Colonel Oddminton was a widower, with only one son, fifteen years old.
It was natural, then, that the colonel himself should balance between
forty-five and fifty years of age. Let the fact only be whispered in
desert places that the colonel was no more a colonel than you are. He
had never smelt powder, except when shooting mallard ducks. He never had
seen a regiment, except when it was marching on Decoration Day
peacefully through the woebegone streets of Charleston, preparatory to a
good dinner. His nearest idea of regalia and medals consisted of the
many adornments worn by Queer Fellows or any other order of Honorable
Unextinguished Redskins as they either laid a corner-stone or a comrade
ceremoniously in the ground. Where could he have lived and not have been
an active partisan in the stirring days of our devastating civil war?
Surely, not in the United States!
Of English exile blood, that came over a hundred years ago, he would
have been a thorough American had his parents and his environment
permitted. His family had settled on one of the many Sea Islands that
dot the coast of South Carolina, and there they had staid and raised the
famous Sea Island cotton which is still successfully used, so fine its
fibre, to adulterate a fashionable fabric. Like the baryte of Cheshire,
the cotton of Oddminton Island became valuable as it became an ally to
fraud. The one increased the weight of white lead; the other swelled the
unlawful receipts of the manufacturers of silk. Oddminton Island did not
follow the regular markets of trade. It always had its peculiar channels
of commerce; its cotton had an undiscoverable destination.
The colonel, as we will still call him, was, from his earliest memory,
sternly brought up under an atmosphere of uncanniness and secrecy, nor
did he leave his fertile island, except, as we shall mention, until his
father died and made him sole proprietor of land, slaves and family
traditions. Fully two hundred acres were under cotton cultivation. The
insignificant remainder was unentangled marsh.
Colonel Oddminton's father died in eighteen hundred and sixty-one. Then
the colonel began to expand. He had two hobbies that consumed his
imagination by day and agitated his visions by night. The one had been
shared by his deceased parent, namely, an inordinate desire to be rich;
not as wealthy as the richest family in Charleston, but as rich as all
the merchants in the "City by the Sea" put together. Cotton had always
given a comfortable living, but cotton was declining. It became
unsatisfactory. It was not enough.
Colonel Oddminton's other hobby was a fast boat. He had always been a
more than enthusiastic sailor. When the boy was only eighteen, his
father had given him a ten-ton sloop and allowed him to go anywhere,
provided he did not touch the mainland. This order was in accordance
with the old man's peculiarities, but was strictly obeyed. With his
black sailors the boy had cruised in every bay and inlet for a hundred
miles about. Though no one else knew it, he was the best pilot those
waters ever saw. During the war, when he was master, he never left his
island except to put his own cotton aboard English blockade runners. In
these hazardous attempts he never failed. This experience cultivated his
native qualities of courage and of self-possession.
On this island of his there was a bay that afforded fine anchorage for
two large boats. It abutted on the marsh. It was there he had built a
small camphouse. Neither the cove nor the house could be seen from the
open sea. The former could only be entered through an intricate channel,
and that when the wind and tide were favorable. The latter was
approached through heavy underbrush by a winding passage that was known
only to a few.
Colonel Oddminton was a tall, fine-looking man. He wore a long flowing
beard that had never seen the razor. His build was massive; his height
was manly.
About the time of which we are writing--this was in--but the reader
remembers--his new schooner, which he had dignified by the name of
yacht, much to the amusement of a few acquaintances, had been easily
beaten by a trim stranger, that ploughed its way to windward as if it
had been a knife eating into the teeth of the gale. He had followed this
new craft to harbor and found her to be a Herreshoff model. That night,
for the colonel's schooner was really an able and fast one, the
disappointed man was sadder than when he saw his only friend, his
father, die. He was proud of his schooner. He had cruised in her from
Baltimore to the St. John's river, and had never been so disgracefully
out-pointed and outfooted by any boat of her size before.
It was at this time that he fell into a revery that lasted a month. It
was the longest month in his life, the only one he had ever spent upon
the mainland. People pronounced him "daft," decidedly cracked, but
"harmless, you know." His tall figure flitted from the lobby of the
Charleston Hotel to the great cotton wharves, and then back again. At
last he awoke, and this was the outcome of his supposed aberration.
"I don't care if it costs me my last cent, I'll have the fastest boat in
the world, and no one shall beat me again, by gum!"
To make a long story short, he sold to an eager syndicate of English
capitalists his island for an asparagus farm, reserving for himself the
odd acres of marsh, his camp house and bay with its two moorings. On
this sale he realized a hundred thousand cash down. He then turned his
father's savings, fifty thousand dollars' worth of London consols, into
ready money. He now had a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. With this
he and his boat disappeared. No note was taken of his absence either on
his former property or in Charleston, the only other place that really
knew him, so frequent were his vagaries, so infrequent his presence.
Let us follow the Colonel in his unostentatious wanderings. He first
sailed with his son and his two trusty men direct to Washington city.
He took in the sights of the Capital for a few weeks, and then, leaving
his boat behind, pushed on by train to New York, that wonderful
metropolis that obliterates or worships men with an idea. He took
lodgings with his son in a modest boarding-house, and there met a
Swedish sailor, a man who had been captain of a steam yacht during the
summer, and now happened to be out of employment. Nautical people do not
take a long time to become acquainted. Colonel Oddminton at the end of a
week had engaged Hans Christian on the strength of his name, without
further references, at a salary of one hundred and twenty-five dollars a
month, with the proviso that his new captain should hold his tongue and
obey orders. This was about the first of November. During the last week
of the same month the yachting world, and indeed the whole maritime
contingency, were interested in the following paragraph, which was duly
copied and commented upon by the national and foreign press:
"_The famous builders, the Herreshoffs, have taken a contract
to build a steel yacht that shall develop the enormous speed of
35 knots an hour. They are given 'carte blanche' for everything
that pertains to increase of speed. The new phenomenon will be
about a hundred and fifty feet long, as less water line will
not admit of the speed contracted for. A bonus of $500, it is
rumored, will be paid for each additional one half-knot speed
over the contract requirements of 35 knots. The engines that
will effect this speed will be of a new and untried pattern.
They will not be exhibited unless the vessel prove a success.
The owner of this phenomenal craft, which will be the fastest
in the world, is unknown. It is suspected that it will go to
the Swedish government for use as a torpedo boat. The yacht
will be finished in five months, and her name is undecided. We
should respectfully suggest 'Sheet Lightning.'_"
At this time Colonel Oddminton and his son began to travel restlessly.
They kept it up all winter until the first of May. The lad had developed
as much aptness for the land as he had for the water. There were two
things the boy did admirably, and for which he was conspicuous beyond
his years. He held his tongue and obeyed his father; moreover, he was
clever enough to take care of himself.
With the first of May the ceaseless journeying came to an end, and
Rupert Oddminton was sent to Washington to put his father's old schooner
in readiness for future orders.
The press, which had volunteered during the winter much plausible but
little real information about the wonderful new Herreshoff model, now
blazed into the rare glory of fact.
"_The first trial trip of the unknown took place yesterday. The
marvellous witch astonished spectators by showing up to the
tune of 35-1/2 knots, and it is suspected the end was not
reached. This unparalleled speed was continued for 125 minutes
in favorable weather. This proved the most successful trial
trip the Herreshoffs ever held. Thus the singular and hitherto
undivulged electric machinery proves a triumphal hit. After a
few minor changes the unnamed yacht will be ready for its
destination. Who will own the fastest ship in the world? It is
conceded that she goes to Sweden. Her crew, which is entirely
composed of Swedes, is strangely uncommunicative----_" and so
on.
* * * * *
One fine day, the magic craft shot out of Newport harbor and vanished.
Some said she went straight to Europe. Each daily had its own theory.
The boat and her evanescence were a nine days' wonder. The yacht that
represented the most exhaustive skill man had ever applied to navigation
had melted away, unnamed, unlicensed, and without destination. Even her
builder knew her no more.
The reader knows, as well as we, that this triumph of speed was Colonel
Oddminton's venture. He had literally sunk his all in it with maniacal
satisfaction, and had only a few thousands left, barely enough to pay
expenses for three months. He had pursued his ideal until he had her
under foot. He had not touched the new yacht until after it had left the
world in wonder. He had now met her on the high seas in his old
schooner, and the four--himself, his boy Rupert and the two black
sailors--with sad eyes, scuttled the home of many years. When the
Colonel's foot touched his new, bright deck, Captain Christian nodded,
and the blue flag to starboard of the mainmast (signifying owner absent)
was hauled down. The crew beheld their master for the first time. Not a
sail was in sight. The Colonel was dazed. He went below, gulped down a
pint of whiskey, and tried to think. He was intoxicated--not on liquor,
but on final possession. When he came aloft, spray was whistling from
stem to stern, and behind was a wake that overtopped the racer itself.
Water rushed as though projected through a pipe, past the shining sides
of the vessel. Colonel Oddminton, in a trance, leaned over and touched
the steel plates carefully. He expected to feel the heat generated by
the tremendous friction. Captain Hans Christian stood respectfully at
his side.
"What speed does she register, Captain?" asked the owner, with a
tremulousness new to the man.
"Only thirty-two knots, sir, in this chop, but we can drive her
thirty-eight. I think she can go forty on the hardest push."
Only the owner of Nancy Hanks, the fastest racing horse the world has
yet produced, can imagine the sensations of the Colonel at this answer.
"What is the speed of the fastest government boat?" he asked with
deliberation.
"Twenty-six knots, sir," was the quick reply; "they've only two torpedo
boats that go that; and they are always up for repairs. As for war-ships
or cruisers, none average over twenty. A common ocean steamer can beat
them out." This last was uttered with the contemptuousness one always
feels toward a mighty government that allows itself to be outdone by
corporations or individuals.
"Suppose you change her top hampers, and make her so that no one can
recognize her; say, tack on a false stem and stern to the water line,
will she still go as fast?" continued the Colonel cautiously.
"Certainly, provided you don't interfere with her hull," answered the
captain in surprise.
"I will take the wheel," the Colonel said. The electric vessel from
whose wheel there was an unobstructed view ahead, without smokestack,
with masts that could for speed's sake be lowered, was steered like any
sail-boat, from her heaving stern. The owner's hand marked half speed,
quarter speed upon the indicator. To the disgust of the crew he gave
orders not to have the speed increased except to keep out of sight of
coasters. At dead of night the beauty was anchored in his own cove,
opposite his clapboard shooting lodge on the marsh. No one noticed his
approach. The marsh and the bay hid their secret.
The next day at dawn a transformation began to take place. The white
paint, the original and dainty body color of the electric yacht, was
changed to a dull gray, and the new coat looked as if it had been put on
in amateur patches, so dingy was its appearance. The boats on the davits
were touched up with a combination of green and black. They looked at
first glance as if a collier might have lost them at sea. The electric
launch was smeared with the refuse of the paintshop put into one pot.
The mixture attained was indescribable. But by far the greatest change
consisted of a false stem and stern. These were modelled and put on, so
that after a few screws were drawn, the mask would slip off, leaving the
original sheer of the boat in all its beauty. A large smokestack of
hollow timber, painted black with a red stripe, was improvised and set
up. This ornament led into the galley stove below, and the cook was
instructed to burn smoky materials when on the run. The deck was then
covered with canvas and painted a sickly yellow. The brass work went
unpolished. As may be imagined, the new model was as different from the
old as the carefully disguised ruffian on the stage is from his elegant
self.
"Now she is ready," said Colonel Oddminton to his captain. "I will
double the wages of all on board if the crew does not leave the ship or
converse with any person off of it except by order. My two colored men
will get all supplies. The future speed of my boat will be eight knots
an hour. She is incapable of going more. That is her limit until further
orders. Give command for an immediate start. We will now go to
Charleston."
The son and the crew from the captain down suspected that something was
in contemplation out of the usual run of pleasure trips. The son dared
ask his father no questions, though he burned with indignation at the
vandal changes. The crew did not care, even if they went pirating.
Nothing could overtake them. Their fuel was limitless. Their pay was
princely. Their cook was supreme. These stolid natures obeyed orders and
drew their rations with faithful punctuality.
It does not take long to run to Charleston, going at even so slow a
pace. Small steamers ply daily between the Sea Islands and the cotton
metropolis. It happened that some of the Colonel's acquaintances were on
board one of the passenger boats, and they saw this new craft lumbering
along, puffing out volumes of black smoke. They slowed up, and were soon
overtaken by the strange boat. The Colonel was sitting on deck.
"Halloa," one of them yelled, laughing. "Where did you pick up that
thing, Colonel?"
"Oh, down in New York. She's an old-fashioned steamer. I haven't had
time to get her fixed up yet," answered the Colonel. "I always wanted a
steam yacht, and I got this cheap." The passengers set up a laugh.
"We'll race you in," spoke up one of the Colonel's acquaintances, with a
wink at the others. The man knew the Colonel's weakness when he
challenged him.
"All right," said the Colonel briskly. "John!" yelling forward, "tell
the engineers to put more steam on and let her go."
New puffs of smoke came from the bogus smokestack. The sidewheeler
increased her pressure. It forged ahead at its highest speed, ten knots,
and no more. Colonel Oddminton swore, but to no effect. The passenger
vessel left the Colonel behind, amid jeers and all the catcalls familiar
to Southern methods of demonstration. The Colonel seemed heartbroken.
When he _steamed_ into Charleston harbor two hours after his ancient
rival, the wharf was crowded with the Colonel's "friends." When the
Colonel came ashore he dropped a few characteristic oaths, ordered
drinks all around, and said that, after the _Mary Jane_ (that was the
name painted, on her square-stern) was prinked up and her bottom
scoured, she would beat the best of them yet. He had great faith in her
possibilities. At any rate she could go in a calm.
Similar performances were repeated for a week. The Colonel planned it to
get to the city in the morning and he went back at night, until
Charleston was thoroughly familiar with his ridiculously antique yacht,
and had joked itself tired at his expense. Soon an elopement and a
murder tickled the palate of the city, and the Colonel and the _Mary
Jane_ were forgotten. When that stage was reached Charleston knew him no
more. It was now the second of June, and the _Mary Jane_ turned her ugly
prow toward the mouth of the Potomac river.
Every one knows that the Potomac empties itself into the Chesapeake bay.
The Potomac is between ninety and a hundred miles long, in its tortuous
route from Washington to the bay. At its mouth are many inlets. Each one
of these was known to Rupert and the two negro sailors. It was in the
most retired estuary that the _Mary Jane_ cast anchor on the evening of
the fifth of June. At her normal rate of speed she lay within two and a
half hours run of the Capital. At nine, at black of night, she started
for Washington. Her deck-log registered thirty-six knots an hour. She
hugged the shore, where she laid for safe passage, until she modestly
crept to an anchorage near a city wharf. Then the Colonel went ashore
with his two black men and two Swedes, to reconnoitre the town. He
always took with him a preparation of chloroform and another drug,
which, for the sake of public safety, we will not mention. This was
compounded for him in Chicago, by a chemist formerly in the employ of
Anarchists. This preparation was warranted to "make a man who smelled it
lose consciousness in less time that it takes to say Herr Most."
When Colonel Oddminton was last in Washington a casual smoking-room
acquaintance remarked, eying him with the gaze of a professional
physiognomist:
"If you'd shave off your chin, and keep your hat on, you'd be the very
picture of Senator X----."
Now Senator X----, through a revolution of the political wheel, had
become Secretary of State. That casual remark had penetrated into the
imagination of the Colonel. He tried to shake the impression off.
Flattered by this suggestion--no one had ever made it before--he bought
photographs of the Senator, all he could find, and studied them
diligently. For days he haunted the Senate chamber and learned the
personnel of the Senator by heart. [This, it will be remembered, was in
the last administration.] Then was born the thought, Why not make
capital out of this resemblance which art could easily magnify? The
Senator was a millionaire. There might be money in it. But this seemed,
after all, rather impracticable and rather commonplace. The Colonel was
no sneak thief. He had broader elements than that. The man, but not the
blood, was ignorant that his grandfather's great-grandfather was hung
for piracy in England. It would be impossible to state when the
stupendous plot, which he finally executed, shaped itself in his subtile
brain. This idea startled him, haunted him, conquered him; why not
kidnap the President of the United States, demand a ransom and throw
suspicion, for a time at least, upon the wily politician? His thoughts
now worked only in that conduit. Jacobi said that the greater a man's
ability to act for distant ends, the stronger his mind. The Colonel
silently plotted for months. We see where it had led him. Having
studiously perfected himself in the role of Secretary, which he was
prepared to play at a moment's notice, the Colonel spent the remainder
of these last nights in Washington, awaiting an opportunity to capture
the Secretary's coach, after it had been dismissed by its owner for the
night.
He also kept himself closely informed of the President's habits and his
simple domestic hours without arousing any suspicion. All Washington
knew the customs of its unostentatious chief. Society had criticised his
"affected Democratic ways." Every one knew that he habitually retired as
early as a New England deacon, never later than eleven. White House
dissipation was now out of season. The Colonel knew that the interior of
the executive mansion was unguarded at night. Could he once gain access
thereto, the rest of his plot, so ignorant and so trustworthy his tools,
could not miscarry. The Colonel made the attempt for three consecutive
nights to capture the Secretary's coach. He arrived each time in
Washington between eleven and twelve. He knew the approaches to the
stable, and luckily for him, on the dark night of the eighth of June he
accomplished his design, how successfully the reader well knows.
The strategic Colonel, with his four devoted men, invaded the privacy of
the White House at exactly quarter of two o'clock in the morning; he had
the aid of a card taken from the case in the coupe, and the
re-enforcement of his now marvellous resemblance. What he now did the
veriest tyro could have performed. He had not meant to abduct the first
lady of the land, but what could he do with her? His native chivalry
would not permit him to harm her, though the President was made
unconscious by the aid of the Chicago anaesthetic. The wife entreated to
accompany her husband. She would undergo any fate so that he should not
be taken without her. On condition of perfect quiet her wish was
gratified. She was softly led, the President was carried, down the
deserted stairs. The familiar state coach bore the distinguished victims
away, and the deed that baffled the detective skill of the country was
done with an ease which seems ridiculous.
The next evening the President and his wife might have been seen by
Inspector Byrnes, had he been there, silently sitting on the deck of a
murky-looking vessel, bearing name _Mary Jane_, and anchored in a little
cove off a swamp and cottage on Oddminton Island. So remote and quiet
was this locality that the rumor of the President's effacement had not
even reached it. The kidnapped couple waited patiently for the relief
that they momentarily expected. They had no news, nothing but scrupulous
consideration, attention, and a respectful but firm guard night and day.
But rescue did not come.
One member of that dark crew was left in Washington to hold continual
communication with the Colonel. This was the boy Rupert, who, if he had
suspected by this time what had happened, was either too loyal or too
terrified to reveal the fact. The letters that astonished the world were
written by the Colonel, sent to his son sealed, directed each in a
different handwriting, and stamped with full instructions how and where
to mail them. The boy had travelled faithfully and far. Of course a
letter posted by an innocent-looking boy of fifteen, who was unsuspected
and unknown, was able to baffle the law. He was the only confederate, a
helpless and faithful tool.
A country that opens itself in so many ways to foreign foes must not be
startled if one of its own sons, perceiving the weakness of the armor,
should take advantage of it and choose his direction for the vital
thrust. The Colonel aimed high. He kept his counsel and accomplished the
incredible in the simplest way. Who thought of him and the crazy _Mary
Jane_? The President and his wife were as far away from rescue as if
they were on the Island of Borneo. There are a thousand such places on
our coast where a hostile fleet might ride without even the suspicion of
our "Lord High Admiral."
It was ten minutes of eight o'clock on the morning of the eighth of
July. A fleet of many hundred vessels of every description lined the
banks of the Potomac opposite the revered home of Washington. There were
gunboats and catboats, excursion steamers and yachts from every part of
the country. They idly lay at anchor, or jogged barely enough to hold
their own in the tidal river. All flags hung at half-mast. While most
eyes scanned the heights with impatient glance, others watched the water
for a revelation. The sides of the hills were black with humanity. The
world seemed to wait there with a throe of hope subsiding to an interval
of despair.
The high officials of the government were standing on the quarter-deck
of the new man-of-war. _The Washington_. Each had a pair of glasses to
his intent eyes. This was the moment when the Secretary of State, from
his high elevation, spied a long, low vessel moving slowly amid the
floating palaces and dreary hulks. It seemed apologetic in its
movements, and afforded a sad contrast to the jaunty yachts it almost
grazed. None but the Secretary had as yet noticed this in significant
boat. Somehow it fascinated him, and he followed it intently. It was
propelled by steam, and crept up as if it wanted a nearer view of the
morning's performance.
Now a police patrol launch whistled that way, and gave the sailor at the
wheel an abrupt command to bring her up to a stop. Hardly was this order
given when there came a puff of smoke from her uncouth bow, and an
ominous flaming sword appeared against the dead gray sky. A sound that
could at first have been mistaken for a subterranean growl rolled upon
the still air. When the second flaming sword flashed into mid-heaven the
mutter of the populace became a roar. It was true! True! The President
and their lady were at hand and in their midst. Two more ill-omened
rockets gleamed above. Was it execration or was it joy--this mighty
sound that broke from river to shore? Then silence came again. Eyes
strained to see this mysterious thing that made straight for the great
man-of-war. But one soul was seen on its dingy decks. Only the man at
the wheel was visible. He was clad in black. A hundred vessels
instinctively closed about this daring and defiant craft. Its escape was
cut off. It could neither go to the right nor to the left, forward nor
back. It sullenly stopped.
Then came a whistling shriek, followed by a cannon peal from its
forequarter--another--and the flag of black and crimson crowned by the
gilt eagle, touched by unseen hands, shot like a baleful spirit from
the peak.
"Keep off!" shouted a stern voice from the bow. "Keep off, ahead there!
Let the nation stand back at the peril of their chief magistrate!"
Now the Mystery swung ahead, until she was abreast of the high warship,
any one of whose lowering guns would have gladly shattered her if it had
dared.
When the execrable vessel came to a halt, and breathless and dignified
faces peered upon her decks from above, a sudden bustle was observed.
From below there mounted slowly his excellency the President of the
United States, attended by the first lady of the land. Both looked pale
and anxious, but bore signs of powerful self-restraint. At sight of the
revered couple, the man-of-war's crew could not control themselves, and
set up a mighty cheer. This was caught up from ship to ship, from shore
to height. Flags were hauled aloft. Guns were discharged. A pandemonium
of joy set in. Behind the captured couple two men in black walked, each
with a cocked revolver. The honored pair reclined on steamer chairs in
full view of their people. The world knew now that they were safe and
nearly home. Greetings were exchanged between Cabinet and Chief. Even
war-scarred veterans could not choke down the rising apple in their
throats.
Again there was a hush. A figure now stepped from a forward hatchway on
deck of the _Mary Jane_, walked up to the captured couple, and bowed
low. This salute was succeeded by a courteous recognition of the
impatient crowd above on board the _Washington_. As the unknown raised
his silk hat for the second time, he stood directly in line with the
Secretary of State. The Secretary of State and Col. Oddminton regarded
each other. Bystanders started in surprise. The resemblance between the
two men was deeply suggestive of the success of the plot. The villain
had the same noble brow, the same delicate complexion, the same
incomparable whiskers. But, alas! he was bald on the top of his head.
The Secretary involuntarily stroked his own luxuriant crown with a sigh
of relief.
"Gentlemen, representatives of these United States," said the Colonel
slowly, "I have faithfully fulfilled my part of the contract. Do you
yours. I will come aboard and inspect the ransom. Then it may be lowered
down, and the President is free. I have not long to stay." In the
meanwhile, so intent were all eyes upon the star actors of this scene,
it was not noticed that men were busily engaged at stem and stern of
the unshipshape-looking steamer.
Hands worked deftly at masts and funnel.
After a few minutes, during which the expectant couple sat with as much
comfort as one can before loaded pistols, the ransom was inspected, the
Colonel satisfied. Eighty bags of gold were carefully lowered to the
pirate craft.
As the Colonel descended alone to his own deck he motioned with his
hand. Immediately the pistols were flung into the water. The seamen in
black fell back as a guard of honor. The Colonel, with Southern grace
and British dignity, extended his arm to the distinguished and trembling
hostage. This she did not refuse and he led her to the cream-white
companionway that now reached from the _Washington_ to the _Mary Jane_.
The marines presented arms. The women sobbed. Then came the President.
When his foot touched his own deck there thundered forth a salute of
twenty-one guns from the American navy. Whistles blew, flags and
handkerchiefs fluttered, and mad salvos rent the air from subjects that
any sovereign would gladly call his own.
The President now looked down with sad curiosity upon his former prison.
But there strange things had happened. The caterpillar had cast off its
chrysalis, and the incomparable butterfly appeared. Where was the
smokestack? Where were the masts? Where was the _Mary Jane_? A load
seemed to fall from stem to stern, and there appeared beneath dingy
paint a sheer which a king might long to possess. This was the crowning
surprise. Naval officers now recognized for the first time the nautical
marvel which had deluded the nation. The Colonel stood alone upon the
deck of the transfigured boat. With uncovered head he spoke. His left
hand grasped the wheel.
"Mr. President--I have guarded you safely, and treated you as well as
circumstances could permit. Your patience in adversity, and that of your
wife, have compelled my reverence. You were but the scapegoat of a
nation. This country can never afford to be careless of its defences and
of the treasures which they protect. People of America! You regard me as
the chief malefactor of your times. The day may come when you will call
me its greatest benefactor. To-day you execrate me. To-morrow you may
bless me. I have taught you a solemn and a costly lesson, but the price
of such wisdom is cheap. Good-morning!"
There was no opening, but the hawsers were suddenly cut. There was a
rush and billows of foam. As a cat plays here and there in her pretty
antics the "_Lightning_" (for a blow of the hammer on the stern had
annihilated the _Mary Jane_) wound in and out at an unequal rate. When
she turned, she careened far over on her side. The water lapped the
Colonel's feet. Who could stop her? Who could overtake her? At the first
shock the gunners stood motionless, then sprang to their guns. The
President, Commander-in-chief of the army and navy, raised his hand and
shook his head.
The faith of the nation was pledged, and the pirate escaped without a
shot. The incredible speed of the _Lightning_ increased. It became
terrific. Nothing like it had ever been witnessed in maritime history.
Spectators stood with held breath.