“Arter this, mate,” he called down to the Dutchman, “I shall give up drinking water when I gets ashore.”
I looked into the cabin skylight, and, seeing Greaves at the table, begged him to step on deck and behold a strange sight. By this time both vessels had hoisted their ensigns, and each flag blew in an opposite direction.
“I have heard of this sort of thing,” said Greaves, “but never before saw it. Lord, now, if every ship could have a wind of her own, as we and yonder craft have! There would be no weather gauge then—no complicated dodging for advantageous positions. Ha! Look at that now. She has taken our wind!”
The sails of the approaching vessel fell and trembled. A minute later, the yards were slowly swung, and the canvas shone like white satin as it swelled to the same breeze that was breathing off our bow.
“I should be glad to send my letter home by that ship,” said I.
“It may be managed,” he exclaimed, “and without bothering to back yards or lower a boat. Get your letter.”
I ran to my berth and returned with the letter, which Greaves posted for me on the passing ship in the following manner:
He sent me to procure a piece of canvas, a small number of musket balls, some twine, and an end of ratlin stuff. He put the balls and my letter into the canvas, and, with the twine, bound the cloth into a small, heavy parcel, to which he secured the end of the piece of ratlin stuff; then, giving directions to the man at the helm to starboard, so as to close the stranger, he sprung upon the rail and waited for the two vessels to draw together.
“Oh, the snow ahoy!” he shouted.
“Hallo!” responded a man who stood on the quarter of the vessel.