Meanwhile, he must consider his own position. On this tack he would weather Martinique not long after dawn tomorrow; if he were to fight the British it would be somewhere between Martinique and Dominica. If he did not, then the Atlantic would be open to him. If he wanted to escape he could do so; the Delaware could work to windward, out to sea, far faster than the British could — she would have as much advantage over them as that mysterious schooner had displayed over the Delaware herself. He could run the British ships out of sight, and free himself for his next move. Having drawn them to this end of the West Indian chain, logically his best course of action would be to run down to leeward, take the Mona Passage, say, and make a fresh drive at the Jamaica trade, unless he crossed the Atlantic — as he had considered doing once already — and tried to make havoc in the Channel. As long as the British were reduced merely to parrying his thrusts he was doing his duty. Two years of anxiety in America had already taught Peabody the disadvantages of the defensive.
"If you please, sir," hailed Atwell. "The brig's in sight. Right ahead, sir, and on the same tack as us."
"Thank you, Mr. Atwell."
That was decisive, then. He would not fight if he could avoid it, or unless the British acted far more foolishly than he hoped for. Out of three ships, in a close fight, one would be able to cross his bows or his stern and rake him while he was engaged with one of the others. Even the little Bulldog in such a position would do the Delaware enormous damage. He could not fight three ships at once. The Calypso and the Racer were well out of range to leeward, silently paralleling his course; he thought for a moment of bearing down to interpose between them and the Bulldog, and put the thought aside — the interposition would not save his having to fight all three simultaneously. He decided to maintain his course; the British ships on the larboard bow could come no closer to him, and by his superior speed he would gradually head-reach on them; possibly he might overtake the Bulldog and force a fight on better terms than might otherwise be the case. He would chase her until dawn and reach his own decision then.
Peacefully through the night the four ships held their steady course; on board the Delaware there was only the low music of the rigging, and the creaking of the woodwork as the seas came rolling up to her weather bow. The watch on deck talked only in whispers, while the watch below snatched an uneasy sleep on the hard planking between the guns. Peabody stood tireless by the rail, listening to the whisper of the seas going by, watching the faint shadows of the British ships to leeward, and the dim outline of the mountains of Martinique on the horizon to windward.
At eight bells the relieved watch quietly took their turn to try to sleep; there was no bustle and small excitement. This crew was a seasoned one; there were men on board who had fought, sixteen years ago, all through the night under Nelson at the Nile, and others who remembered the long chill night watch waiting to attack at Copenhagen. There were a couple of Dutchmen who had watched the British line come bearing down on them at Camperdown, and even if those men who had fought under other flags in fleet actions were only few, the majority had fought pirates off Penang, or had stood to their guns against privateers on the African coast. Heterogeneous the crew may have been once, but their recent career of success had given them a common enthusiasm, and they were bound together by a common chain of discipline, whose master link was the silent figure who stood with his hand on the quarter-deck rail.
To the eastward the sky grew pink. All of a sudden the mountains of Martinique changed from vague shadowy slopes to sharp hard outlines which might have been cut from black paper and laid against the brightness. Round the sides of the outline the light came seeping like flood water round an obstruction. To the westward the sky was still dark, the British ships were still vague, and then suddenly the light reached up into the sky above them and revealed them, all sail set, in line ahead, Calypso leading, Racer astern, the Bulldog four miles ahead and to windward of them.
As the seconds went by, the mountains of Martinique took on a new solidity. The bald crown of Mont Pelee caught the sunlight and reflected it, while the hues of the sunrise faded, pink and lavender and green sinking forgotten into the blue. Still the sun was behind the mountains, which cast their long black shadow far out to sea, until with a kind of wink the edge of the yellow sun looked over the saddle between the mountains to the north and those to the south, and instantly it was full day. The mountain sides were green now, and broad on the starboard beam opened the bay of Fort-de-France, with the steep pyramid of the Diamond Rock on the starboard quarter. Behind it, through Peabody's glass, showed the colored sails of the fishing boats making for the town with their night's catch; and, beyond, the white roofs and walls of Fort-de-France itself. The dwellers in the town would have a fine view of the battle, if one were to be fought soon. Perhaps the Marquis and his womenfolk were already being roused with the news that a battle was possible.
Peabody swung his glass back to the British squadron. They were holding their course steadily; during the night the Delaware had forereached upon them only a trifle, although she had perceptibly cut down upon the Bulldog. He had only to give the word for the wheel to be put to starboard and in twenty minutes he would be upon them, amid the roar of the guns and the clatter of battle. The temptation was grave, like that of a bottle two thirds full. There was an analogy between the two prospects, too. In either case there would be an hour's mad satisfaction, and then, at the end, oblivion. Peabody knew the full force of that temptation, but he put it aside. He must play the game out to the bitter end, preserve the Delaware so that she could continue her career of destruction.
Beyond Mont Pelee lay Cape St. Martin; he could weather it easily on his present course, and, once through the straits, he could go about and vanish into the Atlantic distance. Shaking off pursuit, he would be free once more. Port-of-Spain or Port Royal or Ban try Bay; the British would not know where to seek him until he should announce his presence by further sinkings and burnings.
The shadow of the mizzen shrouds moved a little across his face, and in a vertical sense, too, not in the circular way which was the continual result of the pitch and roll of the ship. Her course was altering a little; if that were due to the quartermaster's negligence the shadow would move back in the next second, but it did not. In that one second Peabody's subconscious mind, trained in twenty years at sea, had made the whole deduction. His glance swept the pennant at the masthead, the spread of the main topsail, the man at the wheel. The helmsman had not been negligent; the wind had backed northerly a trifle, and he had had to change course a trifle to keep the ship on the wind. Hubbard was already beside the wheel, along with Poynter, the acting master.
A faint uncertainty came into Peabody's mind, and he could see from Hubbard's attitude as he talked with Poynter that his first lieutenant felt the same. With the rising of the sun it was not unnatural that the wind should grow fluky. Another puff breathed on his cheek and the Delaware's bow came farther round still as the helmsman yielded to it. On this course it was by no means a certainty that the Delaware would be able to weather Cape St. Martin; and with every point the wind veered, by that much was he deprived of the advantage of the weather gauge. Until now the British ships had been powerless to get within range of him without his cooperation, and he could choose his own moment for battle. Now the freakishness of the West Indian wind was depriving him of the advantages which his forethought had won for him.