“Aye, boy.” Martin turned with eyes that clearly had not lately been closed, eyes that regarded him tenderly.
“Will it last? Don’t be afraid to tell me, Martin. I think I know what it means now.”
“And you’re not afraid?”
“Afraid? Why, no. ’Twas the work—the hardship I dreaded—not the danger of being lost. None of my people were ever afraid to die. And yet, I’m afraid of the sea, Martin. That must have come from my mother. She was always afraid of it—on account of my father being on it so much, I suppose. I hate to think of being drowned and being found floating in it, or even lying on the bottom of it. There’s a good many lying on the bottom hereabouts, aren’t there, Martin?”
“The sands hereaway, Eddie, are covered with the bones of lost fishermen.”
“Well, that’s what I dread. If I could only die ashore, or be buried ashore—a Christian burial with a little prayer, and then the dry earth over you. Don’t you fear being buried in the sea, Martin?”
“Fear it? Not me, boy. Sea or shore, it’s all one to Martin Carr, though maybe I do like the sea a bit the more.”
“Ugh! I don’t. And promise me, Martin—promise me, if it rests with you, that you’ll bury me ashore.”
“Hush, boy, hush. It’s not right now to be thinkin’ such things.”
Again Martin looked out from the bow, and the young fellow huddled in the stern. He could not stand the long silences. “What are you thinking of, Martin?”