The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter XII

A LETTER for you, sir," said the midshipman on duty, after knocking at Peabody's cabin door.

The seal on the back was elaborate — a coat of arms of many quarterings. Peabody broke it with care, and unfolded the paper.

The Governor's House, Fort-de-France. May 30, 1814.

His Excellency the Governor and the Countess d'Ernee request the pleasure of the company of Captain Josiah Peabody and of his Lieutenants tonight at the Governor's House at 8 p.m. Dancing.

Peabody scratched his big nose as he read this invita­tion. Certainly his instructions from the Secretary of the Navy enjoined the strictest regard for the sus­ceptibilities of neutrals.

"Shore boat's waiting for an answer, sir," said the midshipman.

There was no reason in the world why he should not accept, and every reason why he should. Peabody sat down at his desk and painstakingly repointed his quill before writing.

U.S.S. Delaware.

May 30, 1814.

Captain Josiah Peabody, Lieutenants Hubbard, Murray, and Atwell, and Acting Lieutenant Howard, have much pleasure in accepting the kind invitation of His Excellency the Governor and the Countess d'Ernee.

"Washington! Bring me a candle."

It would be far more convenient, and, in a wooden ship, a good deal more safe, to use a wafer to seal the letter, but there was the dignity of the United States to consider. Peabody melted the wax and impressed the ship's seal upon it with the thoughtless dexterity of his long bony fingers, and yet with the utmost deliberation. He was slow in handing the thing to the midshipman, slow in dismissing him. It was only when the door had closed, when the fussy Washington had tidied the desk and gone out, that he reached the moment which he had deliberately postponed while waiting for it impatiently, and abandoned himself to his thoughts.

He knew who would be there, whom he would see, to whom he would undoubtedly talk. He knew now that she had not been out of his thoughts since he had seen her. He had struggled honestly against those thoughts. They not only might have interfered with his duty, but they were sinful — twenty years at sea had not eradi­cated from his mind the idea of sin implanted in him during twelve years of childhood in New England. And now it was no use struggling against them any longer. He gave way to them. He would see those black curls and those blue eyes. He would feel her palm against his — there was sinful pleasure in that thought. The cabin suddenly became too cramped for him, too stuffy, and he went out with long hurried strides, up to where everything was illuminated by the rosy sunset.

On deck he addressed his four lieutenants, gravely, and yet with the lopsided smile which he always em­ployed; Peabody had never seen any particular ad­vantage to be gained from impressing it upon his subordinates that his requests were orders to disobey which involved a maximum penalty of death. Gravely they listened to him, just as they had done when he had been giving orders for the raiding of Nevis.

"You will all of course wear full dress," said Peabody, after telling them of the invitation he had accepted on their behalf. "Epaulettes, silk stockings, swords. Have you a silk cravat, Mr. Howard?"

Howard had been only a midshipman when the Dela­ware commissioned, and Peabody knew by experience that midshipmen often sailed with inadequate outfits.

"Well, sir — "

"I'll see that Mr. Howard has everything, sir," inter­posed Hubbard.

The dandy from Charleston might be expected to have at least two of everything, even though when the voyage started the odds had been ten to one that defeat and death lay at the end of it.

"Very well," said Peabody. He was racking his brains to remember what Truxtun had said in similar circum­stances, when he was a young lieutenant. Truxtun had taken his young officers ashore to receptions, too, had worked conscientiously to educate them in the niceties of a society of which, perforce, they saw little enough, and of the necessity for which Peabody was still only convinced against his will.

"You will dance with every lady who needs a partner," he said. "I don't have to remind you of that. And there'll be plenty of wine — you'll be careful how you drink."

"Aye aye, sir."

"And — Oh, that'll do. Dismiss."

There were bright lights over at the quay when Peabody took his place at the tiller of his gig that evening among his officers, and as the boat made its way over the quiet water the lights gradually resolved themselves into flaming torches held by colored servants in blue-and-white livery. A footman stooped to help the officers from their boat, and they climbed out. The solid stone of the jetty felt strange under their feet, for it was eighteen weeks since they had last trodden earth; they all stamped a little curiously as if to reassure themselves. The colored footman welcomed them with a few words which none of them understood, and under the guid­ance of two torchbearers they began their walk up into the town. On the far side of the jetty there were other torchbearers, another boat coming in; and Peabody, glancing across, saw the red light of the torches reflected from gold epaulettes and buttons. Apparently the Brit­ish officers were also attending the Marquis's reception; the Americans passed within a couple of yards of the waiting group, and on both sides a sudden silence fell over everyone, conversation dying away guiltily. No one knew whether or not to say "Good evening" to his enemies, and the situation was complicated by the fact that only Peabody and Davenant had been presented to each other. In the end the British officers looked out across the dark harbor while the Americans hurried by awkwardly.

There were lights at every window of the Governor's house, and long before they reached it they could hear music; at the open door stood a dozen colored footmen, appearing strange to Peabody's eyes in their knee breeches, their smart livery, and their white hair-powder. The Americans handed over their boat-cloaks and stood eyeing each other in the dazzling light as they adjusted cravats and ruffles; Peabody was con­scious of a dryness of the throat and a queer feeling, com­parable a little to hunger, in the pit of his stomach. Howard was as nervous as he was, he was glad to note — the boy's hands were not quite steady as he tried to shoot his cuffs. The calmest one among them was Atwell, who looked about him quite unabashed.

"I've a wife in New London," said Atwell with a grin on his homely face, "who'll never forgive me if I can't tell her all about this evening. Please God I can re­member what the women are wearing."

At the head of the stairs stood three figures, the Marquis with a torrent of lace running from his chin to his waist, his blue ribbon crossing his breast, an order dangling from his neck and a star over his heart, as handsome a picture as one could see anywhere. Lace and ribbons and stars — Peabody thought of them all with instinctive suspicion, but when the Marquis wore them they had not that meretricious appearance which he would have expected. On the Marquis's right was the Countess d'Ernee, in her widow's black, her white shoulders a little solid, the smile with which she greeted the guests a little forced — so Peabody thought. And on the Marquis's left was Anne.

When Peabody looked at her all the rest of the glitter­ing scene faded out; it was as if her face alone was standing out against a gray and misty background, like some miniature portrait. All Peabody's vagueness as to her appearance vanished with startling abruptness. Of course he knew, he had always known, exactly what she looked like. He had been so sure of it that the minutest change would have been instantly apparent to him. He found himself smiling as their eyes met, the whole of his body singing with happiness, which, he told himself, was due to the extraordinary identity between her pres­ent appearance and what he remembered of her. There was something hugely satisfactory about that, like the solution of some involved mathematical problem, or like picking up moorings in a crowded harbor with a gale blowing.

Something that Atwell had said echoed in his mind, and he tried to force himself to take note of what she was wearing. But it was difficult; it was hard to focus his gaze upon her, just as it had been hard in the old days to focus upon the candle flames of the mess table when he had been drinking. There was a white throat and white shoulders; Peabody's head swam as his gaze went lower down and he saw that Anne's gown did not begin until there was more than a hint of her bosom revealed. He expected a sudden consciousness of sin at the revela­tion and was a little taken aback when it did not come, as when an aching tooth suddenly ceases to hurt. There was something black and something red about her gown; he was sure of that. And there were pearls in the picture, too, which were just as mathematically satis­factory, but whether because of the pink-and-white skin or because of the contrast with the black curls he could not decide.

He came to himself with the realization that there were other guests on the stairway and he must lead his party on to the ballroom; Captain Dupont was there to do the honors. Presumably it was his meeting with Anne which had made him hypersensitive, but Peabody felt himself suddenly in sympathy with the people in the room, telepathically aware of the sensation their entrance caused. The five officers, with their rolling gaits and their mahogany complexions, close-cropped hair and plain dress — despite their epaulettes and gold — were like a breath of sea air entering a hot house. Round the room were many languid exquisites, many lovely and fragile women, and the men looked at the Americans with vague contempt, the women with awakening interest. Peabody was suddenly glad that his neckcloth was of plain pleatless silk, and that his sword hilt was mere cut steel, unjeweled and ungilded.

At one end of the long room there were wide-open double doors, through which could be seen a supper room glittering with silver; at the other end was a low dais on which a Negro orchestra was waiting. Captain Dupont had hardly begun to make presentations when the orchestra broke into a swinging, lively tune, and Peabody gaped a little as the dancers came on the floor. Each man took a woman in his arms, and each woman clasped her partner, perfectly shamelessly. The couples circled round the floor, each with a sort of wheel-like motion which reminded Peabody of the movement of the tiny water animalcules which he had observed as a boy in the stagnant water of summer pools; but it was not the motion which appeared so strange, as the cold­blooded way in which the embraces were publicly performed, the women looking up into the men's eyes and talking as collectedly as if they had no sense of shame whatever, regardless of clasped hands, of arms round waists, of hands on shoulders, of bosom against breast, or very nearly.

"That's the waltz," said Hubbard between his teeth to Peabody. "I heard it was all the rage in Europe."

A languorous beauty in her late thirties to whom Pea­body was being presented overheard the remark.

"Indeed it is," she said. "All the world dances it. All the world has met together in Paris now, I hear. Ex­cepting for us poor souls, doomed to an eternity of bore­dom on this little island. Tell me, Captain, do you intend to give your young officers a day ashore? It will be a pleasure to me to do what I can to make their visit enjoyable. I can send horses for them down to the port — my estate is St. Barbara, six miles away from

town."

She flashed dark eyes from behind her fan at the circle of officers. "That is extremely kind of you, ma'am," said Peabody. "Unfortunately I have no knowledge — "

There was so much bustle in the hall at this moment that he was compelled to break off his speech and look round. The English officers were entering the hall, Davenant in the lead, the naval officers in the smart uniforms with the new white facings which Peabody had heard about and never seen before, the two Marine officers in red coats and high-polished boots.

"You mean," said the languorous beauty, "that you do not know when you are going to fight those gentle­men there. Well, it's in poor taste, now that the rest of the world is at peace. You should be ashamed to deprive us of the society of your charming Americans — it is years since we set eyes on one. We are accustomed to Englishmen, after the long English rule here. The sight of a redcoat no longer rouses a thrill in our blase hearts, Captain. But you Americans — "

"Yes, of course, ma'am," said Peabody, as she ob­viously awaited some kind of answer, but there must have been a fount of hidden humor in the trite words, for the lady said "La!" and flashed her fan again.

Peabody's eyes met Davenant's across the room. There was a moment's hesitation on the part of both parties of officers, and then they bowed to each other formally, the juniors copying the example of the seniors, and Peabody was glad to see that the gesture was performed just as badly by the English lieutenants as by his own, and that their gait was just as rolling and unfitted for a ballroom. Even Davenant, with his high fashionable neckcloth, and his red ribbon, and his star, was obviously someone straight off a quarter-deck.

Here came Dupont, very preoccupied.

"Captain Peabody, your commission as captain is a recent one, I fancy?"

"I have two years' seniority, sir."

"Captain Davenant is the senior, then, his commission dating back eighteen years. Then he will dance the cotillion with Madame la Comtesse d'Ernee, and you, sir, will stand up with Mademoiselle de Villebois."

"Mamselle de — ?" asked Peabody, and was promptly annoyed with himself. Even if he could not pronounce Anne's name he ought to have recognized it instantly. To cover his confusion he fell back on for­mality. "Of course I shall be delighted, sir."

This was a serious moment. Not more than six times in his life had Peabody attended a ball, although in view of the occasional professional necessity of doing so he had studied the conventions of dancing seriously enough, resolutely putting aside the nagging of his conscience on the matter. But this was something he had to go through, something unavoidable and inevitable; it was therefore no moment for doubt. The Marquis and Anne and the Countess were already entering the room, and Peabody braced himself, made a final adjustment of his cuffs, and strode over. He managed his bow, but, try as he would, to his great surprise the formal request for the pleasure of the cotillion was a mere mumbled jumble of words. Anne smiled and curtseyed.

"I shall be delighted, Captain Peabody."

In something like a dream he offered his arm, and she rested her hand on it. Walking in that fashion was a new experience. There was no sensation of weight; in fact it was quite the reverse. His arm felt all the lighter for the touch, as though a Montgolfier balloon were tied to it. She glided along beside him as weightless as a feather. Peabody had a feeling which reminded him of those few occasions when drink had exhilarated him without stupefying. In front of him Davenant was speaking to the Countess.

"I fear I don't know the drill, ma'am," he was saying. "As a matter of fact I'm damned awkward in a ball­room."

"Never mind about that," said the Countess. "Charles will lead. All we have to do is to follow."

That was doubly comforting: both to know that Davenant was nervous, and that the Marquis would carry the responsibility; the Marquis was already lead­ing out the languorous beauty of St. Barbara, and the lines were falling in behind them. Peabody had re­covered sufficiently to dart a quick glance round and to see that each of his officers was leading a lady into the dance. The band played a warning chord, and he turned to his partner and took her hand in his.

For Peabody that was his last clear recollection. The rest of the dance was just a divine madness. He was drunk with music and with the proximity of Anne. Awkwardness and the restraints of conscience vanished simultaneously. He bowed and scraped, he capered when the necessity arose, he strode with dignity; while sheer instinct — it could have been nothing else — saved him from allowing his sword to trip his partner or himself. The Marquis and his lady certainly knew how to lead a cotillion, and the orchestra did its part to perfection. A perfect wave of lightheartedness flooded the ballroom, everyone presumably infected by the gaiety of the Marquis. Everyone was smiling and laughing, even the elderly chaperones against the wall. Peabody's mind was a whirl of tumultuous impressions, of pearls and black curls, of white teeth between red lips when Anne smiled, of blue eyes and black lashes. When the dance ended he had an impression of awakening from some innocent and delightful dream, dreamed in a feather bed of unbelievable comfort. Yet his head was singularly clear.

"May I offer you some refreshment, ma'am?" he said, remembering his manners.

"The most grateful refreshment would be fresh air, don't you think, Captain?" said Anne.

She turned toward that side of the room which had no wall, opening onto a side porch, where the last breaths of the sea breeze were entering; her hand was on his arm again, and she glided along beside him across the ball­room. Out on the porch, with the light streaming be­hind her, she rested her hands on the rail and looked out across the town to the sea. The moon illuminated the bay, and the ships riding there at anchor, while from the garden before them arose a dozen strains of music — an orchestra which rivaled that of the ballroom — as frogs and crickets and a drowsy bird or two all chirped and croaked in unison.

"You dance very well indeed, Captain," said Anne.

That singular clearness of head which had come over him saved him from imperiling the good impression with a mock-modest reply.

"No one could dance otherwise with you, ma'am," he said.

"And you pay a pretty compliment, too," said Anne; there was more music in her chuckle, and Peabody was drunk with music.

"I speak the truth," said Peabody, with a sincerity which was a greater compliment still.

"You must save those pretty speeches for Madame Clair," said Anne.

"And who is she?"

"How hurt she would be to hear that, after ogling you from behind her fan for five minutes! She is the lady who danced with my father."

"I remember her now."

"She is looking for her fourth husband."

"Where is he?"

"On earth somewhere, I have no doubt. But I do not know who he is, nor does Madame Clair, yet. Neverthe­less, she will meet him soon enough. Perhaps she met him this evening."

"God forbid!" said Peabody, fervently, at the pros­pect of becoming Madame Clair's fourth husband.

"She waltzes beautifully. You should ask her for the pleasure of a dance."

"I can't waltz."

"Now that is serious, Captain Peabody. Naval officers should never visit neutral harbors without knowing the waltz. As ambassadors of good will — as diplomats on occasion — the knowledge would be of the highest advantage."

Mademoiselle de Villebois' expression was demure, but somewhere there was a hint of a twinkle, and Peabody could not tell whether he was being teased or not.

"I shall take lessons at once," said Peabody.

As he spoke, there came low music from the violins in the ballroom.

"At once?" asked Anne.

It was a waltz which the violins were playing; Anne cast a hesitant glance behind her, for etiquette de­manded that she should return to the ballroom the mo­ment the next dance following the cotillion began. And yet — and yet . . .

"I am ready to learn," said Peabody.

This extraordinary clarity of mind was quite amazing; it was intoxicating enough almost to defeat its own purpose.

"One two three four five six," said Anne. She held up her arms as if she were in a partner's hold and danced by herself to the music. "You slide the feet. You make the turn smooth as you can."

She stopped, facing him, her hands still raised, and Peabody automatically held her.

"One two three four five six," said Anne. "Turn smoothly. Oh, that's better."

If walking with Anne on his arm had been an amazing sensation, dancing with her in his arms was more amazing still. Peabody had not only been honest, he had been right when he said no one could help dancing well with Anne. She was like an armful of thistledown. The mere touch of her took off the weight from one's feet in a mysterious way; perhaps she was subtly guiding him so that he did not bump into the furniture on the porch, but if so she did it without his knowing, perhaps without her knowing. They slid smoothly over the mahogany floor, the violins inside wailing their hearts out under the bows of the Negro musicians. Anne ceased to count aloud; her expression as Peabody looked down at her was a trifle distracted, as if she were seeing visions. The sight of her face, the round, firm chin and the soft mouth, the strange inspired calm of her expression, gave new lightness to Peabody's feet. He was a man in­spired.

The music came to a heartbroken end.

"Oh!" said Anne, standing still in his arms looking up into his face.

Next moment Peabody kissed her, quite unaware, until lip met lip, that he was doing so. She kissed him in return, her hands on his shoulders; for Peabody every­thing had the awesome clarity of a dream — the touch of her, the scent of her, had an excruciating pleasure for him such as he had never known or dreamed of before. He looked down at her bewildered; he had never thought of a love affair as being as simple as this, as free from the implications of sin, as inevitable and as natural as this.

"Oh!" said Anne again, but this time there was no disappointment in the voice, only wonder.

"I — I kissed you," said Peabody. He was surprised at himself for being able to use such a word to a woman; it was like those dreams where one found oneself naked and unashamed amid a crowd of people.

"Yes," said Anne, "and I kissed you."

They were still in each other's arms, the one looking up, the other down; with her left hand still on his shoulder she began to rearrange his neckcloth with her right.

"Shall I tell you?" she went on, her eyes no longer looking into his, but instead intent on the neckcloth.

"Shall you tell me what?" asked Peabody.

"That other time when I saw you — on board the Tigresse — when you looked at me — I said to myself, 'That is the man that I would like to kiss.' And then I said to myself that I was foolish, because I had kissed no one except my father, and how should I know? But you see I did know."

She looked up again at him, a little fearful as to the effect of this confession, and Peabody's senses deserted him. All that boasted clarity of mind, all that extreme consciousness, vanished utterly. It was like a wave closing over his head, as he kissed her again. He found himself trembling as the wave subsided; he was a little frightened as he suddenly realized, for the first time, the depths of passion that there were within him. With a hint of panic he released her, and stood staring at her in the faint light. He was so intent on his own problems that he paid no attention to the footsteps that he heard approaching; and that was as well, because it saved him from betray­ing himself with a guilty start when one of the new­comers began to speak.

"Anne!" said Madame d'Ernee; she began to speak in French, but corrected herself and went on in English. "I did not know you were here. Madame Clair will look after you while I am not in the ballroom."

Peabody blinked at her, recovering his wits. The Countess was not angry. It even seemed incompre­hensibly as if she were a little embarrassed, and then Peabody saw clearly again and realized that she actually was. Standing behind her was Davenant, and Davenant was a little awkward and self-conscious too. He twitched at his neckcloth and shot his cuffs. It certainly was not to look for Anne that the Countess and Davenant had come out onto the porch.

"Yes, Aunt," said Anne, perfectly steadily, albeit a little subdued. "Shall we go in again, Captain Peabody?"

She put her hand on his arm, and they began to walk back. Davenant made way for them with a bow not quite of the perfect polish he had usually displayed.