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