At a given signal, the
white deal coffin, wrapped in its befitting pall, the meteor flag of
England, swung high above the hammock nettings between us and the bright
blue sky, to the long clear note of the boatswain's whistle, which soon
ending in a short chirrup, told that it now rested on the thwarts of the
boat alongside. We pulled ashore, and it was a slight perchance to move a
woman, to see the poor little fellow's hat and bit of a dirk lying on his
coffin, whilst the body was carried by four ships boys, the eldest
scarcely fourteen. I noticed the tears stand in Anson's eyes as the coffin
was lowered into the grave,--the boy had been wounded close to him,--and
when we heard the hollow battle of the earth on the coffin,--an unusual
sound to a sailor,--he shuddered.
"Yes, Master Cringle," he said, in a whisper, "he was as kind hearted, and
as brave a lad as ever trod on shoe leather,--none of the larkings of the
men in the clear moonlight nights ever reached the cabin through him,--nor
was he the boy to rouse the watch from under the lee of the boats in bad
weather, to curry with the lieutenant, while he knew the look--outs were
as bright as beagles,--and where was the man in our watch that wanted
baccy while Mr Duncan had a shiner left?" The poor fellow drew the back of
his horny hand across his eyes, and grumbled out as he turned away, "And
here am I, Bill Anson, such a swab as to be ashamed of being sorry for
him.
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