True to his imperturbable politeness while in port, Captain Riga only lifted his hat, smiled very blandly, and slowly returned into his cabin.
Wishing to see the last movements of this remarkable crew, who were so clever ashore and so craven afloat, Harry and I followed them along the wharf, till they stopped at a sailor retreat, poetically denominated “The Flashes.” And here they all came to anchor before the bar; and the landlord, a lantern-jawed landlord, bestirred himself behind it, among his villainous old bottles and decanters. He well knew, from their looks, that his customers were “flush,” and would spend their money freely, as, indeed, is the case with most seamen, recently paid off.
It was a touching scene.
“Well, maties,” said one of them, at last—“I spose we shan’t see each other again:—come, let’s splice the main-brace all round, and drink to the last voyage!”
Upon this, the landlord danced down his glasses, on the bar, uncorked his decanters, and deferentially pushed them over toward the sailors, as much as to say—“Honorable gentlemen, it is not for me to allowance your liquor;—help yourselves, your honors.”
And so they did; each glass a bumper; and standing in a row, tossed them all off; shook hands all round, three times three; and then disappeared in couples, through the several doorways; for “The Flashes” was on a corner.
If to every one, life be made up of farewells and greetings, and a “Good-by, God bless you,” is heard for every “How d’ye do, welcome, my boy”—then, of all men, sailors shake the most hands, and wave the most hats. They are here and then they are there; ever shifting themselves, they shift among the shifting: and like rootless sea-weed, are tossed to and fro.
As, after shaking our hands, our shipmates departed, Harry and I stood on the corner awhile, till we saw the last man disappear.
“They are gone,” said I.
“Thank heaven!” said Harry.