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.