After we had re-stowed sails and secured such gear and tackle as had blown adrift in the night, 'stand by' was again the order, reluctantly given, and all hands took advantage of the rare circumstance of spare time and a free pump to set our clothes cleanly and in order.
Near noon the Mate spied fluttering wisps of colour rising on the signal yard ashore. Steadying himself in a sheltered corner, he read the hoist: W.Q.H.L.—our number.
"Aft here, you boys, an' hand flags," he shouted. Never was order more willingly obeyed; we wanted to know.
The news went round that our orders had come. With bared arms, dripping of soapsuds, the hands came aft, uncalled, and the Mate was too busy with telescope and signal-book to notice (and rebuke) the general muster of expectant mariners.
As our pennant was run up, the hoist ashore was hauled down, to be replaced by a new. The Mate read out the flags, singly and distinct, and turned to the pages of the signal-book.
"'You—are—ordered—to—proceed—to'—Answering pennant up, lively now; damme, I can't rest you boys a minute, but ye run to seed an' sodgerin'!"
A moment of suspense; to proceed to—where? The Old Man was on deck now, with code-book in hand, open at the 'geographicals.' "'B—D—S—T,'" sang out the Mate. "B.D.S.T.," repeated the Old Man, whetting a thumb and turning the pages rapidly. "B.D.S.T., B.D.S—Sligo! Sligo, where's that, anyway?"
"North of Ireland, sir," said M'Kellar. "Somewhere east of Broadhaven. I wass in there once, mysel'."
"Of course, of course! Sligo, eh? Well, well! I never heard of a square-rigger discharging there—must see about th' charts. Ask them to repeat, Mister, and make sure."
Our query brought the same flags to the yard. B.D.S.T.—Sligo, without a doubt—followed by a message, "Letters will be sent off as soon as weather moderates."