Ned Land took up his position. The furnaces were coaled up, the screw made forty-three revolutions in the minute, and the steam went roaring through the safety-valves. They heaved the log, and found that the frigate was going at the rate of eighteen and a half miles an hour.
But the cursed animal also went at eighteen and a half miles an hour.
For an hour and a half the frigate went at this pace, without gaining a foot. This was rather humiliating for one of the swiftest vessels of the American navy. The ship’s company got sulky. They reviled the monster, which did not condescend to reply. Commodore Farragut no longer twisted his chin-tuft—he bit it. The engineer was summoned once more.
“Are you going at your fullest possible pressure?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.
“The valves are charged?”
“Up to two atmospheres and a half.”
“Charge them up to ten,” cried the commodore.
That was a true American order. It could not be surpassed on the Mississippi, to distance a rival steamer.
“Conseil,” said I to my faithful servitor, who was near, “do you know where we are likely to go to?”
“Wherever Monsieur pleases,” replied Conseil.
“Well, I confess I am not indisposed to take the chance,” said I.
The steam-gauge went up; the furnaces were filled. The speed increased. The masts shook fearfully, and the chimneys seemed scarcely sufficient to permit the escape of the immense volumes of smoke.
They heaved the log again.
