Chapter XI
DURING the hot night Peabody awoke to a knocking on his cabin door; and he had called "Come in" before he was fully conscious. He sat up in his cot as someone came stumbling into the stuffy darkness. It was Midshipman Kidd, and he had hardly entered before Washington appeared with a candle lantern, his shirt outside his trousers, but ready for duty. Peabody suspected him of sleeping on the locker of the main cabin.
"Mr. Atwell sent me, sir," said Kidd. "There's a strange sail to leeward he'd be glad to have you see, sir."
"I'll come," said Peabody, and swung his legs off his cot. In that instant of time Washington had snatched up his trousers and was once again crouching for Peabody to put his legs in them — Washington was always alert for opportunities to perform the most menial duties. He continued on his knees while Peabody buttoned his flaps, holding the shoes ready for his master's feet.
On deck the brilliant tropic moon illuminated everything, showing up the familiar shipboard objects in a strange new light, and illuminating a broad path all the way down to the western horizon. It was down this path that Atwell pointed, after lifting his hat to his captain.
"There she is, sir," he said.
Certainly there was something there, an outline brighter than the sky behind it, darker than the sea below it. Peabody's eyes accustomed themselves to the light, and he could see more clearly. There were the upper sails of a ship, from the royals down to mainyard, reaching with the wind abeam on the opposite course to the Delaware's. Peabody looked again, struck by the memory of something hauntingly familiar about the ship. He took the proffered night glass and focused on the vessel, took the glass from his eye again having once more convinced himself that at night his eyes saw no better with artificial assistance, and looked again with narrowed eyes. The distance between those fore- and main-topmasts, and the odd proportion between them, meant something to him, without his figuring it out — as he might remember an acquaintance's face without thinking whether one eye was bigger than the other or the nose a little out of the straight.
"I know her," he said, decisively.
"I thought you would, sir," said Atwell.
"She's the Racer" said Peabody. "The corvette we dismantled in the Wind'ard Passage."
"Yes, sir," said Atwell.
"Turn up the hands, Mr. Atwell. I want the ship cleared for action without noise."
"Aye aye, sir."
"No lights are to be shown without my orders."
"No, sir."
"Put up the helm and go down to her."
"Aye aye, sir."
On that still night, with a favoring wind and over such a kindly medium as water, the sound of the drums calling the men to quarters might easily reach acute ears on board the corvette, and there was always the possibility of surprise — faint, but in war no possible chance must ever be neglected. In all the bustle of clearing for action Peabody stood looking over the dark sea at the Racer. As the Delaware wore, he watched closely. For several minutes she showed no sign of having seen her, and then suddenly her masts blended into one. She had turned tail, and Peabody nodded to himself as he did at the solution of a mathematical problem. It would have been suspicious if she had not acted in that way — he could not imagine a King's ship not sighting an enemy at that distance, or not recognizing her at once.
His mind attacked the problem of explaining the Racer's presence here in the eastern Caribbean after he had last seen her six hundred miles away. It was necessary to be wary, to consider every step, in these conditions when any step might lead to destruction.
Murray was at his elbow, seeking his attention.
"Shall I load with round shot or dismantling, sir?"
"Canister in the carronades. Round shot in the long guns," said Peabody, "if you please, Mr. Murray."
Each of the eighteen carronades which the Delaware carried fired a thirty-two-pound missile, and a thirty-two-pound round of canister contained five hundred musket bullets. He would close with the Racer, sweep her deck with canister, and board her in the smoke. That would be the cheapest way of overpowering her, he decided, and would give her least chance of disabling the Delaware; not that such a lightly armed ship had much chance of permanently disabling the Delaware, and slight damage aloft would be unimportant in the present situation, where, unlike during the attack on the convoy, seconds would not be vital.
The chances were that her presence in these waters was a mere matter of routine — Peabody knew how easy it was to suspect an enemy of some deep design when all he was doing was merely something for his own comfort. There had been a notable instance just before the attack on Tripoli. But on the other hand, he must be cautious. He must not run the Delaware into a trap. He had spent nearly every waking moment since he left New York on the watch for traps, and his alertness had not diminished with time.
"Deck there!" came the cry from the masthead. "Please, sir, there's another sail to leeward!"
Atwell caught a nod from Peabody, and rushed aloft with his night glass.
"Yes, sir," he hailed. "I can see his royals sure enough,
sir."
"What is she?"
"Can't tell you yet, sir. But the chase seems to be making for her, sir."
If the Racer was employed in guarding some small convoy, the last thing she would do would be to draw pursuit towards the ships she was escorting. It was unlikely that the new sail was a merchantman, then, unless she were a chance comer.
"I can see her better now, sir," came Atwell's voice. "She's ship-rigged, and heading close-hauled to cross our course. And — and — she's a British ship of war, sir."
"Mr. Hubbard! Put her on the starboard tack, if you please."
The barest hint that there were British reinforcements awaiting the Racer over the horizon was enough to make Peabody alter his course. This might be the trap he had expected; certainly he was not going to plunge blindly into unknown dangers during the hours of darkness. By laying the Delaware on the starboard tack he was keeping well to windward of the enemy, so that when daylight should clear the situation he would be in a position be able to offer or refuse battle at his own choice. Hubbard roared "Belay!" to the hands at the braces, well appeared on the quarterdeck.
"I'm not sure about that second ship, sir," he said, "but — but she might be the Calypso, sir."
A ship whose masts and sails had been so thoroughly torn to pieces as had the Calypso's might well not be recognizable the next time she was seen. New masts and sails would disguise her as much as a beard would disguise a man.
"It seems likely to me," said Peabody steadily. "Perhaps the brig's over there too."
"I don't think she was in sight, sir. Shall I go aloft again and see?"
"If you please, Mr. Atwell. Mr. Hubbard! The watch below can sleep at the guns."
If there were to be a battle tomorrow, Peabody had no intention of fighting it with a crew weary after a sleepless night. He would need all his strength if he were to fight the Calypso and the Racer together; in fact he knew already that he would only engage if he could make, or if chance presented him with, a favorable opportunity. And after their experience in the Windward Passage he could be sure that these two ships would do their best to offer him no opportunity; he could be surer of it with them than with any other two ships out of the whole British Navy.