‘At this rate,’ Lieutenant Whittle said, rubbing his hands, ‘the Yankees won’t have a whaling fleet left.’

A week later they heard the welcome shout from the lookout. ‘A sail! Fine on the port bow.’

Officers turned out of the wardroom with spyglasses at the ready. ‘Not one sail,’ Bulloch said. ‘I see three, four, maybe six.’

Captain Waddell was on the quarterdeck by now. ‘This looks like our best haul yet! What flag are they flying?’

‘Old Glory, sir,’ was the reply.

‘Then hoist the same. We don’t want them taking fright before we get close.’

As he spoke there was a renewed flurry of activity on board the whaler and a voice hailed them.

‘They think we’re here to help,’ Waddel said. ‘We should have no problem getting on board.’

Boats were lowered and crews assembled, each under the direction of a uniformed officer.

Gus watched, longingly. It seemed to him that he always missed the really exciting parts of the action. He saw that Mason was in charge of one boat and edged over to him.

‘Sir? Can I come with you, please?’

Mason hesitated a moment and then smiled. ‘Why not? You can be coxswain. It’s time you saw a bit of action.’

There were nine Yankee ships and the Shenandoah had only five whaling boats. ‘Speed and secrecy,’ Waddell ordered. ‘The longer we can keep them in ignorance of our real purpose the better.’

The five boats shoved off, each heading for its designated target.

Mason chuckled. ‘They’re in for a bit of a shock when they recognise the uniform.’

From behind them came an explosion, which echoed off the ice floes surrounding them. Waddell had ordered a warning shot to be fired.

The first five whalers, taken by surprise, surrendered meekly, and their masters were ordered to take their papers to the Shenandoah. Of the remaining three, two raised their sails and tried to make off, but the breeze was almost non-existent and, finding themselves becalmed under the Shenandoah’s guns, they too submitted. Only one, the Felicity, furthest away and the target of Mason’s boat, showed signs of resistance. Approaching, they saw that the crew and most of the officers were huddled together in the stern, while a single figure stood on the roof of the deckhouse, brandishing a pistol. With his long, unkempt hair and clothed in what looked like an assortment of animal skins, he made an intimidating sight. More alarming were the two guns, used for shooting harpoons at whales, which were now pointing directly at them.

‘Come any closer,’ he roared, ‘and I’ll blow you clean out of the water.’

‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ Mason shouted back. ‘You’re outgunned, and you know it.’

‘I can blow your head off and sink your little skiff, for a start,’ was the response.

‘Better pull back for now,’ Mason said. ‘Our guns won’t bear at that angle.’