Hard-pressed on the back of a fading gale the Gallant strained in a fist of hard wind, cold spray and dark night, tearing over black water like a possessed creature.

In the first dog watch, the bos'n had suggested reducing sail. It was his fourth such suggestion, and he made it timidly. For the fourth time, the wild-eyed Captain had snapped rudely at him in the cabin doorway, and refused. She paced, stopping now and then to hold on to a stanchion or the massive table as a particularly hard wave threatened to turn the stout overworked ship on her beam ends.

But she knew her ship, and she knew the water, and she knew that somewhere over the horizon was the English pig. The protest of timbers and hull would not stay her. There was vengeance in her blood, and blood in her eye, and sweet satisfaction on mind. Damn the sea!! Damn the wind!! Press on! Avanti!!