All was now bustle throughout the ship. Not only forward, but aft, the summons of the boatswain was obeyed, and four persons came up the hatchway from the chief cabin who wore the garb of gentlemen. Among these were Hildebrand Clifford, the captain, and his friend Sir Walter Raleigh; but the others appeared to have no connection with the ship, and to have come there only as Sir Walter’s friends.
Just as they stepped on the deck, the boatswain brought his whistle to a close, and replaced the pipe, to call it by its nautical name, in the band of his trousers.
“All hands heave up the anchor!” he cried.
Pursuant to this order, the crew all hurried to the quarter-deck, where, directly in front of the poop, at an elevation of about five feet from the deck, stood the capstan, by means of which the anchor was to be raised. This was quickly rigged with some half-dozen levers, about three feet apart, and the sailors planted themselves behind the levers, two or three abreast, and waited the signal to begin.
“Give way, my hearts!” cried Hildebrand, who now took the command: “Give way!”
There was no reply to this order, but the sailors, grasping a firmer hold of the several levers, at once obeyed, wheeling gaily round the capstan, and singing with one voice as they progressed:—
“Yo, ho, yo! merriman, hoy!
Yo, ho, hoy! merriman!”
Few of the various by-standers heard their stirring chorus without emotion. In many of them it raised the most bitter pang of tortured affection—it was the knell of separation—the first sad note of departure and parting. Still, after a few moments’ interval, when the first thrills of affection had subsided, it had a cheering influence, and many a pale face around wore a smile, which, though tinged with sadness, plainly showed that the heart was full of hope and expectation.
At length, the cable was all hauled in, and the anchor heaved up to the bows, and there, with the aid of a stout chain, made secure. The goodly bark was at liberty, and all but her gallant crew were now to quit her deck.