"Lordy!" said Washington, and shut his mouth with a snap as Peabody turned a terrible eye on him. He could only roll his eyes when the tramp of the Marines' heavy shoes sounded on the deck overhead as they poured up to the entry port.
"Tell the captain of the afterguard to set my cabin to rights directly," said Peabody, buckling on his sword. As he set his foot on the companion he heard Hubbard's warning yell, and he reached the deck just as the boatswain's mates' pipes pealed and the Marines presented arms.
"Ah, Peabody," said Davenant, coming toward him with outstretched hand. He was smiling in kindly fashion, the wrinkles showing round his eyes.
"I am glad to see you, sir," said Peabody, a little stiffly.
Davenant was struggling with the overwhelming curiosity which consumes a captain of a ship of war when by some chance he finds himself on the deck of a rival ship. Even at that moment, it was hard to keep his eyes from straying.
"Here — " he said, opening the paper which he held in his left hand and passing it over to Peabody. "The damned dispatch boat from Port-of-Spain sighted me this morning, and gave me this. It's conclusive, as far as I'm concerned."
Peabody read the dispatch; the seal was official enough and it was addressed from the Admiralty at Whitehalclass="underline" —
I am directed by my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to inform all captains of His Britannic Majesty's Ships that in consequence of peace having been concluded at Ghent between His Majesty and the United States of America hostilities will cease forthwith and to request and require all such captains to refrain from any hostile action whatsoever immediately upon receipt of this order.
E. Nepean, Secretary to the Board.
"I suppose it needn't bind you" said Davenant. "You can wait until you receive your orders from Washington."
"It binds me too, of course," said Peabody. If he went out to sea in the face of that evidence and began a career of destruction, he would be in bad odor, to say the least of it, with the Secretary of the Navy.
"It's a damned shame," said Davenant. "No, damn it, I can't say that. I don't know whether to be pleased or sorry, damn it. We'd have had as neat a single-ship action as there's been these twenty years."
Peabody was not ready with a reply. He was looking forward into a new future, one which he had never allowed himself to think about until now. A future of a world at peace, a world of thriving commerce. His own life would be dull and without incident, and anyone who did not know him would say that the most interesting chapter of his career had finished. But Peabody — such was the nature of the man — thought that the most interesting chapter had now begun. He took control of his thoughts just as they were drifting towards Anne, and brought them back to less romantic matters. There were three dozen scrawny Martinique hens in coops on the spar deck, and, boiled, a couple of them would be just edible.
"Can I have the pleasure of your company to dinner, sir?" he said.
"That's very kind of you," said Davenant, looking at him keenly. "But I suspect that you would rather go and tell this good news to that pretty wife of yours."
Peabody hesitated, torn between love of truth and ordinary politeness.
"Don't mind my feelings, sir," went on Davenant, and he laughed apologetically. "To tell the truth, I have business of the same sort on shore myself. I suppose there's no harm in my telling you that I have the prospect — the imminent prospect, now — of marrying into the same family as you have done. We shall be relations-in-law, Peabody."
Davenant looked oddly sheepish as he said this.
"I wish you joy, sir," said Peabody, restraining a smile.
"Long life and happiness to you and to the future Lady Davenant."
"But let's count this invitation as only postponed," said Davenant. "We'll celebrate the peace together."
"Yes, Uncle," said Peabody.