This involved incessant watchfulness, and was calculated to keep the bridge officers on the jump. Everything in Uncle Sam’s navy must be done with a precision almost incomprehensible to a landsman, but which forms a part of every seaman’s training.
Looking back and watching the long line of “gray geese,” as Herc had called them, Ned gave a sudden exclamation. From the signal-yard of the Louisiana, the third ship in line, there suddenly fluttered a white triangular pennant with a red border.
“Oh, wow!” yelled Herc. “There’s the old Luzzy out of line again.”
“She’s the hardest ship to steer in the whole squadron,” rejoined Ned.
The signal that the ship in question had just displayed meant that she was more than forty yards out of the way. This was duly noted against her on board the flag-ship, and it may be imagined that the officer on duty hated to have to send that signal aloft.
The Farallones were mere tiny clouds on the eastern horizon, as the sun went down with a glow of burnished gold in the west that seemed like a benediction. Just as it sank below the horizon, the rays shone on the sullen, lead-colored sides of the grim sea-fighters, giving them a softened touch. To a landsman it would have appeared a beautiful sight. But to Ned and Herc, and to most of the sailors on board, that sunset bore a different significance.
“We’re in for a blow,” declared Ned.
“Storm of some sort, that’s as sure as shooting,” rejoined Herc.
Up on the bridge the officers were discussing the outlook.
“The glass is falling rapidly, sir,” reported the navigating officer to Commander Dunham.