It is like losing a limb. There are no new
faces or new scenes to fill up the gap. There is always an empty berth
in the forecastle, and one man wanting when the small night watch is
mustered. There is one less to take the wheel, and one less to lay out
with you upon the yard. You miss his form, and the sound of his voice,
for habit had made them almost necessary to you, and each of your senses
feels the loss.
All these things make such a death peculiarly solemn, and the effect of
it remains upon the crew for some time. There is more kindness shown by
the officers to the crew, and by the crew to one another. There is more
quietness and seriousness. The oath and the loud laugh are gone. The
officers are more watchful, and the crew go more carefully aloft. The
lost man is seldom mentioned, or is dismissed with a sailor's rude
eulogy, "Well, poor George is gone. His cruise is up soon. He knew his
work, and did his duty, and was a good shipmate." Then usually follows
some allusion to another world, for sailors are almost all believers;
but their notions and opinions are unfixed, and at loose ends. They
say,--"God won't be hard upon the poor fellow," and seldom get beyond
the common phrase which seems to imply that their sufferings and hard
treatment here, will excuse them hereafter.
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