"_Blow, my bully boys, blow!_"
In the cold and the wet, in day-light and dark, on sloshing decks they
hove and hauled--bawling out the old-time sea choruses as if in
defiance to the shriek of the wind and the roaring water. They yelped
and barked on "_Ranzo_"; stamped to "_Blow the man down!_" and "_In
Amsterdam there lived a maid_," and wailed plaintively to
"_Lowlands_," "_Shenandoah_" and "_Fare-well you ladies of Spain_."
The chantey is rare melody--inane and unimpressive ashore, but
wonderfully inspiring when sung to the organ roll of a big wind, and
the human voices rose above the material accompaniment of clanking
chains, humming shrouds, clanging wash-ports, the boom of the gale
aloft, and the swish and thunder of the sea.
All day and night they drove her storming, decks filled to the rail
and wire shroud and steel framing twanging and screeching to the
strain of the driving. In the half-deck the boys laid in their
bunks--the water a foot deep on the floor--and watched the chilly
brine spuirting in through the jambs of the doors and felt the jarring
of the steel house as the seas smashed against it. The place dripped
water; their blankets and bed-sacks were sopping, and they were wet,
cold and hungry, but the aspect of things had changed. The brave
southerly--friend of the outward-bounder in fifty-six south--was
blowing stiff and strong and driving them away from the regions
accursed.
In the grey twilight of the succeeding day, when the patent log had
recorded their distance, they cast the deep-sea lead over the bows and
Nickerson fingered the line aft on the poop and noted the marks with
contentment. "Sixty-five fathoms! She's makin' her westing all right!"
Then to McKenzie, he said, "Son! Nip aloft an' see if you kin make
out anything like steep rocks or the land ahead. Take these glasses
with you."
From the elevation of the t'gallant rigging he scrutinized the bleak
expanse of sea--greying in the half-light--and picked up a dog's tooth
of black rocks against the sky-line far to the northward. "Land ho!"
he shouted, pointing with his arm. On deck again, he described them to
the captain. "Humph!" grunted he with satisfaction on his stern
visage, "Diego Ramirez, I cal'late, or it might be Ildefonso. We're
gittin' along.... Mister Thompson! At eight bells you'll git th' fore
an' mizzen r'yals on her. This southerly'll ease off as we run north."
In the middle watch that night, Nickerson called Donald to him.
"How're ye feelin' naow, son? Warm enough these days?"
"Yes, sir! Thanks to you," replied the boy.
The skipper puffed at his pipe and settled himself comfortably on the
rail in his favorite angle. "Son," he said, after a pause, "what d'ye
plan to do when we reach Vancouver? Stick with the ship, eh?"