“Can't say,” said the Captain. “Here's our post; we may as well turn.”
“Easy, bow side—now two and four, pull her round—back water, seven and five!” shouted the coxswain; and the boat's head swung round, and two or three strokes took her into the bank.
Jack instantly made a convulsive attempt to board, but was sternly repulsed, and tumbled backwards into the water.
Hark!—the first gun. The report sent Tom's heart into his mouth again. Several of the boats pushed off at once into the stream; and the crowds of men on the bank began to be agitated, as it were, by the shadow of the coming excitement. The St. Ambrose crew fingered their oars, put a last dash of grease on their rollocks, and settled their feet against the stretchers.
“Shall we push her off?” asked “bow.”
“No, I can give you another minute,” said Miller, who was sitting, watch in hand, in the stern, “only be smart when I give the word.”
The Captain turned on his seat, and looked up the boat. His face was quiet, but full of confidence, which seemed to pass from him into the crew. Tom felt calmer and stronger, he met his eye. “Now mind, boys, don't quicken,” he said, cheerily; “four short strokes, to get way on her, and then steady. Here, pass up the lemon.”
And he took a sliced lemon out of his pocket, put a small piece into his own mouth, and then handed it to Blake, who followed his example, and passed it on. Each man took a piece; and just as “bow” had secured the end, Miller called out—
“Now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily.”
The jackets were thrown on shore, and gathered up by the boatmen in attendance. The crew poised their oars, No. 2 pushing out her head, and the Captain doing the same for the stern. Miller took the starting-rope in his hand.