The boatswain’s pipe made the call. The fo’c’s’le was thronged with hurrying sailors. The trumpeter at the gangway blew a flourish, and sounded his “Loath to depart.” The men cheered as the bars were shipped. The waisters tended on the messenger with their nippers. Slowly the pawls began to click as the men strained round, heaving on tiptoe. The two capstans hove in, moving the cable. All down the ’tween-decks rang the snapping creak of a cable at a shaking strain. Some one at one of the bars, down in the half-darkness, began to sing. The crowd made chorus together, lifting the tune. Voice after voice joined in. Bar after bar sounded and shouted. The ship rang with song. The music of the tune floated out over the harbour. In the sixth-rate, the men joined in, till the whole crew were singing. Ashore they heard it. In the schooners at anchor, in the inns ashore, in the dance-house up the town, the music made echo, stirring the heart. As the light wind moved or failed, so died the tune or lifted. With a great sweep it rose up, towering on many voices, then drooped to the solo, to soar again when the men sang. They were singing that they would go no more a-roving. To Margaret and Perrin, standing there at the poop-rail, hearkening to them, much moved by the splendour of the song, the coarse old words seemed touching, infinitely sad, the whole of sea-life set to music. Now they were moving slowly, making the water talk. Their spritsail was set. Hands were aloft loosing the topsails. On the fo’c’s’le head the mate bustled, looking over the rail. Very slowly the ship moved; but now, as she left her berth, heading for the narrows, past the breakers, where Ram Rock gleamed in his smother, the song at the capstan ceased. On deck, a watch gathered at the halliards. The foretopsail jolted up to the song of “Lowlands.” Sail was being made. Voices from aloft gave notice to hoist away. In the bustle and confusion, with coils of rope rattling down, men running here and there, getting pulls of this and that, and the noise of the sails slatting, the two friends walked the poop, looking back at the sixth-rate, dipping their ensign to her. Cammock had come aft, and was standing by them, looking aloft at the boy on the maintopgallant yard. He spun round suddenly, hearing a hail from the man-of-war. “Hullo!” he shouted; adding, under his breath, “Lord, she’s going to press us.” He darted to the bulwark, and shouted “Hullo!” again. He saw the mate of the watch, in a dirty old tarred coat, walking her weather gangway, where a soldier stood at attention in old red regimentals. The mate of the watch did not speak to them. He merely lifted his hand to Cammock, and pointed towards the jetty. “A boat for us,” said Perrin. “Very much obliged to you, sir,” cried Cammock to the mate of the watch. “Lend me your glass, Captain Cammock,” said Margaret uneasily. He seized the glass hastily, and looked at the advancing boat. She was rowing rapidly towards them.