"Sir," said the commander, "you have steam up?"

"Yes, sir," answered the engineer.

"Well, make up your fires and put on all steam."

Three hurrahs greeted this order. The time for the struggle had arrived.
Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited torrents of
black smoke, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of the boilers.

The Abraham Lincoln, propelled by her wonderful screw,
went straight at the animal. The latter allowed it to come
within half a cable's length; then, as if disdaining to dive,
it took a little turn, and stopped a short distance off.

This pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour,
without the frigate gaining two yards on the cetacean.
It was quite evident that at that rate we should never come
up with it.

"Well, Mr. Land," asked the captain, "do you advise me to put
the boats out to sea?"

"No, sir," replied Ned Land; "because we shall not take that beast easily."

"What shall we do then?"

"Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post
myself under the bowsprit, and, if we get within harpooning distance,
I shall throw my harpoon."

"Go, Ned," said the captain. "Engineer, put on more pressure."

Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw revolved
forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves.
We heaved the log, and calculated that the Abraham Lincoln was going
at the rate of 18 1/2 miles an hour.

But the accursed animal swam at the same speed.

For a whole hour the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six feet.
It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the American navy.
A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused the monster, who,
as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no longer contented himself
with twisting his beard--he gnawed it.

The engineer was called again.

"You have turned full steam on?"

"Yes, sir," replied the engineer.

The speed of the Abraham Lincoln increased. Its masts trembled
down to their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly
find way out of the narrow funnels.

They heaved the log a second time.

"Well?" asked the captain of the man at the wheel.

"Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir."

"Clap on more steam."

The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees.
But the cetacean grew warm itself, no doubt; for without
straining itself, it made 19 3/10 miles.

What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated through me.
Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal let us
gain upon it.--"We shall catch it! we shall catch it!" cried the Canadian.
But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away with a rapidity
that could not be estimated at less than thirty miles an hour, and even during
our maximum of speed, it bullied the frigate, going round and round it.
A cry of fury broke from everyone!

At noon we were no further advanced than at eight o'clock in the morning.

The captain then decided to take more direct means.

"Ah!" said he, "that animal goes quicker than the Abraham Lincoln.
Very well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets.
Send your men to the forecastle, sir."

The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round.
But the shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half
a mile off.

"Another, more to the right," cried the commander, "and five
dollars to whoever will hit that infernal beast."

An old gunner with a grey beard--that I can see now--with steady
eye and grave face, went up to the gun and took a long aim.
A loud report was heard, with which were mingled the cheers
of the crew.

The bullet did its work; it hit the animal, and, sliding off
the rounded surface, was lost in two miles depth of sea.



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