GREAT RACE TO THE OCEAN.
“By Jove! I had no idea the captain had so much sporting blood in his
veins,” murmurs Jack Ashley to himself, as he watches alternately the
challenging craft and the America. “It is a race fit for a king’s
delectation. I wonder whose yacht that is. I don’t remember seeing her
described in any of the papers, as she certainly would have been if she
were owned in New York. She is a big one, and a beauty, too. And swift
as the wind! But she doesn’t seem to be gaining now. No, by Jupiter! We
are gaining on her! The America has struck her gait at last! But that’s
a game craft there. She sticks to us like a leech and refuses to be
shaken off. Ah!”
The impromptu race has been in progress nearly half an hour, and the two
vessels, still less than an eighth of a mile apart, are gradually
drawing nearer each other. It is apparent that the yacht is determined
to continue the race at closer range, and has changed her course for
that purpose. Meanwhile the big cruiser has held to her original course,
and as the yacht straightens away for another parallel run she has lost
her former advantage and the two vessels are practically on even terms.
It is a battle royal!
The white cruiser is cleaving the water with tremendous speed, her bow
sending the spray curling nearly as high as her armored top, while the
waves astern are churned by her triple screws into a foam that extends
as far as the eye can reach. The roaring of her furnaces is audible
above the whir of the machinery and the whistling of the wind through
the rigging. From her three great smokestacks steadily increasing masses
of inky smoke trail out above the snowy wake.
All eyes on the deck of the cruiser are riveted on the yacht. For a
short space of time it looks as if both vessels might be propelled by
the same power, so even are their relative positions. Then, to the
practical eyes aboard the cruiser, it is apparent that the America is
drawing ahead, slowly to be sure, and imperceptibly to the untrained
eye, but still gaining.
A dozen yards, a quarter length, a half, a clear length ahead!
A hearty cheer is trembling on the lips of the crew of the cruiser, but
it is not uttered. The race is still unfinished, the victory still hangs
in the balance.
Like a thoroughbred that has been feeling her antagonist, the yacht now
seems to respond to some undeveloped power. The cruiser gains no
more—she is losing her advantage. The watchers on the quarterdeck of the
America can see the black prow lessening the open water that separates
the two craft. Now her bow laps the stern of the America, but not for
long. She is overhauling the cruiser faster now, and in a few
minutes—seconds, it seems to the anxious spectators on the latter
vessel—she is abeam of the America.
Out beyond Sandy Hook, where the billows flash into curving crests like
the manes of wild horses, a great fleet has gathered to watch the race
against time of the famous warship. Instead it is their privilege to
witness a race between two of the swiftest sea hounds ever unleashed on
the trail of the wind.
Through the impromptu armada the racers speed over the toppling seas. A
thousand glasses are upon them. What does it mean? The white cruiser all
may recognize, but her sable-hulled consort, what is she? Straight out
from staff and halyards the wind whips the flag and ensigns of the
America, but neither ensign nor flag does the strange steamship show,
and except for the great white wake that trails behind her she might be
a phantom ship, another Flying Dutchman.
But ere the “reviewing stand” recovers from its first surprise, both
craft are miles away, black bow and white bow piling over hills of foam
like sleighs over snowdrifts and the surge that goes sobbing along the
glistening sides of the cruiser, inaudible above the roar of her mighty
engines, sounds like the weeping for a lost race.
For the black hull is bow and bow with the white, as, after a long and
critical survey of the yacht from the bridge, Capt. Meade descends to
the deck and summons the chief engineer.
“Everything is working finely, sir,” that official reports. “We are
steaming the extreme limit under natural draught. Shall we try the
forced now, sir?”
Capt. Meade hesitates and again gazes long at the yacht. The latter has
now a clear length of open water to the good and her stern is presented
squarely in view for the first time. The single word Semiramis is
inscribed thereon in gold letters. But no port is designated.
“The Semiramis,” murmurs the commander of the America. “I never heard of
the craft before, but her name will be on every man’s lips before long,
I’ll wager.” Then to the chief engineer: “Yes, put on the forced
draught.”
Jack Ashley wipes the marine glasses with which the thoughtfulness of
the second officer has provided him, and turns them again toward the
afterdeck of the yacht.
“Well, may I be keelhauled, or some other equally condign nautical
punishment,” he mutters, after a long look. “If that isn’t Louise
Hathaway, seated in a steamer chair, then do my optics play me strange
pranks. But what is she doing on the deck of that yacht? She appears to
be alone; at least there is no other lady passenger on deck. Ah, there
is Mr. Felton. So Barker was too late. Felton and Miss Hathaway must be
the guests of the gay yachtsman who is making ducks and drakes of the
America on her trial trip.
“Thunder and Mars!” cries the newspaper man, nearly dropping the glasses
to the deck. “Phillip Van Zandt! He is apparently the owner of the
yacht. Good heavens! What irony of fate brings together those two
participants in the Raymond tragedy. For Van Zandt is Ernest Stanley, I
will swear it.
“Well, as the novelists say, the plot thickens. How did Van Zandt
ingratiate himself into the good graces of Cyrus Felton? It must have
been recently, for Miss Hathaway spoke as if they had no friends in the
city. Hang it all! I don’t just fancy the situation. How assiduously he
is waiting upon her now! Heigho, Jack! I think I would as soon have
reported this trial trip from the deck of the Semiramis.” At which
thought Ashley impatiently pitches over the rail the remains of one of
Capt. Meade’s favorite brand of cigars.
The black plumes of smoke that pour from the chimneys of the America are
becoming denser and larger. The forced draught is now fully in
operation, and in the boiler-rooms the half-naked stokers ceaselessly
feed the greedy fires.
The cruiser has reached the limit of her speed.
How is it with the Semiramis?
For a time the America seems to hold her own and even to gain slightly.
But the advantage is transitory. The yacht still apparently has speed in
reserve. Once more she leaps forward and not again is opportunity
afforded the America’s people to view her gleaming sides.
For another hour both vessels are driven at their highest speed. The
Semiramis continues to gain upon the America, and is now nearly a
quarter of a mile ahead.
Half an hour later Capt. Meade sees a flag run up to the masthead of the
vanishing yacht. He gives an order and the cruiser’s forward gun booms a
salute.
“What do you make of that ensign, Mr. Smith?” inquires the commander,
turning to the second officer.
“A strange flag, sir, not the flag of any nation that I recall,” is the
reply.
“Ah, I have it,” suddenly exclaims the captain. “Well, she is a great
craft and magnificently handled. The America made a gallant fight
against odds and lost; but you can say, Mr. Ashley,” as that individual
ascends the steps to the bridge, “that the America has broken all
records in the navies of the world, and for two consecutive hours has
exceeded twenty-seven knots an hour. Yonder craft has beaten that time,
but she has not the heavy armament of the America.”
“What was the ensign she ran up a moment ago, captain?” Ashley asks.
“That, sir,” replies Capt. Meade, “was the flag of Cuba Libre, the
emblem of the sometime republic of the Antilles!”
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