He then stood for a moment by Wadsworth’s mound. “You, too, were brave and generous, and worthy to die with Somers,” he thought. And then he went to the head of the smallest grave of all. The tears were falling from his eyes, but he smiled, too. He seemed to see the little midshipman’s merry eyes, and to hear faintly, from the far-off world of spirits, his boyish laughter. He thought that Pickle must have gone smiling to his death, in his white-souled youth. “How can I feel sorry for you?” thought Decatur, as he stooped and pulled some of the odorous and beautiful jasmine blossoms that grew on the small grave, which was almost hidden under their straggling leaves. “You lived purely and died bravely. Your life, though brief, was glorious. You, too, were worthy to die with Somers—the best and bravest!”
Decatur turned again to Somers’s grave, but he could not see it for the mist of tears.
About an hour afterward a young moon climbed into the blue-black sky, and just as its radiance touched the three graves, Decatur turned and walked away, without once looking behind at the spot where slept his friend.
Transcriber’s Note
- Silently corrected obvious typographical errors.
- Non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.