Once more the windlass was set going, and with the aid of three pairs of strong young arms the heavy manila line was tautened until the yacht’s bow was pulled a foot or more below the normal water line; but not an inch would the old anchor budge. But just as the boys were on the point of giving up in desperation, the rollers from a passing tug tossed the yacht and gave an extra heavy pull on the line; then suddenly the yawl regained her level and inch by inch the refractory anchor was yanked up. A great water-soaked log clinging to one of the flukes revealed the cause of the trouble when it reached the surface.
Free at last from the grasp of the land, the “Gazelle” threaded her way past trim, converted yacht-gunboats (which looked little like the venomous terriers of war they were), the grim “Texas,” whose peaceful white coating of paint belied her destructive, death-dealing power, and past the battered “Reina Mercedes,” which, in spite of every effort of her former owner, was destined to become a useful member of Uncle Sam’s Navy. Indeed, yachts, steamers, steamboats, and sailing craft of every description, were passed by the “Gazelle” on her way to the open bay, the famous Hampton Roads. Many hands were waved in salute to the little craft and her sturdy crew, and not less numerous were the toots of the whistles which greeted them, for the fame of their trip had spread until the little white yawl was almost as well known to the shipping population as the members of the white squadron.
When the sun of August 22d sent its last rays over the beautiful Hampton Roads, the “Gazelle” had rounded Old Point Comfort and left the picturesque old Fortress Monroe astern.
Long after sundown, the “Gazelle” wended her way up the broad Chesapeake Bay, one of a thousand craft that sped over its smooth waters. Soon, the moon rose in perfect splendor, and as the boys sat in the cockpit, spellbound by the beauty of the scene, they saw a great Baltimore clipper, square rigged, every sail spread, come sailing down the broad path of moonlight; leaning a trifle to the strength of the breeze, every sail rounded out and bathed in silvery light, her keen prow turning the phosphorescent waves like a ploughshare; she made one of the finest pictures mortal man ever beheld—a sight that made the boys’ sailor-blood stir within them, and they stood spellbound until the great ship swept majestically by, silent, except for the splash of the waves as she spurned them aside, or for the creak of a block under the strain of swelling canvas.
Till long after midnight, the yacht held her course—sailing by the light of the moon; then she dropped anchor in one of the innumerable indentations that mark the coast line of the bay.
It was late the next morning when the three young mariners rubbed their eyes open, but they might as well have turned in again, for hardly a breath of wind was stirring, and the swift tide was running out—down stream.
For three days the wind failed them, then a breeze sprang up that made the resisting tide of no avail.
The “Gazelle” sailed along past sandy beaches and rocky points, past fascinating marshy nooks, and bluff headlands, at what seemed a good round gait until a slim, rakish-looking craft went by so quickly that the yacht might just as well have been anchored, so great was the contrast in speed.
“Well, I’ll be switched,” was Kenneth’s surprised ejaculation. Never had he seen his boat left behind so quickly before. “Bet she’s got a gasoline engine stowed aft there somewhere.”
“No, the ‘Gazelle’ is foul with weeds and things.”