The Calypso was rounding Cap Salomon now, hull-down at the mouth of the bay as she headed for her rendezvous ten miles west of the Diamond Rock. Peabody took one last look at her before he went down to the main deck. Wooden slats had been nailed to the planking there beside the guns, to serve as pointers for concentrated broadsides, at such angles as to ensure that if the guns were laid along them their fire would all be aimed at a point fifty yards on the beam. He called for his big protractor and went along carefully checking the angles. Broke, in the Shannon, had made use of this method when he fought the Chesapeake, as Peabody had read in a copy of the Jamaica Gazette he had picked up in Fort-de-France; the same method might be invaluable if there were not enough wind to blow away the smoke, and he laid the Delaware athwartships to the Calypso. There was no harm in learning from the enemy.
He was busy enough, and therefore one might almost say happy enough, until nightfall, by which time he had tired out his crew. He wanted them to sleep soundly that night, ready for the next day, and they perhaps would not have done so in their present state of excitement without a good deal of exercise first. So he had kept them hauling at the gun tackles in the sweltering heat, and he had devised imaginary emergencies for them to deal with, until it was too dark to see. Then he dismissed them to rest. He looked out once more over the dark water, wondering what was happening aboard the Calypso, hove to under shortened canvas out there at her rendezvous in the Caribbean, before he nerved himself to call for his gig.
He did not want to go ashore; he did not want to see Anne again. He doubted so much his ability to bear what he foresaw would be an agonizing strain. The premonition of approaching death was strong upon him. This love of his, these few days of happiness, had been a tiny interlude of joy during his joyless life. Perhaps no bitterness, no disappointment, no privation, could ever be too much for his iron temperament, but he was afraid of happiness. He was afraid of himself, afraid lest he might weaken, lest this last glimpse of the happiness he was losing should break him down and betray him into some demonstration of weakness which would be sinful if anything was, which he would be ashamed of when he remembered it broadside to broadside with the Calypso, and which Anne would remember of him when — if ever — she thought of him in after years.
But he had to go through with it. That was all. It was something that he had to do, and so there was no use in grimacing as he swallowed his medicine.
"Good night, sir," said Hubbard, hat in hand.
"Good night, Mr. Hubbard," said Peabody, as he went over the side in the darkness.
There was the little carriage, which had been waiting at the quay ever since sunset, and there was Anne, faintly illumined in the light of the lantern which the coachman held. She held up her mouth to be kissed, and he kissed her, and he knew then, at the touch of her lips, that all his fears regarding his weakness were nonsensical. It was a moment of fresh recognition, like the time when he had seen her again at the Marquis's house — he had forgotten what she was like until he saw her again. Anne could never be a cause of weakness; she could never be a drain on any man's strength. Rather was she a fortifiant, strengthening him and revivifying him. Peabody remembered Pilgrim's Progress, and how Christian's burden dropped from him when he reached the Cross. His own burden dropped from him when he felt Anne's slim shoulders under his hands and her lips against his, and there was nothing impious about the comparison, not even to his morbid conscience.
Later that night he tried to tell her about it. He even mentioned Christian and the Cross a little shamefacedly, for he was quite unliterary and high-flown similes did not come easily to him, and he felt her lie suddenly still in his arms. It was a second or so before she replied, in that London accent with its French quality that he loved so dearly, and she stroked his cheek as she spoke.
"Dear," she said, "darling. "When I'm an old woman I'll remember what you've just said and I'll still be proud of it. But you've got it all wrong, dear. It isn't me. It's you. To you I'm what you think I am, of course — oh, how can I explain it? You're so good yourself, you're so honest and you think no evil. It's because you're like what you are that you think other people are the same. And my dear, it's because you think that, that we try to be. Oh, what a muddle I'm saying, and yet to me it's as clear as clear. Sweetheart — darling . . ."
The night was passing and the dawn was approaching; the maid's knock on the door awoke them as they slept still in each other's arms. When Peabody was dressed the carriage was waiting to take him down to the quay, and Peabody stood to bid his wife good-by. Their eyes met as he stretched out his hands and she put hers into them.
"Good-by, dear," he said.
"Good-by dear," she answered, looking at him with level gaze, unflinching. "You'll come back to me soon?"
"As soon as ever I can," he said; the premonition of death had not left him.
He bent his head to kiss her hands, and he felt their impassioned clasp as he did so, but her eyes were still dry when he looked up again, and her voice was steady. It was not until he had gone that she wept, bitterly, heartbroken, alone in her room.
On board the Delaware the early morning routine was under way, just as ever. Rank by rank, their trousers rolled above the knee, the hands were washing the deck, polishing metalwork, scrubbing canvas.
"Good morning, Mr. Hubbard."
"Good morning, sir."
"It looks as if we're going to have a fine day."
"The glass rose during the night, sir."
The tropical sun was already glaring down at them over the hills, and one or two belated fishing boats were still returning to the bay with the night's catch. The little revenue cutter was standing out from the quay and hove to close under the Delaware's quarter. Dupont was on board, in full uniform, and he hailed the American ship.
"You will be allowed to sail at fifteen minutes past noon," he shouted, bringing out his watch from his fob. "I keep the time, and it is now six-thirty."
Peabody looked at his own watch. He had forgotten to wind it the night before, and even on his wedding night he had remembered it. But he managed to keep his expression nonchalant as he synchronized his watch with Dupont's, and he called no attention to his actions when he next slipped the key over the winding post and gave it a few casual turns.
"Very good, Captain," he hailed back.
"Isn't it sickening the way these Frogs can order us about, sir?" said Hubbard.
"It's for the last time," said Peabody. "Mr. Hubbard, I've left duplicate orders for you should I be killed this afternoon."
"Yes, sir," said Hubbard, steadily. He did not cheapen himself with any conventional "I hope not." He was like Anne in that respect.
"One set is in my desk," went on Peabody. "The others are in a sealed envelope which the gunner has in the magazine, in case our upper works are wrecked. However hard-hit the ship may be, you are to repair her at sea."
"Yes, sir."
"The British have some sort of expedition fitting out at Jamaica," went on Peabody. "It may have sailed by now, but you are to track it down. My own guess is that they'll send it against New Orleans."
"Yes, sir."
"Hang on to it and do it all the damage you can. If you catch it at sea you may be able to snap up a transport or two — a couple of thousand redcoats for prisoners wouldn't do us any harm."
"I guess not, sir."
"But remember this, Mr. Hubbard. You are not to fight any British ship of war if you can help it."