White Jacket; Or, The World on a Man-of-War

by Herman Melville

  CHAPTER LXXX.

  THE LAST STITCH.

  Just before daybreak, two of the sail-maker's gang drew near, each witha lantern, carrying some canvas, two large shot, needles, and twine. Iknew 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, seatedthemselves, cross-legged like tailors, one on each side, and, withtheir lanterns before them, went to stitching away, as if mending anold sail. Both were old men, with grizzled hair and beard, and shrunkenfaces. They belonged to that small class of aged seamen who, for theirprevious long and faithful services, are retained in the Navy more aspensioners upon its merited bounty than anything else. They are set tolight and easy duties.

  "Ar'n't this the fore-top-man, Shenly?" asked the foremost, lookingfull at the frozen face before him.

  "Ay, ay, old Ringrope," said the other, drawing his hand far back witha 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 thisar'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 inthe foot of the canvas shroud.

  "I don't know that, old man; I never yet sewed up a ship-mate but hespooked me arterward. I tell ye, Ring-rope, these 'ere corpses iscunning. You think they sinks deep, but they comes up again as soon asyou sails over 'em. They lose the number of their mess, and theirmess-mates sticks the spoons in the rack; but no good--no good, oldRingrope; they ar'n't dead yet. I tell ye, now, ten best--bower-anchorswouldn't sink this 'ere top-man. He'll be soon coming in the wake ofthe thirty-nine spooks what spooks me every night in my hammock--jistafore the mid-watch is called. Small thanks I gets for my pains; andevery one on 'em looks so 'proachful-like, with a sail-maker's needlethrough 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 lastremark reminded me of a superstitious custom generally practised bymost sea-undertakers upon these occasions. I resolved that, if I couldhelp 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 thispoor fellow, I entreat. Try once, now, how it goes not to do it."

  "What do you say to the youngster, old man?" said Thrummings, holdingup his lantern into his comrade's wrinkled face, as if deciphering someancient parchment.

  "I'm agin all innowations," said Ringrope; "it's a good old fashion,that last stitch; it keeps 'em snug, d'ye see, youngster. I'm blest ifthey could sleep sound, if it wa'n't for that. No, no, Thrummings! noinnowations; I won't hear on't. I goes for the last stitch!"

  "S'pose you was going to be sewed up yourself, old Ringrope, would youlike the last stitch then! You are an old, gun, Ringrope; you can'tstand looking out at your port-hole much longer," said Thrummings, ashis own palsied hands were quivering over the canvas.

  "Better say that to yourself, old man," replied Ringrope, stoopingclose to the light to thread his coarse needle, which trembled in hiswithered hands like the needle, in a compass of a Greenland ship nearthe Pole. "You ain't long for the sarvice. I wish I could give you someo' the blood in my veins, old man!"

  "Ye ain't got ne'er a teaspoonful to spare," said Thrummings. "It willgo hard, and I wouldn't want to do it; but I'm afeard I'll have thesewing on ye up afore long!"

  "Sew me up? Me dead and you alive, old man?" shrieked Ringrope. "Well,I've he'rd the parson of the old Independence say as how old age wasdeceitful; but I never seed it so true afore this blessed night. I'msorry for ye, old man--to see you so innocent-like, and Death all thewhile turning in and out with you in your hammock, for all the worldlike a hammock-mate."

  "You lie! old man," cried Thrummings, shaking with rage. "It's _you_that have Death for a hammock-mate; it's _you_ that will make a hole inthe shot-locker soon."

  "Take that back!" cried Ringrope, huskily, leaning far over the corpse,and, needle in hand, menacing his companion with his aguish fist. "Takethat back, or I'll throttle your lean bag of wind fer ye!"

  "Blast ye! old chaps, ain't ye any more manners than to be fightingover a dead man?" cried one of the sail-maker's mates, coming down fromthe spar-deck. "Bear a hand!--bear a hand! and get through with thatjob!"

  "Only one more stitch to take," muttered Ringrope, creeping near theface.

  "Drop your '_palm_,' then and let Thrummings take it; follow me--thefoot of the main-sail wants mending--must do it afore a breeze springsup. D'ye hear, old chap! I say, drop your _palm_, and follow me."

  At the reiterated command of his superior, Ringrope rose, and, turningto his comrade, said, "I take it all back, Thrummings, and I'm sorryfor it, too. But mind ye, take that 'ere last stitch, now; if ye don't,there's no tellin' the consekenses."

  As the mate and his man departed, I stole up to Thrummings. "Don't doit--don't do it, now, Thrummings--depend on it, it's wrong!"

  "Well, youngster, I'll try this here one without it for jist this hereonce; and if, arter that, he don't spook me, I'll be dead agin the laststitch as long as my name is Thrummings."

  So, without mutilation, the remains were replaced between the guns, theunion jack again thrown over them, and I reseated myself on theshot-box.