(The word “hurrah” in the parlance of North Sea sailors means “do your utmost” or “make all speed.”)
The men burst into song—tune a wild, uncouth sailor’s melody, words extempore, one man singing one line, another metreing it with a second, with a chorus between each line, in which all joined, with all their strength of voice to the tune, with all the power of their brawny muscles to the winch. Mere doggerel, but it did the turn better, perhaps, than more refined music would have done.
In San Domingo I was born,
Chorus—Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
And reared among the yellow corn.
Heave, boys, and away we go.
Our bold McBain is a captain nice,
Chorus—Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
The main-brace he is sure to splice.
Heave, boys, and away we go.
The Faroe Isles are not our goal,
Oh! no, lads, no!
We’ll reach the North, and we’ll bag the Pole,
Heave, boys, and away we go,
Hurrah!
“We’re off,” cried Stevenson, excitedly. “Hurrah! men. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”
The men needed but little encouragement now, though. Round went the winch right merrily, and in a quarter of an hour the bows were abreast of the anchors.
“Now, steward,” said the captain, “splice the main-brace.”
The ration was brought and served, Ted Wilson, who was a moving spirit in the ’tween decks, giving a toast, which every man re-echoed ere he raised the basin to his head,—
“Success to the saucy Arrandoon, and our bold skipper, Captain McBain.”
The vessel’s head was now turned seawards, and presently the anchors that had been taken in were let go again, and fires banked. The long night wore away, and the dismal dawn came. McBain had lain down for a short time, with orders to be roused on the first appearance of daylight. Rory, anxious to see how the land looked, was on deck nearly as soon as the captain.
A grey mist was lifting up from off the sea, and from off the shore, revealing black, beetling crags, hundreds of feet high at the water’s edge, a sheer beetling cliff around which thousands of strange sea-birds were wheeling and screaming, their white wings relieved against the black of the rocks, on which rows on rows of solemn-looking guillemots sat, and lines of those strange old-fashion-faced birds, the puffins.