“Yes, John,” he continued, “that’s the way he died. I’ve been thinkin’ of it all day. It’s been comin’ to me how that rollin’ iceberg tumbled through the thick fog, in the dead of night, and struck the ship, and stove in her bows. ‘Back from the boats,’ he shouts, catchin’ up the hand-spike. ‘The first man that touches a boat I’ll brain. Women and children first, men.’ ‘That’s the talk,’ sings out some of the sailors, an’ them that was goin’ to take the boats fell away. ‘Now, then, the women and children,’ says he. Over the side they went, one by one; he standin’ by with the handspike. ‘Now the other passengers,’ says he. Over they went too. ‘Now, men,’ he says, ‘there’s room in that boat for some of ye, and the rest of us’ll go into the other. Over they went, likewise, till only he and the black cook was left. ‘The boat’s full, captain,’ says John Timbs, the first mate, ‘but I guess she’ll hold another.’ ‘Jump in doctor,’ says Captain Harrington to the darkey. ‘No,’ they hollered, ‘white men before niggers, captain, and we’ll have you.’ ‘I’ll stay, captain,’ blubbers cook, ‘No you won’t,’ says he. ‘Men,’ he says, ‘it’s a favor I ask. Don’t deny me, or you’ll never know peace. In with you, doctor,’ an’ he slung the cook over the side. ‘Try now, captain,’ says they, all beseechin’ together. An’ he let himself down by the rope till he stood in the boat, an’ the sea begun to come over the gunnels. He was up into the ship again in a minute. ‘It’s no use, men,’ says he, ‘push off. Timbs,’ says he, ‘give my love to my wife and boy, if I never see ’em again. God bless ye, men.’ And then the ship lurched for’ard, an’ they pushed off, cryin’ like babes. Last thing they saw through the fog was the captain flingin’ a hatch overboard, and jumpin’ after it. But that sea was too cold for a man to be in long. Then when they lost sight of him, they heard the wallow, an’ saw the lazy swells lift up round the boat, an’ knew that the ship had gone down.” The Captain paused, wiping away with his sleeve the salt tears which the simple epic of a brave man’s death brought to his eyes. “That was the story, and them was the last words Timbs brought home to your mother, John,” he continued. “An’ that’s the way he died. Women and children saved. That’s a comfort. An’ all the men saved, includin’ the poor old moke of a doctor. That’s another comfort. But he died. An’, somehow, I kinder feel that’s a comfort too, John. For he died in the Lord.” The light lay softly on the pale and kindled features of Harrington, and the fragrance of the garden floated through his brain like incense. “It was a manly way to leave the world,” he said. “Life is sweet to me with the memory of such a father.” “You think of him often, John,” murmured the Captain. “Often, Eldad, often. Never as one dead. Always as one alive and well.” The Captain moved his head up and down, two or three times, in token of assent, and moved away to the door. “Well, good bye, John,” he said, suddenly.