"Do you want to take service with me?" he asked.
"Yessir," said Williams eagerly.
He was one of that kind who to save his skin would even fight against his own country. Peabody dallied with the idea of returning them both, with his compliments, to the Calypso. For the first attempt at desertion in the British Navy the punishment was a thousand lashes. For the second attempt, a milder punishment — death, after the worst had been tried and had failed. Williams read the thought in his face.
"You ain't goin' to send us back, sir?"
"I'll think about it," said Peabody. "Take 'em for'ard."
He could not send them back, of course. He could not give back two trained seamen to his country's enemies. He could not (as he would have liked to do) return Williams and keep Larson. He disliked deserters, and he could sympathize very strongly with what would, of course, be Davenant's reactions when he heard that his men had taken refuge on board the Delaware; but he could not, just on that account, hand them back again. From the point of view of the politicians at Washington, he was achieving something worth while in weakening the British forces — that was an aspect of the case which crossed his mind only later in the day when he was making ready for the reception on shore which was being given by "Captain Henri-Francois Dupont and the Officers of His Most Christian Majesty's Navy."
It was a function to which Anne had been looking forward with eagerness.
"Now the world will be able to see how well you can waltz, dear," she said in the darkness of the carriage as they drove to the reception, and the recollection that the words called up, and the pretty trick of speech, set him smiling despite his preoccupation. It was a surprise to him to find that he, too, was looking forward to the party, to encountering the world with a wife he was proud of on his arm. He had never believed that he would ever know a pleasurable sensation while on his way to a social function.
Captain Dupont was a courteous host, when he received them in the drawing room of his house above the quay. He asked politely about Peabody's wounds and he turned a pretty compliment about Anne's appearance. It was only when he had finished speaking to her and had turned back to her husband that he saw Peabody standing rigid, staring across the room with the hard lines carved deep in his face. He followed his gaze; there was Jonathan Peabody laughing and joking with half a dozen pretty women, his new wife watchful at his side.
"It is unfortunate, sir," said Dupont. "I am ready enough to admit that. But His Most Christian Majesty's Government can of course take no official cognition of the fact that young Mr. Peabody is a deserter. We only know him as the husband of one of the richest and most influential landowners in the island."
"I understand," said Peabody, and the tone he used made it clear enough that while he understood he did not excuse. He turned away; there was no pleasure in the party for him now. He nodded to Hubbard and the others, who were entering the room eagerly, with all the freshness of their white gloves and glittering lace. Behind them came the British officers, Davenant and Fane side by side and their juniors following them. Peabody bowed to them as good manners dictated — just the slightest unbending towards an enemy on neutral soil. The Marquis was entering now, the Countess beside him, and the whole room rose to its feet in deference to the embodied presence of the direct representative of His Most Christian Majesty.
A few minutes later Peabody found himself alone — the Countess had taken Anne from him and had carried her off to where she was now the center of an eager group of chattering women. Peabody wondered what on earth they found to talk about, seeing that most of that group saw each other every day, but he tried to smile tolerantly while he wandered through the rooms. At the far end of the suite was a room where a few elderly people were sitting round card tables, and Davenant and Fane were just emerging. Peabody stood politely aside to make way for them, but Davenant halted and addressed him.
"Good evening, Captain," he said. "I trust you are going to return those two deserters of mine?"
The words which ended in g nearly had no g at all, the way Davenant pronounced them.
"I don't intend to, sir," said Peabody. He was a little nettled at Davenant's calm assumption of certainty.
"You don't intend to?"
Davenant's face exhibited a surprise which was not in the least rhetorical. With the capture of the Susanna, Davenant had come unconsciously to look upon the Delaware as a ship of war which could work with his own in matters not connected with the war between their countries, and Davenant, after forty years at sea, had grown to believe that naval discipline was the most vital and important factor in the civilized world. Peabody's refusal to return deserters would unsettle the crews of all the British ships. If Peabody had announced a determined belief in the community of property, or in the necessity for every man to have nine wives, he could not have been more shocked.
"I don't intend to, sir," repeated Peabody, firmly.
"But, man, you don't understand what this means. D'you think I'm goin' to let a couple of deserters flaunt themselves within a cable's length of my own ship?"
That g quite disappeared as Davenant grew more heated.
"They will flaunt themselves, sir, as you say, if the discipline of my ship permits."
"Good God!"
The exclamation, as Davenant made it, was extraordinarily like the gobbling of a turkey, and Davenant's cheeks were deepening in color like the wattles of a turkey. Peabody made no reply, and stood waiting to pass.
"Haven't you any sense of decency, man?" exploded Davenant.
Long years as captain of a ship had made it an unusual experience for Davenant to be crossed in his will, and for as many years he had never made any attempt to control his fiery temper. He did not stop to think what he would have said in reply to a request for the return, say, of a couple of American deserters.
"As much as other people have," said Peabody, "or more."
Hubbard had miraculously appeared from nowhere, and was standing at his shoulder; Peabody was aware of the hush which had fallen about them as people listened to their words, but he did not take his eyes from Davenant's. There were strange feelings within him. He knew just whither this argument was leading, and he was strangely glad. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the memory of his fight with Lerouge, and his grim New England conscience was accusing him of fear during the crossing of swords. He must prove to himself that he had not been afraid. And life had been too good. Anne's kisses had been too sweet. With a desperate contrariness he felt he must imperil all his unaccustomed happiness to deserve it.
Fane had put his hand on Davenant's shoulder and was trying to lead him away, while Davenant's fierce temper refused to be mollified.
"It's what one might expect of Yankee trickiness," he said. "It's in keeping with the way they use dismantling shot."
That made Peabody smile despite himself, and the smile set the coping stone on Davenant's rage. He searched through his mind for the most wounding, the crudest thing he could say to this upstart American who had dared to oppose him.
"Of course," he said loudly, "in the American service they marry their deserters to rich widows. Especially when they happen to be the captain's brothers."