Three cheers greeted this order. The hour of battle had sounded. A few moments later, the frigate’s two funnels vomited torrents of black smoke, and its deck quaked from the trembling of its boilers.
Driven forward by its powerful propeller, the Abraham Lincoln headed straight for the animal. Unconcerned, the latter let us come within half a cable length; then, not bothering to dive, it got up a little speed, retreated, and was content to keep its distance.
This chase dragged on for about three-quarters of an hour without the frigate gaining two fathoms on the cetacean. At this rate, it was obvious that we would never catch up with it.
Infuriated, Commander Farragut kept twisting the thick tuft of hair that flourished below his chin.
“Ned Land!” he called.
The Canadian reported at once.
“Well, Mr. Land,” the commander asked, “do you still advise putting my longboats to sea?”
“No, sir,” Ned Land replied, “because that beast won’t be caught against its will.”
“Then what should we do?”
“Stoke up more steam, sir, if you can. As for me, with your permission I’ll go perch on the bobstays under the bowsprit, and if we can get within a harpoon length, I’ll harpoon the brute.”