The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter V

CAPTAIN GOODING was bluff and hospitable, but Captain Curtis was young and eager — quite half a dozen years Peabody's junior. They were both waiting at the side when Peabody came on board the Emulation to return their call, both in their best clothes with swords at their sides and cocked hats on their heads. The Emulation copied men-of-war's ways: the boat­swain's mates twittered on their pipes, and there were sideboys in white gloves ready to assist him, and twenty landsmen — the privateer's equivalent of Marines — in green coats making a workmanlike job of presenting arms as Peabody stepped on the deck. The hands were uniformly dressed in red-checked shirts and white trousers, and the deck was as white as Captain Gooding's cravat.

"Honored to receive you, sir," said Gooding. "Please be so good as to step this way. The coaming's high — Emulation's a wet ship on a bowline — and the cabin's not as lofty as you've been accustomed to, I'm afraid, sir. Merton! Take Captain Peabody's hat and sword. Sit here, sir. I've a nice drop of Jamaica, sir, which I took out of the Blandford. No? There's some Madeira and a fair Marsala. Merton! The Madeira for Captain Peabody. Please take your ease, sir. There's no reason for worry as long as the wind's nor'easterly. Merton! How's the wind?"

"Nor'east by east, sir," said Merton, in a tone of in­finite patience.

He was a tall spare Negro, who got his information, after a glance at the tell-tale compass over Gooding's head, by craning his neck up to the chink in the cabin skylight and looking up at the pennant at the main-top­mast truck.

"Serve the dinner, then, you black pole-mast."

The ludicrous simile made Peabody grin; there was a strange likeness between the lean Negro and a skysail mast without the skysail set.

"I would be glad to hear your suggestions again for the attack, sir," said Curtis, the moment the flow of Gooding's talk was checked.

"Anyone would think Curtis and I hadn't spent the last two hours discussing 'em," said Gooding, promptly. "This is dinnertime. How's the wind, Merton?"

"Nor'east by east, sir."

"The British don't know your ship's in these waters?" persisted Curtis.

"They can't know yet," said Peabody, "not unless Hunningford has told them."

"Hunningford wouldn't say a word," said Gooding. "He has too keen an eye for business."

The three captains exchanged glances, Peabody keenly observing the other two.

"Three fat commissions has he screwed out of me," admitted Curtis.

Peabody had a flash of insight. The fact that these hardheaded Baltimore captains had to pay Hunningford good hard cash for his information made them far more ready to respect his suggestions. His heart warmed to the memory of the man.

"Try some of this alligator pear, sir," said Gooding. "I can't ever stomach it myself, but the natives of these parts don't think they've dined unless alligator pear has been served. Take plenty of the pepper sauce, sir. That'll help it down. How's the wind, Merton?"

"Nor'east by east, sir. Mebbe east nor'east."

"Veering southerly a bit. The British know we're here, at least. That convoy'll sail in order of battle, just as it always does."

"I followed the last convoy eleven days," said Curtis, "and ne'er a straggler was I able to pick up."

"So you told us before, my lad. But I don't think your owners have much to complain about so far," said Gooding. "May I carve you some of this cold brisket, sir? You're making a poor dinner. And look at your glass! Drink fair, sir."

"Calypso has twelve-pounders on her main deck," said Curtis, thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Peabody. He thought of his own long eighteens, and the good use he could put them to if he dared risk crippling the Delaware.

" 'Scuse me, sir," said Merton, "but the wind's east by south now, and still veering."

"That interrupts our dinner," said Gooding. "If you're wrong, you black fathom o' pump water, I'll go a thousand miles out o' my course to sell you at Charles­ton under the hammer."

"Yes, sir," said Merton, quite unmoved. He craned his neck up to the skylight opening again and an­nounced: "Mr. Chase says east by south. I should say east sou'east, sir."

"Would you, by God!" said Gooding.

They were all on their feet now, and Merton pro­duced, as though it were a conjuring trick, Peabody's cocked hat and sword from nowhere.

"The black heathen'll be telling me what sail to set, next," protested Gooding, while Merton buckled the belt round Peabody's waist. "Have you called Captain Peabody's gig?"

"Yes, sir," said Merton.

Before Peabody went down the side Gooding held out his hand.

"When we meet again we'll be half a million dollars richer," he said.

"Good luck, sir," said Curtis, with a young man's en­thusiasm in his eyes.

The gig took Peabody rapidly across the dancing water to where the Delaware lay hove to, a beautiful sight. As she swung towards him he could see her lovely bows and round, sweet run. The rake of the bowsprit and the masts was as beautiful as a quadratic equation — masts and bowsprit exactly complementary. The pro­portion between topsails and courses was ideal, and the painted gunports threw in the right note of menace, so that she was not merely a beautiful thing, but a beauti­ful fighting thing. He looked back at the schooners, with their heavy spars and long sharp bows. They were like birds of prey, ready for a sudden swoop upon the defenseless, but incapable of the smashing blow which the Delaware could deal. And yet it was only by schooners like these — save for his own ship — that the Amer­ican flag was displayed anywhere through the wide Atlantic.

If only they had decided ten years ago in Washington to build a dozen seventy-fours! Gouverneur Morris had advocated it a score of times, but Mr. Jefferson had de­cided against it. In this world only a display of force could exact respect. A battle fleet would have prevented the coming of this war, and would have saved the people of the United States a thousand times its cost. In normal times a hundred ships a day cleared from American ports, and a hundred entered them, but now two thou­sand American ships rotted at their moorings — flour in Boston was just twice the price it was at Baltimore, while Baltimore had to pay three times as much for sugar as the price demanded on the quay at New Or­leans. The United States were dying of a slow gangrene. Unemployed sailors crowded the water fronts of every seaport; for every hand in a privateer there were a hun­dred looking for work, and all because Mr. Jefferson had not thought himself justified in spending money, and was obsessed with that quaint fear that a powerful Navy would make an autocracy out of America.

Mr. Madison had proposed to establish a neutral zone in the Atlantic, as far as the Gulf Stream, and to bar foreign ships of war from it; Peabody had helped Com­modore Rodgers to write a professional opinion of this proposal only a year before British ships of war dropped anchor at Sandy Hook and slammed the door of New York in Mr. Madison's face. It was because of this kind of muddled logic that the Delaware was faced with a task for which a dozen ships of the line would not have been too powerful, and that he himself was prowling furtively like a jackal instead of challenging battle like a man.

The bowman hooked onto the chains as the gig came alongside, and Peabody climbed to the deck and raised his hat in acknowledgment of the salutes paid him. The schooners were still nodding and dipping across the water, awaiting the time when he would move; south­ward the mountains of Haiti rose from the horizon, and northward lay the rounded outline of Tortuga. The wind was veering more and more southerly, and close-hauled the Jamaica convoy would be able to make the Windward Passage.

"Dip the colors and fire a gun to leeward as soon as the gig is hoisted in, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody.

A flight of pelicans was flapping solemnly over the water, dark against the bright Western sky; the birds kept their steady line ahead as they passed close to the Delaware's side. The sudden bang of the gun and the jet of smoke threw them all aback in confusion, and they turned and flapped away in a disorderly line abreast.

"Square away, Mr. Hubbard. Course west by south."

"West by south, sir."

Under easy sail the Delaware crept slowly along westward, with the mountains of Haiti towering up in the south, the white cliffs just visible at their foot. The two privateers were five miles off to windward, blotted out every now and then by the sudden rainstorms which passed over them on their way down to the Delaware. The storms were heavy while they lasted, and they kept busy Mr. Hollins the cooper and his mates and working party. Hollins had a sail stretched aft from the knight-heads to catch the rain water, the aftermost edge pulled down to form a lip from which, when it rained, the water poured in a cataract into the hogsheads which Hollins had his men trundle beneath it. Peabody watched the operation with a grim satisfaction; as long as his water butts were full he was independent of the shore for three months at least — if the Delaware's career should last so long.

Cape St. Nicholas was close under their larboard bow, and night was coming down fast.

"Heave to, Mr. Hubbard, if you please. And I'll have two lights hoisted at the peak."

The Windward Passage was under the direct observa­tion of his ship now; there was a beautiful three-quarter moon, and no convoy of a hundred sail could get by without his knowledge. He turned and went below to his cabin, where Washington was making up his cot.

"I 'spect your coat's wet, sir," said Washington.

It was, of course — Peabody had stood out through half a dozen tropical showers — and so were his breeches.

"Now here's your nightshirt, and you get right into it, sir," said Washington, fussing round the cabin.

Peabody had not been able to grow accustomed to having a body servant. Washington had thrown him­self into his duties when he was first engaged with all the abandon of his race; perhaps with generations of dependence preceding him he was merely seeking to make himself quite indispensable as quickly as possible. Peabody had thrown cold water on some of his en­thusiasms — Washington no longer crouched to him, holding out his breeches for him to step into, as he got out of bed; but Peabody had not yet been able to break him of his habit of touching him to see if he were wet, and of trying to dictate to him what he should wear and when he should sleep. The captain could recognize each of his shirts individually, and during his years as a poor lieutenant had devised a satisfactory system of rotation of duties for them, and he still bore uncon­sciously some slight resentment against Washington for breaking into his orderly habits.

"I don't want my nightshirt," he said, curtly. "Get me out a dry shirt — one of the plain ones, and take it from the top of the pile — and a pair of the white ducks. Hang my old coat on the hook there where I can find it."

"You ain't goin' to turn in all standing, sir?" said Washington resentfully.

"I am," snapped Peabody.

He threw off his wet gala clothes — there was a queer uncontrollable uneasiness at being naked when he was not alone, but he fought against that because he felt it was not quite justifiable — and pulled on the shirt which Washington handed him. He put his feet into his trousers, balancing against the roll of the ship first on one leg and then on the other with a habitual facility of which he was unconscious, and stood tucking in his shirt.

"Put my shoes against the bulkhead and take that lamp away," he ordered.

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir," said Washington.

Alone in the darkness Peabody lay down on his cot, "all standing" — with his clothes on — as Washington had protestingly said. He could lay his hands instantly on his shoes and coat, and could be on deck within forty seconds of an alarm; Peabody had no self-consciousness about appearing on deck with his nightshirt tails flap­ping round him, but the picture did not coincide with his idea of a well-ordered ship. He bent his long length and turned onto his side, his hands clasped before his chest in the attitude of sleep he had habitually employed from babyhood, and he closed his eyes. There was a momentary temptation to lie awake and brood over the dangers before him, but he put it aside like the tempta­tion to drink. There was a time for everything, and this was the time to sleep.

At midnight he was awake again; twenty years of watch-and-watch — four hours' waking and four hours' sleep — had formed a habit even he could not control. He went on deck and prowled round although he had complete confidence in his officers' ability to carry out routine orders. The lights burned brightly at the peak, and the moon shone clearly from beyond the Windward Passage, while the Delaware rose and fell rhythmically over the long swell as she lay hove to be­fore the gentle wind. The atmosphere was warm and sticky, and on the side on which he had been lying his clothes were wet with sweat which hardly evaporated in the hot night. There was nothing to do except sleep, and he went below again to his stuffy cabin, lay down on his other side, emptied his mind of all thought for the second time, and went to sleep in the accustomed stuffiness, lulled by the Delaware's easy motion over the waves.

Dawn brought him on deck again, and there was still no sign of the convoy, although the wind had stayed to the south of east all night. Five miles away to windward the schooners lay hove to, under their mainsails alone, and there was no need to signal to them, for privateer captains had as much need for patience as for dash in their work. All day long the Delaware lay to, off Cape St. Nicholas — an easy day in the hot tropical sunshine, while the rainstorms came up to windward and burst over the ship and passed away to leeward in rainbows. The decks were washed down; the forenoon watch was spent in drill — gun drill, boarding drill, sail drill; and when the men's dinnertime arrived there was still no sign of the convoy. Last night had been the earliest possible moment it could appear, but Peabody was wise to the ways of convoys and knew quite well that he might have to wait a week.

In the afternoon Hubbard found work for the crew. He had the anchors and the ironwork tarred, while Rodgers the boatswain kept a select party doing neat work on the rigging — knots and Flemish eyes and pointings. The ship's boys were making sinnet and the sailmaker had a party at work with needle and palm on a new fore-topsail, while the spun yarn winch buzzed cheerfully away spinning yarns with which a few for­tunate men — for some odd reason it was the most popular work in the ship — walked solemnly forward and aft. The rain squalls came up; sails and yarns were bundled under cover, and the helmsman had a moment's activity keeping the ship from being taken aback. Then in an instant, as it were, the rain was past, the deck steamed in the hot sun, and the wind began its cheerful note again.

The first watch was called, and work on the ship was suspended. Peabody gave permission for clothes to be washed, taking advantage of all the unwonted fresh water on board, and soon the lines which had been rigged were gay with all the red-and-white shirts and white trousers of four hundred men. The sun was dipping to the west. Two bells were struck, and then three, and then came the hail which Peabody had been waiting for.

"Deck there! Sail to leeward! Two sails, sir! A whole fleet, sir!"

"Clear for action, Mr. Hubbard, if you please. Hoist the colors, and dip them twice."

The drums went roaring through the ship. Like magic the lines and the clothes vanished from forward. Boys went racing along the deck strewing sand. Groups of men came running to every gun, casting off the breechings, taking out the tompions, pulling rammers and sponges from their racks. The Marines came pouring up into the quarter-deck, falling into stiff military line in their blue-and-white uniforms and jaunty shakos while the sergeants inspected them before taking their parties up into the tops.

"The schooners have hoisted their colors and dipped them twice, sir," said Midshipman Wallingford.

"Yes," said Peabody.

That was the acknowledgment of his prearranged signal for the convoy in sight to leeward — if the con­voy had by some chance appeared to windward the colors would have been dipped once. Peabody took his glass and ran up the mizzen rigging. Halfway to the top was as far as he needed to go; with his feet astride and his back leaning against the shrouds he could see the convoy coming down upon him, close-hauled on the starboard tack. There was only one ship-rigged vessel in sight, although there were two barquentines and four brigs. None of the brigs was a man-o'-war, for he could recognize their familiar outlines as typical West India traders. But the ship — he looked at her more closely. She was flush-decked, and she showed a line of gun ports, checkered black against yellow. Fore- and main-topmasts were about equal, and her canvas was faintly gray instead of a lively white. She was a British ship of war, then, and presumably the twenty-gun corvette Racer whose presence Hunningford had been doubtful about.

"Ship cleared for action, sir," hailed Hubbard from the quarter-deck.

There were more sails crowding up over the horizon now, and as Peabody turned his glass upon them he checked himself in instant certainty. There was no mis­taking those topsails, that silhouette — a British frigate, or he had never seen one before in his life. He scanned the other sails closely, and then traversed his glass back again over the fleet. No, there was no sign whatever so far of the brig Bulldog which Hunningford had men­tioned, and Peabody would have been surprised if there had been, yet. The senior officer of the British squadron, if he knew his business, would have the corvette to windward of the van — as she was; the frigate he'd have to windward of the main body where she could most easily cope with trouble — and she was there; and the brig would be in rear to keep her eye on the stragglers, where presumably she was. He closed his glass and descended to the deck.

Murray was positively dancing with excitement and anxiety, and even Hubbard was walking up and down the quarter-deck with quick rapid strides.

"Set all plain sail to the royal, Mr. Hubbard, if you please, and put her before the wind."

"Aye aye, sir. Before the wind, sir."

"Mr. Murray!"

"Sir!"

"I want the round shot drawn from the guns. Load with two rounds of dismantling shot."

"Aye aye, sir. And I'll point the guns high, sir."

Murray was quick to grasp a plan. The Delaware had three ships of war to deal with, and must put all three out of action so as to leave a free hand for the privateers. Peabody watched the men at work on the quarter-deck carronades. With corkscrew rammers they drew the wads from their pieces. Then they twisted the elevating screws, forcing in the wedges under the breeches, until the carronades were pointing sharply downwards. With the roll of the ship the round shot came tumbling from the muzzles, falling with a thump on the deck, to be snatched up and replaced in the garlands against the bulwark. Next the dismantling shot was rammed in — cylindrical canvas bags, which concealed the missiles within. For these big thirty-two-pounders each bag contained a dozen six-foot lengths of iron chain, each joined to a single ring in the center. On discharge they would fly like a hurtling star, effective to a range of five hundred feet, cutting ropes and tearing canvas to shreds. Sawyer of the Boston Navy Yard had long advo­cated the use of dismantling shot, but Peabody had yet to see it employed in action. Peabody was aware that the British thought its use unfair, but for the life of him he could not see why; he supposed it was because they had not thought of it for themselves.

Peabody looked ahead. The frigate had tacked about, and was heading towards the Delaware, to inspect this strange ship of war which had so suddenly appeared. The corvette had backed her mizzen topsail, and was allowing the convoy to catch up with her while she took the frigate's place; the British had been guarding convoys for twenty years continuously now, and under­stood their business. There was a string of flags rising to the frigate's main-yardarm.

"M W P," read off Wallingford. "It doesn't make sense, sir."

The private recognition signal, of course. There would be a code reply, of which he was ignorant; but there was a reply he could make which would be quite sufficient.

"Bring her to the wind on the port tack, Mr. Hubbard."

As the ship came round the ensign at the peak be­came visible to the British frigate. Peabody smiled grimly as he saw the effect it produced — more signals soared up the frigate's halyards, and a white puff of smoke from her bows showed that she was firing a gun to demand the instant attention of her consorts and the convoy. This was the moment of surprise. No king's ship in the West Indies could know until that moment that a big American frigate was loose on the high seas.

He watched his enemies warily to see what they would do.

The frigate was holding her course, parallel to the Delaware's, both of them lying close-hauled. Now the corvette was coming round, too; Peabody could only see her topsails, and she was six miles farther to leeward of the frigate. And dead to leeward of the frigate, and far beyond her, Peabody saw another pair of topsails on the horizon wink as they came round, differentiating themselves sharply from the others beyond. That was the brig, then. They were all three heading towards him, as he had hoped; the privateers, far astern of him and on a course diametrically opposite, were out of their sight and would soon have a free hand with the convoy.

Vigilant, he watched his enemies. If they were wise, they would close up together to meet his attack. The Calypso by herself was of slightly inferior force to the Delaware, and in a ship-to-ship duel he would fight with confidence in victory, even with his knowledge of the chanciness of war at sea. But the Calypso and the Racer together would be grave odds against him, and even the Bulldog could cause him serious annoyance if the Dela­ware were involved in a hot action. By bringing his ship to the wind he had made a pretense of refusing battle — they might chase him in heedless pursuit, as they were doing at this moment, widening their distance from the convoy, confident that there could not pos­sibly be two United States ships at sea simultaneously and forgetting the lurking privateers.

It was a complex series of factors, and Peabody turned his attention to another complication — the setting of the sun. Red and angry it was setting, beyond the convoy. There was not much more than an hour's daylight left, and he needed daylight to do his work well. He glanced to windward; there was the familiar black cloud coming down with the wind, as might have been expected, for it was two hours at least since the last rainstorm. He held doggedly on his course, aware that Hubbard was looking at him with faint surprise and that even the men at the guns were glancing over their shoulders, wondering why their captain was running like this from the enemy. The enemy to leeward, the squall to windward; Peabody transferred his attention first to the one and then to the other. Now the squall was close upon them. There was a warning flap from the sails and Peabody heard Crane cautioning the men at the wheel. Now it was here, heavy fiuky gusts of wind and torrential warm rain, heavy as if from a shower bath, drumming on the decks and streaming like a cataract in the scuppers.

"Wear ship, Mr. Hubbard, if you please. I'll have her before the wind again."

Round she came, the heavy gusts of the squall thrust­ing her forward perceptibly. She was in the heart of the little storm, traveling down wind with it for several minutes before it drew ahead of her. As Peabody turned his head a little cascade of water poured out of the brim of his cocked hat, but the rain was already lessening. Yet even when it had ceased entirely, and the decks were beginning to steam in the hot evening, it was still ahead of her, blotting the Calypso from Peabody's sight, and presumably concealing the Delaware from the Calypso.

"Stand to your guns, men!" called Peabody. He was glad to see Murray attending to the distribution of lighted slow-match round the ship — he wanted noth­ing to go wrong with that first broadside.

Only a scant mile ahead of the Delaware a gray shape emerged from the rainstorm — gray one moment, sharply defined the next; the Calypso still holding her course and beyond the immediate help of her consorts. Certainly there was no time now for the British ships to close together, not with the Delaware rushing down upon them at eight knots. There was a chance of raking the Calypso, of crossing her bows and sweeping her from end to end, but her captain was too wary. As the two ships closed he put up his helm — Peabody saw her broadside lengthen and her masts separate.

"Larboard a point," snapped Peabody to the helms­man. He wanted that broadside delivered at the closest possible range.

The Calypso was just steadying on her new course as the Delaware forged up alongside her. The forecastle twelve-pounder went off with a bang; Peabody took note of that, for the captain of that gun must be pun­ished for opening fire without orders. Peabody could see the white deck and gleaming hammock of the British frigate, the gold lace of the officers and the bright red coats of the Marines on the quarter-deck. Where he stood by the mizzen rigging he was just op­posite the frigate's taffrail; it was almost time for the broadside — it was interesting to see how Murray down on the main deck came through this test of nerves. At last it came — a crashing simultaneous roar from the main-deck guns, followed instantly by the spar deck carronades. The Delaware heaved to the recoil of the guns, and the smoke poured upwards in a cloud, en­shrouding Peabody so thickly that for a moment the Calypso was blotted from his sight. Something struck the bulwark beside him a tremendous blow which shook him as he stood. There was a gaping hole there; some­thing else struck the mizzenmast bitts and sprayed all the deck around with fragments. Peabody watched death flitting past him; and in the sublime knowledge that he had done all his duty he felt neither awe nor fear.

The carronades beside him, speedily reloaded, roared out again. The ship trembled to the recoil of the guns, while Peabody could feel, through the deck beneath his feet, the heavy blows which the Calypso's guns were dealing in return. The British frigate was firing fast, accurately, and low; the earlier defeats of British single ships had shaken up the service into renewed attention to gunnery, as the action between the Shannon and the Chesapeake showed. Peabody peered through the smoke to see what damage was being done to the enemy, but with the wind directly abaft it was hard to see any­thing. There was the Calypso's mainmast standing out through the smoke, mistily visible from the main yard upward. Yet everything there was in such confusion that Peabody actually found it hard to recognize what he saw. The main-topsail was in ribbons, with strips of canvas blowing out from the yard, which was canted wildly sideways and precariously supported the top­gallant yard, which, slings, ties and braces all shot away, was lying balanced upon it in a wild tangle of canvas and rigging. As Peabody watched, half the main shrouds parted as though a gigantic knife had been drawn across them, the mast lurched, and the whole mass of stuff came tumbling down into the smoke.

The Delaware was drawing ahead fast; the chance of crossing the Calypso's bows and raking her was obvious. Peabody leaned forward to the man at the wheel.

"Larboard your helm," he said.

Hubbard had seen the chance too, had heard his words, and was bellowing his orders into the smoke. Over went the helm, round came the yards, and Peabody turned back to watch the Calypso. But she was coming round too — the distance between her vague mainmast and mizzenmast was slowly widening. Peabody saw a red-coated Marine come running out towards him along the Calypso's mizzen topsail yard, musket in hand; the man must have been mad with the lust of battle to have attempted such a feat. He reached the yardarm, but as he was bringing his weapon to his shoul­der something invisible struck him and he was tossed off the yard.

With the wind abeam they were passing out of the smoke, and the Calypso's outlines became more distinct. From the deck upward she was more of a wreck than Peabody would ever have thought possible, her canvas in shreds and her running and standing rigging cut to pieces. Her headsails were trailing under her forefoot; her spanker gaff hung drunkenly, with the upper half of the spanker blowing out from it like a sheet on a clothesline, and although the main-topgallant was the only yard which had fallen all her spars sagged and drooped as if a breath would bring them down. There could be no doubt whatever as to the efficacy of dis­mantling shot, Peabody decided.

Midshipman Shepherd was beside him. His cheek had been laid open over the bone, so that half his face was masked in blood which dripped down onto his torn coat.

"Number seven gun has burst, sir," said Shepherd. His chest was heaving with his exertions as he tried to hold himself steady. "Mr. Atwell sent me to report. The ship caught fire on the main deck but the fire's out now, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Shepherd. Get that cut bandaged before you return to duty."

Peabody made his reply steadily enough, but he had felt a wave of bitterness at the news. These cursed iron guns! The Belvidera had escaped from Rodgers in the President because of just such an accident. The Pennsyl­vania foundries had not learned yet to cast iron without flaws. Shepherd's report explained the slackening of the main-deck fire which Peabody had detected just before. Another shot hit the deck beside him at that instant, sending a ringbolt flying through the air with a menacing whirr — the Calypso was still firing rapidly and well; a wreck from the deck upwards, her gun power was not in the least impaired. Through the roar of the carronades beside him he could hear the smashing blows which the Calypso's guns were still dealing out, but the main-deck guns were firing back again as fast as ever now. The Calypso's tottering fore-topmast came down, falling nearly vertically — she was dropping astern fast again. Peabody wanted to hurl his ship close alongside her, to pound her in a mad flurry of mutual destruction, to sink her, to burn her, to cover her deck with corpses. Mad lust for battle wrapped his mind like a cloak.

"Shall I back the mizzen topsail, sir?" asked Hubbard, crossing the deck towards him.

"No," said Peabody.

Battle-madness passed and common sense returned at Hubbard's question. The level-headed Yankee tempera­ment took charge when Peabody saw the swarthy Caro­linian's blazing eyes. There was the Racer to think of, and the brig, and the convoy, and the approach of night. He looked away to leeward, and there was the Racer clawing gallantly up to windward to join in the fight. Aft, and there was the brig doing the same, while against the red Western sunset were silhouetted the countless sails of the convoy. Another broadside from the Calypso crashed into the Delaware and shook him as he stood talking to Hubbard.

"Up helm, if you please, Mr. Hubbard. We'll go down to the corvette."

The Delaware's sails filled as she bore away, and the infernal din of the battle died away magically. Borne on the wind came a wild cheer from the British ship — the fools thought they had made the Delaware seek safety in flight. There was a moment's temptation to tack about and show them that they were wrong, but Pea­body put it aside.

Peabody looked round the ship. On the larboard side — the disengaged side — a carronade slide had been smashed and the carronade's crew was at work securing the clumsy lump of metal which lay on the deck. There were big holes in the bulwark and the deck was torn up in several places. Aloft someone was reeving fresh main-topsail halyards, and there were a few big holes in the sails. There were dead men here and there, but the Delaware was still an efficient fighting unit. Someone came running up to him — a carpenter's mate whose name Peabody could not instantly remember — Smith or Jones perhaps.

"Mr. MacKenzie sent me, sir. We've been holed twice below the bends, sir, on the starboard side for'ard. We've plugged one hole, but the other's beside the beef an' we've got to move the hogsheads, sir. But there's only a foot of water in the well and Mr. MacKenzie's gotten the pumps to work."

"Right. Get below again."

They were coming down fast on the Racer; Peabody waved the man away as he peered keenly forward to watch her movements. A glance astern assured him again that the Calypso was out of the action for good — she was wallowing quite helpless in the trough of the sea. But the Racer was not going to falter, all the same. She was holding her course steadily, the white ensign flying bravely from her peak. It was her duty to pro­tect the convoy, even at the cost of her own destruction. Peabody swung round upon Shepherd.

"Go find Mr. Murray," he snapped. "Tell him to load with dismantling shot again."

The sun was completely below the horizon; there was not much daylight left and the moon would not be of much help for accurate gunfire. Peabody saw the Racer's main-topsail swing round until it reflected the pink of the sunset in sharp contrast with the dark silhouettes of the other sails. She was laying it to the mast, heaving to for a steadier shot at the big frigate plunging down upon her. Her best chance of saving the convoy was to cripple the enemy while she still had the opportunity. Peabody felt a grim approval of the British captain's tactics as he waited for the broadside to come.

A neat row of white puffs of smoke appeared along the corvette's side, and Peabody's mathematical mind leaped into a calculation.

"One, two, three, four — " he counted.

The air was full of the sound of the balls overhead. A fresh hole appeared in the fore-topsail; and the main-topsail halyards, just replaced, parted again, the loose ends tumbling to the deck. The Delaware was going six knots; there would be two more broadsides — three, if the corvette's guns were specially well served — before she was at close quarters. Peabody wondered what was the maximum damage the corvette's long nine-pounders could inflict. He might actually lose a mast, although the chances were that he would not lose even a spar. The ship was deadly quiet now. There was only the clanking of the pumps forward to be heard beside the eternal note of the wind in the rigging and the sound of the sea under the bows. The men were standing quietly to their guns awaiting their orders; the rush and bustle of the powder boys had ceased now that each gun had its reserve cartridge beside it.

Again the puffs of smoke from the corvette's side.

"One, two, three — "

Elevation was bad this time, or the corvette's gun­nery officer had mistimed the roll of his ship. One ball tore through the air close to Peabody's side, the wind of it making him stagger, but the others struck the Dela­ware's hull, to judge from the splintering crash forward. The sound reminded Peabody suddenly of something he was astonished at having forgotten. The two guns of Jonathan's section were numbers seven and eight, main deck, starboard side — and number seven had burst. Jonathan might be dead; probably was. Peabody forced his mind to leave off thinking about Jonathan. The corvette was within easy cannon shot now — the shots came as soon as he saw the smoke.

There was a crash overhead; the spanker gaff was smashed, close to the vangs. The fore-topsail lee braces were gone — no other damage; and the corvette's main-topsail was coming round again as she got under way ready to maneuver.

"Starboard a point," snapped Peabody to the helms­man. There was a chance of crossing the corvette's bow, but she was well-handled and parried the thrust.

"Let her have it, boys!" shouted Peabody as the ships came together, and the two broadsides roared out to­gether.

Through the smoke Peabody saw a chance of crossing the corvette's stern, but she hove in stays and went about like clockwork, balking him. The corvette was a handy craft, quicker in stays than the big frigate. Pea­body followed her round, bellowing his orders to the helmsman through the maddening din of the guns; it was dark enough now for the big flames to be visible shooting from the muzzles of the guns. Peabody could see the corvette's rigging melting away under the hail of dismantling shot, although the corvette was hitting back as hard as she could with her nine-pounders against the Delaware's eighteens, contending fiercely against odds of five to one. The Racer's main-topmast fell sud­denly, and along with it the mizzen topmast, just at the moment when the air round Peabody was filled with fly­ing splinters from a shot which struck close by. As he rallied himself he found the Delaware flying round into the wind. There was a thunderous flap from the sails as she was taken all aback, and the guns fell abruptly silent as they ceased to bear. Peabody swung round upon the clumsy helmsman, and then shut his mouth with a snap upon the angry words he was intending to use. For the helmsman was dead, and so was the second helmsman, and so was Mr. Crane the master, and where the wheel and binnacle had once stood was now a mere splintered mass of wreckage in the darkness.

"Man the relieving tackles, Mr. Hubbard. Jib sheet, there! Haul out to starboard."

The Delaware was rapidly gathering sternway; Pea­body could hear the bubble of water under the counter in the eerie silence which had settled on the ship. It seemed to take a strangely long time to work the ship's head round and get her under control again.

"Jib sheets, there! Are you asleep?"

"Tiller rope's jammed with the helm a bit to star­board, sir," reported Hubbard.

"Clear it, then. Jib sheets! Haul out to port!"

That was better; the Delaware was coming round again into control, but she was circling away from the Racer, which was barely visible as a dark mass a full half-mile away. It would take some time to work to windward and close with her again.

"Tiller rope's cleared, sir."

"Keep her on the wind on this tack, then."

The Racer was a disabled wreck, as helpless as the Calypso. She would be able to do nothing tonight to protect the convoy. Peabody searched the darkness to leeward. There was the brig! She had given up the attempt to join the battle, and was heading away with the wind on her quarter to evade the Delaware and re­join the convoy. He might have guessed that she would.

"Hard up, the helm!" said Peabody.

There was not time to destroy the Racer and still be able to head off the Bulldog; he put the Delaware before the wind again and went charging down upon the brig in the darkness. The stars were already out, gleaming over the dark sea, and the moon was lighting a wide path over the waves, and the two battered wrecks were being left far behind. Five minutes later Peabody saw the brig abruptly alter course to avoid being inter­cepted, and he brought the Delaware round in pursuit, staring after her amid the clatter and racket of the working party who were busy rigging a jury wheel. An hour later there came a hail from aloft.

"Deck there! There's a light way off on the starboard beam. Might be a burning ship, sir."

It must have been a burning ship — two minutes after the hail the light was visible from the deck, re­flected in a yellow glow from the clouds in the sky, lighting a quarter of the heavens. Evidently Gooding and Curtis were in among the convoy — that blaze meant that they were destroying a worthless capture. So the brig could go on holding that course until she ran aground in Cuba, if she wanted to. The Delaware had achieved what she had set out to do. All that re­mained to be done was to lay her on such a course as would be likely to keep the escort ships from rejoining the convoy, and give a chance of picking up stragglers; then to go round the ship and give whatever orders were necessary to make her as efficient a fighting unit as pos­sible; and after that there would be a chance of finding out what had happened to Jonathan.