Blow ye winds westerly—steady she goes!
Loudly the chantey rang over the bay. Loudly the Eskimos shouted and yelled as the dripping chain came in link by link, and the great anchor rose from the mud that had held it fast for half a year. Up the rigging the men sped. Quickly the huge sails were spread and sheeted home. Braces were manned, and the Narwhal slowly gathered way and the short seas splashed in spray from her forefoot. Out towards the vast reaches of the bay she sailed. Behind her, the land grew dim and faint. To a fair, stiff breeze she heeled, with every sail drawing, headed southward.
Battered by countless storms, scarred by ice, the veteran of a thousand battles with hurricanes and tempest, with crushing floes and grinding bergs, still staunch and sound, the gallant old schooner lifted her bow and plunged through the hissing green seas.
Safe within her old hold were the hard won treasures of the Arctic; yard long icicles and masses of frozen spray draped her bobstays, her rails, and her chains. But shaking the icy brine from her decks as she reared on the crests of the waves, sliding into the great hollows, crushing ice cakes with her shearing bows, she tore onward, while at braces and halyards and sheets the men roared out that most welcome and glorious of whaleman’s songs:
Did you ever join in with those heart-ringing cheers,
With your face turned to Heaven’s blue dome,
As laden with riches you purchased so dear
You hoisted your topsails—bound home?
THE END