Not a word was spoken until the boat was beyond the bay and in very deep water.
“Way enough!” cried Halcott. “In oars!”
All sat there with bent, uncovered heads while the captain read the service; but his voice was choked with emotion, and when the shotted hammock took the water with a melancholy boom and disappeared, he closed the book. He could say no more for a time.
As a rule seafarers are not orators, though what they do say is generally to the point.
Halcott sat for fully a minute like one in a trance, gazing silently and reverently at the spot where the body had disappeared.
The bubbles had soon ceased to rise, and there was nothing now to mark the sailor’s cemetery. Though—
“He was the loved of all,
Yet none on his low grave might weep.”
“My friends,” said Halcott, “there in peace rests the body of my dearest friend, my adopted brother. I never had a brother save him. How much I loved him none can ever know. The world and the ship will be a deal more lonesome to me now that James has gone. For many and many a long year we sailed the seas together, and weathered many a gale and storm. Sound, sound may he sleep, while wind and waves shall sing his dirge. Unselfish was he to the end, and every inch a sailor. His last word was ‘Victory;’ and well may we now add, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’
“Out oars, men! Give way with a will!”