Pursued.
The Swift was a formidable fighting ship, though built to tackle the midgets of the sea—the 130 feet torpedo boats. She had no torpedo-tube in the stem, which had been strengthened for ramming; but she carried two tubes at the stern, one four-inch quick-firing gun, two six-pounders forward, and two twelve-pounders on pedestals. Including the officers, there were twenty men to work the ship and guns, and a staff of ten firemen and engineers. The seamen were picked men, tempted by high pay, and all of them showed the unmistakable stamp of strict training and discipline. They were, in fact, men of the Naval Reserve, recruited by the Quartermaster—hard, weather-beaten, and, except when off duty, still-mouthed. The Quartermaster, Henderson, was black-bearded and swarthy, like the Captain, and it was rumoured among the men that this was not the first time the two of them had shipped in the same capacity in blockade-running in the wars of South American Republics. The conning-tower, a small chamber, fitted with tubes, knobs, levers, and a spare wheel, and walled in with thick plates of toughened steel, was just forward of the first funnel. Beyond it was a turtle-backed deck of iron, and on either side were the six-pounders, protected by bullet-proof shields. The Captain could fire the aft torpedo guns by electricity from the conning-tower.
“Clear the guns for action, and slacken speed.”
The shrill, clear notes of the whistle rang out the sharp summons, and the men sprang to their positions with an alacrity which had not marked their actions when threatened by the British warships. Then they had done their duty sullenly, with a sense of ill-omen at having to encounter their own flag; but now they were on a different footing in respect to this new foe, and eager to be at some other game than always on the run.
“If our Captain’s half as good at fighting as he is at running,” growled the sailor known as Dick the Owl, for his night eye, “we’ll have a bellyful, eh, mate? and good luck to it.”
“Eh, it’s a queer thing, Dick, that we navy men should be under these port-to-port cargo and hat-box carriers, but the Captain’s got red lights in his head when there’s danger afoot, and maybe he’ll be a good ’un to follow.”
“As good as any you would find on the bridge of any battleship afloat, my men,” said Lieutenant Webster, who had been standing by unobserved.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the men, touching their caps.
“That’s all right, my men; we’ve got to know each other yet,” replied the Lieutenant, with a kindliness that won their hearts. “Wash down the decks first,” he cried; “we’ll not go down to Davy’s locker disguised in soot, like imps of darkness. Out with the hose.”
The men laughed as they screwed on the hose to the hydrants and poured on a stream of water, sweeping the grimy decks from stem to stern.