drifting steadily away to leeward, and although the difference in their speeds was not as dramatic as when running before the wind, yet Huron was headreaching on her steadily.
The gunboat's commander pointed her higher and higher, trying desperately to hold the bigger ship directly over his bows, but all his sails were shaking and luffing before he could do so.
In a fury of frustration, he took in all his canvas, stripping his poles bare and relying only on the drive of his steam boiler pointed up directly into the very eye of the wind, much much higher than Huron could sail. But the gunboat's speed bled away when her screw received no help from her sails. Even though her mast and rigging were bare, the storm whistled and howled head-on through them, acting as a great drogue that slowed her further and Huron forged ahead more swiftly. A bastard contraption.'
Mungo St. John watched her battle with all his attention, judging her performance at every point of the wind. 'We are toying with her. As long as there is a breath of wind we'll romp away from her.'
Astern, the gunboat's commander had abandoned his attempt to run the clipper down with steam power alone, and had come back on to a fine reach with all his canvas set, plugging along stubbornly in Huron's streaming wake, until abruptly, with no warning at all, Huron sailed into a deep hole in the wind.
The line of the gale was di-own clearly across the surface of the sea.
On one side, the water was darkened and furrowed by the talons of the wind, on the other, the humped backs of the rollers in the calm had a polished velvety gloss to them.
As Huron crossed that line of demarcation, the clamour of the wind which for week after week had battered their ears, fell to an eerie unnatural silence, and the ship's motion changed from the vital charge of a living, straining sea creature, to the patternless rolling and wallowing of a dead log.
Overhead her canvas volleyed and flapped in the directionless eddies created by her own rolling and pitching, and her tackle crashed and clattered so that it seemed that she might roll her masts clean out of her hull.
Far astern, the black-painted gunboat scrambled on eagerly, swiftly begining to narrow the distance between them, the bloc k column of coal smoke now rising straight up into the stillness of air, giving her a jubilant and menacing air.
Mungo St. John ran to the forward rail of the quarterdeck, and stared over his bows. He could see the wind two or three miles ahead clawing at the sea and ruffling it to a sombre shade of indigo, but between them was the oily undulating surface of the calm.
He swung back and the gunboat was closer, sending her smoke spurting high against the bright windswept blue of the sky, so certain of herself now that her gunports were swinging open and the stubby barrels of her 32-pounder cannon protruding from the black sides of her hull, the churning wash of her screw tumbling out from under her counter and sparkling whitely in the sunlight.
With no way upon Huron, the helmsman could not hold any course, and the clipper drifted around broadside to the on-rushing man-of-war putting her bows directly into the rollers.
They could make out the individual figures of the three officers on the gunboat's bridge now. Again the bow- chaser fired, and the shell lifted a tall column of water so high and close under the Huron's bows that it collapsed upon the deck and streamed out through the scuppers.
Mungo St. John took one last despairing sweep of the horizon, hoping even now for a resurgence of the wind, and then he capitulated. Hoist the colours, Mr. Tippoo, he called, and as the gaudy scrap of cloth drooped from the mainyard in the windless air, he watched through the lens of his telescope the consternation it caused upon the gunboat's bridge. That was the last flag they had hoped to see.
They were now close enough to discern the individual expressions of chagrin and alarm and indecision of the naval officers. There'll be no prize money for you, not this time around, Mungo St. John murmured with grim satisfaction, and snapped the telescope shut.
The gunboat came on and then rounded up to Huron, within easy hail, showing her full broadside, the long 32pounder cannon gaping menacingly.
The tallest officer on her bridge seemed also the oldest, for his hair was white in the sunlight. He came to the gunboat's near rail and lifted the voice trumpet to his mouth. What ship? 'Huron, out of Baltimore and Bristol, Mungo St. John hailed back. 'With a cargo of trade goods for Good Hope and Quelimane. 'Why did you not answer my challenge, sir? 'Because, sir, I do not acknowledge your right to challenge ships of the United States of America on the high seas.'
Both captains knew just what a thorny and controversial question that reply posed, but the Englishman hesitated only a second. Do you, sir, accede to my right to satisfy myself as to your nationality and your ship's port of registry? 'As soon as you run in your guns you may come aboard for that purpose, Captain. But do not send one of your Junior officers.'
Mungo St. John was making a fine point of humiliating the commander of the Black joke. But inwardly he was still seething at the fluke of wind and weather which had allowed the gunboat to come up with him.
The Black joke launched a longboat on the heavy swell with an immaculate show of seamanship, and it pulled swiftly to Huron's side. While the Captain scrambled up the rope ladder, the boat's crew backed off and rested on their oars.
The naval officer came in through the entry port, so lithe and agile that Mungo St. John realized his error in thinking him an elderly man. It was the white-blond hair that had misled him, he was evidently less than thirty years of age. He did not wear a uniform coat, for his ship had been cleared for action, and he was dressed in a plain white linen shirt, breeches and soft boots. There were a pair of pistols in his belt and a naval cutlass in its scabbard on his hip. Captain Codrington of Her Majesty's auxiliary cruiser Black joke, he introduced himself stiffly. His hair was bleached in silver white splashes from the salt and the sun, with darker streaks beneath and it was tied with a leather thong in a short queue at the nape of his neck.
His face was weathered to honey-golden brown by the same sun, so that the faded blue of his eyes was in pale contrast.
Captain St. John, owner and master of this vessel.
Neither man made any move to shake hands, and they seemed to bristle like two dog wolves meeting for the first time. I hope you do not intend to detain me longer than is necessary. You can assure yourself that my government will be fully apprised of this incident. May I inspect your papers, Captain? ' The young naval officer ignored the threat, and followed St. John on to the quarterdeck. There he hesitated for the first time when he caught sight of Robyn and her brother standing together at the far rail, but he recovered immediately, bowed
