CHAPTER XXVI.
DUNMAN'S CAVE.
Flags hung at half mast the rest of that day, and minute guns were fired at sunset. And there was something sad and solemn in the dull, booming sound as it echoed and reechoed over that broad and mysterious sea. And when night came, and drew a dark curtain around the ship, and her timbers murmured and complained, and every sail stood out in shadow against the clear sky, and the surface of the water seemed alive with sprites, flitting and dancing here and there, groups of sorrowing men were seen gathered about the decks, giving expression to their grief at the loss of their old captain.
"God bless him! He was good to us all. There'll be no more whales to kill where he has gone." These were the words of regret that fell from lips that rarely invoked a prayer.
At midnight, when the bells had struck, the crew gathered together on the forward deck, and while one held a lamp another read the Episcopal service for the burial of the dead. And as the light at times reflected each figure of the group, giving it a phantom-like appearance, the picture presented was sad and impressive—such as can only be seen at sea, where each sound calls up some memory, and the sailor fancies he can see the spirit of some departed friend in every flitting shadow.
Officers and men alike began to feel how great was their loss. They were alone, as it were, on this broad and mysterious ocean, and they had lost that odd old man who was their guiding spirit, and who never failed them as friend and protector. All through that night the men watched and strained their eyes in every direction, expecting to see the old sailor rise on some crest; and more than one sailor that night cheered his drooping feelings with the firm belief that some mysterious agency would give them back the old captain before morning.
There was no one on that ship, however, who felt the loss more seriously than Tite. It seemed to change all his prospects, to throw a shadow over his future. He paced the deck, silent and thoughtful, until long after midnight. To him the captain had been not only a friend, but a father. Between them there had grown up the strongest of attachments. Tite had looked forward to the time when this odd old man would have lifted him into the confidence of his owners, and perhaps secured his future prosperity.
All his hopes and joys seemed blasted now. Love, too, had been playing its bewitching part; amidst all these drawbacks and disappointments, love had been prompting his ambition with her dreams of a happy future. Mattie's image, so bright, so beautiful, had been with him everywhere, prompting his thoughts and actions as only the woman you love can, and making him more ambitious to secure that golden future his fancy had pictured. Never before had his courage failed him. No matter what the danger, he had felt that she was at his side, encouraging him. Now the gloomy thought of returning home penniless, with, indeed, nothing but his adventures and misfortunes to offer her and his aged parents, began to prey upon his mind, to make him sad and despondent. Then the advice so often given him by the old captain, never to get discouraged, not even under the most adverse circumstances, and that the brightest day was sure to follow the darkest night, would cheer him up.