They had passed the Savoy, and drawn close in toward Charing Steps, with a west wind sending the water slapping against the planking. The man in the red coat held the tiller, and let the boat glide in, while the seamen shipped their oars. The boat’s nose rubbed against the stone facing of the steps, while a brown hand or two grabbed at the mooring-rings. The boy on the gunwale was the first to leap ashore.
A number of watermen lounging about the steps were staring at the boat and its crew, and exchanging opinions thereon with more candor than curtesy. The sea-captain, standing in the stern-sheets, buckled his sword to a faded baldric, callous to any criticism that might be lavished on him by the river-side sots.
“Good-luck to you, capt’n.”
“You won’t forget us, sir.”
“We’ll follow you round Cape Horn again for a fight.”
The man in the red coat looked down at the brown faces along the boat that were turned to him with a species of watchful, dog-like alertness.
“I shall have my flag flying in a month,” he said; “men sha’n’t rot down at Deptford—the devil knows that. We have our tallies to count in the South, eh, and Jasper shall have a long caronado to squint along. Good-luck to you, lads. Here’s the end of the stocking. I wish it were deeper.”
He tossed a purse to a grizzled old giant who was leaning upon his oar. The man picked it up, looked at it lovingly a moment, and then glanced over his shoulder at the men behind him.
“No dirty dog’s tricks here,” growled one.
“There’s a gold piece or two for ye,” said another, slapping his belt.