"What d'you make of her, Mr. Murray?"
"Baltimore schooner, rerigged in some foreign port, I reckon, sir."
Murray's home was in Baltimore; his earliest recollections were of the white wings of the schooners on the Patapsco; his judgment ought to be correct if any was.
"Privateer dismasted in action and refitted at Port-au-Prince, most likely," said Hubbard.
That was by far the most probable explanation.
"She's carrying heavy metal, sir," commented Murray.
So much the better. Peabody had been hoping that chance would bring him in contact with a privateer; not only did he need news and information, but he wanted to concoct fresh plans of attack. There ought to be a convoy due soon from Port-of-Spain, and Peabody would be glad to deal with the escort if only there were a privateer at hand to snap up prizes.
"Hoist the colors, Mr. Hubbard."
"She's rounding to!" exclaimed Murray.
Much more than that. She had spun round on her heel, hauled in her sheets, and was beating her way back to windward as hard as she could go.
"Thought we were a merchantman until she saw our teeth," chuckled Murray. "Now she's having the fright of her life. I guess she'll be glad to see the Stars and Stripes."
If the sight of the American flag brought any comfort to the schooner, she showed no sign of it, for she went on clawing up to windward in a desperate hurry.
"Fire a gun to leeward," said Peabody testily.
But the gun brought no reply from the schooner.
"Nobody'd think we're trying to make the damned fools' fortune for 'em," grumbled Hubbard, watching her go.
"Stand by to go about," snapped Peabody. "We'll look into this."
The Delaware went on the other tack, and, hauled as close as she would lie, started in pursuit. The schooner was right to windward, two gunshots away, and heading for the open Atlantic with Dominica on her larboard beam. Far away to starboard the stark bald peak of Mont Pelee showed above the horizon.
"Queer," said Hubbard.
The schooner was heading neither for the active assistance of the British Dominica, nor for the neutral protection of French Martinique.
"If she was British you'd expect her to run for Roseau," said Murray.
"And if she were anything else she wouldn't run at all," said Hubbard.
"Maybe she's a Yankee with a British license," suggested Murray, sagely.
The same thought had already passed through Peabody's mind. The New England merchants had not taken very seriously this war which Mr. Madison had decided upon, and they had certainly resented the loss of their profitable trade with Britain. Massachusetts had come within an ace of declaring herself neutral, and a good many Yankee ships had continued in British service, supplying the British forces, under license issued by British admirals. If this schooner were one of those, Peabody had every intention of making her a prize of war, and the schooner probably knew it.
Peabody looked up aloft. Every stitch that the Delaware could carry was set, and every sail was drawing its best. He looked through his telescope at the schooner.
"She's forereaching on us, damn her," said Hubbard.
"I guess she's weathering on us, too," supplemented Murray.
The schooner was going through the water a trifle faster than the Delaware; she was lying a trifle — half a point, perhaps — nearer the wind; and, as Murray had suggested, she probably was not sagging off bodily to leeward quite as much as the Delaware, although Heaven knew that the Delaware on a bowline was better than most.
"Call all hands," said Peabody. "Put the watch below in the weather shrouds. And I'll have the watch on deck carry the shot up to windward. Keep her up, quartermaster!"
"Keep her up, sir!"
Two hundred men in the weather shrouds, thicker than apples in a tree, meant over ten tons of human ballast, and the mere area of their bodies, exposed to the wind on the weather side, was a help to the Delaware in keeping closer to the wind. The rapid transference of shot from the garlands and lockers on the leeside to the weather side helped to stiffen her as well. The weather braces were hauled in taut, and every sail was as flat as a board and drawing to the utmost; the cast log gave them nearly eight knots.
"Eight knots!" said Murray, surprised.
"She's still forereaching on us, all the same," said Hubbard bitterly.
"Get those men out of the foremast shrouds," said Peabody. "Bring 'em aft. Run out the larboard-side guns, and then bring the watch on deck aft as well."
Running out the guns on the weather side would stiffen her enormously. Bringing the men aft would set her a little by the stern, and Peabody, his mind conjuring up diagrams of the Delaware's underwater form, thought it just possible that she might give a few more yards of speed in that case — possible, but not probable. The guns rumbled out; the foremast men came running aft and scrambled up the mizzen rigging, packing themselves in among the men already there. The watch on deck came and clustered aft in an eager crowd, herded by the sharp orders of the petty officers.
"Heave the log again!" said Peabody to O'Brien.
O'Brien performed the duty with the utmost care. The seaman with him forced the peg into the log ship and stood holding the reel of line above his head. O'Brien made a level base on the slide of the after carronade for the sandglass. He did not intend to trust to the transmission of orders; he took the log himself and cast it, and as the fluttering marker of bunting passed his left hand, with his right he neatly inverted the glass. The spool rattled as the line ran out, so that the sailor's uplifted hands shook as if with the wind. O'Brien kept his eye on the glass during the twenty-eight seconds it took the sand to run out, and as the last grain fell he nipped the line.
"How much?" said Peabody.
"Seven, sir, an' a half. Nearer eight than seven, sir."
No better than before, then, and perhaps a little worse; the wind had kept steady during those twenty-eight seconds. The tension on the seaman's hands ended as the peg was jerked out, and the log towed unresistingly. He began to reel in the line.
"She's still forereaching on us, sir," said Murray, gently.
Even a glance showed that; the distance between the schooner and the Delaware had grown perceptibly.
"We'll keep after her, though," said Peabody. "She may carry something away."
That was always the last hope, pursuing or pursued: that the other ship would damage herself in some fashion. It was not a very dignified thing to hope for, and in this case the hope was to bear no fruit. The strange schooner steadily increased her distance. By noon she was hull-down. By four bells, half her big mainsail was below the horizon, and before the first dogwatch was called Peabody gave the order to wear ship, and laid a course for Santa Lucia.
"But all the same, I'd like to know who the devil she is," said Hubbard with a jerk of his head back to the vanishing topsails of the schooner.
For Peabody it was sufficient to be aware that there was a fast schooner in the vicinity which was not anxious for inspection; after that there was no use in regretting the hours wasted in pursuit of her. The next job to be done was to continue to exploit the surprise of the Delaware's arrival among the Lesser Antilles, to continue to burn and destroy, even though his heart sickened of the wasteful business — even though the towering peak of Martinique looked down upon his exploits, so that Anne on some country picnic may have seen the sails of the Delaware as she passed on her career of destruction. Peabody looked over at the mountains of Martinique; he was not proud at the thought that Anne might be watching him carefully striking down those powerless to strike back at him. And Martinique was now at peace; in that island the open wounds of war were beginning now to close. As a sensible man, Peabody was fully aware of the blessings of peace; the task which lay to his hand made him more aware still. They were very mixed feelings with which he looked over at Martinique.