Then, as luck would have it, the wind eased and shifted until it bore almost abeam. Both ships promptly trimmed yards and were now going full and bye on the port tack. The Golden Vanity slightly to lee'ard, was steadily overhauling her rival.
A huge Royal Mail boat came slowly and majestically into view from behind São João. It was quite within her rights to port helm and keep to her starboard side of the entrance channel. Her captain was a sportsman. Something told him that the two full-rigged ships were "cracking on" in racing fashion. He knew that to pass to wind'ard of them would jeopardise the chances of the Blue Bird, so without hesitation he stood across the entrance and slowing down, crept gently to lee'ard. Her passengers and crew, climbing on the side of her tier of decks, cheered the contesting ships to the echo.
Now the Vanity's jib-boom was level with the Blue Bird's taffrail. Still she gained. Her bows drew level with her rival's counter. Then she commenced to drop back.
Too late Captain Corbold realized his mistake. He was blanketed by the Blue Bird to wind'ard. Nor could he luff and run under his rival's stern, thus gaining the weather-gauge. Even had there been room enough the towering heights of the Sugar Loaf rendered the wind fluky. And so, with a little more than half a length to spare, the Blue Bird won the race to the accompaniment of a deafening welcome from the syrens of both British and foreign vessels lying off Catete and alongside the wharves.
The crew of the Golden Vanity, true to the traditions of their race, promptly gave three cheers for their conquerors; then—"Hands shorten sail!"
CHAPTER XVI. At Rio
Out of the maze of shipping came a squat tug flying the Brazilian ensign aft, and Messrs. Whatmough, Duvant & Co.'s house-flag at the mast head. On board were one of the deputy harbour masters, splendidly arrayed in blue and silver, and the owner's agent.
"You are to bring up at No. 3 Buoy in Botafogo Bay," announced the agent. "Lighters will be alongside to discharge cargo. Send a hawser and we'll give you a pluck in."
Again the hands swarmed aloft to stow and furl sail, and by the time Geoff and Bernard had finished their task, the Golden Vanity was ambling sedately in the wake of the small yet powerful tug.
As far as Captain Corbold was concerned this arrangement left him unperturbed. He was quite content to berth or moor the ship where the authorities directed, provided that she was in a safe position. But amongst the crew and especially the cadets different sentiments prevailed. They wanted to see the ship berthed alongside one of the quays. It was handier for getting ashore whether liberty were permitted or not. It meant less boat work, with the attendant inconvenience of having to wait before a boat was available. Also the work of unloading cargo into lighters was rendered more arduous, since the ship's tackle and gear had to be employed to hoist the heavy crates out of the hold. Had the Golden Vanity been berthed at the quay electric cranes would have made light work of the task.
At length the Golden Vanity, with canvas neatly furled and stowed and with yards squared and trimmed with almost mathematical exactitude, lay at the buoy allotted to her.
Geoff and Bernard, their immediate duties completed, joined with their messmates in looking over the side at the attendant tug. She was lying off at about fifty yards distance, and although the Company's agent was on board carrying a bundle of papers under his arm, and was accompanied by a coffee-coloured man with a couple of bags that presumably contained the ship's letters, the tug made no attempt to run alongside.
"What are they hanging on to the slack for?" inquired Merrifield. "Why can't they sling the mail bag on board?"
These questions were probably asked by most of the cadets. Letters from home were the first consideration.
Geoff and his chum had no longings on that account. No one was likely to write to either of them. As far as they knew their address was unknown to any of their relations or friends. They were experiencing one of the greatest disappointments that seamen receive when making port after a long voyage—an empty mail day.
"You'll have to wait, my lad," replied Senior Cadet Fairclough in answer to Merrifield's question. "Until we obtain pratique there's no communication with the shore allowed."
"What's pratique?" asked the junior cadet.
"Sort of clean bill of health," replied Fairclough. "Here's the jolly old doctor coming alongside now."
A small motor-launch flying the Brazilian ensign and the flag of the Port Medical Authority was approaching the ship. In the stern-sheets and under an awning sat a short and excessively stout man in white uniform that contrasted forcibly with the dark-brown complexion.
The launch ran alongside. Captain Corbold went to the entry port to greet the Brazilian doctor, while the Chief mustered all hands in the waist.
The medical examination was quite a perfunctory affair. The doctor strutted up and down the line of men, hardly troubling to glance at them, put a few questions to the skipper through the medium of an interpreter, gave the ship a clean clearance and pocketed his fee. Thereafter the crew of the Golden Vanity were at liberty to mingle with the citizens of this great South American Republic, the authorities having satisfied themselves that the former would not be likely to communicate any infectious or contagious disease to the inhabitants of Rio. Whether the inhabitants of Rio were likely to infect the Golden Vanity's crew with Yellow Jack or kindred tropical diseases was not the Port Authorities' affair. As far as they were concerned, that possibility never troubled them.
Directly the Medical Officer had taken his departure, the tug ranged alongside and the Company's agent, followed by his factotum, came on board. With due ceremony the Old Man conducted Messrs. Whatmough, Duvant & Co.'s representative to his cabin, while the agent's assistant handed the mail-bags into the care of the Chief Officer.
The remaining officers and men crowded round with eager anticipation written on their faces. The Chief broke the seals of the first sack, untied the lashings and tumbled the contents into a shallow wicker tray. This batch had been sent by the surest method, namely, the writers had addressed their communications to the ship, care of Messrs. Whatmough, Duvant & Co., London. They had then been forwarded by the firm to their Rio agent by British mail-boat, and thus did not pass through the hands of the Brazilian postal authorities.
Letters and parcels nearly filled the tray—messages of affection, greeting, entreaty, recrimination, and abuse of the coarsest kind. Faith, hope, and charity, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness lurked within the sealed envelopes that were awaiting distribution.
The Chief took up a grimy envelope with a stamp askew in the bottom left-hand corner and addressed in a spidery scrawl.
"Jenkins?"
"'Ere, sir!"
The envelope was flicked into the man's hands. He glanced at the address, shoved the letter into his jumper, and, Oliver Twist-like, waited for more.
A dozen other names followed in quick succession. Then:
"Davidson—Thomas Davidson?"
There was no reply. The Chief Officer repeated the name. His audience remained silent, though chafing at the delay.
"No one of that name in the ship, sir," volunteered the bo'sun.
The Chief laid the unclaimed letter aside, and proceeded with his task. Those for the officers he handed out without a word. The cadets were generally addressed as Mister where their names were concerned.