"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.
Chapter VIII
PEABODY sat pen in hand bending over the ship's log. "Encountered French government sloop Tigresse, Captain Dupon, having on board . . ."
This was hard work. The name Tigresse came easily, because Peabody had read it cut into the ship's bell. He was fairly sure about the "Dupon," too, having heard the captain enunciate it clearly enough, although with his odd French accent. But it was not so easy to describe the Tigresse. He was not at all anxious to write "His Most Christian Majesty's," or "The French King's," because he was by no means sure that the American Government had recognized that potentate, and it had called for a little thought to devise a way round the difficulty. And now that he had come to the point of saying who else was on board he was quite at a loss. There was a Marquis, he knew — he had caught the word during the introductions — but what he was Marquis of, Peabody had not the least recollection, even if he had ever really heard the cumbrous title. Somehow he had formed an accurate idea as to what were to be the Marquis's official duties, but the actual words used by Dupont in his presentation quite escaped him. Peabody scratched his nose with the end of the quill, pondered, and went on writing —"having on board the new Governor of Martinique and his family."
That solved the difficulty. She had blue eyes (Peabody's thoughts went off at an abrupt tangent) and very black hair whose curls were in the most vivid contrast to her white forehead. Her given name was Anne, but what the rest of it was he could not tell, not for the life of him. Anne de Something-or-other. That did not describe her in the least — she was somebody much more definite than that. Into those blue eyes there sometimes came a twinkle which was one of the most exciting things he had ever seen. But for the rest of her . . . Peabody tried methodically to piece his memories of her together. Tall? Short? Peabody forced himself, with rigid self-control, to remember what he had noticed about her before he had met her eyes; he tried to call up before his mental vision his glimpse of her on the quarter-deck when his only reaction to the sight of her had been surprise at the presence of females. The carronade beside her had been a twelve-pounder, and that came up as far as — Yes, of course, she was short. The Marquis was not a tall man, and she had appeared small beside him. She had been wearing some sort of veil which she had put back to twinkle at him. What else she was wearing he could not remember at all, not at all. But the black curls and the blue eyes and the pink-and-white skin he could remember more vividly than he had ever remembered anything. Jonathan had called her "the young'un," and spoke of her as a "peach." Jonathan was a young fool who was not fit to approach any young woman.
Peabody put the log on one side, rose from his desk, and walked up on deck; before his eyes, in the dark alleyway, there floated the vision of Anne, which only faded — just as a ghost would — as he entered the strong sunshine of the deck. Atwell uncovered to him, and he paced rapidly up and down the quarter-deck for a few turns while he looked over the ship. Everything there was just as it should be; the sails were drawing well, the ship was exactly on her course, the watch was at work in a quiet and orderly fashion. Peabody contrasted his own happy lot with that of the British captains. The maintenance of American ships of war — what few of them there were — was a mere fleabite compared with the enormous resources available; there had been no need for niggardliness in any respect whatever, while the British, maintaining the largest fleet possible, during twenty continuous years of war, were compelled to skimp and scrape to make the supplies go round. When he had commissioned the Delaware he had been able to pick his crew from a number of applicants three times as great as he needed — every man on board was a seasoned seaman, every specialist had spent a lifetime in his trade, while the British officers had to man their ships by force and train their crews while actually on service. He was a fortunate man.
His eye caught sight of a midshipman forward in charge of a party setting up the lee foremast shrouds. He was lounging against a gun in a manner which no young officer should use when supervising hard work done by older men. It was Jonathan.
"Mr. Peabody!" roared Peabody.
A little stir ran round the ship, unnoticed by him alone; Jonathan looked up.
"Mr. Peabody!" roared Peabody again.
Jonathan came walking aft, a faint look of surprise on his face.
"Move quicker than that when I call you!" snapped Peabody. "Pull yourself up straight and stand at attention!"
The look of faint surprise on Jonathan's face changed to one of deep, pained surprise.
"Take that look off your face!" said Peabody, but the surprise merely became genuine.
"I don't like to see you squatting about, Mr. Peabody, when your division is at work."
"But my arm — " said Jonathan.
"Damn your arm!" said Peabody; not so much because Downing had declared Jonathan fit for duty yesterday as because he was irritated that a member of his ship's company should plead bodily weakness when there was work to be done.
"I'm not feeling good," said Jonathan, "and you wouldn't neither."
It may have been surprise which had deprived Jonathan of his usual tact; he ought to have guessed that his brother was in an unusual mood, and he ought to have modeled his bearing for the moment on the slavish deference of the other officers which so excited his derision. Peabody for a couple of seconds could only gobble at him before he was able to find words for his indignation.
"Call me 'sir'!" he roared. "I don't like your damned impertinence, Mr. Peabody."
Jonathan, still amazingly obtuse, pushed out his lower lip, hunched his shoulders, and sulked.
"Fore-topgallant masthead! Wait there for further orders," snapped Peabody. "Run, you — you whipper-snapper."
He was in a towering passion, and Jonathan, looking at him for the first time with seeing eyes, suddenly realized it and was afraid. He turned and ran, with every eye in the ship following him. Halfway up the foremast shrouds he paused for a moment and looked down, saw Peabody take an impatient step, and pelted up again. Peabody watched him to the masthead, and turned abruptly to continue pacing the deck while his fury subsided. He was actually trembling a little with emotion. He had been overindulgent to the boy, and he knew it now. The realization that he had actually had a favorite on board since the voyage began was a shock to him.