Having got all our spare room filled with hides, we hove up our
anchor and made sail for San Diego. In no operation can the
disposition of a crew be discovered better than in getting under
weigh. Where things are "done with a will," every one is like a cat
aloft: sails are loosed in an instant; each one lays out his
strength on his handspike, and the windlass goes briskly round with
the loud cry of "Yo heave ho! Heave and pawl! Heave hearty ho!" But
with us, at this time, it was all dragging work. No one went aloft
beyond his ordinary gait, and the chain came slowly in over the
windlass. The mate, between the knight-heads, exhausted all his
official rhetoric, in calls of "Heave with a will!"- "Heave hearty,
men!- heave hearty!"- "Heave and raise the dead!"- "Heave, and away!"
etc., etc.; but it would not do. Nobody broke his back or his
handspike by his efforts. And when the cat-tackle-fall was strung
along, and all hands- cook, steward, and all- laid hold, to cat the
anchor, instead of the lively song of "Cheerily, men!" in which all
hands join in the chorus, we pulled a long, heavy, silent pull, and-
as sailors say a song is as good as ten men- the anchor came to the
cat-head pretty slowly.
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