Strange, thought I, that the flight of a soul should make a terror of the shell it quits! It would be the same with that fine-eyed woman, with her aves and crossings. She dies; and the caballero on his knees at her feet, the gallant cavalier who has courage enough for the holding of her sweetness and her perfections to his heart while her charms live, springs to his legs, fetches a wide compass to avoid the corpse, and sooner than sleep a night beside the body would go to a lunatic asylum for the rest of his days.
She came out of her berth clothed for the deck, wrapped up in her own comfortable slop-chest manufactures, but half an hour of the cold and blackness above sufficed; she went below again and sat under the clock waiting for midnight. I chose twelve because all hands would be astir at that hour. At twelve the starboard watch went below; Yan Bol would come aft, and then we’d bury the dead. Meanwhile I ordered a couple of the seamen in my watch to load the four nine-pounder carronades, that we might dispatch Greaves with a sailor’s honors to his bed of ooze. Lanterns were lighted and hung in the gangway in readiness.
In those times the burial at sea, in such craft as the Black Watch, was a simple affair. Whether it was the captain at the top or the cabin boy at the bottom, it mattered not; it was just a plain, respectful launch over the rail, no prayers, a sail at the mast, and there was an end. We had no book containing the burial service aboard. Few merchantmen went to sea with such things. I thought over a prayer or two as I walked the deck, meaning that the petition of a brother-sailor’s heart should attend the launch of the canvassed figure; in which, and in many other thoughts the time slipped by; the lady Aurora all the while sitting below under the clock, waiting for midnight, often lifting her black alarmed eyes to the skylight, and often looking around her with a slow motion of her head, and at long intervals crossing herself. This picture of her the frame of the skylight gave me. The glass was bright and the light of the lamp strong.
Eight bells were struck, and presently the shapeless bulk of Bol came through the lantern-light upon the main-deck. It was the blackest hour of a black night. Even the foam, lifting and sinking alongside in sheets, scarcely showed. We had made a fair wind with a shift of helm at eight in the evening, and were bruising and rolling through it at about nine knots, with a broad, dim, spectral glare under the stern.
“Is that you, Bol?”
“He vhas, Mr. Fielding.”
“I propose to bury my poor friend at once. The lady cannot rest, with the body below. It will be a kindness to her, to all of us may be, and no wrong to him. Nay, God forbid—if I believed it hurried—but a few hours more or less can signify nothing.”
“Noting. Der crew vhas pleased too.”
“Well, get the body up—with all reverence, Bol; you know what to do.”
I called to Jimmy to smother Galloon as before and stow him out of the road of the men till the body was on deck, and then I stationed Joseph Street and Isaac Travers at the carronades, to discharge them when the body left the plank. In ten minutes they brought him up; four carried him, and one was Bol. The señorita came on deck, and holding by my arm to steady herself, spoke to me. I said “yonder,” and she went into the light cast by the lanterns on the lee side of the deck, and stood with her hand upon a rope.