Mr. Brooke asked if he would have a little Sal volatile.
'No.'
'A little brandy?'
'No.'
'Do you want anything?'
'I want nothing but to die.'
Those were his last words. He lay convulsed on a mattress on the floor for about an hour longer, and was released on the morning of the 29th.
Stephen, with an arrow wound in the lungs, and several more of these wounds in the chest, could hardly have lived, even without the terrible tetanus. He had spent his time in reading his Mota Gospel and Prayer-book, praying and speaking earnestly to the other men on board, before the full agony came on. He was a tall, large, powerfully framed man; and the struggles were violent before he too sank into rest on the morning of the 28th, all the time most assiduously nursed by Joseph Wate. On St. Michael's Day, these two teachers of poor Bauro received at the same time their funeral at sea.
John Coleridge Patteson was forty-four years and a half old.
Joseph Atkin, twenty-nine.