“Walter, you couldn’t have done me a kinder act than calling me your messmate,” exclaimed the pirate, with sudden animation.
“That has done me more good than our doctor’s care and attention—that’s cleared the turn for my run more than all. Ah, ah, it’s pleased me to hear you call me your messmate. I don’t like parting with you. You have been very kind to me, very—from the first hour we met. As a dying man, Walter, I have been true to you, and afore I have made a spare hammock, tell me whether you think so?”
“I do, Murdock. I wish you may be spared.”
“Avast there, Walter—avast!” exclaimed the pirate, his voice growing more and more feeble. “You have never forgotten me at any time.
“Come, never turn your head from me. Look on me. Why should you show a wet eye? Damme, you make my scuppers run over. I—we must part some day, and why not now? Walter, take your hand from your face if you love me. Let me see your face. Why, that’s it. Walter, I’ve looked my last upon the sea; there is a haze over it. You had better send a hand aloft, a smart seaman, to keep a bright look-out—it’s very hazy. Walter, are you sure the fire was got under—the deck’s full of smoke? Open one of the ports; and yet I am very cold, Walter. I am shaking. Have I got your hand? Topman, away! There—clap on the yard tackles. Stretch out along your tackle full top out. Walter, my friend, God bless you! Remember the beach of St. Michael’s. The pumps are choked.”
He paused for a moment, and at first young Knoulton thought he was dead, for his eyes closed, and his face exhibited the ghastly pallid hue of death, but a moment afterwards he opened his eyes and tried to gaze around him. They were dull and glazed, but he turned them anxiously from side to side.
He knit his brows and worked his lips about with an evident desire to speak; he passed his hand through his hair, and at length exclaimed—
“The reef has now struck a hole in her which no carpenter can stop; and the seas that wash over her will wash everything out of her as clean as a captain’s steward does a stew-pan. Ah, you may cut away at the masts, but she will not move. You may spare yourself the trouble—here comes a sea that will carry them by the board. Hold on—hold on, mates, for your lives! That sea has fixed her. Cut the lashings of the boat on the boom. The next sea will carry it from the chucks to the quarter. Bear a hand—bear a hand! Here comes the sea, Walter—hold on by me. Where are you? Avast, I am alone! The sea blinds me. I am faint! I cannot swim a stroke! The water gurgles in my throat! Down, down—down—”
The last word died on his lips; his features were convulsed, his jaw fell, and all was over with Mat Murdock, the pirate.
It would be a task of considerable difficulty to attempt any description of the sense of loneliness that fell upon Walter Knoulton at this time. Despair seemed to enter his heart. It is true that he had attended upon the sick on very many occasions, but this was the first time he had witnessed the death of a fellow-creature, and he was so supremely miserable that he was well-nigh bursting into tears.