The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter XXIV

EIGHT bells in the forenoon watch, and the hands just dismissed for dinner.

"Calypso's making sail, sir," reported Kidd.

"Thank you," said Peabody.

Since yesterday the British frigate had been under the closest observation. They had watched her top hamper being sent down; they had counted every man who had been rowed across to her from the Racer and Bulldog. Twenty Marines, conspicuous in their red coats, had been sent by the Racer, every Marine she had, probably. That meant possibly that Davenant had it in his mind to board, but the seamen who had also been ferried over were probably quarter gunners and gun captains who might improve Calypso's gunnery. Peabody's guess was that Calypso now had at least a full complement, a most unusual thing for a British ship of war. He himself had suggested to Davenant this supplementing of Calypso's crew, but his conscience was clear, for Davenant would have thought of it himself before the time came for sailing.

Calypso was getting under way in the fashion to be expected of a King's ship, the anchor hove short, every sail set exactly simultaneously, anchor up and the ship on the move instantly. She made a brave sight, even with her topgallants sent down, as she beat against the sea breeze over the enameled green water of the bay. Her first tack was bringing her over towards the Delaware, whose crew was lining the hammock nettings to watch her. There was a little murmur forward, swelling in­stantly into a deep-chested roar. The crew of the Dela­ware was cheering its opponent as she passed, cheering wildly. From the deck of the Calypso came one single stern cheer in reply; Davenant was visible on his quarter­deck, conspicuous with his red ribbon and his epaulettes, and he raised his cocked hat in acknowledgment of the compliment. Then the noise from the Calypso ceased abruptly as discipline took hold again and the crew stood by for their ship to go about.

Peabody found himself swallowing, and the iron depths of him were even a trifle shaken, for he was luring those brave men over there to their deaths, and tomorrow the brave men here under his command would be dying at his word. His thin, mobile lips were even thinner dur­ing the brief space that he allowed himself to think about it. There was no written word between himself and Davenant either, no public parole. He realized with a start that it had not occurred to him to doubt the other's good faith for a single moment, nor had it oc­curred to Davenant to doubt his. A single sentence had sufficed to settle the details of the combat, and to come to an agreement far more binding than any treaty be­tween statesmen. He bore no rancor against Davenant, and he knew — allowances being made for Davenant's fiery temper — that Davenant bore none against him. He remembered something of the "treason" which Hunningford had talked at their last interview, and he felt a twinge of regret that fine men and fine ships should be doomed to destruction on the morrow. In a sudden panic he shook the thoughts from him, consumed with misgivings as to whither they were leading him.

"Well, Mr. Styles?" he said to the purser, more sternly than usual.

Mr. Styles produced his lists to prove that the Dela­ware's stores were complete in every detail, that every water-butt was full, that every brine cask was charged with meat — bought with the Princess Augusta's gold from Martinique butchers, at prices which made Mr. Styles groan — and every bread-bag full of biscuit. Wood for fuel; rum, tobacco, clothing — the Delaware was as fully supplied as the day she left Brooklyn. After the Calypso should be dealt with Peabody's ship would be free to continue her operations for months without being dependent on the shore for anything.

The Calypso was rounding Cap Salomon now, hull-down at the mouth of the bay as she headed for her rendezvous ten miles west of the Diamond Rock. Peabody took one last look at her before he went down to the main deck. Wooden slats had been nailed to the plank­ing there beside the guns, to serve as pointers for con­centrated broadsides, at such angles as to ensure that if the guns were laid along them their fire would all be aimed at a point fifty yards on the beam. He called for his big protractor and went along carefully checking the angles. Broke, in the Shannon, had made use of this method when he fought the Chesapeake, as Peabody had read in a copy of the Jamaica Gazette he had picked up in Fort-de-France; the same method might be invaluable if there were not enough wind to blow away the smoke, and he laid the Delaware athwartships to the Calypso. There was no harm in learning from the enemy.

He was busy enough, and therefore one might almost say happy enough, until nightfall, by which time he had tired out his crew. He wanted them to sleep soundly that night, ready for the next day, and they perhaps would not have done so in their present state of excitement without a good deal of exercise first. So he had kept them hauling at the gun tackles in the sweltering heat, and he had devised imaginary emergencies for them to deal with, until it was too dark to see. Then he dis­missed them to rest. He looked out once more over the dark water, wondering what was happening aboard the Calypso, hove to under shortened canvas out there at her rendezvous in the Caribbean, before he nerved him­self to call for his gig.

He did not want to go ashore; he did not want to see Anne again. He doubted so much his ability to bear what he foresaw would be an agonizing strain. The premoni­tion of approaching death was strong upon him. This love of his, these few days of happiness, had been a tiny interlude of joy during his joyless life. Perhaps no bitter­ness, no disappointment, no privation, could ever be too much for his iron temperament, but he was afraid of happiness. He was afraid of himself, afraid lest he might weaken, lest this last glimpse of the happiness he was losing should break him down and betray him into some demonstration of weakness which would be sinful if anything was, which he would be ashamed of when he remembered it broadside to broadside with the Calypso, and which Anne would remember of him when — if ever — she thought of him in after years.

But he had to go through with it. That was all. It was something that he had to do, and so there was no use in grimacing as he swallowed his medicine.

"Good night, sir," said Hubbard, hat in hand.

"Good night, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody, as he went over the side in the darkness.

There was the little carriage, which had been waiting at the quay ever since sunset, and there was Anne, faintly illumined in the light of the lantern which the coachman held. She held up her mouth to be kissed, and he kissed her, and he knew then, at the touch of her lips, that all his fears regarding his weakness were nonsensical. It was a moment of fresh recognition, like the time when he had seen her again at the Marquis's house — he had forgotten what she was like until he saw her again. Anne could never be a cause of weakness; she could never be a drain on any man's strength. Rather was she a fortifiant, strengthening him and revivifying him. Peabody remembered Pilgrim's Progress, and how Christian's burden dropped from him when he reached the Cross. His own burden dropped from him when he felt Anne's slim shoulders under his hands and her lips against his, and there was nothing impious about the comparison, not even to his morbid conscience.

Later that night he tried to tell her about it. He even mentioned Christian and the Cross a little shamefacedly, for he was quite unliterary and high-flown similes did not come easily to him, and he felt her lie suddenly still in his arms. It was a second or so before she replied, in that London accent with its French quality that he loved so dearly, and she stroked his cheek as she spoke.

"Dear," she said, "darling. "When I'm an old woman I'll remember what you've just said and I'll still be proud of it. But you've got it all wrong, dear. It isn't me. It's you. To you I'm what you think I am, of course — oh, how can I explain it? You're so good yourself, you're so honest and you think no evil. It's because you're like what you are that you think other people are the same. And my dear, it's because you think that, that we try to be. Oh, what a muddle I'm saying, and yet to me it's as clear as clear. Sweetheart — darling . . ."

The night was passing and the dawn was approach­ing; the maid's knock on the door awoke them as they slept still in each other's arms. When Peabody was dressed the carriage was waiting to take him down to the quay, and Peabody stood to bid his wife good-by. Their eyes met as he stretched out his hands and she put hers into them.

"Good-by, dear," he said.

"Good-by dear," she answered, looking at him with level gaze, unflinching. "You'll come back to me soon?"

"As soon as ever I can," he said; the premonition of death had not left him.

He bent his head to kiss her hands, and he felt their impassioned clasp as he did so, but her eyes were still dry when he looked up again, and her voice was steady. It was not until he had gone that she wept, bitterly, heartbroken, alone in her room.

On board the Delaware the early morning routine was under way, just as ever. Rank by rank, their trousers rolled above the knee, the hands were washing the deck, polishing metalwork, scrubbing canvas.

"Good morning, Mr. Hubbard."

"Good morning, sir."

"It looks as if we're going to have a fine day."

"The glass rose during the night, sir."

The tropical sun was already glaring down at them over the hills, and one or two belated fishing boats were still returning to the bay with the night's catch. The little revenue cutter was standing out from the quay and hove to close under the Delaware's quarter. Dupont was on board, in full uniform, and he hailed the Amer­ican ship.

"You will be allowed to sail at fifteen minutes past noon," he shouted, bringing out his watch from his fob. "I keep the time, and it is now six-thirty."

Peabody looked at his own watch. He had forgotten to wind it the night before, and even on his wedding night he had remembered it. But he managed to keep his expression nonchalant as he synchronized his watch with Dupont's, and he called no attention to his actions when he next slipped the key over the winding post and gave it a few casual turns.

"Very good, Captain," he hailed back.

"Isn't it sickening the way these Frogs can order us about, sir?" said Hubbard.

"It's for the last time," said Peabody. "Mr. Hubbard, I've left duplicate orders for you should I be killed this afternoon."

"Yes, sir," said Hubbard, steadily. He did not cheapen himself with any conventional "I hope not." He was like Anne in that respect.

"One set is in my desk," went on Peabody. "The others are in a sealed envelope which the gunner has in the magazine, in case our upper works are wrecked. However hard-hit the ship may be, you are to repair her at sea."

"Yes, sir."

"The British have some sort of expedition fitting out at Jamaica," went on Peabody. "It may have sailed by now, but you are to track it down. My own guess is that they'll send it against New Orleans."

"Yes, sir."

"Hang on to it and do it all the damage you can. If you catch it at sea you may be able to snap up a trans­port or two — a couple of thousand redcoats for prison­ers wouldn't do us any harm."

"I guess not, sir."

"But remember this, Mr. Hubbard. You are not to fight any British ship of war if you can help it."

"I understand, sir."

"I hope you do. I'm fighting Calypso this afternoon because it's the only way to get out of this damned harbor."

"And you've been damned clever to arrange it, sir."

"That will be all, Mr. Hubbard. See that the men get their dinners at six bells."

"Aye aye, sir."

Peabody was aware that to an outsider the worst of having made all his preparations in plenty of time would be that now there was nothing to do except wait — Pea­body remembered how careful Hubbard had been, the morning before the duel, that there should be no waiting on either side. And yet this morning waiting was a pleas­ure; it gave him time to enjoy his present tranquillity of mind and soul. He felt at his best; he could look up at the green slopes of Martinique and across the blue waters of the Caribbean and take pleasure in them. There was something purifying in his certainty that he was to die that afternoon. He had done everything he could, and he had left nothing undone, nor, looking back over the voyage, had he done anything he ought not to have done. America would register him among her heroes. And he would live in Anne's memory, which was the immortal­ity he desired. He felt no shame in remembering her sweetness and the dear delights he had shared with her. That was strange, that he should feel this purity, as of a medieval knight watching over his arms, having known her ardent passion. It was the crowning of his present happiness.

An hour before noon the pipes of the boatswain's mates began to twitter as the men were called to their dinners. The sea breeze had begun to blow, and would reach appreciable strength when the time came to sail, Peabody decided. He looked up at the pennant at the masthead; if the wind did not shift they would be able to weather Cap Salomon in a single board. Close-hauled, they would very nearly make the rendezvous — it would depend on how soon they would pick up the trade wind out in the Caribbean. He looked out again over his projected course and started with surprise. There was a ship under full sail just coming into sight round Cap Salo­mon. She had every sail set, studding sails as far as the royals on both sides, and was heading for the bay with the wind well abaft the beam at a speed so great that even at that distance he could see the white water under her bows. She was the Calypso, or so his eyes told him. His brain refused to believe any such thing. There was no possible reason for her to be returning.

"Calypso coming into the bay, sir!" yelled the look­out, but there was that in his voice which told that the lookout did not believe his eyes either.

Atwell, across the deck, had his telescope to his eye.

"Well, I'll be God-damned," he said, turning to his captain, and then hastily added, "sir."

The officers were hurrying up from below, cluttering the quarter-deck and staring at the beautiful vision as the sea breeze brought her in fast.

"Davenant must have remembered something," said Hubbard, and one or two of those who heard him laughed.

"Sprung a leak, perhaps?" suggested Atwell seriously. "On fire down below? Yellow Jack among the crew?"

All the suggestions were plausible, and the laughter stilled as all eyes strained to see if there was anything to be seen which might confirm one of them. She was well into the bay now, and her studding sails came in altogether.

"They've an anchor ready to let go, sir," said Hub­bard, without taking the glass from his eye.

"Heave our anchor short, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody.

It might be a nice legal point, as to whether the re­turn of the Calypso nullified the application of the twenty-four-hour rule. It still wanted twenty-five min­utes before noon, but he wished to be ready to dash out of the harbor the moment the Calypso anchored, before Racer or Bulldog could take a hand in the game. To escape into the Caribbean without a battle was better than any hard-won victory. He was prepared to go and leave the diplomats to argue the case subsequently. The loud clanking of the capstan served as a monotonous accompaniment to the excited comments on the quarter­deck.

"Turn up all hands, Mr. Hubbard, if you please. I want all sail ready to set."

Calypso was heading straight for the Delaware; at no more than a cable-length's distance, she rounded to. Every sail was taken in simultaneously, and the roar of the cable through the hawsehole was plainly audible from the Delaware.

"Nothing wrong with the way she's handled," commented Hubbard grudgingly. The sudden bang of a gun made them all start, and then they all felt a trifle sheepish at the realization that Calypso was only firing off her salute to the forts.

"Anchor's aweigh, sir!" came the yell from forward.

"Set sail, Mr. Hubbard."

Courses and topsails were spread on the instant, as the headsails brought her round.

"Calypso's launched a boat, sir," said Kidd.

So she had; a gig had dropped from her quarter and was pulling madly across to intercept the Delaware as she gathered way.

"Keep her close-hauled on this tack, if you please, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody. He could think of no message whatever which would keep him in Fort-de-France if once he had the chance to escape.

The gig's crew were bending frantically to their oars, making the little craft fly over the surface. Peabody could see the officer in the stern gesticulating wildly as he urged the men to greater efforts. Then as they came close the men lay on their oars and the officer jumped to his feet in the stern sheets, his hands as a speaking trumpet to his mouth; it was the same supercilious midship­man who had once before brought a letter from the Calypso.

"Message from Captain Davenant," yelled the mid­shipman as the gig was at the level of the Delaware's mainmast. Peabody paid no attention. If he had the chance of getting to sea, he was going to take it.

"Message for Captain Peabody," yelled the midship­man as the mizzenmast went by.

The gig bobbed suddenly as the wave thrown off by the Delaware's bows reached her, but the midshipman retained his balance with the practice of years. He put his hands to his mouth in one last desperate yell as the gig passed under the Delaware's quarter.

"It's peace!" he yelled. "PEACE!"

"Bring her to the wind, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody. After all, that was the one message which would keep him in harbor; and he had not thought about it before.

The gig overtook the Delaware as she lay hove to.

"Captain Peabody?" hailed the midshipman.

"I am Captain Peabody."

"Sir Hubert's respects, sir, and would it be convenient for him to visit your ship?"

"My respects to Sir Hubert, and it will be convenient whenever he wishes."

The gig turned about and rowed back, while Peabody gave his orders.

"Anchor the ship again, Mr. Hubbard, if you please. Be ready to compliment Captain Davenant when he comes on board."

Peabody dashed below, where the gun deck was cleared of all bulkheads and obstructions ready for action. There was only an exiguous canvas curtain hung to preserve for the ship's captain a shred of privacy up to the moment of action commencing.

"Washington! My best coat! White breeches. Silk stockings. Hurry, d'you hear me?"

"Lord ha' mercy, sir. What are you wanting those for?"

"Jump to it, damn you, and shut your mouth."

Washington could not obey the last order, could not have done so to save his life, but he muffled his remarks in the sea chest into which he had to bend his head as he sought for the clothes, in the highly inconvenient corner of the cabin where the chest had been thrust while clearing for action. Peabody had thrown off coat and trousers and was standing in his shirt before Washington had found the other clothes; as Washington got to his feet the jarring rumble of the cable shook the ship.

"Lordy!" said Washington, and shut his mouth with a snap as Peabody turned a terrible eye on him. He could only roll his eyes when the tramp of the Marines' heavy shoes sounded on the deck overhead as they poured up to the entry port.

"Tell the captain of the afterguard to set my cabin to rights directly," said Peabody, buckling on his sword. As he set his foot on the companion he heard Hubbard's warning yell, and he reached the deck just as the boat­swain's mates' pipes pealed and the Marines presented arms.

"Ah, Peabody," said Davenant, coming toward him with outstretched hand. He was smiling in kindly fashion, the wrinkles showing round his eyes.

"I am glad to see you, sir," said Peabody, a little stiffly.

Davenant was struggling with the overwhelming curiosity which consumes a captain of a ship of war when by some chance he finds himself on the deck of a rival ship. Even at that moment, it was hard to keep his eyes from straying.

"Here — " he said, opening the paper which he held in his left hand and passing it over to Peabody. "The damned dispatch boat from Port-of-Spain sighted me this morning, and gave me this. It's conclusive, as far as I'm concerned."

Peabody read the dispatch; the seal was official enough and it was addressed from the Admiralty at White­hall: —

I am directed by my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to inform all captains of His Britannic Majesty's Ships that in consequence of peace having been concluded at Ghent be­tween His Majesty and the United States of America hostilities will cease forthwith and to request and require all such cap­tains to refrain from any hostile action whatsoever immediately upon receipt of this order.

E. Nepean, Secretary to the Board.

"I suppose it needn't bind you" said Davenant. "You can wait until you receive your orders from Washington."

"It binds me too, of course," said Peabody. If he went out to sea in the face of that evidence and began a career of destruction, he would be in bad odor, to say the least of it, with the Secretary of the Navy.

"It's a damned shame," said Davenant. "No, damn it, I can't say that. I don't know whether to be pleased or sorry, damn it. We'd have had as neat a single-ship action as there's been these twenty years."

Peabody was not ready with a reply. He was looking forward into a new future, one which he had never allowed himself to think about until now. A future of a world at peace, a world of thriving commerce. His own life would be dull and without incident, and anyone who did not know him would say that the most interesting chapter of his career had finished. But Peabody — such was the nature of the man — thought that the most interesting chapter had now begun. He took control of his thoughts just as they were drifting towards Anne, and brought them back to less romantic matters. There were three dozen scrawny Martinique hens in coops on the spar deck, and, boiled, a couple of them would be just edible.

"Can I have the pleasure of your company to dinner, sir?" he said.

"That's very kind of you," said Davenant, looking at him keenly. "But I suspect that you would rather go and tell this good news to that pretty wife of yours."

Peabody hesitated, torn between love of truth and ordinary politeness.

"Don't mind my feelings, sir," went on Davenant, and he laughed apologetically. "To tell the truth, I have business of the same sort on shore myself. I suppose there's no harm in my telling you that I have the prospect — the imminent prospect, now — of marrying into the same family as you have done. We shall be relations-in-law, Peabody."

Davenant looked oddly sheepish as he said this.

"I wish you joy, sir," said Peabody, restraining a smile.

"Long life and happiness to you and to the future Lady Davenant."

"But let's count this invitation as only postponed," said Davenant. "We'll celebrate the peace together."

"Yes, Uncle," said Peabody.