The crew, whose expressions had changed during the short chase from anxiety to hope, and from hope to satisfaction, looked up at the little quarter-deck where the captain was pacing to and fro with firm, springing steps. They were a motley lot, this crew, mostly American sailormen from Baltimore, a half-Spaniard from the West Indies, and two strong fellows who had about them the unmistakable marks of man-of-war’s-men. In all there were but fifteen, including the cook, a big, curly-haired Virginia negro with a rolling eye and a soft, high-pitched voice.
The young captain had been more than satisfied with the way they had jumped at his orders during the few exciting moments when it was a moot question whether he would be able to cross the frigate’s bows at a range beyond gunshot. He had just managed to do it and no more, but it had proved to his satisfaction that, given a smooth sea and a light wind, the Charming Peggy could outfoot any of her ponderous pursuers. He well knew that the dangerous time would soon come when in English home waters, and that there stratagem, as well as speed, would have to be resorted to if occasion demanded. He could scarcely hope to reach a Dutch or French port without some further adventure, and to tell the truth he was in a measure prepared for a certain form of it. On the forecastle rail were mounted two swivel guns, and amidships a short six-pounder. Not a formidable armament, to be sure, but sufficient, if at close range, with the element of surprise added, to account for any small merchant vessel that the Peggy might fall in with.
Still, in his sailing orders, nothing had been said about the taking of prizes. He had merely been ordered to get safely in to some Dutch port and bring out as soon as possible a miscellaneous cargo of such materials and supplies as merchants could dispose of most readily to the fighting branch of the revolted colonies.
All was plain sailing, with pleasant breezes, until at the end of the twenty-third day after leaving the capes. Then a storm sprang up with high winds, and the tumbling, rolling seas that mark the edge of the Bay of Biscay, and there the Charming Peggy proved to be a disappointment. Safe enough she was, but she butted and jumped and turned like a tub in a mill-race. She acted like a bewitched and bewildered creature, and in order to prevent having to run for it, Captain Conyngham had recourse to an expedient often used in vessels of light tonnage. He rigged out a sea-anchor, and for three days the observations showed that the Peggy’s position was about stationary. On the fourth day the weather cleared a bit, the wind shifted, and twenty-four hours’ good sailing to the northward brought her in sight of the English coast. The wind holding fair, she entered King George’s private channel with all light canvas flying, and everything seeming to promise well for the future. Numerous sail had been sighted on either hand, but Captain Conyngham kept well to the eastward, close in to the low-lying French coast. Clumsy fishing craft and trading vessels had been passed near at hand, but not a sign of a man-of-war, or anything to give the slightest concern as to the safety of the Charming Peggy. But late in the afternoon of the second day, after the clearing away of the storm, there appeared, bowling along, and holding such a course as would bring her soon within hailing distance, a jaunty single-masted vessel that needed no second glance to determine her class and quality.
Captain Conyngham knew her to be one of the fast king’s cutters long before he had looked at her through the glass, but he held his own course as if unconcerned, and now the expected resort to strategy was necessary. At his orders the Dutch flag had been shown, and the cutter, although coming nearer and nearer, showed apparently no signs of suspicion. The watch on deck lolled over the rail, glancing from the approaching vessel to their young skipper, who like themselves was leaning over the side puffing a cloud of smoke from a long clay pipe. Occasionally, however, he would give an order to the helmsman that was obeyed, and it was seen that almost imperceptibly the brig was edging up nearer the wind, and that the approaching cutter, that was sailing close hauled also, would pass astern of her.
The captain turned for an instant, from measuring the lessening distance between the two vessels, to see how the crew were taking it, for any untoward action now might attract the other’s attention. Captain Conyngham could not make up his mind at first as to whether she intended hailing him or not, and still in doubt, he spoke to the first mate, a lean New Englander, who sat on the edge of the cabin transom, smilingly addressing him.
“Mr. Jarvis, I wonder which of us speaks the best Dutch?” he half queried. “If that fellow yonder intends to hail us, we’ve got to get an answer ready. I’m pretty good on Spanish, and I can ‘parlez-vous’ after a fashion, but Dutch has been Dutch to me. We should have flown the Spanish flag, but it’s too late now, bad luck to it.”
“Wa-al,” the Yankee answered, “I’m thinkin’ if we just squeeze her the least bit more she’ll be at jus’ such a distance that y’u couldn’t make nothin’ out through a speakin’-trumpet, and Dutch is Dutch to most Englishmen anyhow.”
By this time the figures on board the approaching cutter could be plainly seen. On the quarter-deck there were two officers standing together, while forward the crew lay bunched together, sheltering, behind the low bulwarks, from the spray that dashed over her bows. Again Captain Conyngham looked at his own crew standing in the waist. Talking together were the two sailormen who had had the mark upon them of the royal service. One, Captain Conyngham had suspected from the very first of being a deserter from one of the English ships that had touched at an American port. His name—Higgins—also might have gone to strengthen his suspicion, and he had a little Devonshire twist in his speech. The other, a shorter man, with light blue eyes, was a compatriot of the young captain; he had a broad stretch of upper lip, and the strong brogue of the west coast.
Conyngham’s eye fell upon these two as they stood there and suddenly he started. They were whispering almost beneath their breath. Strange to say the supposed deserter showed no signs of the fear that the occasion might have demanded; yet he was a trifle nervous, for his fingers hitched at the lanyard of his clasp-knife.