One day Captain Faucon went to the end of the wharf to board a
vessel in the stream, and hailed for John. There was no response,
and his boat was not there. He inquired, of a boatman near, where
John was. The time had come that comes to all! There was no loyal
voice to respond to the familiar call, the hatches had closed over
him, his boat was sold to another, and he had left not a trace
behind. We could not find out even where he was buried.
Mr. Richard Brown, of Marblehead, our chief mate in the Alert,
commanded many of our noblest ships in the European trade, a
general favorite. A few years ago, while stepping on board his
ship from the wharf, he fell from the plank into the hold and was
killed. If he did not actually die at sea, at least he died as a
sailor,-- he died on board ship.
Our second mate, Evans, no one liked or cared for, and I know
nothing of him, except that I once saw him in court, on trial for
some alleged petty tyranny towards his men,-- still a subaltern
officer.
The third mate, Mr. Hatch, a nephew of one of the owners, though
only a lad on board the ship, went out chief mate the next voyage,
and rose soon to command some of the finest clippers in the
California and India trade, under the new order of things,-- a man
of character, good judgment, and no little cultivation.
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