"Never a relation in the world, sir. There's my pension papers in my ditty-box; it's a matter of three quarters due to me. Will you see that my chum, Joe Dirham, draws it? I've signed a paper about it."
"All right; I'll see to that."
"An' my identity-paper. It'll fetch a shilling at the 'Register's' at the first home-port we touch. Joe might just as well 'ave that; 'tain't no good throwin' good money away, and, besides, it will make all square and above-board up at the Admiralty."
"Do you feel much pain?"
"Precious little, Cap'n. As I said afore, it's no good makin' a fuss over it; a seaman with one leg ain't of no use to you, but"—here his voice trembled a little—"promise me, sir, that you'll bury me at sea, an' not on the island; it'll be a snug moorin' for me at the bottom of the lagoon. Now, Cap'n, read somethin' out of the Book, an' say a prayer for me—I, never wasn't much in that line myself."
Somehow I felt unable to remain longer, so, shaking the seaman's thin hand, I went aft, leaving my father with him.
The news of the state of poor Barnes cast a gloom over the ship, and any feeling of enthusiasm over the discovery of the treasure was smothered by the melancholy reflection that one of our comrades was on his deathbed.
Next morning I was awakened by the sound of voices on deck. The sun had risen in a thick haze, and, though not a zephyr disturbed the surface of the lagoon, the air was cool and pleasant. Wondering what the sounds meant, and whether poor Barnes had gone, I slipped on my clothes and went on deck.
Clustered round the tent were most of the crew, listening to the voice within, or whispering to each other in subdued tones. I went forward, and found my father, Dr. Conolly, and the bos'n standing by the side of the temporary bunk on which poor Barnes lay. The dying seaman was fighting his battles o'er again, shouting and talking in clear yet hurried tones. Now he was in the sweltering heat of a West African backwater, advancing with his shipmates to storm the stockade of a rebel chieftain; next he was serving a 4.7 gun with the Naval Brigade, his feeble hands clutching in grim pretence at the handspikes as the huge weapon on its unwieldy carriage was trained on the advancing Boers. Other episodes followed in quick succession, till the scene in the stockade where he received his fatal wound' seemed to exhaust his last flickering strength.
"Can't you see it's getting quite dark?" he exclaimed feebly. "What's wrong with the bos'n's mate? Why, hain't he piped the lamp-trimmers? ...Ah! that's better; the anchor-lamp's burnin' now, so we're brought up at last.... Turn it up a little, lads... That's it... Burning brightly now..."