“None whatever,” is Van Zandt’s prompt reply. “Our papers are straight and we have nothing contraband, unless it be the Don there. Let them look us over if they wish.”
“She’s not a very large craft,” comments the taciturn executive officer of the yacht, as the two vessels continue to lessen the distance between them.
“Probably one of the blockading fleet,” is Van Zandt’s surmise.
He is evidently right, for the stranger at this point displays the Spanish flag and at the same time the report of a cannon echoes across the water.
“Show our colors,” orders Van Zandt, and the flag of the great republic is caressed by the soft southern breeze. Another shot is fired from the Spaniard, and as the Semiramis slows up a third cloud of white floats from the side of the war vessel, followed by the sudden boom of a heavier gun.
As the Semiramis steams slowly toward the Spaniard, now distant less than a mile, a fourth report is heard.
“Shotted, by heaven!” ejaculates Capt. Beals, his eyes glued to the glass; “and the Don has changed her course and is standing off to pepper us. He is one of those tin-clad gunboats, only half our tonnage, and pays no attention to our flag.” Still another shot is fired, and a solid shot skips over the waves, barely two lengths astern of the yacht.
“Shall we ram him, sir? We can send him to Davy Jones’ locker in ten minutes, and not harm the yacht, either.”
Van Zandt’s eyes glance aloft at the Stars and Stripes standing out clear and free from the maintop, and then his eyes turn to the Spanish gunboat.
“Steam toward him full speed,” he says at length, “and if he fires on the American flag again”—the white teeth shut with an ominous click—“ram him full amidship, let the consequences be what they may.”