coat. He held a speaking trumpet in his hand, and as the Tigresse slid by he raised it to his lips.

"Stay where you are!" he shouted. "I'll come back to you!"

That was damned insolence, if ever there was such. Peabody's mouth opened a trifle in his astonishment, and he stared after the impertinent little vessel as she sailed by, heading straight for the British squadron with the white flag with the golden lilies fluttering at her peak. Peabody watched her round to, square in the Calypso's path, and he saw the white puff of smoke as she fired a signal gun; directly afterwards the Calypso had to throw her sails aback to avoid an actual col­lision. The British squadron bunched and lost its rigid line as the three vessels clustered together.

"What's on his mind, sir?" asked Hubbard, as much in the dark as Peabody.

"Square away, Mr. Hubbard. We'll go down and

see."

Possibly this might be a chance of catching the British off their guard. If the Tigresse got hurt in the melee it would only be her own fault. But the yards had hardly been braced round before a smart little gig dropped from the Tigresse's side and began to pull towards the Delaware, the white flag at her bows. Dupont was in the stern, standing up signaling with his hand for atten­tion. Peabody looked over at the halted British squad­ron, at the Tigresse between him and them.

"Oh, back the mizzen tops'l again, Mr. Hubbard," he said. His exasperation showed itself in the omission of the formal "if you please."

They dropped a rope ladder for Captain Dupont — in a ship cleared for action there was no way of offering him a more dignified entrance — and the fat little man came strutting aft to where Peabody had come halfway to meet him. At six paces he took off his hat and bowed; Peabody merely uncovered. To make a leg and double himself in the middle did not seem to be a natural thing to do on the deck of his own ship.

"His Excellency sends you his compliments," said Dupont.

"Yes?"

"And His Excellency would consider it a favor if Monsieur le Capitaine Peabody would be kind enough to visit him aboard the Tigresse."

"Oh, he would?" said Peabody. There were all sorts of replies possible, every one crushing, every one well designed to convey to the Marquis exactly what Pea­body thought of this gratuitous interference. Peabody was making his selection when Dupont neatly spiked his guns.

"The British Commodore is there already," he said, pointing over the blue water. Alongside the Tigresse bobbed a smart red gig, the straw-hatted crew fending her off. The sight left Peabody wordless.

"It would give me great pleasure," said Dupont, "if M. le Capitaine would make use of my boat, which is ready."

"I'll come," said Peabody. It was a mad world, and something madder than usual may have happened.

He slid down into Dupont's gig and took his seat be­side the French captain, and the swarthy French sailors bent to their oars. On board the Tigresse every prepara­tion had been made for the reception of officers of high rank, and beside the guard of honor stood the Marquis, bareheaded.

"Good morning, Captain," said the Marquis. "I trust you are enjoying the best of health?"

What Peabody wanted to say was "Damn my health," but he forced himself to mutter some form of politeness.

"I must present you to my other guest," said the Marquis. His handsome mouth wore a smile, his bearing was one of perfect deference, but somehow there was a hint of the mailed fist within the velvet glove. "Cap­tain Josiah Peabody, United States Ship Delaware — Captain the Honorable Sir Hubert Davenant, His Britannic Majesty's Ship Calypso, Senior Officer of the British Squadron."

Davenant was a man in his early fifties, gray-haired, with a hard straight mouth like Peabody's and plainly in a very bad temper indeed.

" 'Morning," said Davenant. "The Frogs want to stop us fighting."

He talked English with the gobbled o's and the hot-potato accent which Peabody had last heard used by certain exquisites at Valletta.

"His Most Christian Majesty's Government," said the Marquis, politely, "is determined to maintain its neu­trality."

Peabody looked from one to the other, and the Marquis took up the tale. He pointed across the water to Pointe des Negres on one side of the ship, and to Cap Salomon on the other.

"You are within French territorial waters," he said. "I can permit no fighting here between any belligerents whatever."

"But damn it, sir — " said Davenant.

"I shall fire," went on the Marquis, "into any ship disobeying my instructions while within my jurisdic­tion."

Davenant snorted and Peabody grinned. There was not any particular menace about the Tigresse's popguns, but the Marquis was quite unmoved and continued placidly.

"I left orders on shore," he said, "that the guns of Fort Bourbon and those of TroisIlets were to follow my example. There are twenty thirty-two-pounders trained on us at the present moment, I have no doubt."

That was a very different story indeed. No frigate in the world could stand being knocked about by thirty-two-pounders. The chances were that every ship in the bay, British and American, would be dismasted in a few minutes' firing. The Marquis still smiled, his manner was perfectly polite, but the mailed fist was quite ob­vious. He had every intention in the world of carrying out his threat.

"God rot all Frenchmen!" said Davenant, petulantly. His gold epaulettes flashed in the sun as he swung back and forth looking at the batteries. Then he rounded on Peabody. "You came in here because you knew this would happen, damn you!"

"I did not, damn you, sir!" snapped Peabody.

"Come out of the bay and fight me, then."

"I was going to say the same thing," blazed Peabody, shaking with wrath. "Come on!"

"Gentlemen!" said the Marquis. There was an edge to his voice.

"Mind your own business!" said Peabody.

"Gentlemen!" said the Marquis again. "Don't forget the twenty-four-hour rule."

That halted them in their stride. A vague recollection of his reading of the almost forgotten laws of neutrality came into Peabody's mind.

"When the ships of two belligerents enter a neutral harbor," said the Marquis, "an interval of twenty-four hours must elapse between their respective departures. I cannot stop your leaving, but I can, and I will, stop your leaving together. I have to consider His Most Christian Majesty's dignity."

It was perfectly true. In a world which had known no neutrals whatever for years the rule had been for­gotten, and furthermore during earlier years Britain's overpowering naval might and the desperate exigencies of her position had forced her officers to ignore neutral susceptibilities — as Peabody well remembered. But here was a neutral with both the will and the power to en­force her neutrality, with a couple of batteries armed with thirty-two-pounders loaded and pointed and ready. He caught Davenant's eye, and the British cap­tain was so obviously crestfallen that he could not help smiling. And with his smile his hotheaded passion evapo­rated, and his native shrewdness returned along with his clear common sense.

"Please do not consider it presumption on my part, gentlemen," went on the Marquis. "I must apologize in advance for any appearance of trying to advise you. But may I remind you that I do not expect either of your Governments would be too pleased if any offense were offered to that of His Most Christian Majesty?"

"Damn His Most — " began Davenant, and then he bit the words off short. The ways of statesmen were strange and inscrutable. There was a peace congress being summoned at Vienna, and a lively incident be­tween the British and the new French Government might perhaps wreck some of the politicians' dealings. And in that case God help the career of the officer responsible! Peabody could see the struggle in Davenant's face as he tried to control his peppery temper and be tactful. The Marquis ignored the unfinished sen­tences, while Davenant began to reframe his plans in accordance with this totally new situation. An idea clearly struck him, and he turned to Peabody.

"You can't go out first," he said. "There's nothing you'd like better than a twenty-four-hour start."

Peabody was in agreement. Two hours' start would be enough, for that matter. Once the Delaware was over the horizon the business of catching her would be far more complicated for the British. To the American Government, a frigate loose on the high seas was worth two — was worth two dozen — in harbor or with their whereabouts known. But he kept his face expression­less; he was not going to yield any points in this argu­ment if he could help it.

"I'll have to go out first," said Davenant, thought­fully; "I'll wait for you tomorrow."

Peabody was quite taken aback by this calm assump­tion. He felt he had never heard anything quite so British before in his life.

"You'll go out first?" he said. "Why shouldn't / go out first? I came in first."

"That's nothing to do with it," replied Davenant tartly.

"I'll make it have something to do with it," said Pea­body.

"You will, will you?"

Davenant braced himself stiffly, his chin protruding as he put his head back to meet the taller man's eyes.

"That's what I said," answered Peabody.

Then at that moment the ludicrous nature of the argument and of their attitudes suddenly struck him. He was reminded of the preliminaries to his first fight at sea, when he and Grant — the Grant who subse­quently was killed at Tripoli — were squaring up to each other at the age of twelve on the foredeck of the coastguard cutter Beagle. Peabody laughed, uncontrol­lably, and Davenant began to dance with rage. Only for a second, for his own sense of humor came to the rescue of his dignity and he laughed as well. The first round closed with the two of them grinning at each other. Davenant was the first to regain his composure.

"Seriously, sir," he said, "I don't know what the Admiralty would say if they heard I let you out of here after chasing you in. I'd be court-martialed — I'd be broke — I'd be on the beach for the rest of my life, if they didn't shoot me."

"And what about me?" said Peabody, this presenta­tion of the case revealing a new light to him. "What would they say about me in Washington? What would the Navy Department say if I let you go out of here on better terms than you came in? We have courts-martial in our service, too, sir."

"Yes, I suppose you have," said Davenant thought­fully. "Damn all admiralties."

Peabody had the feeling that each of them was spar­ring for an opening in this second round, after the heated exchanges of the first.

"Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "may I make a sug­gestion?"

They both turned and looked at him, suddenly re­minded of his presence after some minutes of oblivion.

"Yes, sir?" said Davenant. Peabody noticed the hauteur of his manner — the irritating manner of one who represented the most powerful navy in the world.

"Can a question of this importance be decided in five minutes' conversation?" asked the Marquis. "I must confess that I myself can see no way out of this impasse at the moment. And I might remind you that our five valuable ships are all of them hove to, on a lee shore. Why not drop anchor in Fort-de-France for tonight at least? You gentlemen may not be specially busy, but as Governor of this island I have other things to do besides listening to your arguments, educational though they are."

Davenant looked back at Peabody, and Peabody looked at Davenant.

"How's your water?" asked Davenant.

"I've enough," said Peabody cautiously.

"So've I. But I'd like some fresh. And I could do with some fresh vegetables after chasing you round the islands for five weeks. Is there any sign of scurvy among your men?"

"They'd be all the better for a run ashore," admitted Peabody.

"I don't let my men ashore in a neutral port," said Davenant. "At least, only the few I can trust not to desert."

He checked himself on the tempting edge of the abyss of professional conversation.

"I'm delighted to see you in agreement, gentlemen," said the Marquis.

At first that seemed to be taking a good deal for granted, but the more the two captains considered the statement, the truer it appeared to be. To each of them the moment appeared to offer a golden opportunity to give his men a rest while at the same time conferring no advantage on his opponent.