“All ready below, sir,” cried a voice.
“Man the bars,” returned Mr. Sharpe from the quarter-deck. “Play up, fifer. Heave away!”
Out broke the merry fife with a rhythmical tune, and tramp, tramp, tramp went a hundred and twenty feet round and round, and, with brawny chests pressed tight against the capstan bars, sixty fine fellows walked the ship up to her anchor, drowning the fife at intervals with their sturdy song, as pat to their feet as an echo:
Heave with a will ye jolly boys,
Heave around:
We’re off from Chainee, jolly boys,
Homeward bound.
“Short stay apeak, sir,” roars the boatswain from forward.
“Unship the bars. Way aloft. Loose sails. Let fall!”
The ship being now over her anchor, and the topsails set, the capstan bars were shipped again, the men all heaved with a will, the messenger grinned, the anchor was torn out of China with a mighty heave, and then run up with a luff tackle and secured; the ship’s head cast to port: