The moon rose and shone with great brilliancy, so that our towering main-skysail must have been visible a long distance, while the foam flaked and surged from the vessel’s black hull as white as a mass of liquid silver. All night we drove along with nothing visible astern, and at daylight the hull of the steamer was still below the horizon. At seven bells Zachary Green came on deck.
“Name o’ thunder! What’s he after?” he growled, as he gazed astern. “By Gorry! It is the Blanco, after all, Gantline; but what makes him hold on like this? We are going to the westward of Juan Fernandez, and that is more than a hundred miles out of his course.”
The mate made no answer, but went on with his work overseeing the washing down of the quarter-deck. “It’s just like those Dagoes to go running all over the Southern Ocean for no other purpose than to wear out their gear and burn coal,” continued the skipper. “If this wind keeps slacking up, he ought to be abreast of us before noon, though I never knew this old hooker to send the suds behind her at the rate she’s been doing all night. Breakfast! did you say? Well, steward, just give those sky-pilots a chance to shake off the odor of sanctity they’ve slept in and put on their natural one of hypocrisy and gin-and-bitters. Pshaw! there’s lots lazier men than missionaries in the world, though I can’t call to mind exactly where I’ve seen them. Mr. Gantline, you may let her head a point more to the north’ard.” Saying this, the skipper took a last look at the approaching steamer and then disappeared down the companion-way.
Although the vessel still raced along at a rate that sent the foam flying from her sharp clipper bows, she was no longer doing her utmost, and the Blanco rose rapidly in her wake with the black smoke pouring from her funnel.
Suddenly, while Gantline was watching her, she appeared to be enveloped in a white cloud of steam. Then there was a sharp, shrieking rush as something tore its way through the air close to the main-top-gallant-yard, and struck the smooth sea almost half a mile ahead, followed by the sullen boom of a heavy rifled gun.
The rush of the shot brought Captain Green on deck, closely followed by his passengers.
“Gorry! what’s the matter?” he bawled, as he rushed to the taffrail, while the younger passenger, who had followed close at his heels, smiled grimly.
The Blanco came driving heavily along a couple of miles astern. She was rapidly drawing up.
“Wants us to heave to, I suppose,” growled Gantline, and he eyed the skipper suspiciously.
“Man alive!” roared Green, “why in the name of thunder don’t you do it, then, before he cuts the spars out of us? Fore-and main-royals, there, quick! Let go by the run. Main-clew-garnets—all hands!” And the skipper bounded onto the poop and cast off everything he could lay hands on.