It was a random puff of wind which had been responsible for the Constellation's overtaking the Insurgente when Peabody was a lieutenant under Truxtun. Thirty years ago at the Battle of the Saintes a flaw in the wind had been responsible for the breaking of the French line and for Rodney's victory — which, if it had happened six years earlier, might well have postponed indefinitely the independence of the United States. Tremendous events sometimes resulted from the unpredictable vagaries of the wind. At this very moment the fate of the Delaware, his own life, depended on them. But as the vagaries were unpredictable, as they were dictated by a quite unscrutable Providence, there was no reason to allow them to anger him; it would be childish as well as irreverent to break into recriminations over them, the way Hubbard over there was doing. Hubbard was looking at the trend of the land, and then out to sea at the British squadron, and up at the pennant which told the direction of the wind, and the long black curses were pouring from his lips. Hubbard found it hard to bear the tension when it was obvious that if the wind veered another single point the Delaware's escape round Cape St. Martin would be impossible.
"Mr. Hubbard! Hoist the colors, if you please."
Peabody still stood by the rail, his lean face and his hard eyes expressionless as he awaited his fate, and within him he was just as unmoved, thanks to his self-mastery.
The British ships had hauled to the wind as it veered, keeping parallel with the Delaware's course. Across four miles of blue water the Calypso and the Racer maintained their rigid line ahead, all sail set and drawing; as the Stars and Stripes went up to the Delaware's peak the White Ensign rose to theirs, fluttering jauntily, and at that very moment Peabody felt the shadows move across his face again. The wind had veered one more point — two more points.
Now the Delaware's bow was pointed straight for the foot of Mont Pelee. The Calypso and the Racer must be exultant to see her cut off from the open sea. There were signal flags going up to the Calypso's weather yardarm, and the Bulldog was answering them. Next moment she hove in stays and went about. On the opposite tack she was heading just for the spot where the Delaware would have to change her course if she were not to go aground — just for the spot where the Calypso and Racer would intercept her so that all the four ships would come together at once. Peabody studied the blank sky, the expressionless sea. He was trying to guess what the unpredictable wind would do next. If it were to back, he still would have a chance to reach the open sea, and to pound the Bulldog into the bargain while the other ships looked on helplessly. The wind was as likely to back as it was to veer; more likely, perhaps, as it had veered so far. Peabody held his course and issued no orders. He caught his fingers in the act of nervously drumming on the rail before him, and he peremptorily stilled them.
Five minutes went by. Ten minutes went by, and at the end of ten minutes the wind had veered half a point more. Peabody broke into action again. He made his body stand stiff and immovable, and he kept his voice at a conversational pitch, not for the sake of the example it gave, but because these servants of his mind must act without weakness.
"Mr. Hubbard! Tack, if you please."
Even a losing battle must be fought out to the end; if Providence had declared against him he must fight Providence to the last, for that was the only way to earn the approval of Providence. By tacking he would delay the encounter with the British squadron and have a chance of fighting at a better advantage than if he fought at present. Something might always happen. Providence might relent, the British might blunder, the wind might change or might drop altogether. Tacking would prolong the chase and give Providence a chance. The canvas slatted and the block rattled as the Delaware came up into the wind, and stilled again as she caught the wind on the other side. Now her bow was pointed straight towards the bay of Fort-de-France, with its rocky islets and its white cubes of houses; that was the corner into which he was being driven.
The Calypso had tacked the moment the Delaware did, and the Racer tacked in succession behind her, neatly backing her topsails for a second to maintain her interval — the British could handle ships, without a doubt. Astern came the Bulldog, reveling in the safety which the veering of the wind had given her. It was she who was to windward now, who held the weather gauge, who could select her moment for battle. Peabody could not turn and tack up to her without having the other ships upon him before he reached her. In the Windward Passage he had had all the advantages, the advantage of the weather gauge, the advantage of surprise, the advantage of the fact that the British ships were separated to guard a convoy, the advantage that the power of his ship was unknown — all of these advantages which he had won by his own foresight, but which had given him the opportunity to defeat his enemies in detail.
In the present encounter the wind had been unkind, and the British had learned caution. They were keeping their squadron massed while he was being driven upon a lee shore where he could not refuse battle to their united forces. But the game was not lost yet; he still had some miles of sea room in which to prolong the chase. Standing out towards the Diamond Rock ahead was a white sail. Peabody whipped his glass to his eye; it was neither a friend nor another enemy — it was the Tigresse. Coming to see the sport, he supposed, a little bitterly. It would be an unusual experience for the French in these war-torn islands to witness a battle which did not affect them. Well, he could imagine the way boats would have poured out through the Narrows filled with sightseers three years ago if the rumor had gone round New York of an approaching battle between English and French off Sandy Hook.
He could claim the protection of French neutrality if he wanted to — run for Fort-de-France and shelter under the guns and laugh at the British. He was sure that the Marquis would do his best to protect him, because he remembered what the Marquis had said about maintaining strict neutrality. Since he had given the order to tack the idea had come into his mind more than once, and he had put it on one side, guiltily. It was what he ought to do, logically. If it were best to keep the Delaware afloat and as a fighting unit it would be better for her to be blockaded in Fort-de-France than sunk or captured. But he would not do it, not even though it were his duty. He would rather fight — or to word it better, he was set on fighting in preference to accepting French protection; but he felt guilty about it because he fancied that an honorable defeat was the wrong choice from the naval point of view. On this vital matter, for the first time in twenty years, he was going to allow his personal predilections to outweigh his sense of duty. He was tired of running away.