"I know. But we may have trouble holding what we've got. We've got fewer than thirty men able to fight, and all of them tired."
Peary nodded. "Bosun!"
"Sir?"
"Cut the Jasper adrift."
Again the lookout hailed the deck. "She looks like a frigate, sir!"
Peary frowned darkly. "Frigate? She couldn't be American —not in these waters."
Scott nodded coolly. "She probably isn't."
"And you're willing to fight a frigate?"
"If I have to."
"One moment, Scott. Fighting an armed merchantman is one thing, fighting a warship another."
"We have no choice, man. Clear for action."
Peary set his jaw. "Look, I know you and Rowena need money; but you don't have to be a fool. Damn it all, man, a frigate'll knock us into smithereens without turning a hair. And there'll be no gallant boarding of a man-o'-war carrying three hundred or more sailors and marines. You realize that, don't you?"
Scott bit back angry words and spoke calmly. "Leave my wife out of this. Aside from everything else, the Old Man needs this prize; and if ever one man was beholden to another, I am to him. He's just barely alive now; it could kill him to lose this ship. I'll fight on the off-chance of winning and staying clear of an English prison."
"Hell," Peary said nastily, "you're thinking about getting back to my sister with your pockets a-jingle. You'll get us all killed so that you can be a great hero ... so she'll keep on thinking the sun rises and sets in you. Well, I'm as brave as and next man, as you well know, and I say to hell with this bilge about fighting a frigate."
"Are you refusing to obey?" Scott demanded in cold fury.
Peary avoided answering directly. "We can't get under way, we're outgunned and outmanned, and we've got some pretty lively prisoners 'tween decks, to boot. If it comes to a choice, we'd better surrender and take our chances on fair treatment."
Scott's temper exploded. " 'Vast! Stow that talk!"
Peary's face purpled. "By God, I won't stow it! You're a fool!"
Scott got an iron grip on his wrath and spoke icily. "Mr. Peary, you'll obey me or I'll iron you and throw you in the chain locker. Now clear for action!"
Peary's eyes reflected pure hatred for one unveiled moment, and Scott did not fail to read what he saw; but after a strained moment the second officer bowed to the stronger will. "Aye, aye . . . sir."
Fuming inwardly because of the exchange of words within earshot of some of the crew, Scott nevertheless sought to dismiss the incident from mind. Satisfied that Peary was carrying out his command, he sent one of the captured English sailors aloft, figuring the man might more quickly identify the warship, which already was well over the horizon. He hid his own disquiet as well as possible while awaiting a report.
"Deck, there!"
"Well?"
The seaman made no effort to strangle his elation. "She's English, sir, an' 'arf a crown says she's 'Is Majesty's sixty-four-gunner Bucephalus. I know 'er well, sir."
Peary reported to Scott. "The Jasper’s been cut adrift. Our decks are as clear as they're likely to be, and the guns are loaded with round shot."
"Very well," Scott said formally, turning his face upward. The red ensign had been hauled down, but not replaced. "Call all hands into the waist, Mr. Peary."
I'm a fool, Scott thought, alternately eying the frigate and the men assembling amidships. Clay's right: I am a fool. But I'm not going to hand over this vessel without a fight.
"The crew is assembled, sir," Peary said sourly.
Scott eyed them, seeing that many wore stained bandages. The trepidation they felt was plain in their anxious faces as they stood quietly, some clutching weapons. Peary's face was dark with ill-suppressed wrath and apprehension.
Without speaking, Scott shifted his gaze to the oncoming Bucephalus. Her colors floated jauntily above her. She was formidable-looking, bristling with cannon and swarming with men; an eagle preparing to pounce on a crippled sparrow hawk. The wind brought to the brig the faint sound of drumming: she was beating to quarters. The American sailors shifted nervously, staring at the warship and at the quiet man confronting them. They were hardy men accustomed to iron discipline, and none dared voice the doubt that each felt.
"Bosun!" Scott said sharply.
The petty officer stiffened to attention. "Sir?"
"Run up our colors!"
The men stirred as the American flag climbed over them, snapping in the sea wind. Scott knew their spines were prickling with pride, just as his own was; and he knew that this was the time to exhort them. Remind them of their mates who died in taking the Mary Bell, he thought coldly. Dwell on the horrors of English prison life, ashore and afloat. And give them an idea of how much money they'll have if we can take this prize home safely.
The words were forming in his mind when Peary cried out suddenly, his voice rich with wonder. "She's signaling! She's making a signal that she wants to talk!"
Scott looked unbelievingly, and saw that his brother-in-law spoke truthfully.
"I wonder why!" Peary exclaimed.
Scott's mind boiled. "She could be out of ammunition, or have a lot of sickness aboard. . . . Well, we'll talk with her. . . . Battle stations! . . . Make an answering signal, Mr. Peary."
Heaving to just beyond cannon range, the Bucephalus sent her longboat dancing daintily over the sparkling sea toward the Mary Bell. In her bow stood a fresh-faced young officer, a speaking trumpet in his hand. Finally he lifted it to his lips.
"Ahoy, Yankee, what's the trouble?"
Scott cupped his hands to amplify his voice. "No trouble, mister. What do you want?"
The Englishman grinned rather fatuously, then spoke again. "Thought you people might not know the war's over."
"What?"
"The war's over, Yankee ... been over since Christmas Eve. Did you know?"
"Good God!" Scott exclaimed. A spontaneous cheer broke from his men, a great swelling sound born of relief from tension.
"You didn't know, eh? May I come aboard?"
Scott licked his lips. He was first to realize all that the news meant to them. To attempt to keep the Mary Bell now would lay them all open to a charge of piracy. He looked at Peary, seeing understanding dawn in the man's face. Then he answered wearily. "Come aboard."
"We've played hell, for sure," Peary said abruptly.
Scott thought of the nineteen men who had died fighting after the war had ended. He supposed such things had to happen occasionally.
The naval officer, a lieutenant, clambered aboard and calmly surveyed the shambles yet remaining. He noted gunners with smoking matches still in their hands.
"You would've fought us?" he asked wonderingly.
Scott nodded. "Aye."
The lieutenant's eyes turned shrewd. "Judging by that drifting ship yonder, I'd say you just took one of ours, captain."
Scott smiled thinly. "You're in the one that was yours."
The young officer rubbed his chin reflectively. "Damned if I know what to say to you, captain. You'd better come with me to see our skipper."
"You fetch him here. Better still, send your longboat. You stay with us."
"Don't trust us, eh?" the lieutenant asked coolly, his eyebrows arching. "Worried about piracy, maybe?"
"No. We didn't know the war was over. We haven't spoken a ship in three weeks."
"Well, you've got the upper hand of me for the moment, Captain—er—Whatever-your-name-is."
"Rogers."
"Well, Captain Rogers, I'll send for Sir Percy. I think he'll be interested in this case."
Captain Sir Percy Hardwicke boarded the Mary Bell soon afterward. He was a middle-aged man, stout and red-faced.