“Jiggers at the tops’l lifts!”
“Clear away stu’ns’l gear!”
These successive orders were now jerked out in rapid rotation by Mr Bitpin, who stood at the poop-rail bellowing away like a wild bull, Captain Farmer remaining alongside him and surveying with critical eye all that was done as the hands scrambled up the rigging and bustled about the deck, casting off ropes and getting the booms prepared; until, anon, the captains of the fore and maintops and the captain of the forecastle, as well as the gunner’s mate, whose task it was to see to the main topmast studding sail, reported “All ready!”
Therefore the lieutenant, with a deeper bellow than before, shouted “Sway away!”
In an instant, the watch on deck, bending on to the halliards with a will, hoisted the gleaming white sails aloft and sheeted them home; when, bellying out before the northerly breeze, they expanded their folds, making the yardarms creak again, and looking like the wings of some gigantic seabird, the ship herself bearing out the resemblance and swooping away in a heavy lurch to leeward, after apparently preening her pinions for a fresh flight, being now a perfect pyramid of canvas from truck to deck.
“Mr Adams,” called out Mr Bitpin presently from the poop, evidently in obedience to some quiet order given by the captain, to the midshipman, who of course stood immediately below his superior officer on the quarter-deck, “heave the log again and tell me what she’s going now!”
“Very good, sir,” replied Frank Adams; and, after the necessary interval of heaving the log-ship over the side to leeward and counting the knots on the line while the fourteen-second glass held by the quartermaster was running out, he sang out “She’s going nearly ten, sir.”
“Ah!” muttered Captain Farmer, who had come down the poop-ladder and was waiting for the news before returning to his cabin, as he passed the marine sentry before disappearing within the sliding door, expressing his thoughts aloud, “That’s better, much better—I thought she could do it with this wind!” It was a beautiful afternoon; and, from its being Sunday, several of the wardroom officers came on deck after luncheon, having nothing especial to do below.
Amongst the lot were Dr Nettleby and Mr Nipper, the paymaster.
I also observed on the poop the Reverend Mr Smythe and “Joe” Jellaby, who had contrived to secure sufficient snoozing, during the odd moments when he was off duty since the morning, to make up for the sleep he had lost by going to the admiral’s ball and there meeting the witching houri of his dreams, “that chawming gurl,” who had subsequently prevented him from taking his proper rest when he came aboard in the small hours of the middle watch.