Had it been a common burying-place, it would have been
nothing. The single body corresponded well with the solitary character
of everything around. It was the only thing in California from which I
could ever extract anything like poetry. Then, too, the man died far
from home; without a friend near him; by poison, it was suspected, and
no one to inquire into it; and without proper funeral rites; the mate,
(as I was told,) glad to have him out of the way, hurrying him up
the hill and into the ground, without a word or a prayer.
I looked anxiously for a boat, during the latter part of the
afternoon, but none came; until toward sundown, when I saw a speck
on the water, and as it drew near, I found it was the gig, with the
captain. The hides, then, were not to go off. The captain came up
the hill, with a man, bringing my monkey jacket and a blanket. He
looked pretty black, but inquired whether I had enough to eat; told me
to make a house out of the hides, and keep myself warm, as I should
have to sleep there among them, and to keep good watch over them. I
got a moment to speak to the man who brought my jacket.
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