Now they were moving slowly, making the water talk. Their spritsail was set. Hands were aloft loosing the topsails. On the fo’c’s’le head the mate bustled, looking over the rail. Very slowly the ship moved; but now, as she left her berth, heading for the narrows, past the breakers, where Ram Rock gleamed in his smother, the song at the capstan ceased. On deck, a watch gathered at the halliards. The foretopsail jolted up to the song of “Lowlands.” Sail was being made. Voices from aloft gave notice to hoist away. In the bustle and confusion, with coils of rope rattling down, men running here and there, getting pulls of this and that, and the noise of the sails slatting, the two friends walked the poop, looking back at the sixth-rate, dipping their ensign to her. Cammock had come aft, and was standing by them, looking aloft at the boy on the maintopgallant yard. He spun round suddenly, hearing a hail from the man-of-war.
“Hullo!” he shouted; adding, under his breath, “Lord, she’s going to press us.”
He darted to the bulwark, and shouted “Hullo!” again. He saw the mate of the watch, in a dirty old tarred coat, walking her weather gangway, where a soldier stood at attention in old red regimentals.
The mate of the watch did not speak to them. He merely lifted his hand to Cammock, and pointed towards the jetty.
“A boat for us,” said Perrin.
“Very much obliged to you, sir,” cried Cammock to the mate of the watch.
“Lend me your glass, Captain Cammock,” said Margaret uneasily.
He seized the glass hastily, and looked at the advancing boat. She was rowing rapidly towards them.
“Who the devil can it be?” said Perrin, as he watched Cammock bring the ship to the wind. “Lord, captain,” he said, with real anger. “It’s that woman with her husband.”
“It’s a lady, that’s plain,” said Cammock. “And they’re in a hurry. The man’s double-banking the stroke oar.”