I replaced the chart, drank a tumbler of grog, and stepping on deck, marched to the wheel and looked at the card. Call grasped the spokes.
“Let her go off. The course is——” and I gave the fellow the course.
The swollen, dusky shapes of Bol, Galen, and others of the crew trudged in the gangway. It was a fine, clear night. I sang out:
“Trim sail and then heap it on her. Set stun’s’ls and let her go.”
My voice was instantly echoed by Bol.
“Hurrah, my ladts! Man der braces. Clear avay der foretopmast stun’s’l. Hurrah for beesiness! All vhas right now. Dis vhas a happy ship.”
I stood beside the wheel while the men trimmed and made sail, Bol roaring at them, deeply thunderous, with excitement and satisfaction. Presently the great Dutchman came up to me.
“Mr. Fielding, vhas he a disgrace to shake handts now?”
I gave him my hand, and the brute squeezed it. He then looked at the card, observed the course, and said, “Dot vhas for der Cape!”
“Yaw.”