"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.