The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter VII

By the time that Peabody decided to turn back from the pursuit of the convoy, the Delaware had over­taken and destroyed fourteen sail of merchant shipping. Another small brig had been released, laden with the crews, and the ship Three Sisters had been dispatched with a prize crew in the attempt to run the blockade into an American port. The Three Sisters' cargo of mahogany and logwood was not specially valuable, but she was armed with no less than twelve beautiful long brass nine-pounders, and it was for this reason that Peabody had sent her in. There was a terrible shortage of cannon in the United States, as he well knew; there were privateers waiting in harbor fully equipped save for their guns. America was still laughing over the story of the privateer captain — a Connecticut man at that — who sold one of his prizes, as she lay at the quay, for a greatly enhanced price because she carried guns, and it was only later that the purchaser discovered that the guns for which he had paid so dearly were merely wooden "Quaker" guns. It was an amusing story — especially amusing in the Wooden Nutmeg State — but it abundantly illustrated the shortage of weapons which was hampering the United States. These twelve guns would serve to arm another Emulation or Oliver, while if the British retook them before they reached American shores it would be small gain to Britain, glutted as she was with the guns taken from a hundred thousand prizes.

Three of the ships overhauled were Spaniards, and Peabody had to let them go. Spain was an ally of Eng­land against France, and those cargoes, consigned to Passages, were almost certainly destined for the use of Wellington's army; but still, the United States was neither at war with Spain nor in alliance with France. Peabody's instructions were explicit — he read them through carefully again — and he had to let them go, sadly realizing, for by no means the first time, that Mr. Madison had not the least idea of how to fight a war. There was the comforting thought that perhaps, now that he had crippled the convoy escort, some French privateer or other might snap those Spaniards up when they reached European waters. It was a ridiculous po­litical situation; Mr. Madison's polished hairsplitting might perhaps make it sound logical, but Peabody, the man who had to implement the policy at the risk of his life and liberty, was acutely aware of its practical falla­cies.

And now he knew the convoy was scattered over the breadth of the Atlantic, with each ship laying its own course for home — what ships were left of it — and it would be an unprofitable use of the Delaware to pro­ceed farther into that waste of waters in the hope of further captures. It was at focal points that he wished to strike; he thought for the moment of crossing the ocean and appearing in the mouth of the Channel, but decided against it. Those waters would be thick with British ships of war, and the arguments which had in the first place directed the Delaware to the West Indies still held good. The day they let the last of the Spaniards go Peabody gave the order which turned the Delaware's bow to the southward again. Presumably the Emulation and the Oliver had taken every prize they could find a crew for, and had headed for Savannah days ago, so that there would be need of the Delaware's presence.

It was comforting to think of the outcry which would arise in London when the news arrived there that two privateers and a frigate had got in among the West Indian convoy. There were Lloyd's underwriters who would drive home in their coaches broken men; there were shipowners who would lapse into bankruptcy. Perhaps it was only a pin-prick in an elephant's hide, but it was Peabody's duty to go on pricking, until either his career should end in an ocean grave — or in Dart­moor prison — or the enemy was pestered into asking for peace. It was not a very dignified part to play in a world convulsed in the titanic struggle which was going on at present, but it was the part which Providence had allotted him, along with other seemingly trivial and yet solidly satisfactory duties, like keeping track of the con­sumption of ship's stores.

Peabody was at work on this very matter when the next break in his routine duties came. He was sitting at his desk with a plan of the Delaware's hull in front of him. Every week his crew consumed a ton of salt meat, and a ton of hard bread and other stores. Since they had left Long Island Sound they had fired away nine tons of shot and six tons of powder, and the bursting of the long eighteen-pounder on the main deck had relieved her of a further two tons of metal. He shaded in upon the out­line the parts of the ship which had been relieved of weight, the tiers where only empty beef-barrels stood, and the bilges which had been emptied of shot. He sat back and looked at the result, and then narrowed his eyes as he visualized the Delaware afloat. She would be down by the stern a little — but then on the other hand he had the feeling that she would be a trifle handier and faster if she were. He was willing to give it a trial, even with the knowledge that the continued success of his voyage might depend at any moment on his be­ing able to get every foot of speed out of his ship. He made a mental note to tell Fry, the gunner, to draw ammunition until further orders from the after-maga­zine.

He had become aware a second or two before of a bustle on the deck above his head, of a hoarse voice hailing from the masthead, and he was not surprised when Midshipman Kidd came into his cabin after knocking at the door.

"Mr, Murray's respects, sir. There's a sail in sight to the east'ard, sir."

Peabody's eyes went up to the telltale compass over his head as Kidd went on speaking.

"She's on nearly the same course as us, sir, and she looks like a sloop of war."

"Thank you," said Peabody. "My compliments to Mr. Murray, and ask him to send the hands to quarters."

He put his papers neatly away into the three upper right-hand pigeonholes of his desk, each paper into its appropriate place, and he shut and locked the desk with unhurried movements. The roar of the drums sending the crew to quarters was already echoing through the ship, and when he stepped out of his cabin the main deck was swarming with men running madly to their posts, with the petty officers snapping out sharp orders at the laggards. He put on his hat and moved towards the com­panion; the afterguard came pouring past him and threw themselves into their task of pulling down the cabin bulkheads. He had been intending to put the crew through this exercise tomorrow, but it was better as it was. Even with a first-class crew drill was more effective when there was a definite goal in sight. On deck Hubbard and Murray uncovered to him; Hubbard had his watch in hand and was noting how long it took to clear for action.

"I'll give the order for the guns to be run out myself, Mr. Murray."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hubbard pointed to windward to where a tiny triangle of white showed over the horizon.

"She looks like a man-o'-war, sir, but I can't make her out fully."

"Bear up for her, if you please, Mr. Hubbard."

On converging courses the two ships neared rapidly.

"Masthead, there!" yelled Hubbard. "Is there any other sail in sight?"

"No, sir. Ne'er a thing, sir."

The strange sail was a ship of war without a doubt. There was a man-o'-war pennant at her masthead, and a row of gun ports along her side, but she came sailing securely along as though with a perfectly clear con­science, strange for a ship of war in sight of another much larger. But there could hardly be any sort of

ambush planned with nothing else in sight from the masthead.

"I reckon she's French, sir, to judge by the cut o' that foresail," said Hubbard, squinting through his glass. "A Frenchie'd run from us until he knew who we were."

"Hoist the colors, Mr. Hubbard, if you please," said Peabody, looking at her through his own glass.

The odds were at least ten to one that any ship of war at sea was British — this might be a British prize, which would account for her French appearance, and if she were thinking the Delaware were British, a careless cap­tain might perhaps come down as confidently as that. But if she were a British ship her doom was sealed by now, for she would never be able to escape to windward from the Delaware. A victory over her, petty though it would be, would be a stimulus for the American people. It was over a year since the last King's ship had struck her flag to the Stars and Stripes.

The colors were at the peak now, and Peabody saw a dull ball run up to the sloop's peak in reply, and break into a flutter of white. The white ensign? Peabody looked through his glass again. No. It was a plain white flag, unrelieved by any red cross or Union in the hoist.

"What in hell — ?" said Hubbard beside him, peering at the flag. "Maybe she's a cartel, sir."

Hubbard meant that the white flag was a flag of truce, and that the ship was on her way to exchange prisoners or to deliver a message. But a cartel would fly the national colors above the white flag, and Peabody could hardly believe that any naval officer would be ignorant of that convention.

"Fire a gun to leeward," he said.

That was the politest way of stressing his demand for further information. The sloop's course and position were sufficient proof that she was not bound for anywhere in the United States. If as a cartel she were a British vessel negotiating with France he would not recognize the white flag, he decided. France was no ally of America, and any temporary suspension of hostilities between France and England meant nothing to his country.

The gun went off, and every eye on deck watched the strange sloop. She did nothing whatever except to hold steadily on her course with the white flag at her peak, blandly ignoring the Delaware altogether.

"God-damned impertinence!" said Hubbard.

" 'Bout ship, Mr. Hubbard. Mr. Murray! Run out the guns and put a shot across her bows!"

Amid the bustle and hurry of going about came the dull thunder of the wooden gun trucks rumbling across the deck seams as the Delaware showed her teeth. As she steadied on her new course the other bow chaser went off with a crash. Peabody saw the sloop's starboard jib guy part like a cracked whip — Murray had put a liberal interpretation upon his orders. Immediately afterwards the sloop showed signs of life. She threw her topsails abruptly aback, and came up into the wind like a horse reined up from full gallop, her canvas slatting violently. Apparently the shot and the threatened broadside had had their effect.

The Delaware forged up alongside her, the gun cap­tains looking along their sights, not a sound in the ship save for her sharp bows cleaving the water.

"Heave to, if you please, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody, taking up his speaking trumpet.

"Sloop ahoy! What sloop's that?"

A high-pitched voice sent a reply back to him down­wind, but the words were unintelligible.

"French, maybe. Or Eyetalian," said Hubbard.

"What sloop's that?" asked Peabody again, irascibly.

There was a second's pause before the reply came, in English this time, with a marked foreign accent.

"Say it again!" roared Peabody.

One of the gold-laced officers on the sloop's quarter­deck raised his speaking trumpet again. When he spoke his intonation betrayed quite as much exasperation as did Peabody's.

"His Most Christian Majesty's Ship--------- "

What the name was they could not be sure.

"Sounded like 'Negress,' sir," said Hubbard. "Queer name for a ship. Bet she's a Dago, or mebbe a Portugee."

"Neither of those," said Peabody.

The King of Spain was His Most Catholic Majesty, and the King of Portugal was His Most Faithful Majesty — he had heard the pompous expressions used time and again when he was with Preble in the Mediterranean. He had never heard of His Most Christian Majesty.

"I'll send a boat," he roared into the wind, and in­stantly decided that this was a business which he himself had better attend to; if an international incident were to grow out of this he wanted full responsibility.

"Pass the word for my servant to bring my sword," he said. "I'll go in the quarter boat, Mr. Hubbard — and pass the word for Mr. Peabody to come with me."

Washington came running with sword and belt and boat cloak; Jonathan came up from his post below. There was a fair sea running, but they made a neat job of

dropping the quarter boat into the lee which the ship afforded, with Jonathan sitting nursing his wounded arm in the stern sheets. Peabody swung himself down the fall, timed the rise of the boat as a wave lifted her, and dropped in a moment before she fell away again. With the spray that was flying he was glad of his boat cloak to preserve his uniform from salt.

"Give way," he said to the boat's crew, and they thrust against the Delaware's side and took up the stroke, the boat bobbing up and down over the big Atlantic waves.

"She's surely French enough in looks," he said, ex­amining the smart little ship towards which they were heading.

"Is she?" said Jonathan.

"Oars!" said Peabody to the crew, and the slow rhythmic pulling stopped while the boat ran alongside the sloop. The bowman got to his feet with a boathook. A boatswain's chair came dangling down to them, and Peabody threw off his cloak and swung himself onto it.

"Follow me," he called to Jonathan, as the swell took the boat from under him.

A dozen curious faces looked up at him as he swung over the rail and dropped to the deck; he stepped down, removed his hat, and eyed the waiting group. With a little surprise he noticed two women, standing aft by the taffrail; but he did not have time for more than a brief glance. A stout officer with massive epaulettes stepped forward.

"Captain Nicolas Dupont," he said — his English was stilted and he pronounced the French names in French fashion, almost unintelligibly to Peabody — "of His Most Christian Majesty's sloop Tigresse."

"Captain Josiah Peabody, United States Ship Dela­ware," said Peabody.

Malta had accustomed him to encounters with officers of foreign services, but there was for him still a vague sort of unreality about stiff formality.

"You wore your — your coat in the boat, Captain," said Dupont. "We could not see your rank. Please pardon me for not receiving you with the appropriate compliments."

"Of course," said Peabody.

All this was the preliminary salute before crossing swords, he felt. He and Dupont eyed each other so keenly that neither paid any attention to Jonathan swaying down in the boatswain's chair behind Peabody.

"And now, sir," said Dupont, "would you have the goodness to explain why your ship fired upon me?"

"Why didn't you show your colors?" riposted Pea­body. He was in no mood for a passive defensive.

Dupont's bushy brows came together angrily.

"We showed them, sir. We still show them."

He gesticulated towards the peak, where the white flag fluttered. Peabody noticed for the first time a gleam of gold on the white, and felt a moment's misgiving which he was determined not to show.

"Where are your national colors?" he asked.

"Those are they. The flag of His Most Christian Majesty."

"His Most Christian Majesty?"

"His Most Christian Majesty Louis, by the grace of God King of France and Navarre."

Dupont's rage was joined to genuine and obvious dis­tress, like a man facing approaching humiliation.

"King of France!" said Peabody.

"King of France and Navarre," insisted Dupont.

Peabody began to see the light, and at the same time worse misgivings than ever began to assail him.

"Napoleon has fallen?" he said.

"The usurper Bonaparte has fallen," said Dupont solemnly. "Louis the Eighteenth sits on his rightful throne." It was the most tremendous news for twenty years. The shadow which had lain across the whole world for twenty years had lifted. They were emerging into the sunshine of a new era.

Dupont's distress was evaporating as he guessed at Peabody's astonishment, and Peabody began to feel sympathy for Dupont in the quandary in which he had found himself. A simple hoisting of the tricolor flag which the world knew so well would have saved all this misunderstanding, but Dupont had not been able to bring himself to hoist it — it would have been a horrible humiliation to have received protection from the colors of the Revolution, against which he had struggled for a lifetime. It must have been a humiliation, too, to discover that the world had forgotten that title of Most Christian Majesty which had at one time overawed Europe. And Peabody knew immediate qualms at the thought that he had fired upon the flag of what was presumably a neutral country. He saw the need for prompt apology, un­reserved apology.

Mr. Madison would be furiously angry if he heard of the incident, but that was not the point. The United States could not afford to antagonize anyone else, not while she was locked in a death struggle with the greatest antagonist of all. He had thought for the moment of laughing at the whole affair, turning on his heel and quitting the Tigresse, leaving the politicians to disen­tangle the business as best they could; but he put aside the insidious temptation to reckless arrogance. It was his duty to humble himself. He swallowed twice as he collected the words together in his mind.

"Sir," he said slowly, "I hope you will allow me to apologize, to apologize for this — this unfortunate thing that has happened. I am very sorry, sir."

It was not the words of the apology which mollified Dupont as much as the tremendous reluctance with which the words came. A lion could hardly have given back a lamb to its mother more unreadily. An apology from a man so totally unaccustomed to apologizing was doubly sweet to the fat little captain, and his face cleared.

"Let us say no more about it, sir," said Dupont. He creased himself across his fat middle in a profound bow which Peabody tried to imitate, and then they looked at each other, Peabody at a loss as to what to say next. Polite small-talk, always difficult to him, was more dif­ficult than ever after the strain of the last few minutes; but Dupont was equal to the occasion. He glanced across at Jonathan.

"And this gentleman is . . . ?" he asked.

"My brother, Midshipman Peabody," said Peabody, gratefully.

"Your servant, sir," said Dupont. He turned to the group of officers behind him, and the two brothers were engulfed in a wave of introductions. Everyone was bow­ing and scraping and making legs on the instant, and there was an immense amount of broken English being spoken. Peabody had yet to meet the naval officer of any nation who did not possess at least a few words of English, but these officers all had more than that even though their syntax was doubtful and their accents marked. As the flurry died down Dupont said: —

"Would you please come and be presented to my passengers?"

The whole business of bowing and scraping began again the moment Dupont began to lead them away; it left Peabody a trifle dazed — as a young man he had always been a little amused during Captain Truxtun's careful lessons in the deportment of a gentleman and a naval officer, finding it hard to believe that grown men really did these things.

Across the deck, beside the taffrail, stood a little group of three people, including the two women whom Peabody had noticed some time back. The third member of the group was a man.

"Your Excellency," said Dupont, "may I present Captain Josiah Peabody of the United States Navy? — His Excellency the Marquis de St. Amant de Boixe, Gov­ernor of His Most Christian Majesty's possessions in the Lesser Antilles."

Peabody put his hand with his hat on his heart and moved his feet into the first position, but his bow was cut short by the Marquis stepping forward and offering his hand. His grip was hearty and firm. Peabody, a little more dazed still, had the impression of a strong face, extraordinarily handsome, with piercing blue eyes. The Marquis was a man in his early forties, with his hair clubbed at the back in a fashion a trifle old-fashioned across his gold-laced blue coat he wore the broad ribbon of some order of nobility, of a vivid blue which comple­mented the blue of his eyes.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain," he said, with­out a trace of accent, "and you, too, Mr. Peabody. It would be a further pleasure to present you to my sister, Madame la Comtesse d'Ernee, and my daughter Mademoiselle de Villebois."

Everything contributed to Peabody's bedazement; perhaps the fact that he had just shaken hands when he was preparing to bow had thrown him off his balance at the start. The two women had put back their veils, and revealed faces which both strongly resembled the Marquis's. The sister was the older, and there was a line or two on her face and something in the set of her features which made for hardness. But the daughter — Peabody's wits drowned in those blue eyes. He had already bowed to the Countess and was preparing to bow again when he met their glance, but the bow was cut short while he stared. He was conscious of no other details about her; the Countess was speaking to him, but Peabody's ears registered the words as a flat series of meaningless sounds. She was going down in a curtsey to him, her eyes still on him, and it was only with an effort that he managed to push his foot forward and complete his bow. . . . He tore his glance away from the young woman to make himself listen to the Countess.

"Confess, Captain," she was saying. "You did not recognize our flag when you saw it."

Peabody, until he could find words, looked up to where the golden lilies — visible enough from here — flapped on the white flag at the peak.

"I have been at sea twenty years, ma'am," he said, "but this is the first time I have seen it."

"Fie," said the Countess. "The flag of Lafayette, of de Grasse, which freed you from King George; and yet you fire on it!"

"Louise," said the Marquis. "The captain did no such thing. I have Captain Dupont's word for it that not a shot has been fired this morning."

Peabody looked at him gratefully, and caught at his cue.

"No indeed, sir," he said, and then tried to correct himself — "Your Excellency."

These cursed titles of honor! He looked away and met those blue eyes again. There was a friendly twinkle in them which made his heart miss a beat. He wanted to wipe his face with his handkerchief, but he knew that would be inelegant. He was hot under the skin, and the burning sun was calling forth the sweat on his fore­head. It may have been on account of his embarrassment that the Marquis brought the conversation round to business, so as to give him a chance to recover.

"The incident is forgotten," he said. "It is my inten­tion, as soon as I reach Martinique, to maintain the strictest neutrality."

"It will be a strange experience," said the Countess, "for French people to be neutral while there is a war on."

"Yes," said Peabody. His mind was already at work upon the problems set him by the defeat of France. "Martinique is to be French again?"

"Martinique, Guadeloupe, and their dependencies."

This was of lively interest. Up to this moment the British had conquered and ruled all the West Indies save for Haiti and the Spanish possessions; the former was not strong enough to defend her neutrality, and Spain, as an ally of Great Britain, although not at war with the United States, would hardly be likely to afford a safe refuge in her colonies to the Delaware should she need it. Until now there had been no neutrals worth mentioning in this war which had involved the whole world, and he was already wondering how he could put the new situation to use. A fresh consideration struck him, and he turned to include Dupont as well as the Marquis in his inquiry.

"You won't inform the British of my position or course, sir?" he said.

"That would be unneutral," said the Marquis, quickly, before the captain could reply.

"Thank you," said Peabody, and then, remembering again, "Your Excellency."

Once again there was that twinkle in the girl's blue eyes.

"I hope you are planning to visit us at Fort-de-France, Captain Peabody," she said.

"Anne!" exclaimed the Countess, a little scandalized.

"My daughter has said exactly what was in my mind," interposed the Marquis. "It would give me the greatest pleasure to be able to return some of the hospitality which my daughter and I owe to America."

Peabody looked his inquiries.

"I was born in your country, Captain Peabody," said the girl — Anne was her name, apparently.

"How's that again?" asked Peabody.

"Anne was born in Philadelphia," explained the Marquis; and then, after a moment's hesitation: "My wife is buried there. We were in America during the Terror. Anne was born the day they guillotined Robes­pierre."

"We all thought then," said the Countess, sadly, "when the news came, that the world would soon be at peace again. And that is twenty years ago, and some of us are still at war."

"But you haven't been living in America for the last twenty years?" said Peabody to Anne. As far as he was concerned there was practically no one else on deck.

Anne shook her head and twinkled again.

"I left when I was four," she said. "I have no memory of it, and I am sure that is a pity."

"I acted as envoy from my King to your President," explained the Marquis. "After four years I was trans­ferred to Europe. For the last five, we have been living in London."

Conversation died away at that. Peabody had too much to think about to be able to say anything while he digested the two remarkable facts that Napoleon had fallen and that Anne was American-born. He shook himself back into politeness.

"This has been a delightful visit," he said, racking his mind for the right words. "I must thank you very much."

The ladies went down in curtseys as he bowed; the Marquis shook hands, and Dupont prepared to ac­company him to the ship's side.

"Don't forget you've promised to visit us!" said the Countess.

This time there were formalities, pipes twittering and Marines presenting arms as his boatswain's chair swung him off the deck, and then the boat danced back to the Delaware.

"A couple of peaches, they were," said Jonathan.

"Good God!" said Peabody, turning on him.

He was simply amazed that anyone could possibly think of Anne as a peach, in his mind the two notions were so far removed from each other.

"The old 'un's getting long in the tooth," said Jonathan, "but I reckon she could still give a bit of sport. And the young'un ... !"

"Shut your mouth!" snapped Peabody.

They ran under the Delaware's counter and grabbed the falls; Peabody swung himself up, hat, sword and all, onto the quarter-deck, hand over hand, where Hubbard called all hands to attention. Peabody blinked about him at the familiar surroundings. It was odd to be among these familiar things and yet to feel so strange, to have commonplace details to attend to during this moment of unusual exaltation.

"Mr. Murray!" he yelled. "A salute of nineteen guns, if you please! Mr. Hubbard, dip the colors at the salute. Dismiss the watch below, and square away."

The ensign ran slowly down and up again as the saluting gun barked out. The yards came round, and the Delaware's idle pitching over the waves changed to a more purposeful rise and swoop. The sloop's sails were filling, too, and repeated puffs of smoke broke from her bows as she answered the Delaware's salute. Peabody stood staring back at her while the two ships diverged; there was — he was almost sure — a speck of white waving from her quarter-deck, and he snatched off his hat and stood bareheaded.