“Ay! Ay!” came the chorus.
“Steward!” he called. “Tell the men to hoist sail!”
“Ay! Ay! sir!” answered the steward.
Then were rattlings and clatterings overhead. While the little company in the cabin were chatting, the work on deck was resulting in a gradual change, and when, after a half-hour, Rierson put his head out into the wind and rain above the companionway, the cotton docks were far in the rear, all but lost in the mist and drizzle. All sails were up and a stiff breeze was driving the little craft through the Narrows. McLaughlin, the boatman and master of the crew, under Rierson, was at the wheel. Already we were being rocked and tossed like a child in a cradle.
“Who controls the vessel,” I asked of him, “while the pilots are on board?”
“The pilots themselves.”
“Not all of them?”
“No, not all at one time. The pilot who has the watch has full control for his hours, then the next pilot after him, and so on. No pilot is interfered with during his service.”
“And where do we head now?”
“For Sandy Hook and the sea east of that. We are going to meet inbound European steamers.”