131
                  A Death on Board.
good deal of my night on Sullivan�s Island,
nearly two years ago.
   30.  Saturday.  Another fine summer day.
Writing to the Tribune (the letter inserted
on page 105.)  The poor clergyman dies at
1 � P.M. and I hear them making a coffin
for him below.  The children play about,
unconscious or indifferent.  There are three
of them, two boys and a very young girl.
At sunset comes Dr Crane (whom I used
to meet at Gen. Hunter�s table) from Hil-
ton Head, with orders for the immediate
return of our convalescent from yellow fever,
Dr Cormick, to Key West, and another from
Washington releasing our �prisoners,� Bethel
and Pinkney.  In consequence there is a little
jubilation in the purser�s cabin, Bethel pro-
ducing a bottle of brandy and Birdsall and
Stetson the engineer surreptitiously tapping
a keg of whiskey belonging to Cormick, with
thorough nautical unscrupulousness, akin to
the �Shipmanne�s� in Chaucer.  Old Bethel dis-
courses eloquentially on his injuries and talks
of procuring a pistol for the purpose of asas-
sinating the Herald reporter at Key West,
who has been perpetually pitching into him in
his correspondence.