The Canadian reported at once. “Well, Mr. Land,” the commander asked, “do you still advise putting my longboats to sea?” “No, sir,” Ned Land replied, “because that beast won’t be caught against its will.” “Then what should we do?” “Stoke up more steam, sir, if you can. As for me, with your permission I’ll go perch on the bobstays under the bowsprit, and if we can get within a harpoon length, I’ll harpoon the brute.” “Go to it, Ned,” Commander Farragut replied. “Engineer,” he called, “keep the pressure mounting!” Ned Land made his way to his post. The furnaces were urged into greater activity; our propeller did forty-three revolutions per minute, and steam shot from the valves. Heaving the log, we verified that the Abraham Lincoln was going at the rate of 18.5 miles per hour. But that damned animal also did a speed of 18.5. For the next hour our frigate kept up this pace without gaining a fathom! This was humiliating for one of the fastest racers in the American navy. The crew were working up into a blind rage. Sailor after sailor heaved insults at the monster, which couldn’t be bothered with answering back. Commander Farragut was no longer content simply to twist his goatee; he chewed on it. The engineer was summoned once again. “You’re up to maximum pressure?” the commander asked him. “Aye, sir,” the engineer replied. “And your valves are charged to . . . ?” “To six and a half atmospheres.” “Charge them to ten atmospheres.” A typical American order if I ever heard one. It would have sounded just fine during some Mississippi paddle-wheeler race, to “outstrip the competition!” “Conseil,” I said to my gallant servant, now at my side, “you realize that we’ll probably blow ourselves skyhigh?” “As master wishes!” Conseil replied. All right, I admit it: I did wish to run this risk! The valves were charged. More coal was swallowed by the furnaces. Ventilators shot torrents of air over the braziers. The Abraham Lincoln’s speed increased. Its masts trembled down to their blocks, and swirls of smoke could barely squeeze through the narrow funnels. We heaved the log a second time. “Well, helmsman?” Commander Farragut asked. “19.3 miles per hour, sir.” “Keep stoking the furnaces.” The engineer did so. The pressure gauge marked ten atmospheres. But no doubt the cetacean itself had “warmed up,” because without the least trouble, it also did 19.3. What a chase! No, I can’t describe the excitement that shook my very being. Ned Land stayed at his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal let us approach. “We’re overhauling it!” the Canadian would shout. Then, just as he was about to strike, the cetacean would steal off with a swiftness I could estimate at no less than thirty miles per hour. And even at our maximum speed, it took the liberty of thumbing its nose at the frigate by running a full circle around us! A howl of fury burst from every throat! By noon we were no farther along than at eight o’clock in the morning.