And away went the pair, without more ado, making the best of their way toward the steps which lead down the side of the hill to the quay, whence they took a boat across the harbour, the second bell from the steamer admonishing them that they had no time to spare. They reached the pay-gate in good time, however, took their tickets, and ascended to the hurricane-deck just as the captain of the boat climbed to his own private bridge. The last bell rang, a few belated excursionists came rushing breathlessly down, and whilst they were scrambling for their tickets the Flying Cloud, now within two miles of the town, was seen to tack. The laggards hurried on board, the gang-plank was drawn ashore, the ropes were cast off, the engines made a revolution or two astern to cant the steamer’s head toward the centre of the harbour, and then away the excursion party went, the band on board at the same moment striking up a lively tune.
By the time that the Victoria had reached the harbour’s mouth Mr Damerell was able to see that they had started at exactly the right time. The Flying Cloud—a beautiful sight, as she now appeared broadside-on to them, reaching across the bay, with the afternoon sun gleaming brilliantly upon her immense spread of canvas—was slipping along through the water at a speed of about six knots, and it was apparent she would pass the breakwater-end at about the same moment as the Victoria. But the excursion steamer’s usual course was through the opening in the breakwater, and not out round its end; and if she now took that direction the trip would be spoiled, so far, at least, as Mr Damerell and his daughter were concerned. The old gentleman looked round, and saw that Captain Cosens, the veteran commodore of the little pleasure fleet, was in command, and to him he determined to make his wishes known. The captain was talking to some of his lady passengers when Mr Damerell approached him, but looked up at once and spoke on recognising an old friend.
“Good-morning, Mr Damerell,” said he. “What fair wind blows you on board the Victoria? It is not often that you favour us with your company. A noble vessel that, isn’t she?” indicating the Flying Cloud. “I take it she is an Australian liner.”
“Yes,” said Mr Damerell, “that is the Flying Cloud, my son’s ship, you know, Captain—”
“What! your son aboard?” interrupted the commodore. “Starboard, Tom, starboard a bit, boy! and pass as close to leeward of that ship as you safely can. It’s not often we have the opportunity to treat our passengers to a sight of a clipper under all plain sail, so, as the water is smooth, and we can do so with safety, we will do it to-day; it will be something of a novelty for them. And perhaps,” he added, his kindly grey eyes beaming sympathetically, “you may be able to get another glimpse of Ned as we pass. Come upon my bridge, Mr Damerell, you will see better, and he will see you all the quicker too.”
The ship and the steamer now rapidly approached each other; and soon after passing the breakwater-end, the latter shot across the stern of the former and ranged up on her lee quarter. The word to “ease her” was passed below into the Victoria’s engine-room; and Mr Damerell and Eva had the opportunity of not only seeing, but also of exchanging a few words with Ned, who had soon espied them on the steamer’s bridge, and had placed himself in the mizen-rigging for the purpose. The pleasure party on board the steamer were meanwhile thoroughly enjoying the unwonted sight which the Flying Cloud presented, with her ponderous but shapely hull, lavishly adorned with gilding at the bow and stern; her clean, well-ordered decks resplendent with glittering brass-work, and polished teak and mahogany fittings; her handsome boats, fresh painted, with the house-flag emblazoned on their bows, and canvas covers neatly lashed over them from gunwale to gunwale; the lofty masts, the orderly but intricate maze of standing and running-rigging; and the towering spread of canvas which seemed to reach almost to the clouds. Many of them had never in their lives before seen a ship of any size under her canvas and fairly at sea; and now they were brought into close proximity with one which was not only “a clipper,” but, as the affable captain of the steamer explained to his numerous questioners, one of the finest, if not the largest, of that class of vessels afloat. The little group of passengers on the poop, seemingly so thoroughly comfortable and so completely at home, naturally attracted a considerable amount of attention, the children especially; and one enthusiastic lady on board the steamer was so completely carried away by the influences of the moment, that she tossed to little Percy Gaunt a basket of freshly-gathered flowers which she happened to have with her, which the little fellow deftly caught, and with a laughing “Thank you very much!” at once handed to his mother. Then, the brief conversation between father and son being brought to an end, the signal for “full speed” was given, and the steamer drew ahead, the band on board playing “A life on the ocean wave,” and the vessels separated with much waving of hats and handkerchiefs on both sides. The steamer was of course the first to reach the Bill, the Flying Cloud being partially becalmed under the high land of Portland; and when the pleasure party again passed her, it was at a distance of about a mile, the ship steering a course which would take her well clear of the Shambles shoal.
“Bill,” said Captain Cosens, when the two vessels were again abreast, “jump aft, my lad, and dip the ensign!”
The ensign was dipped three times, the salutation being promptly responded to by the clipper; and then her colours were hauled down as, catching a freshening breeze, she gracefully inclined to it, and swept grandly out to seaward.
Such was Mr Damerell’s last farewell to his son, on this eventful occasion at least. Poor old gentleman! well was it for him that he so little dreamed of what that son was destined to pass through before they two again should meet! Little, as they lost sight of her, did the light-hearted throng on board the Victoria guess at the horrors of which that noble ship was to be the theatre.
On clearing the Bill of Portland, and once more getting the true breeze, it was found by those on board the Flying Cloud that the wind had veered some points further to the westward, and was now almost dead in the teeth of their course down channel. There was a red-hot ebb tide running, however, which was so much in their favour, and Captain Blyth held on upon the same tack, pushing out toward mid-channel so as to get the full benefit of it. The ship was heading well up to windward of the Channel Islands, so that she was not doing at all badly; and the wind having veered so far, the skipper was in hopes it would veer still further, and so give him a favourable slant down channel after his next reach in for the land. Nor was he disappointed; for tacking at six o’clock to avoid the flood, which he knew would soon be making, he found himself, at ten o’clock that night, some four miles to the westward of Beer Head, the wind heading him more and more as he drew in with the land. On again tacking, it was found that the ship was heading well up for the Start, which was passed about four bells in the morning watch; when, feeling themselves at length safe for a fair run out of the channel, the ship’s departure was taken, together with a small pull upon the weather braces. A course was given the helmsman which would carry the ship well clear of Cape Finisterre, and away went the Flying Cloud to the southward and westward, reeling eleven knots off the log with all three skysails set. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Captain Blyth’s reckoning placed the ship off Ushant. They now began to feel the regular Atlantic roll, and shortly afterwards the wind, continuing to veer, worked round so far to the northward of west, that they were not only enabled to get another good pull upon the weather braces, but also to set studding-sails on the starboard side, when away went the ship plunging and rolling across the Bay of Biscay at a pace which amply justified her name, and sent all hands into ecstasies of delight. And the climax of their happiness was reached when, just about sunset, a large steamer, which had been in sight ahead since noon, was triumphantly overhauled and passed, though she, like themselves, was under all the canvas she could show. Captain Blyth was simply in a beatitude of bliss; he walked the poop to and fro, rubbing his hands gleefully, chuckling, and audibly murmuring little congratulatory ejaculations to himself, fragments of which—such as—“new hat—astonish that fellow Spence above a trifle, I flatter myself—reach the Heads a clear week before him,” etcetera etcetera—Ned Damerell caught from time to time as the skipper trotted past him.