eight years back. She called Black joke. 'Cape Squadron? ' Tippoo grunted, and at that moment the gunboat bore up sharply and at the same time her colours; broke out at the masthead. The crisp white and bright scarlet of her ensign shrieked a challenge, a challenge that all the world had learned to heed, and heed swiftly. Only the ships of one nation on earth need not heave to the instant that challenge was flowri. The Huron was immune, she had only to hoist the Stars and Stripes, and even this importunate representative of the Royal Navy would be forced to respect it, But Mungo St. John was thinking swiftly. Six days before he sailed from Baltimore Harbour, in May, 1860, AbrAham Lincoln had been nominated presidential candidate for the United States of America. If elected, as seemed highly likely, he would be invested early in the New Year, and then one of his first actions would surely be to grant to Great Britain the privileges agreed by the Treaty of Brussels, including the right of search of American ships upon the high seas which previous American presidents had so steadfastly denied.
Soon, perhaps sooner than he expected, Mungo St. John might have to run his clipper in deadly earnest against one of these ships of the Cape Squadron. It was a heavensent opportunity to match his ship, and to observe the capabilities of the other.
He swept one last glance about him, that took in the sea, the wind-driven lines of foam upon it, the piled white pyramids of canvas above him and the evil black hull to leeward, and then his decision was made easier.
On the wind came the thud of a gun and a long feather of gunsmoke spurted from one of the gunboat's bowchasers, demanding instant obedience.
Mungo St. John smiled. 'The insolent bastard! ' To Tippoo he said, 'We'll try him on a few points of sailing, ' to the helmsman beside him, softly, 'Put the helm down. ' And as Huron paid off swiftly before the wind, beginning to point directly away from the threatening black ship, 'Shake out all reefs, Mr. Mate. Set fore and maintop, hoist studding sails and skysails, crack on the main royal, yes, and flying jib too. By God, we'll show that grubby little coal-guzzling lime-juicer how they build them down Baltimore way! ' Even in her anger, Robyn was thrilled by the manner in which the American worked his ship. With his crew swarming out across the yards to the reefing points, the Insails swelled out to their full extent, dazzling white in the sunshine, and then high above, seemingly at the very base of the aching blue heaven itself, new unfamiliar-shaped sails popped open like over-ripe cotton pods and the ion& graceful hull reacted instantly to the pressures thrust upon her. By God, she sails like a witch, Zouga shouted, laughing with excitement, as she knifed into the crests of the Atlantic rollers and he hustled his sister back from the bows before the first green sheets of water came aboard and swept Huron's decks.
More and still more canvas burst open, and the thick trees of her masts began to arch like drawn longbows under the unbearable pressures of thousands of square feet of spread sails. Now Huron seemed to fly, taking off from the crest of each roller and smashing into the face of the next with a crash that shocked her timbers and jarred the teeth of her crew in their skulls. A cast of the lo& Mr. Mate, Mungo St. John called, and when Tippoo bellowed back, 'A touch better than sixteen knots, Cap'n! ' the Captain laughed aloud, and strode to the stern rail.
The gunboat was falling astern as though she was standing still, although every inch of her grey canvas was spread. Already she was at extreme cannon range.
Again powder-smoke bloomed briefly on her black bows, and this time it seemed that it was more than merely a warning, for Mungo St. John saw the fall of shot.
It struck the crest of a roller two cable lengths astern and skipped across the green torn. waters, before plunging beneath the surface almost alongside Huron's tall side. Captain, you are endangering the lives of your crew and passengers. ' The voice arrested him and St. John turned to the tall young woman who stood beside him, and he raised one thick black eyebrow in polite enquiry. That is a British man-of-war, sir, and we are acting like criminals. They are firing live shot now. You have only to heave to, or at the very least show your colours. 'I think my sister is right, Captain St. John Zouga stood beside her. 'I do not understand your behaviour either.'
Huron staggered violently to a larger crest, driven wild by the mountainous press of sail, Robyn lost her balance and fell against the Captain's chest, but instantly pulled away, colouring fiercely at the contact. This is the coast of Africa, Major Ballantyne. Nothing is what it appears to be. Here only a fool would accept a strange armed vessel at its face value. Now if you and the good doctor will excuse me, I must attend to my duties.'
He strode forward to gaze down at the maindeck, judging the mood of his crew and the wild abandon of his ship. He unhooked the keyring from his belt and tossed it to Tippoo. 'The arms chest, Mr. Mate, a pair of pistols to you and the second mate. Shoot any hand who attempts to interfere with the setting of the sails. ' He had recognized the fear which gripped the crew. Most of them had never seen a ship driven like this, there might easily be an attempt to shorten sail rather than have her run herself under.
At that moment Huron put her shoulder into the Atlantic and took it aboard in a solid roaring green wall.
One of the topmast men was not quick enough on to the rat-lines. The water plucked him up and flung him down the length of the deck, until he crashed into the side, and lay huddled against the bulwark like a clump of uprooted kelp on a storm-driven beach.
Two of his fellows tried to reach him, but the next wave drove them back as it came pouring aboard waistdeep and then cascading in a roaring white torrent over the side, and when it was gone the fallen topmast man was gone with it and the deck was empty. Mr. Tippoo, look you to those skysails, they are not drawing as they should.'
Mungo St. John turned back to the stern rail, ignoring Robyn Ballantyne's horrified and accusing glare.
Already the British gunboat was hull down and her sails were barely discernible among the grey beards of the breaking Atlantic rollers, but suddenly Mungo St. John saw something change, and he reached quickly for the telescope in its slot under the chart table. There was a fine black line, as though drawn in Indian ink, extending from the tiny cone of the Englishman's sails for a short way across the bumpy horizon. Smoke! She has her boiler fired at last, he grunted, as Tippoo appeared at his shoulder, with the pistols thrust into his belt. One screw. She no catch us. ' Tippoo nodded his round s en ea NNo, not downwind in a full gale, Mungo St. John agreed. 'But I'd like to try her on the wind. We'll harden up now, Mr. Mate, on the port tack again. I want to see if I can run up to windward of her and pass her out of cannon shot.'
The unexpected manoeuvre caught the gunboat commander completely off-guard, and he was a few minutes slow in altering course to cut the shorter leg of the triangle and prevent the Huron wresting the weather gage from him.
Huron went streaming past him at extreme cannonshot hard on the wind, her yards sheeted around as closehauled as she would sail. He tried a shot across her dipping, plunging bows with no visible fall of shot, and then he came around to follow her into the wind, and immediately the flaws in the design and construction of his ship were pointed up as clearly as they had been while both ships were running before the wind.
In order to accommodate the heavy boiler and machinery to drive the big bronze screw under her counter, serious compromise had been made with the design of her masts and the amount of canvas she could carry.
Within five miles it became clear that with all sail set and the boilers belching a solid greasy slug of coal smoke over the stern the Black lake could not point as high into the wind as the beautiful tall ship ahead of her. She was
