“This has been a bad business,” said the poor fellow, as a contortion caused by the pain in his wounded hand passed over his face. “Tom Block was killed!”
“What!” cried the captain, with a start, “Tom—”
“Ay, ay,” interrupted the mate, “killed by a harpoon thrown by one of the mutineers;” and he then proceeded to give a graphic description of the incident.
“I am sorry—very sorry that this has happened!” cried the captain, with much emotion.
“Shall we hoist the boats?” inquired Briggs, at this juncture.
“Ay, ay, the waist-boat, but not mine,” replied the captain, “for I shall presently go in search of Alice!”
“And what shall we do with the body of Tom Block?”
“Sew it up immediately. We will have the burial as soon as we can.”
Accordingly, as soon as the boat had been hoisted, the corpse was placed upon the carpenter’s bench—palms, twine and needles were procured; a piece of an old sail was wrapped around the lifeless form, which was securely stitched up, after a number of bricks had been placed in the bottom of the shroud. Then the flag was hoisted at half-mast, the gangway plank made ready to receive its burden, and the captain, with an open Bible in his hand, stood ready to read the funeral service. The men mustered at the given signal, and, with uncovered heads, listened respectfully to the words that were read to them from the Holy Book. The chapter was well chosen—well calculated to touch the hearts of those rough men with its simple yet beautiful truths, and when the reader had finished, and the shrouded body, after sliding adown the sloping board, dropped into the water with a dull splash—the crew walked forward with a feeling of consolation that they had not dreamed they could experience so soon after the death of their shipmate.
“He always did his duty—Tom did!” said an old seaman, “and if he don’t go aloft it won’t be his fault!”