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.