“All of them must have been killed instanter by the one flash of lightning, which seems to have gone all over the boat, zigzagging in a most curious manner,” said he. “The electric fluid, sir, has actually fused the blade of one of the cutlasses, and melted down the dollars and doubloons, which the poor devils must have been gambling with, all into a solid mass in the bottom of the boat!”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir,” affirmed the doctor, in answer to this exclamation from the commodore. “But the lightning, sir, has done something more wonderful than that, which I would not have believed unless I had seen it myself. I pulled open the shirt of one of the dead men, and there, on his breast, was a perfect photograph, as if done in Indian ink, of a ship in full sail, like the one which nearly collided with us the other day and afterwards foundered!”
“Pooh!” cried the commodore incredulously. “It is probably a tattoo mark, the same as all sailors like to deface their bodies with.”
“Oh no, sir,” persisted Doctor Mopson. “It’s a real photograph printed by the flash of lightning. I’ve seen too many tattoo marks in my time while examining fellows in the sick-bay not to recognise them. This is plainly done by the electric fluid—you can see it for yourself, sir!”
“Thanks,” said the commodore drily, walking to the other side of the deck and putting his silk handkerchief to his face, a very unpleasant whiff from the boat, which was still alongside, coming inboard. “I’ll take your word for it, doctor, as you say it is so. I wonder if those fellows really belonged to that unfortunate ship?”
“Not unlikely, sir,” said Mr Osborne, thinking the commodore, who had soliloquised aloud, according to his habit, had addressed the question to him. “The vessel did not seem to have a man on board her as far as I could see. Perhaps these dead beggars here plundered her and abandoned her after murdering their captain and officers!”
“Perhaps so,” agreed our chief; “but, in any case, whether they have met with their just deserts or not—and for my part I am inclined to believe the former—we must give them Christian burial. I think, Mr Osborne, you had better let their boat be their coffin.”
“By far the best plan, sir,” put in the doctor, on the commodore looking towards him. “The lightning has so decomposed the corpses that it would be impossible to handle them, and it would be detrimental to the health of those touching them, too.”
This decided the commodore, who thereupon gave orders that some pigs of ballast should be put within the boat, and that it should be afterwards boarded over with a few rough planks.