A man dies on shore,-- you follow his body to the grave,
and a stone marks the spot. You are often prepared for the event.
There is always something which helps you to realize it when it
happens, and to recall it when it has passed. A man is shot down
by your side in battle, and the mangled body remains an object,
and a real evidence; but at sea, the man is near you,-- at your
side,-- you hear his voice, and in an instant he is gone, and
nothing but a vacancy shows his loss. Then, too, at sea-- to use a
homely but expressive phrase-- you miss a man so much. A dozen men
are shut up together in a little bark upon the wide, wide sea, and
for months and months see no forms and hear no voices but their
own, and one is taken suddenly from among them, and they miss him
at every turn. 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.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84