“Is the anchor all clear?” asked the first mate. “You know we shall want it for bringing up at Gravesend.”
“Yis, sorr,” said the other. “I ased off the catfalls an’ shank painter iver since the mornin’; an’, sure, the blissid anchor is a-cockbill, all riddy to lit go whin ye gives the worrud.”
“And the cable—how many shackles have you got up?”
“Thray lingths, sorr. I thought that enough for the river, wid a fower fathom bottom; so, I’ve bitted it at that, an’ me an’ Jackson are a-sayin’ about clearin’ the cable range now.”
“That’s right,” replied Mr Mackay, apparently satisfied that at last everything forward was going on as it should; for he turned away from the poop rail and entered into conversation with a stout thickset strange man, dressed in sailor’s clothes, but with a long black oilskin or waterproof over his other garments reaching down to his heels, although it wasn’t raining at all, being a bright, fine afternoon.
Not only had this new-comer arrived on board without my noticing him, although I had been looking out all the time, but he managed to get up on the poop in the most mysterious way. I was certain he had not been anywhere near the moment before, and yet, now, there he was.
He must be the captain at last, I thought, having been expecting to see that personage appear on the scene every moment; and my impression of his being one in authority was confirmed a moment later, when, from his giving some order or command, Mr Mackay left him hastily, and coming further aft took up a position nearer me, close to Adams, just abaft the binnacle. The oilskin man, however, remained on the weather side of the poop at the head of the ladder, whence he had a good look-out ahead, clear of all intervening obstacles, and from which post he proceeded to direct the steering of the ship by waving his arms this way and that as if he were an animated windmill
The first mate interpreted as quickly these signals for the benefit of Adams, passing on the words of warning they conveyed, “Hard up!” or “Down helm!” or “Steady!” as the case might be. These frequent and often contradictory orders were necessary, when, owing to some unexpected bend in the river, the Silver Queen would luff up suddenly and shoot her head athwart stream hard a-port, or else try to “take the bit between her teeth,” and sheer into the shore on the starboard hand as if she wanted to run up high and dry on the mud, loth to leave her native land.
She required good steering.
Aye, and careful watching too, on the part of the helmsman; for, in addition to the natural turnings and windings of the channel-way, which were many, the Thames curving about and twisting itself into the shape of a corkscrew between London Bridge and the Nore, the tug had besides continually to alter her course, thus, naturally, making us change ours too, as the tow-rope slackening one moment would cause the ship’s bows to fall off, and then tightening like a fiddle-string the next instant her head would be jerked back again viciously into its former position, right astern of the little vessel at whose mercy we were, as if she insisted on the Silver Queen following obediently in her wake.