Chapter 80

THE LAST STITCH.

Just before daybreak, two of the sail-maker’s gang drew near, each with a lantern, carrying some canvas, two large shot, needles, and twine. I knew their errand; for in men-of-war the sail-maker is the undertaker.

They laid the body on deck, and, after fitting the canvas to it, seated themselves, cross-legged like tailors, one on each side, and, with their lanterns before them, went to stitching away, as if mending an old sail. Both were old men, with grizzled hair and beard, and shrunken faces. They belonged to that small class of aged seamen who, for their previous long and faithful services, are retained in the Navy more as pensioners upon its merited bounty than anything else. They are set to light and easy duties.

“Ar’n’t this the fore-top-man, Shenly?” asked the foremost, looking full at the frozen face before him.

“Ay, ay, old Ringrope,” said the other, drawing his hand far back with a long thread, “I thinks it’s him; and he’s further aloft now, I hope, than ever he was at the fore-truck. But I only hopes; I’m afeard this ar’n’t the last on him!”

“His hull here will soon be going out of sight below hatches, though, old Thrummings,” replied Ringrope, placing two heavy cannon-balls in the foot of the canvas shroud.

“I don’t know that, old man; I never yet sewed up a ship-mate but he spooked me arterward. I tell ye, Ring-rope, these ‘ere corpses is cunning. You think they sinks deep, but they comes up again as soon as you sails over ‘em. They lose the number of their mess, and their mess-mates sticks the spoons in the rack; but no good—no good, old Ringrope; they ar’n’t dead yet. I tell ye, now, ten best—bower-anchors wouldn’t sink this ‘ere top-man. He’ll be soon coming in the wake of the thirty-nine spooks what spooks me every night in my hammock—jist afore the mid-watch is called. Small thanks I gets for my pains; and every one on ‘em looks so ‘proachful-like, with a sail-maker’s needle through his nose. I’ve been thinkin’, old Ringrope, it’s all wrong that ‘ere last stitch we takes. Depend on’t, they don’t like it—none on ‘em.”

I was standing leaning over a gun, gazing at the two old men. The last remark reminded me of a superstitious custom generally practised by most sea-undertakers upon these occasions. I resolved that, if I could help it, it should not take place upon the remains of Shenly.

“Thrummings,” said I, advancing to the last speaker, “you are right. That last thing you do to the canvas is the very reason, be sure of it, that brings the ghosts after you, as you say. So don’t do it to this poor fellow, I entreat. Try once, now, how it goes not to do it.”

“What do you say to the youngster, old man?” said Thrummings, holding up his lantern into his comrade’s wrinkled face, as if deciphering some ancient parchment.

“I’m agin all innowations,” said Ringrope; “it’s a good old fashion, that last stitch; it keeps ‘em snug, d’ye see, youngster. I’m blest if they could sleep sound, if it wa’n’t for that. No, no, Thrummings! no innowations; I won’t hear on’t. I goes for the last stitch!”