The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter XXI

TURN TO the other side, sir, please," said Washing­ton. He was shaving his captain with all the gusto Peabody expected of him. Washington had been perfectly delighted to find Peabody crippled in both arms — it gave him enormous pleasure to wait upon him hand and foot, to pass his shirt over his head and part his hair, and Peabody hated it. He had forbidden Washington to chatter while attending on him — curious how the act of shaving someone else seemed to loosen a man's tongue — but Washington sidestepped the order by asking Peabody to move his head as the operation demanded. Washington might well have suffered some internal in­jury as a result of accumulated pressure had he not done so, in fact — for the chance to say those few words he was willing even to forego the pleasure of tweaking his captain's nose and turning his chin from side to side. It was hateful to have Washington attend to him, and yet it was delicious to have Anne do so. There was en­chantment in the touch of her slender fingers, always cool somehow in the sweltering heat of the West Indian autumn. There was a queer pleasure in being dependent upon Anne, for him who had made it a rule all his life to be dependent upon nobody. There was a mad shock of joy when he discovered for certain that there was pleasure for her in looking after him. She would stoop and slip the pumps off his feet, the stockings from his legs, and she could smile while she did it. And when she took his head on her shoulder and put her lips against his forehead troubles and anxieties and responsibilities lost their weight. Memories of a red-coated figure writh­ing in bonds were not nearly so acute then; even the memories of fighting a losing fight on the deck of the Susanna, of the imminent approach of sudden death, were dulled.

That crossing of swords with Lerouge had had a pro­found effect upon Peabody, which even he realized. He was not the same man as had laid his ship so deftly alongside the Susanna, perhaps because of the unexpected nature of the danger he had encountered. He had thought of death from disease, of death among the waves of the sea, of unseen death from a flying cannon shot, but the death he had seen face to face had been at the hands of a pirate, and as a direct result of his own shortcomings in the mere matter of handling a sword. It had had an effect upon him similar to the spiritual upheaval of a religious experience, making him take fresh stock of himself, unsettling him; to feel his face against Anne's smooth throat, to know himself to be loved dearly — these were matters of desperate importance now in the impermanence of life. Yet even so Washington had to shave him.

The wounds healed quickly enough. Downing grudg­ingly admitted that in this particular case Doctor Clarke's method of binding up clean cuts in the blood and leaving them was justifiable. Downing had a theory that the inconsequential behavior of wounds was not as inconsequential as people thought, and that whether they turned gangrenous or not depended to a certain extent on whether some foreign agency were introduced into them. He was a little nervous about this theory — be­cause he had seen wounds heal even with a lump of lead inside them and wounds go gangrenous and refuse to close when there was simply nothing foreign to be seen about them; so that he laughed a little deprecatingly when he hinted that the sword blade which had trans­fixed Peabody's forearm and cut his hand must have been quite clean, and he saw to it that the wounds were exposed as little as possible to the tropical air.

In these conditions they healed quickly — within three days he was allowed to take his right arm out of its sling, and his ability to use the fingers of his right hand relieved him of his hated dependence upon Washington; and as soon as the cuts on his palm had closed over, Downing encouraged him to use his left hand, as well. Otherwise, as Downing said, there was a danger that the scars might prevent his being able to extend his hand fully. There only remained a soreness deep down inside his right forearm, and an angry red blotch to show where Lerouge's sword had entered. That was all — save for a mental soreness, that continual feeling of humiliation at the memory of his helplessness before Lerouge. Peabody was wrongheaded about it; he had not felt fear at the time, and yet he suspected himself of it in the light of his present reactions. It made Anne's kisses all the sweeter, and yet their added sweetness did not mask the bitterness of the distorted memory. Anne, under the vast dome of the mosquito net, with her hus­band at her side, was aware — as of course she would be — of the tangled unhappiness of the man.

The convalescent captain came on board his ship to the usual compliments. She was ready for sea again, com­plete in every particular; it was good to look round her and lay new plans for the future. But Hubbard, who came up to greet him, was worried about something — Peabody could see it in his long face.

"We've got a couple of deserters on board, sir," he said.

"Deserters from where?"

Hubbard jerked his head towards the British squadron which lay on the other side of the bay.

"They're off the Calypso, sir," he said. "They had a flogging coming to them and they didn't stay for it."

"How did they get on board?"

"They swam here, sir, and climbed up through the hawsehole during the middle watch. The anchor watch ought to have seen 'em, sir. I've punished 'em already."

"And the deserters are still here?"

"Yes, sir. Would you like to speak to 'em, sir?"

The two men were a fair sample of the sailors the British Navy had been forced to use in their desperate struggle against the whole world. Larson was elderly, a Swede, slow-spoken and still unfamiliar with English. Williams was a Cockney, hardly more than twenty, pert and sly and with a desperate squint, a warehouse boy in a London draper's before a boating frolic on the Thames had brought him within the clutches of the press.

"What in hell did you come to my ship for?" de­manded Peabody.

Williams jerked his thumb across the bay and winked with the eye which was under his control.

"They row guard every night between the ships and the quay, sir," he said. "I seen too many o' the boys try it, an' I seen wot 'appened to 'em arterward. We couldn't come nowhere but 'ere, sir."

"But what did you want to desert for?"

"Me, sir? Captain's coxs'n, 'e copped me prigging from the cabin stores, sir. It'd ha' been five dozen for me this morning, sir. An' Larson, 'ere — well, sir, you can see how slow 'e is, sir. Boatswain's mate 'ad a down on 'im, sir. Always in 'ot water, 'e was, sir."

"Dat is zo," said Larson.

Peabody looked the two over again. He knew well enough what life on the lower deck of British ships of war was like — the fierce discipline necessary both to restrain the motley crews and to inculcate the unques­tioning obedience which had carried the Navy through such sore trials; the bad food and worse other conditions, which were all that a bankrupt Admiralty could afford for its slaves; the feeling of a lifetime's condemnation as the war dragged on, and on, and the desperate straits of the British Government gave no chance of leave or re­lease. And some petty tyrant had been abusing his power and making Larson's life hell for him. He was sorry for the Swede, although he could feel no sympathy for the squinting Cockney who had deserted his colors.

"Do you want to take service with me?" he asked.

"Yessir," said Williams eagerly.

He was one of that kind who to save his skin would even fight against his own country. Peabody dallied with the idea of returning them both, with his compli­ments, to the Calypso. For the first attempt at desertion in the British Navy the punishment was a thousand lashes. For the second attempt, a milder punishment — death, after the worst had been tried and had failed. Williams read the thought in his face.

"You ain't goin' to send us back, sir?"

"I'll think about it," said Peabody. "Take 'em for'ard."

He could not send them back, of course. He could not give back two trained seamen to his country's enemies. He could not (as he would have liked to do) return Williams and keep Larson. He disliked deserters, and he could sympathize very strongly with what would, of course, be Davenant's reactions when he heard that his men had taken refuge on board the Delaware; but he could not, just on that account, hand them back again. From the point of view of the politicians at Washington, he was achieving something worth while in weakening the British forces — that was an aspect of the case which crossed his mind only later in the day when he was making ready for the reception on shore which was being given by "Captain Henri-Francois Dupont and the Officers of His Most Christian Majesty's Navy."

It was a function to which Anne had been looking forward with eagerness.

"Now the world will be able to see how well you can waltz, dear," she said in the darkness of the carriage as they drove to the reception, and the recollection that the words called up, and the pretty trick of speech, set him smiling despite his preoccupation. It was a surprise to him to find that he, too, was looking forward to the party, to encountering the world with a wife he was proud of on his arm. He had never believed that he would ever know a pleasurable sensation while on his way to a social function.

Captain Dupont was a courteous host, when he re­ceived them in the drawing room of his house above the quay. He asked politely about Peabody's wounds and he turned a pretty compliment about Anne's appearance. It was only when he had finished speaking to her and had turned back to her husband that he saw Peabody stand­ing rigid, staring across the room with the hard lines carved deep in his face. He followed his gaze; there was Jonathan Peabody laughing and joking with half a dozen pretty women, his new wife watchful at his side.

"It is unfortunate, sir," said Dupont. "I am ready enough to admit that. But His Most Christian Majesty's Government can of course take no official cognition of the fact that young Mr. Peabody is a deserter. We only know him as the husband of one of the richest and most influential landowners in the island."

"I understand," said Peabody, and the tone he used made it clear enough that while he understood he did not excuse. He turned away; there was no pleasure in the party for him now. He nodded to Hubbard and the others, who were entering the room eagerly, with all the freshness of their white gloves and glittering lace. Be­hind them came the British officers, Davenant and Fane side by side and their juniors following them. Peabody bowed to them as good manners dictated — just the slightest unbending towards an enemy on neutral soil. The Marquis was entering now, the Countess beside him, and the whole room rose to its feet in deference to the embodied presence of the direct representative of His Most Christian Majesty.

A few minutes later Peabody found himself alone — the Countess had taken Anne from him and had carried her off to where she was now the center of an eager group of chattering women. Peabody wondered what on earth they found to talk about, seeing that most of that group saw each other every day, but he tried to smile tolerantly while he wandered through the rooms. At the far end of the suite was a room where a few elderly people were sitting round card tables, and Davenant and Fane were just emerging. Peabody stood politely aside to make way for them, but Davenant halted and addressed him.

"Good evening, Captain," he said. "I trust you are going to return those two deserters of mine?"

The words which ended in g nearly had no g at all, the way Davenant pronounced them.

"I don't intend to, sir," said Peabody. He was a little nettled at Davenant's calm assumption of certainty.

"You don't intend to?"

Davenant's face exhibited a surprise which was not in the least rhetorical. With the capture of the Susanna, Davenant had come unconsciously to look upon the Delaware as a ship of war which could work with his own in matters not connected with the war between their countries, and Davenant, after forty years at sea, had grown to believe that naval discipline was the most vital and important factor in the civilized world. Peabody's refusal to return deserters would unsettle the crews of all the British ships. If Peabody had announced a determined belief in the community of property, or in the necessity for every man to have nine wives, he could not have been more shocked.

"I don't intend to, sir," repeated Peabody, firmly.

"But, man, you don't understand what this means. D'you think I'm goin' to let a couple of deserters flaunt themselves within a cable's length of my own ship?"

That g quite disappeared as Davenant grew more heated.

"They will flaunt themselves, sir, as you say, if the discipline of my ship permits."

"Good God!"

The exclamation, as Davenant made it, was extraor­dinarily like the gobbling of a turkey, and Davenant's cheeks were deepening in color like the wattles of a turkey. Peabody made no reply, and stood waiting to pass.

"Haven't you any sense of decency, man?" exploded Davenant.

Long years as captain of a ship had made it an unusual experience for Davenant to be crossed in his will, and for as many years he had never made any attempt to control his fiery temper. He did not stop to think what he would have said in reply to a request for the return, say, of a couple of American deserters.

"As much as other people have," said Peabody, "or more."

Hubbard had miraculously appeared from nowhere, and was standing at his shoulder; Peabody was aware of the hush which had fallen about them as people listened to their words, but he did not take his eyes from Dave­nant's. There were strange feelings within him. He knew just whither this argument was leading, and he was strangely glad. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the memory of his fight with Lerouge, and his grim New England conscience was accusing him of fear dur­ing the crossing of swords. He must prove to himself that he had not been afraid. And life had been too good. Anne's kisses had been too sweet. With a desperate con­trariness he felt he must imperil all his unaccustomed happiness to deserve it.

Fane had put his hand on Davenant's shoulder and was trying to lead him away, while Davenant's fierce temper refused to be mollified.

"It's what one might expect of Yankee trickiness," he said. "It's in keeping with the way they use disman­tling shot."

That made Peabody smile despite himself, and the smile set the coping stone on Davenant's rage. He searched through his mind for the most wounding, the crudest thing he could say to this upstart American who had dared to oppose him.

"Of course," he said loudly, "in the American service they marry their deserters to rich widows. Especially when they happen to be the captain's brothers."

Peabody stepped back from the impact of the insult as if it had been a physical blow. His lean brown cheeks were white under their sunburn. When he spoke it was with an interval between the words as he exerted his will to keep himself from bursting out with undignified anger.

"Who is your friend, sir?" he asked.

Davenant's shoulders lifted a trifle as he suddenly realized into what fresh trouble his hot temper had led him. But there was no going back now; the next develop­ment was as inevitable as a rainstorm.

"Captain Fane will act for me, I am sure," he said, and turned away, in obedience to the etiquette of the duel which demanded that he should not see his enemy again until they met upon the ground.

"Captain Fane," said Peabody. "May I have the pleasure of presenting Lieutenant Hubbard, first lieu­tenant of the United States ship Delaware?" Then he, too, turned away. Dupont was hurrying up, wringing his hands over this deplorable incident at his party, but Peabody brushed past him. All eyes in the room were upon him, but he only saw Anne, just as he had seen her once before, with her face outlined like a miniature against a background of mist. His acute tension relaxed as he met her eyes beneath their level brows, but the exhilaration of excitement still remained.

"Anne," he said, coming to her. "We shall have to go home."

As she looked up to him she had nothing to say to this husband of hers, who in the mad manner of men had imperiled everything she loved in the world for a few words. There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do; these affairs of honor between men were some­thing whose course no woman could divert in the slightest. Her eyes were moist.

"I'm sorry to have spoiled your party, dear," said Peabody, smiling down upon her. He was still too stupidly excited to appreciate how much she was hurt. Her lips trembled before she spoke.

"Let us go," she said.

When Peabody was getting his cloak Hubbard appeared, with his usual air of quiet efficiency. He was accustomed to handling — or participating in — affairs of honor.

"Dawn tomorrow," he said. "On the edge of the cane-brake across the stream from your house. I know the place — it's barely half a mile from there. Pistols at twelve paces. We'll use mine — they're London made and reliable. I have to go back to the ship for them, and to tell Downing and Murray — we'll need another second. May I spend the night at your house? — I've still got some details to settle when I get back."

"I'll give orders to that effect," said Peabody.

Back in the room where the mosquito net reared its vast dome over the big bed Peabody put his arms out to Anne. He saw that she was weeping now, and for the first time misgivings asserted themselves, though unavailingly in the face of his other emotions. That Old Testament conscience of his was grimly satisfied that he should have put this undeserved happiness of his at the disposition of Providence, and he knew now that he was no coward.

"Darling!" he said — the endearments which he had never used before came more readily now.

Anne looked at him, and both her eyebrows and her shoulders went up a little. There was no predicting what this husband of hers would do next, nor how he would feel about it. In seven short hours his life would be in terrible danger — danger that made her feel sick when she thought about it, and yet here he was unmoved. She fought back her tears; as she knew, she would not be able to divert him a hair's breadth from the course mapped out for him at dawn next day. If she were weak now she would do no good and just possibly might do harm. She must be strong, and she took a grip on her­self and was strong — Peabody in his blindness knew nothing of it at the time.

As they kissed, a knock on the door made them draw apart. It was Anne's colored maid still displaying evident signs of excitement over the affair, about which the news had spread like wildfire round the island.

"Ma'ame d'Ernee," she said.

"Madame d'Ernee? To see me?" asked Anne.

"Yes, mamselle."

"I'll come," said Anne.

Peabody was philosophic about it. He sat down in the bedroom and ran over in his mind the arrangements necessitated by tomorrow's affair. His will — he had made that, and had it witnessed, directly after his marriage. He had given orders about Hubbard, and a bedroom on the ground floor was being prepared for him. He had a black stock and cravat to wear tomorrow, so that he would show no linen, and he would fight in his second-best coat without the epaulettes. Anne's aunt had probably come to see if with Anne she could not de­vise some means of stopping the affair — she ought to have more sense, but she was interested in Davenant, of course. Anne would not presume to meddle, natur­ally.

Anne came in again. There was a queer twist to her smile and an inscrutable lift to one eyebrow. But her expression softened as her eyes met his, and she melted towards him. She came warmly into his arms, and Pea­body quite forgot to ask her what on earth Madame d'Ernee had wanted. He did not want to know about anything, not with Anne's lips against his and this sweet passion and purity of conscience consuming him.

Later he slept heavily enough not to feel her slip away from his side and under the mosquito netting; he turned once and found she was gone, smiled in his half-awakeness without any suspicion at all. He did not wake far enough to think about the morrow, and when, an hour before dawn, the maid came in to waken them Anne was back at his side.