Cushner rose from his meal with a nod toward Stirling. "Let's go on deck," he said, steadying himself by grasping the racks. "Let's have a smoke and turn about. Mr. Whitehouse has the watch till eight bells."
Stirling crammed a palmful of tobacco into a cord-wrapped pipe, clutched the second mate's arm, and led him to the waist of the ship, where they stood beneath the shadow of the starboard whaleboat.
"We're not wanted on the poop!" exclaimed Cushner.
"The wheel's there and the binnacle's there, and the log line's there," suggested Stirling, pressing his thumb down upon the glowing coals of his pipe. "We've got to go aft."
"'Only for duty,' that's what the old man said. What do you make of that? He wants the after part of the ship to himself."
"It's his ship, Cushner!"
The Yankee mate counted on his fingers. "There's only two aft," he said. "Two—the old man and Snowball, the cabin boy."
Stirling pulled on his pipe. "How about the woman you heard?" he asked, dryly.
"Maybe she's there, Horace. Maybe she is! Maybe that's his reason for wanting the quarter-deck to himself. He had two Gay Islanders rig up a screen between the wheel and the taffrail. All that's aft of the screen is the companion to the cabin and a bucket rack. Thar's just about room to turn about in. A nice little cubby place I'd call it."
Stirling thought the matter over, backing into the gloom and shading his eyes. The tip of the wheel, with one spoke, showed over the low canvas sail. Beside this spoke was the soiled tassel of the wheelman's cap. Aft rose the mizzenmast with its spotless canvas billowing forward like Carrara marble. The telltale on the top of the mast denoted a freshening south wind. The swing of the ship, the thrust of the screw, the song which sounded from forward where a group of seamen were gathered on the forecastle head—all these spoke of action and a driving force to Northern seas where hearts beat strong and staunch winds cut to the quick.