The portable anchor required two cranes, a receiving frame, three boats and a man whose entire job was to shout about fingers.
Drake watched the first sling tighten.
“Portable,” he said.
Merrit stood beside him with the loading sheet. “They never said by whom.”
The anchor hung inside its transport cage above a broad cargo lighter. Copper contacts lay beneath fitted covers. White marks showed which face must remain upward. A plate on the side gave its weight without attempting to make the number friendly.
“Fingers,” the man called.
Everyone already had their hands clear. Drake approved of the repetition.
The frame settled onto the lighter’s supports. The vessel sank to a new line against the quay. Ropes creaked. A crew member watched each support as the cranes released their share of the weight.
