“Pray don’t mention it,” said Mr Meldrum; “your friendly feelings do you both honour! But, how are we getting on, captain,” he added, to change the subject, “the ship seems to be slipping along through the water?”
“Pretty well, but not so well as I could wish. We’ve got an obstinate head-wind against us, and cannot quite lay on our proper course; so I don’t think we’ll be able to log much of a run when we take the sun at noon. The wind looks like shifting now, however, so the next twenty-four hours may tell a different tale.”
As the captain spoke, the sails flapped ominously against the masts; and, in obedience to a motion of the mate’s hand, the steersman had to let the vessel’s head fall off a little more to the westward, in order to fill the canvas again and make it draw.
“I think, cap’en, we’d better thry her on the other tack,” said the Irishman after a pause. “The wind’s headin’ us sure!”
“All right, McCarthy,” answered the captain, “go forwards and call the watch, and we’ll see about getting her about.”
Handing the captain the telescope, which he had retained until now under his left arm, apparently regarding it as the badge of his authority as officer of the watch—an authority which he now relinquished to his chief—the mate was down the poop ladder and on the deck below in “a brace of shakes;” and, in another moment, his voice was heard in stentorian tones ringing through the ship fore and aft. “Hands ’bout ship!”
The cry was like the wave of an enchanter’s wand in the realms of Fairy-land; for, where all had been previously quiet and easy-going, with only the helmsman apparently doing anything on board so far as the vessel’s progress was concerned, there was now a scene of bustle, noise, and motion,—men darting forwards to flatten the headsails and aft to ease off the boom sheets, and others to their allotted stations, waiting for the well-known orders from the captain, who stood in the centre of the poop, with the passenger beside him, looking on with a critical eye at the way in which the manoeuvre should be executed.
“All ready forward?” shouted the captain, as soon as he saw the crew at their several posts.
“Aye, aye, sorr,” replied Mr McCarthy.
“Ready, aye ready,” repeated the captain—it was a sort of catch-word of warning to prepare the men for the next word of command, like the “’Tention!” of the drill sergeant to his squad of recruits—and he then waved his hand to the man at the wheel to put up the helm.