"Let her keep on," he said. "The old _Kennebec_ is out there, somewhere westerly, not far away. That vagabond may find himself under heavier guns than ours before sunset. Lieutenant, give him a gun."

"Ay, ay, sir!" came back, and in a moment more there was a flash and a report at the bow of the _Portsmouth_.

Both range and distance had been well calculated, for an iron messenger, ordering the _Goshhawk_ to heave to, fell into the water within a hundred yards of her stern.

"That's near enough for the present," said the American commander, but Captain Kemp exclaimed, in astonishment:

"They are firing on the British flag, are they? Then there is something up that we don't know anything about. We must get away at all risks."

They were not doing so just now, although another change of course and a strong puff of the gale carried the _Goshhawk_ further out of range. The fact was that her pursuer did not feel quite ready to land shot on board of her, believing that he was doing well enough and that his prize would surely be taken sooner or later. Besides, if she were, indeed, to become a prize, no sound-minded sea-captain could be willing to shoot away her selling value or that of her cargo.

Noon came, and there did not appear to be any important change in the relative positions of the two ships. At times, indeed, the _Goshhawk_ had gained a quarter-mile or so, but only to lose it again, as is apt to be the case in ocean races. She was not at all tired, however, and both of the contestants had all the wind they needed.

Two hours more went slowly by, and Captain Kemp began to exhibit signs of uneasiness at the unexpected persistence with which he was followed.

"What on earth can be the matter?" he remarked, aloud. "I'd have thought she'd get tired of it before this--"

"Captain!" sharply interrupted Zuroaga, standing at his elbow, gla.s.s in hand. "Another sail! Off there, southerly. Seems to be a full-rigged ship. What are we to do now?"

"Keep on!" roared the captain, and then he turned to respond to a similar piece of unpleasant information which came down from the lookout.

"We'll soon know what she is," he remarked, but not as if he very much wished to do so. "What I'd like to do would be to sail on into the darkest kind of a rainy night. That's our chance, if we can get it."

It might be, but at that very moment the commander of the _Portsmouth_ was a.s.serting to his first lieutenant:

"There comes the _Kennebec_, my boy. We'll have this fellow now. We'll teach him not to play tricks with national flags and man-o'-war signals."

The race across the Gulf of Mexico was now putting on new and interesting features, but Ned Crawford, posted well forward to watch the course of events and what might have been called the race-course, sagely remarked:

"I don't know that two horses can run any faster than one can. We are as far ahead as ever we were."

That would have been of more importance if the newcomer had not been so much to the southward and westward, rather than behind them. She was, of course, several miles nearer to the _Goshhawk_ than she was to the _Portsmouth_, and neither of these had as yet been able to make out her flag with certainty. That she was a full-rigged ship was sure enough, and if Ned had been upon her deck instead of upon his own, he would have discovered that she was heavily armed and in apple-pie order. At this very moment a burly officer upon her quarter-deck was roaring, angrily, in response to some information which had been given him:

"What's that? A British ship chased by a Yankee cruiser? Lieutenant, I think the _Falcon_'ll take a look at that. These Yankees are getting too b.u.mptious altogether. It's as if they thought they owned the gulf! Put her head two points north'ard. Humph! It's about time they had a lesson."

There had been some temporary trouble with the flag of the _Falcon_, but it had now been cleared of its tangle, and was swinging out free. It was of larger size than the British bunting displayed by the Goshawk. It was only a few minutes, therefore, before Captain Kemp had a fresh trouble on his mind, for his telescope had told him the meaning of that flag.

"Worse than ever!" he exclaimed. "She'd make us heave to and show our papers. Then she'd hand us right over, and no help for it. No, sir! Our only way is to scud from both of them. Some of our English frigates are slow goers, and this may be one of that kind."

He was in less immediate peril, perhaps, because of the determination of the angry British captain to speak to the Yankee first, and demand an explanation of this extraordinary affair. This it was his plain duty to do, and the attempt to do it would shortly put him and all his guns between the _Portsmouth_ and the _Goshhawk_. This operation was going on at the end of another hour, when Captain Kemp's lookout shouted down to him:

"Sail ho, sir! 'Bout a mile ahead o' the British frigate. Can't quite make her out yet, sir."

"I declare!" groaned the captain. "This 'ere's getting kind o' thick!"

The weather also was getting thicker, and all three of the racers were shortly under a prudent necessity for reducing their excessive spreads of canvas. The first mate of the _Goshhawk_ had even been compelled to expostulate with his overexcited skipper.

"Some of it's got to come down, sir," he a.s.serted. "If we was to lose a spar, we're gone, sure as guns!"

"In with it, then," said the captain. "I wish both of 'em 'd knock out a stick or two. It'd be a good thing for us."

At all events, a lame horse is not likely to win a race, and the _Goshhawk_ was doing as well as were either of the others.

Under such circ.u.mstances, it was not long before the _Falcon_ and the _Portsmouth_ were within speaking-trumpet distance of each other, both of them losing half a mile to the _Goshhawk_ while they were getting together. Rapid and loud-voiced indeed were the explanations which pa.s.sed between the two commanders. At the end of them, the wrath of the Englishman was turned entirely against the culprit bark, which had trifled with his flag.

"We must take her, sir!" he shouted. "She's a loose fish o' some kind."

It was while this conversation was going on that Senor Zuroaga, after long and careful observations, reported to Captain Kemp concerning the far-away stranger to the westward.

"She is a Frenchman, beyond a doubt. Are all the nations making a naval rendezvous in the Gulf of Mexico?"

"Nothing extraordinary," said the captain. "But they're all more'n usually on the watch, on account o' the war, if it's coming."

It was precisely so. War surely brings disturbance and losses to others besides those who are directly engaged in it, and all the nations having commercial relations with Mexico were expecting their cruisers in the gulf to act as a kind of sea police. Moreover, a larger force than usual would probably be on hand and wide awake.

The day was going fast, and the weather promised to shorten it. Ned was now wearing an oilskin, for he would not have allowed any amount of rain to have driven him below. He and all the rest on board the _Goshhawk_ were aware that their pursuers were again beginning to gain on them perceptibly. It was a slow process, but it was likely to be a sure one, for the men-of-war could do better sailing in a heavy sea and under shortened canvas than could a loaded vessel like the saucy merchant bark.

"I'm afraid they'll catch us!" groaned Ned. "I s'pose they could make us all prisoners of war,--if there is any war. Oh, I wish all that powder and shot had been thrown overboard!"

It did not look, just now, as if the Mexican army would ever get any benefit from it, for even the French stranger to leeward seemed to be putting on an air of having evil intentions. Captain Kemp had made her out to be a corvette of moderate size, perhaps a sixteen-gun ship, and she would be quite likely to co-operate with the police boats of England and America in arresting any suspicious wanderer in those troubled waters.

Darker grew the gloom and a light mist came sweeping over the sea. Both pursuers and pursued began to swing out lights, and before long the mate of the _Goshhawk_ came to Captain Kemp to inquire, in a puzzled way:

"I say, Cap'n, what on earth do you do that for? It'll help 'em to foller us, and lose us all the benefit o' the dark."

"No, it won't," growled the captain. "You wait and see. I've sighted one more light, off there ahead of us, and I'm going to make it do something for the _Goshhawk_. Those other chaps can't see it yet."

"What in all the world can he be up to?" thought Ned, as he listened, but the cunning skipper of the bark had all his wits about him.

The lookouts of the men-of-war had indeed been taking note thus far of only their own lanterns and the glimmer on their intended prize. They may even have wondered, as did her own mate, why she should aid them in keeping track of her. At all events, they had little doubt of having her under their guns before morning. Senor Zuroaga himself sat curled up under his waterproof well aft, and now and then he appeared to be chuckling, as if he knew something which amused him. Half an hour later, when all the lights of the _Goshhawk_ suddenly went out, he actually broke into a ringing laugh. Her course was changed to almost due north at that very moment. This would bring her across the track of the _Portsmouth_ and within a mile of that dangerous cruiser's bow guns.

They might not be quite so dangerous, however, if her gunners should be unable to see a mark at that distance through the mist. The fifth light, dead ahead, now became itself only the fourth, and it was immediately the sole attraction for the watchers in the rigging of the several war police-boats. This stranger was going westwardly, at a fair rate of speed, and its light was exceptionally brilliant. In fact, it grew more and more so during an anxious thirty minutes that followed, but it was the French corvette which first came within hailing distance, to receive an answer in angry Portuguese, which the French officers could not make head or tail of. Even after receiving further communications in broken Portuguese-Spanish, all they could do was to compel the Brazilian schooner, _Gonzaga_, laden with honest coffee from Rio for New Orleans, to heave to as best she might until the next arrival came within hail.

This proved to be the British frigate, and her disappointed captain at once pretty sharply explained to the Frenchmen the difference between a two-master from Rio and a British-Yankee runaway bark from n.o.body knew where. Then came sweeping along the gallant _Portsmouth_, and there was need for additional conversation all around. Some of it was of an exceedingly discontented character, although the several captains were doing their best to be polite to each other, whatever derogatory remarks they might feel disposed to make concerning the craft which was carrying Ned Crawford and his badly wounded patriotism.

Far away to the northwest, hidden by the darkness, the _Goshhawk_ was all this while flying along, getting into greater safety with every knot she was making, and Captain Kemp remarked to Ned:

"My boy, your father won't lose a cent, after all--not unless we find Vera Cruz blockaded. But our danger isn't all over yet, and it's well for us that we've slipped out of this part of it."

"Captain Kemp!" exclaimed Ned, "I believe father'd be willing to lose something, rather than have the Mexicans get that ammunition."

"Very likely he would," laughed the captain, "but I'm an Englishman, and I don't care. What's more, I'm like a great many Americans. Millions of them believe that the Mexicans are in the right in this matter."

That was a thing which n.o.body could deny, and Ned was silenced so far as the captain's sense of national duty was concerned.

Hundreds of miles to the westward, at that early hour of the evening, far beyond the path of the storm which had been sweeping the eastern and southern waters of the gulf, the American army, under General Taylor, lay bivouacked. It was several miles nearer the besieged fort than it had been in the morning, for this was the 8th of May. There had been sharp fighting at intervals since the middle of the forenoon, beginning at a place called Palo Alto, or "The Tall Trees," and the Mexicans had been driven back with loss. Any cannonading at the fort could be heard more plainly now, and it was certain that it had not yet surrendered.

Near the centre of the lines occupied by the Seventh Regiment, a young officer sat upon the gra.s.s. He held in one hand a piece of army bread, from which he now and then took a bite, but he was evidently absorbed in thought. He took off his hat at last and stared out into the gloom.

"The Mexican army is out there somewhere," he remarked, slowly. "We are likely to have another brush with them to-morrow. Well! this is real war. I've seen my first battle, and I know just how a fellow feels under fire. I wasn't at all sure how it would be, but I know now. He doesn't feel first-rate, by any means. Those fellows that say they like it are all humbugs. I've seen my first man killed by a cannon-ball. Poor Page!

Poor Ringgold! More of us are to go down to-morrow. Who will it be?"