CHAPTER XXVIII.

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!”