“It’s a signal to Cammock,” he said, “to get his anchor up, and to make sail. He’ll pick us up on his way out. There goes his gun. He’s seen us.” “Rather hurried, isn’t it?” said Olivia. “It makes the hands smart,” he answered evasively. “I wonder if the fort will salute us as the man-of-war did.” “I hope not,” said Olivia. “They very likely will,” he answered. “Come. Toss her up, boys.” “That was a funny little man from the shop,” said Olivia. “Yes,” he said. “But he told me some interesting things. Very interesting.” They talked no more after that till the _Broken Heart_, under a cloud of canvas, came reeling down to them, to back her mainyard within hail, and hoist them all aboard. “Good-bye, old England,” said Olivia. “Yes,” said Margaret. “And thank the Lord it is.” IV. A CABIN COUNCIL “Captain Chilver’s gone to sea. _Ay, boys, O, boys._ Captain Chilver’s gone to sea _In the brave_ ‘_Benjamin._’” _Captain Chilver._ The wind had gone down gradually all through the day. The morning’s rain had kept down the sea. When the _Broken Heart_ “took her departure” that evening, from the distant Lizard, Captain Cammock crossed his main royal, out of lightness of heart. He had a fair wind and clear weather. He was thankful to have escaped arrest at Falmouth. “He was within smell of Virginia,” he said; so now he would crack on and drive her, sending her lee-ports under. The three days of storm had been of use to him. They had shaken the hands into shape, and had bettered the ship’s trim. Now, he flattered himself, he knew what his ship would do, and what his men could do. He was ready for the Western Ocean. The guns were housed, their breeches down on the carriage-beds, their tompioned muzzles lashed to the upper port sills. The light brass quarter-deck guns were covered with tarpaulin. Life-lines were stretched fore and aft across the waist. Windsails were set. There were handy-billies hooked along the hammock nettings ready for use. Forward, on the fo’c’s’le-head, the hands had gathered to dry the clothes soaked in the storm. Some of the hands, lying to windward, against the forward guns, began to sing one of their sea ballads, a dreary old ballad with a chorus, about the bonny coasts of Barbary. Old Mr. Cottrill had the dogwatch. The other mate, Mr. Iles, a little “hard case” from the James River, was playing his fiddle on the booby-hatch, just abaft the main-bitts. He sang a plaintive ditty to the music; and though he did not sing well he had listeners who thought his singing beautiful. Several of the hands, as he knew very well, were skulking as far aft as they dared, to catch his linked sweetness as it fell from him. Cocking one leg over the other, he began another song with a happy ending, no particular meaning, and a certain blitheness:-- I put it up with a country word. Tradoodle.