“Very bad, sir; and, they say, is worse every day, and yet his wound is healthy, and ought to be doing well.”
Such was the conversation between Jack and his captain, as they sat at breakfast on the third morning after the action.
The next day Easy took down an acting order for Martin, and put it into his hands. The mate read it over as he lay bandaged in his hammock.
“It’s only an acting order, Jack,” said he; “it may not be confirmed.”
Jack swore, by all the articles of war, that it would be; but Martin replied that he was sure it never would.
“No, no,” said the mate, “I knew very well that I never should be made. If it is not confirmed, I may live; but if it is, I am sure to die.”
Every one that went to Martin’s hammock wished him joy of his promotion; but six days after the action poor Martin’s remains were consigned to the deep.
The next person who followed him was Mr Pottyfar, the first lieutenant, who had contrived, wounded as he was, to reach a packet of the universal medicine, and had taken so many bottles before he was found out, that he was one morning found dead in his bed, with more than two dozen empty phials under his pillow, and by the side of his mattress. He was not buried with his hands in his pockets, but when sewed up in his hammock, they were, at all events, laid in the right position.