"Message for Captain er — Peabody," said the midshipman, and his manner implied that the name in his mouth was as distasteful as medicine.
The gig hooked on to the chains, the British sailors looking up curiously at the American ones hard at work about the ship while the midshipman scrambled to the deck. He touched his hat to the quarter-deck in the new offhand British fashion that compared so unfavorably with the American rule of uncovering, and handed over the note.
H.M.S. Calypso, Fort-de-France.
Captain the Honorable Sir Hubert Davenant, K. B., presents his respects to Captain Josiah Peabody, U.S.S. Delaware. He would esteem it a favor if Captain Peabody could find it convenient to meet him as soon as his duties permit. Captain Davenant ventures to suggest that Captain Peabody should visit him aboard Calypso, and wishes to indicate that he is aware of the honor Captain Peabody would confer upon Calypso in that event. However, should Captain Peabody decide that he cannot do so, Captain Davenant would be delighted to wait upon Captain Peabody at any point on neutral territory that Captain Peabody may be pleased to indicate. But the matter is urgent.
Peabody read this missive in the privacy of the cabin.
"You say the midshipman's waiting for an answer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him he'll have it soon."
"Aye aye, sir."
Peabody's matter-of-fact mind dissected the clumsy wording. In the first place, it did not need the final sentence to impress upon him how urgent the matter was — if Davenant was eating humble pie to the extent of making the first advance, that was proof enough in itself. In the second place, the note did not ask him to commit himself to anything. It did not ask him to make any promises; he was at liberty to get any advantage out of the invitation which was open to him and to make no return. There was a chance of gaining something — he knew not what — and no chance of losing anything. Clearly the thing to do was to accept, and Peabody cut himself a fresh pen and addressed himself to the task.
It was not so easy as that. Peabody found himself making innumerable erasures as he floundered in the pitfalls of the third person singular; he made a fair copy, and then had to do it all over again when carelessly he allowed sweat to smudge the completed note — it was just as well, he discovered, on recopying, because he had forgotten to put in the "K. B." after Davenant's name, and he was certainly not going to allow a United States captain to be outdone in the game of formal politeness by a British one.
U.S.S. Delaware, Fort-de-France.
Captain Josiah Peabody presents his respects to Captain the Hon. Sir Hubert Davenant, K. B. He will be honored to wait upon Captain Davenant at three P.M. this afternoon, if that will be convenient to him.
Washington brought a candle and he sealed the note and sent it on deck.
"Get me out one of my best shirts, Washington."
"Best shirt, sir? Yes indeed, sir."
These last few days had been a perfect orgy for Washington. It irked him inexpressibly that his master should ever wear the second-best of anything, however neatly patched and darned, and now for days Peabody had been wearing a succession of the precious best shirts which had rested unworn in the locker since leaving Brooklyn. On deck Peabody was aware that Hubbard's keen observation had detected that he was wearing his best clothes.
"I'm going on board the British frigate, Mr. Hubbard. Call my gig's crew, if you please. I shall inspect them before I start."
"Aye aye, sir."
Hubbard passed on the order and turned back anxiously to his captain.
"Did you say you were going on board the British frigate, sir?"
"I did."
Hubbard realized at the same moment as that there was nothing more to say. The British might be domineering, ruthless, inconsiderate, but neither Peabody nor Hubbard could for a moment imagine them capable of false dealing. If at their invitation Peabody visited them, he could be perfectly certain of being offered no hindrance when he wanted to leave again.
Muggridge formed up the gig's crew abaft the mainmast, and Peabody walked forward and looked them over.
"Can't have that patched shirt," he said. "Go change it. Those trousers aren't the right color. "Well, go draw another pair from the purser. You Harvey, straighten that hair of yours."
No lover preparing to visit his mistress ever paid so strict an attention to his appearance as did Peabody to that of his gig's crew at the prospect of having them looked over by a rival service. He even looked sharply over the gig itself, at the spotless white canvas fend-offs and the geometrically exactly arranged oars and boat-hook, even though he knew Muggridge to be too conscientious a sailor altogether to allow the slightest fault to be found with his charge. At precisely four minutes before six bells he stepped into the stern sheets; on board the Calypso the striking of six bells accompanied the hail of "Boat ahoy!" from the officer of the watch.
"Delaware!" hailed Muggridge in return.
There was the most formal reception on the deck. The red-coated Marines presented arms like a score of mechanical wooden soldiers; their pipe-clayed crossbelts and bright badges echoed the gleam of the spotless decks and metal work. The officer of the watch held his hand rigidly to his hatbrim, while the boatswain's mates us captain twittered wildly on their pipes; the sideboys had the freshest imaginable white gloves and their infant faces had been scrubbed into preternatural cleanliness. Peabody took off his own hat in salute, and kept it off as Davenant advanced to meet him.
"Good afternoon, sir. This is a great honor. Would you be kind enough to accompany me below?"
The great cabin of the Calypso was smaller than that of the Delaware, as was only to be expected, and its permanent fittings were if anything even more Spartan. Peabody had an impression of a multiplicity of ornaments— objects collected by Davenant during thirty years of commissioned service — but he had no attention to spare for them, because his attention was held by the persons in the room. There were two other British naval officers there, on their feet to welcome him, — he recognized them as having been present at the ball, — and looking over the shoulder of one of them was, of all people in the world, Hunningford the spy, Hunningford whom he had last seen sailing away from the secret rendezvous after giving Peabody the information regarding the Jamaica convoy. As their eyes met Hunningford's left eyelid flickered momentarily; but Peabody's wits were about him and he kept his face expressionless and with no sign of recognition.
"Allow me to present," said Davenant, "Captain Fane, His Majesty's corvette Racer, Commander Maitland, His Majesty's armed brig Bulldog, and Mr. Charles Hunningford, one of our most respected Kingston merchants — Captain Josiah Peabody."
Everybody bowed.
"There's a mixture of rum and lime which is popular on this island and which ought to be better known," said Davenant. "The secret lies in a grating of nutmeg, I fancy. Will you sit here, Captain Peabody? Maitland — Fane — Mr. Hunningford."
Peabody realized in an amused moment that Davenant was actually shy, oppressed by the strange circumstance of entertaining a hostile captain, and endeavoring to carry it off with bluff and bustle.
"Your health, gentlemen," said Davenant, raising his glass, and everyone sipped solemnly, and then looked at everyone else, the ice still not broken.