The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter VI

CAPTAIN PEABODY looked over the side of the Delaware as she crawled along in the hot sunshine with bare steerageway.

"Mr. Atwell," he said, harshly.

The young third lieutenant came running across to him.

"You're not attending to your duty, Mr. Atwell. What is that floating there?"

Atwell followed with his gaze Peabody's gnarled forefinger.

"An orange, sir," he said, haltingly. The orange rose on a little wave against the ship's quarter and drifted astern.

"Did you see anything about that orange which interested you?" asked Peabody.

"N-no, sir," said Atwell.

"Then either your eyesight or your wits aren't as good as they should be," said Peabody. "That orange had a piece bitten out of it. And its sides were hollow instead of rounded. What does that tell you?"

"Someone has been sucking it, sir," said Atwell, a little bewildered at all this fuss over a mere orange already a hundred yards back in the ship's wake.

"Yes," said Peabody, and he was about to continue with his Socratic questioning when his expression changed and he pointed again to something floating past the ship.

"And what's that?" he snapped.

"Coconut shell, sir," said Atwell, and a light dawned upon him. "Some ship's emptied her slush bucket over­side."

"And not merely that, Mr. Atwell. Oranges and coconuts — where does that ship hail from?"

"The West Indies, sir!" said Atwell.

"Yes," said Peabody. "That means we're in the track of some part of the convoy. Now do you understand why you should have seen it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't neglect your duty again, Mr. Atwell," said Peabody, turning away.

Atwell was a "good officer," thought Peabody. There was never any slackness about the men when he had charge of the deck, and the sails were always properly set, and the helmsman was always on his course. But there was another side of the picture. Officers of that sort were so engrossed in the details of their routine duties that they had no thought to spare for anything else. And not merely that; years of routine duties had a stunting effect upon their imaginations and logical faculties. Atwell ought to have made deductions from the sight of that floating rubbish instantly. Peabody was afraid that Atwell would never develop into a great commander, into a Truxtun or a Decatur.

But the sight of that rubbish confirmed Peabody in his conclusions as to the movements of the convoy. He had acted correctly in taking the Delaware through the Caicos Passage. The convoy, scattering like sheep before the wolves of privateers, must have headed for the Atlantic by the first route open to them. A dozen rich prizes probably lay only just over the horizon ahead. He looked keenly aloft to make sure that the Delaware was getting every possible yard out of the feeble three-knot breeze which was wafting her lazily along. He would maintain the pursuit for seven days — or until he had taken ten prizes — before he put his ship about again to see what further trouble he could make in the West Indies. He and the Delaware were like a farmer and his money on market day. He had to find the best value he could for her, lay her out to the best advantage in the sure and certain knowledge that sooner or later she would be expended. Lawrence in the Chesapeake had chosen badly; even if he had captured the Shannon a captured British frigate would have been a poor ex­change for the cutting up and crippling of an Amer­ican one. Porter had the better notion when he headed for the Pacific instead of making a dash for home — Peabody wondered how the cruise of the Essex in the Pacific was succeeding.

A sorry procession was coming on deck. The wounded and sick were returning from their morning visit to the surgeon. Jonathan was leading them, his left arm in a sling — a flying fragment of iron from the burst cannon had gone through the muscles above the elbow — and behind him followed men with bandaged heads, with bandaged legs, and after them came the sick bay attendants carrying in canvas slings the men who were too injured to walk. Downing, the surgeon, and Hoyle, the surgeon's mate, followed, and supervised the laying of the wounded against the spars in the shadow of the mainsail. They were a couple of surgeons from New York, obsessed with fantastic ideas; they had the notion that sick men should not be kept in a comfortably dark 'tween-decks. They were perfectly convinced that sun­shine did sick men good, and they even declared that there was no danger for them in night air at sea. Down­ing was most emphatic on the point that once-breathed air had a deleterious effect upon the system, in defiance of the common knowledge that air thoroughly warmed and humanized was far better than raw fresh stuff. Peabody himself could not sleep if there was a suspicion of a draught in his cabin, and as a New Englander born he was innately suspicious of Yorkers, but he had not been able to enforce his ideas upon the two mad doctors. By virtue of their warrants from the Secretary of the Navy they were independent of him in the matter of the sick, and they traded upon the fact quite shame­lessly, littering the neat deck with sick men, and always willing to argue with their captain.

Peabody strolled forward.

"Good morning, Jonathan."

"Good morning," and then after an interval, "sir."

Jonathan was sick with his wound; otherwise he would not have spoken in such a surly fashion.

"How's the arm today?"

"Hurting like hell," said Jonathan.

Peabody turned to the others.

"Doing well, sir," said one of them.

"Stump as clean as a whistle, sir," said the one whose leg had been shattered below the knee. He was gray with loss of blood and weakness, but he made himself smile as he lay there.

"Cross and Huntley died during the night, sir," said Downing, in a quiet aside to Peabody. "I'm sorry about Huntley — I thought he'd pull through. But I never had any hope for Cross."

"So I remember," said Peabody.

This would be the third successive day in which they had buried dead men overside, and he contemplated the approaching ceremony with distaste. Murray had come up, and was talking earnestly to Jonathan, and trying to catch his captain's eye at the same moment.

"Damn it, man," Murray was saying, "you must re­member something about it."

"I don't," said Jonathan, doggedly.

"I was asking about that burst gun, sir," explained Murray to Peabody. "I was thinking, it might have been double-loaded, and it was in Mr. Peabody's charge."

"What makes you think it was double-loaded?"

"I'd just given the order for round shot, sir, because the range was drawing out. If the gun was already loaded with dismantling shot the men might be excited and put in another charge and a round shot on top. That'd burst any gun."

"So it would," agreed Peabody, and he looked at his brother.

"He's trying to blame something on me, the same as always," said Jonathan.

"It's important, sir," explained Murray. "If the men don't trust the guns they're serving — "

He left the sentence unfinished but adequate to the occasion.

"You're quite right, Mr. Murray," said Peabody, looking at his brother again; but Jonathan only shook his head.

"I don't know anything about any double-loading. Mr. Murray wants me to say that's how it happened, of course — anybody can see why. And then he'd have me in trouble, which is what he wants just as much, too."

"Don't speak so insolently," snapped Murray.

"Mr. Peabody cannot be asked questions which might incriminate him," said Peabody, gently.

If it could be proved that Jonathan had allowed a gun under his immediate charge to be double-loaded, Murray might easily charge him with inattention to duty, and Jonathan was clearly aware of the danger, so that he was justified in being cautious in his replies, although not in his manner of making them — only the pain of his wound could excuse that. Murray must have seen all this, for he opened his mouth, shut it again, and turned away after raising his hat to his captain.

"You must be more respectful another time," said Peabody a little testily. He was annoyed that his capable second lieutenant should be annoyed.

"All right, all right," said Jonathan.

Peabody left him to doze in the sun, and walked aft again to see that Atwell got every inch of speed out of the Delaware. The word had got round the crew that there were prizes ahead, and everyone was keyed up in anticipation. The hands worked with a will as the sails were trimmed to the fitful wind, and half the watch below spent their time aloft eagerly scanning the hori­zon for sails. When the wind backed northerly there were more frequent calls for the watch, because Peabody would not allow the Delaware to tack far off the direct course which he had mentally allotted to the flying convoy, but drove her along in a succession of short boards, tacking every half hour. But nobody minded the extra work; everyone realized that a weatherly ship like the Delaware had her best chance of over­taking dull-sailing merchant ships with a foul wind.

The first sail they sighted proved a disappointment. She showed up to windward on the opposite tack to the Delaware, and the latter intercepted her with ease be­cause she made no attempt to escape. Midshipman Howard's sharp eyes first detected the fact that she was flying two flags, and a moment later a score of telescopes identified them as the Stars and Stripes flying above the red ensign. When they closed within hailing distance she announced herself for what she was — the ship Dalhousie, Kingston to London, prize to the Emulation, Daniel Stevens, prize-master, heading for Charleston with prisoners.

"We've gotten together two hundred of 'em under hatches, sir," yelled Stevens. "Rum, sugar, an' coffee."

She would be a nice prize if she could be taken through the British blockade into an American port; the prison­ers themselves represented a fortune, with the Federal Government paying a hundred dollars a head for British seamen placed in the hands of a United States sheriff. Gooding had destroyed some of his smaller prizes, after stripping them of everything valuable, and had sent the Dalhousie in, with the hope that she might make an American port. She had nothing better than an even chance, Peabody decided, watching her sail over the horizon.

Six hours later the lookouts reported more sails, dead to windward, close-hauled on the port tack.

"Two brigs an' two barquentines, sir," reported mas­ter's mate O'Brien, all breathless, having run to the masthead with his glass and descended, all within two minutes. "Merchantmen for sure, sir, an' sailing in company."

That meant without a doubt that they were part of the disrupted convoy. There was small chance for them, with the Delaware to leeward of them so that it was impossible for them to scatter far. The barquentines held on their course, and the brigs went about on the other tack, as soon as the Delaware's dread topsails had climbed up over the horizon sufficiently far to be clearly identified.

"Keep her steady as she goes, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody. "We'll have the barquentine first."

The Delaware could lie nearly a point closer to the wind than the clumsy merchant ships, and could sail almost two feet to their one — she was like a pike among minnows. Remorselessly she ran them down, Peabody watching grimly as the distance shortened.

"Try a shot from one of the bow guns, Mr. Murray, if you please."

The shot crashed out, and Peabody saw a black speck rise to the peak of the nearer barquentine, flutter a mo­ment, and then descend. Apparently all on board were careless of what should happen to their ship now she was taken. She was allowed to fly up into the wind, and lay there all aback in a flurry of disordered canvas.

"Back the mizzen topsail, Mr. Hubbard. Mr. Samp­son! Take the quarter boat and take possession. Mr. Kidd! Take six men and go with Mr. Sampson. Pull to the other barquentine and take possession as soon as she strikes. Square away, if you please, Mr. Hubbard. Mr. Murray, put a shot across that other barquentine's bows."

The flag of the leading barquentine rose and fell again, and she hove to. Peabody watched for a moment until he saw the Delaware's boat pulling towards her.

"Tack after the brigs, please, Mr. Hubbard."

The brigs had won for themselves no more than an extra two hours of freedom; the Delaware caught up to them hot-foot. It was a little pitiful to see their flags come fluttering down — Peabody felt an odd twinge as he stood in the hot sunlight and watched his prizes come clustering together, obedient to his orders. He listened a little gloomily to the reports sent over by his prize-masters — Barquentine Richmond, three hundred and twenty tons, Kingston to London, cargo of sugar, twenty-nine of a crew; Barquentine Faithful Wife, three hundred and forty tons, Kingston to Liverpool . . . and so on. They were all bulk cargoes — no valu­able specie for him to take under his special charge. Murray and Hubbard were eagerly turning over the pages of the prizes' logs, in search of possible hints as to the whereabouts of any other survivors of the convoy.

"Twenty-five sail took the Caicos Passage, sir," an­nounced Murray. "The others must still be ahead."

A laughing working party were swaying up a miscel­laneous collection of livestock from the longboat of one of the barquentines: chickens and pigs and a score of big turtles; the city of London aldermen would go short of their favorite dish this coming winter, and the crew of the Delaware would have a brief taste of fresh food again. The four captured captains stood in a sullen group on the other side of the deck, saying nothing to each other, and trying to display no emotion while their captor decided on their fate; they might as well have been Mohegans awaiting the stake.

"Mr. Hubbard!"

"Sir!"

"I'll have those two longboats hoisted on board. They'll serve instead of the boats we lost."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Which of you gentlemen is captain of the Laura Trougbton?"

"I am."

The captain of the smaller of the two brigs came with a rolling gait across to Peabody, to listen sullenly to what Peabody had to say.

"I'm setting your brig free after my prize crew has thrown those guns of yours overboard. You will take on board the officers and crews of the other three vessels."

"But Holy Peter! That'll make a hundred souls on board or more."

"Yes."

"The water won't last, sir. I've only ten tons on board."

"You've a fair wind for the Cuban coast. Four days and you'll be in Havana." Peabody turned to the other three captains. "I'll give you twenty minutes to get your property transferred to the Laura Troughton. At four bells I shall set fire to your ships."

It was the best thing to do. Releasing the prisoners meant a loss of ten thousand dollars in prize money; burning the ships meant a loss of ten times as much; but the Delaware had few men to spare for prize crews, and they must be reserved to take in really valuable captures — if there was any chance of evading the blockade. And sending the Laura Troughton in to Havana — the water shortage would ensure that she went nowhere else — would deprive England of her services and those of her crew for some time to come.

Peabody looked aft as the Delaware bore up to the northward again. The Laura Troughton was heading south with all the sail she could set, and the hot sun glared down on the other three vessels drifting aim­lessly on the blue water. Each of the three was en­shrouded in a faint mist, rendering their outlines vague and shimmering. As he watched, he saw the sails of the Richmond suddenly whisk away into nothing as the flames, invisible in the bright sun, ran up her masts. The Faithful Wife's mainmast suddenly lurched drunkenly to one side, and a dense volume of black smoke poured out from her gaping decks, drifting to leeward in an ugly cloud. Sugar and rum made a fine blaze. A sudden hard explosion from the Richmond told how the flames had reached her small powder store — only a hundred weight or two, but enough to send a column of smoke shooting upwards. He could see that the whole of her stern had been blown away, and as the misshapen wreck drifted on the surface the billows of smoke told how the invading sea was battling with the roaring flames. The Faithful Wife's masts had fallen now, and so had the brig's, and the two blazing hulks had drifted together and were wrapped, side by side, in the clouds of murky smoke. It was a horrible sight, and Peabody could hardly bear to look at it. But he made himself do so, for a strange mixture of reasons which he himself made no attempt to analyze. Under the influence of the New England conscience he was mortifying himself, making himself pay in person for his country's weakness, rub­bing his own nose in the dirty fact that he was here as a skulking commerce destroyer and not as the fighting man which all his instincts guided him to be.