More Cargoes

“Stand by her, cook,” said the skipper authoritatively.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.

They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the crew following.

“What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.

“Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.

“I can’t see ‘im,” she whispered. “It’s so dark here. Has anybody got a match? Oh! here’s some.”

Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and, striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.

“You’ll set the bed alight,” said the mate in a low voice, as the end of the match dropped off.

“It won’t hurt ‘im,” whispered the widow tearfully.

The mate, who had distinctly seen the corpse shift a bit, thought differently.

“Nothing ‘ll ‘urt ‘im now,” whispered the widow, sniffing as she struck another match. “Oh! if he could only sit up and speak to me.”

For a moment the mate, who knew George’s temper, thought it highly probable that he would, as the top of the second match fell between his shirt and his neck.

“Don’t look any more,” said the skipper anxiously; “you can’t do him any good.”

His visitor handed him the matches, and, for a short time, sobbed in silence.

“We’ve done all we could for him,” said the skipper at length. “It ‘ud be best for you to go home and lay down a bit.”

“You’re all very good, I’m sure,” whispered the widow, turning away. “I’ll send for him this evening.”

They all started, especially the corpse.

“Eh,” said the skipper.

“He was a bad ‘usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing whisper, “but I’ll ‘ave ‘im put away decent.”

“You’d better let us bury him,” said the skipper. “We can do it cheaper than you can, perhaps?”

“No. I’ll send for him this evening,” said the lady. “Are they ‘is clothes?”

“The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the heap of clothing. “There’s his chest, poor chap, just as he left it.”

The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his knife, and some small change from his chest while the crew in dumb show inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the bunk, what was to be done.

“I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to the skipper.

“Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.

“I’ll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.

The skipper put his hand in his pocket, and, in his turn, looked inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly counted the money into her hand.

She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at the motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its way on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully bringing up the rear.

“If there’s any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.

“You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental arrangements to have George buried before her return.

Apparently much comforted by this assurance, she allowed herself to be lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ashore with the clothes in her lap.

“You can come up now,” said the skipper, as he caught sight of George’s face at the scuttle.

“Has she gone?” inquired the seaman anxiously.

The skipper nodded, and a wild cheer rose from the crew of the brig as George came on deck in his scanty garments, and, from behind the others, peered cautiously over the side.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

The skipper pointed to the boat.

“That?” said George, starting. “That? That ain’t my wife.”

“Not your wife?” said the skipper, staring. “Whose is she, then?”

“How the devil should I know,” said George, throwing discipline to the winds in his agitation. “It ain’t my wife.”

“P’r’aps it’s one you’ve forgotten,” suggested the skipper in a low voice.

George looked at him and choked. “I’ve never seen her before,” he replied, “s’elp me. Call her back. Stop her.”

The mate rushed aft and began to haul in the ship’s boat, but George caught him suddenly by the arm.

“Never mind,” he said bitterly; “better let her go. She seems to know too much for me. Somebody’s been talking to her.”

It was the same thought that was troubling the skipper, and he looked searchingly from one to the other for an explanation. He fancied that he saw it when he met the eye of the mate of the brig, and he paused irresolutely as the skiff reached the stairs, and the woman, springing ashore, waved the clothes triumphantly in the direction of the schooner and disappeared.

AN INTERVENTION

There was bad blood between the captain and mate who comprised the officers and crew of the sailing-barge “Swallow”; and the outset of their voyage from London to Littleport was conducted in glum silence. As far as the Nore they had scarcely spoken, and what little did pass was mainly in the shape of threats and abuse. Evening, chill and overcast, was drawing in; distant craft disappeared somewhere between the waste of waters and the sky, and the side-lights of neighbouring vessels were beginning to shine over the water. The wind, with a little rain in it, was unfavourable to much progress, and the trough of the sea got deeper as the waves ran higher and splashed by the barge’s side.

“Get the side-lights out, and quick, you,” growled the skipper, who was at the helm.

The mate, a black-haired, fierce-eyed fellow of about twenty-five, set about the task with much deliberation.

“And look lively, you lump,” continued the skipper.

“I don’t want none of your lip,” said the mate furiously; “so don’t you give me none.”