It was only noon, but Bijonah was speculating, and when he saw the fog bank coming he refused to run any risk with his men, and recalled them to the schooner by firing his shotgun until they all replied to the signal by raising one oar upright.
It must not be thought that it was the fog that induced Bijonah to do this. Dorymen almost always fish when a fog comes down, and trust to their good fortune in finding the schooner. Bijonah wanted to look over the morning’s catch and get in tune with the millions under his keel.
By the time the last dory was in, the pile of fish in the pen looked like a heap of molten silver.
The men stretched themselves after their cramped quarters, and greeted the cook’s announcement with delight.
“You fellers fix tables fer dressin’ down while the fust half mugs up,” said Tanner. “Everybody lively now. I cal’late to move just a little bit. The bottom here don’t suit me yet.”
He went down from the poop and walked the deck, 130 listening between clangings of the bell for any sound of an approaching vessel. The crew worked swiftly at dressing and salting the catch.
“Haul up anchor,” he ordered when the work was done.
The watch laid hold the windlass poles and hauled the vessel forward directly above her hook. Then there was a concerted heave and the ground tackle broke loose and came up with a rush.
Under headsails and riding sail the Rosan swung into the light air that stirred the fog and began to crawl forward while the men were still cat-heading the anchor. The youth who had been ringing the bell now substituted the patent fog-horn, as marine law requires when vessels are under way.
With his eyes on the compass, Turner guided the ship himself. They seemed to move through an endless gray world.