“And you would have us carry some message to her?” said Griffith, kindly.
“Why, as to messages,” continued the master, whose voice was rapidly growing more husky and broken, “there never has been many compliments—passed between us, for the reason—that she is not more used to receive them—than I am to make them. But if any one of you will overhaul—the purser's books, and see what there is standing here—to my side of the leaf—and take a little pains to get it to the old woman—you will find her moored in the lee side of a house—ay, here it is, No. 10 Cornhill, Boston. I took care—to get her a good warm berth, seeing that a woman of eighty wants a snug anchorage—at her time of life, if ever.”
“I will do it myself, David,” cried Barnstable, struggling to conceal his emotion; “I will call on her the instant we let go our anchor in Boston harbor; and as your credit can't be large, I will divide my own purse with her!”
The sailing-master was powerfully affected by this kind offer, the muscles of his hard, weatherbeaten face working convulsively, and it was a moment before he could trust his voice in reply.
“I know you would, Dicky, I know you would,” he at length uttered, grasping the hand of Barnstable with a portion of his former strength; “I know you would give the old woman one of your own limbs, if it would do a service—to the mother of a messmate—which it would not—seeing that I am not the son of a—cannibal; but you are out of your own father's books, and it's too often shoal water in your pockets to help any one—more especially since you have just been spliced to a pretty young body—that will want all your spare coppers.”
“But I am master of my own fortune,” said Griffith, “and am rich.”
“Ay, ay, I have heard it said you could build a frigate and set her afloat all a-taunt-o without thrusting your hand—into any man's purse—but your own!”
“And I pledge you the honor of a naval officer,” continued the young sailor, “that she shall want for nothing; not eyes the care and tenderness of a dutiful son.”
Boltrope appeared to be choking; he made an attempt to raise his exhausted frame on the couch; but fell back exhausted and dying, perhaps a little prematurely, through the powerful and unusual emotions that were struggling for Boltrope appeared to be choking; he made an attempt to raise his 'exhausted frame on the couch; but fell back exhausted and dying, perhaps a little prematurely, through the powerful and unusual emotions that were struggling for utterance. “God forgive me my misdeeds!” he at length said, “and chiefly for ever speaking a word against your discipline; remember the best bower—and look to the slings of the lower yards—and—and—he'll do it, Dicky, he'll do it! I'm casting off—the fasts—of life—and so God bless ye all—and give ye good weather—going large—or on a bowline!”
The tongue of the master failed him, but a look of heart felt satisfaction gleamed across his rough visage, as its muscles suddenly contracted, when the faded lineaments slowly settled into the appalling stiffness of death.