Part 7 (1/2)
”Please to let me go back,” pleaded Kate.
”I won't please to do anything of the kind. Take the tiller, I say.”
”What shall I do with it?” asked the poor girl, cowed down and subdued by the force and decision of her companion.
”Sit here,” replied f.a.n.n.y, pointing to the corner of the stern-sheets, where the helmsman usually sits. ”This is the tiller,” she added, indicating the serpent-shaped stick attached to the rudder, by which the boat is steered. ”Keep it just as it is, until I tell you to move it.”
”I don't know how to move it.”
”When I say right, move it this way;” and f.a.n.n.y pointed to the starboard side. ”When I say left, move it the other way.”
f.a.n.n.y watched her a moment to see that her instructions were obeyed.
”We don't want this any longer,” said she, unfastening the painter of the skiff and throwing it into the water, thus permitting the boat to go adrift.
”What did you do that for?” demanded Kate, as the Greyhound dashed on, leaving the skiff behind to be borne down the river by the tide.
”We don't want the skiff, and dragging it behind keeps us back some.”
”What did you bring it for, then?”
”To keep Mr. Long from chasing us in it. All the rest of the boats are hauled up, and he will have to find one before he can come after us.”
f.a.n.n.y went forward, and having fearlessly removed the stops from the jib, which required her to crawl out a little way on the bowsprit, she hoisted the sail, and carried the sheet aft to the standing-room, as she had often seen the boatmen do. The effect of this additional canvas was immediately seen, for the Greyhound had now reached the middle of the river, where she felt the full force of the wind, which was fresh from the north-west, and came in puffs and flaws.
When the Greyhound went out from the sh.o.r.e, her sails were over on the right hand side; that is, she took the wind abaft the port beam. The boat was now careened over nearly to her rail, and was darting through the water like a rocket. Kate trembled, but f.a.n.n.y was delighted.
”Now we will go down the river,” said f.a.n.n.y, as she took the tiller.
Suiting the action to the word, she put the helm up just as a flaw of wind came sweeping over the waves. The boat came round; the three sails, caught by the flaw, suddenly flew over, filled on the other side, and the Greyhound careened till she was half full of water.
CHAPTER V.
DOWN THE RIVER.
Putting a boat about, as f.a.n.n.y had turned the Greyhound, is nautically termed _gybing_ her. It is a dangerous manoeuvre when the wind is fresh, and should never be attempted by young or inexperienced boatmen.
By putting the boat about in the opposite direction, hauling in the sheet as the sail flutters, the danger may be wholly avoided. The boat's head should always be turned in the direction from which the wind comes. But a person who does not understand the management of a boat should no more attempt to handle one than an unskilful person should attempt to run a steam engine.
f.a.n.n.y Grant knew but little about a boat, and it was fortunate for her and her companion in mischief that the wind was not strong enough to carry the Greyhound wholly over. If she had careened only a little more, she would have filled with water and sunk, for she was heavily ballasted. As it was, she was half full of water, and the situation of the young ladies, if not perilous, was very uncomfortable.
”O, f.a.n.n.y!” screamed Kate, in mortal terror, as the Greyhound heeled over, and the water rushed in over the washboard.
”Don't be scared,” replied f.a.n.n.y, with wonderful self-possession. ”It's all right, and there is no harm done.”
”We shall be drowned!” gasped Kate.
”No, we shall not be drowned. Don't you see the boat stands up like a major? Don't be frightened. I understand it all.”