“Quite ready, sir,” replied the first luff, turning away to give the necessary orders. The gig was hoisted up and secured, the hands were sent aloft to loose the canvas, the topsails were sheeted home and mast-headed, the jib run up, and, simultaneously with this, the capstan-bars were shipped, one of the ship’s boys mounted the capstan-head violin in hand, and to a merry air upon that instrument out stepped the men, the anchor was quickly run up to the bows, and with the last drain of the flood-tide the “Juno,” under topsails and jib, with a light north-easterly air of wind, glided with a slow and stately movement out of the harbour, squaring away directly down through the Solent as soon as we had cleared the anchorage at Spithead, instead of going out round the island to the eastward, as was at that time usual with men-o’-war. This circumstance, trifling as it was, had a very exhilarating effect upon all hands, as it seemed to foreshadow that our skipper, notwithstanding his somewhat affected manner, had a habit of taking the shortest and most direct road when he had an object to achieve.
There were several ships lying at Spithead as we passed through, and it was observed that one of them—the “Boston,” a frigate of about our own size—was just getting under way, her destination being the east coast of North America. Her skipper, Captain Courtenay, and ours were, it appeared, old friends, and having met that day at the Admirals’ office, there had been a little good-natured banter between them as to the comparative sailing powers of the two ships, each being of course of opinion that his own ship could beat the other; and it had been finally arranged that, as both frigates were to sail that day, there should be a friendly race down Channel, the stake being the time-honoured one—a new hat. Accordingly, as soon as we had room, the “Juno” was rounded-to with the main-topsail to the mast, to wait until the other ship should join us.
We were not detained very long. Hardly were we hove-to when the “Boston” was seen threading her way out through the fleet, and in a few minutes more she was close abreast of us, the “Juno” bearing up at the moment which would bring the bows of the two ships exactly level. Captain Courtenay appeared at the gangway as the “Boston” drew up alongside, and on our skipper showing himself, hailed “Juno ahoy! are you ready?”
“Ay, ay,” was the response, “we are—aw—quite ready.”
“Then—off!” shouted the “Boston’s” skipper, and at the word down came his topgallant sheets, the yards going up at the same moment, and the royal sheets fluttering down into their berths, as the yards rose to meet them; then up went the royal yards to their respective mast-heads, the courses dropped heavily down, the staysails and flying-jib slid up their stays, and the driver was hauled out, the whole being done with the regularity and rapidity of a well-oiled and easy-working machine.
In the meantime our own hands had not been idle, and under Mr Annesley’s able manipulation the “Juno” proved herself quite as smart as her antagonist in spreading her snowy pinions.
From that moment all was pleasant excitement on board as the two ships slid gently along side by side within hailing distance of each other. Speculation was rife, and the most diverse opinions as to the issue of the trial were expressed both on the quarter-deck and the forecastle. The “Boston” had the name of being a tolerably smart craft, but during the run down the Solent neither ship appeared able to claim any very decided advantage over the other, sometimes one and sometimes the other drawing a trifle ahead. On arriving off “Egypt” we were able to edge away a little, and then stunsails were set on the starboard side in both ships, still, however, without altering our relative positions.
As the sun declined toward the horizon the wind gradually dropped, finally dying away altogether, and leaving us absolutely motionless save for the drift of the ebb-tide, which still swept us along to the westward. It was a magnificent evening, the water, smooth as glass, reflecting on its glittering surface an absolutely unbroken picture of our stately consort, with every snowy sail, every spar and rope, as clearly shown as though she were reposing on the polished surface of a gigantic mirror. The western sky, glowing with tints of the clearest, palest amber melting into a delicate rose, which merged in its turn imperceptibly into a clear, deep, transparent blue as the eye glanced from the horizon toward the zenith, was without a trace of cloud, and against this pure and exquisitely tinted background the outlines of Hurst Castle stood sharply out, the castle itself and the low spit of land on which it is built appearing of a deep, rich, powerful, purple hue, as though carved out of a giant amethyst, while the country further inland exhibited tints varying from the deepest olive—almost approaching black—through the richest greens, away to the most delicate of pearly greys in the remote distance. The Wight—about a quarter of a mile distant on our port hand—presented a picture of exquisite and almost fairy-like beauty, with its wooded slopes, waving cornfields, and grassy dells, aglow with the rich purply-golden haze of sunset, repeating their beauties in the waveless tide which washed its shores. As I stood gazing entranced upon the varied beauties of earth, sea, and sky, the scene gradually changed, a marvellous transformation was taking place, the sky tints deepened into a warmer, richer glow, the colours of the landscape slowly faded into sombre neutral, the castle stood out black as ebony against the dying flush in the sky, the water blushed crimson for a moment, then paled to a cold greyish purple as a faint breeze began to ruffle its surface, the azure of the sky became momentarily deeper and richer and more purple in tone, and presently, out from the clear cerulean depths started into view the planet Venus, beaming down upon us with a soft, silvery, lambent radiance, and tracing upon the bosom of the darkening wave a delicate thread of quivering liquid light—
“‘Who can paint like Nature?’” said a voice at my elbow, while an arm was slid quietly within my own, and I found myself joined by young Raleigh, a fellow-mid—and by all accounts a scion of the same family as the renowned Sir Walter—“what mortal brush could hope to emulate the exquisite softness, delicacy, richness, and power of those tints which have just faded out of the picture before us, or what artist could adequately express the quiet, dreamy beauty of the present scene? Dame Nature has been kind in permitting what will probably be our last glimpse for some time to come of our native land, to be one of such surpassing loveliness. We are bound to a region the beauty of which has been for ages a favourite theme among poets, yet I fancy many of us will look with yearning fondness upon the cherished memory of the parting smile with which old England has bidden us a long good-night.”
“I am sure I shall, for one,” said I, “I have heard and read much of the beauties of the ‘sunny South,’ but I find it difficult to imagine anything more exquisitely beautiful than many scenes which I have witnessed at home when Nature has been in her happier moods.”