Poor Shenly! thought I, that sounds like your knell! and here you lie becalmed, in the last calm of all!
Hardly had the brazen din died away, when the Boatswain and his mates mustered round the hatchway, within a yard or two of the corpse, and the usual thundering call was given for the watch below to turn out.
“All the starboard-watch, ahoy! On deck there, below! Wide awake there, sleepers!”
But the dreamless sleeper by my side, who had so often sprung from his hammock at that summons, moved not a limb; the blue sheet over him lay unwrinkled.
A mess-mate of the other watch now came to relieve me; but I told him I chose to remain where I was till daylight came.
CHAPTER LXXX.
THE LAST STITCH.
Just before daybreak, two of the sail-maker’s gang drew near, each with a lantern, carrying some canvas, two large shot, needles, and twine. I knew their errand; for in men-of-war the sail-maker is the undertaker.
They laid the body on deck, and, after fitting the canvas to it, seated themselves, cross-legged like tailors, one on each side, and, with their lanterns before them, went to stitching away, as if mending an old sail. Both were old men, with grizzled hair and beard, and shrunken faces. They belonged to that small class of aged seamen who, for their previous long and faithful services, are retained in the Navy more as pensioners upon its merited bounty than anything else. They are set to light and easy duties.
“Ar’n’t this the fore-top-man, Shenly?” asked the foremost, looking full at the frozen face before him.
“Ay, ay, old Ringrope,” said the other, drawing his hand far back with a long thread, “I thinks it’s him; and he’s further aloft now, I hope, than ever he was at the fore-truck. But I only hopes; I’m afeard this ar’n’t the last on him!”