than both; and they all took a stiff pull from a bottle of
_cachazza_,[3] the doctor having had the start, I should say, of at
least one or two pulls before leaving the shore, insomuch as he appeared
braver than the rest of the crew.

The doctor, having taken an extra horn or two, with Dutch courage came
on board, and brought with him a pound of sulphur, a pint of carbolic
acid, and some barley--enough to feed a robin a few times, for all of
which we were thankful indeed, our disinfectants being by this time
nearly exhausted; then, glancing at the prostrate men, he hurried away,
as the other had done at Maldonado. I asked what I should do with the
dead through the night--bury them where we lay? "Oh, no, no!" cried the
Yahoo in the bow; but the doctor pointed significantly to the water
alongside! I knew what he meant!

That night we buried José, the sailor whose honest smile had welcomed me
to my bark at Montevideo. I had ordered stones brought on deck, before
dark, ostensibly to ballast the boat. I knew they would soon be wanted!
About midnight, the cook called me in sore distress, saying that José
was dying without confession!

So poor José was buried that night in the great River Plate! I listened
to the solemn splash that told of one life ended, and its work done; but
gloomy, and sad, and melancholy as the case was, I had to smile when the
cook, not having well-secured the ballast, threw it over after his
friend, exclaiming, "Good-bye, José, good-bye!" I added, "Good-bye, good
shipmate, good-bye! I doubt not that you rest well!"

Next day, the signal from the shore was the same as the day before,
"Stand in," in answer to my repeated call for help. By this time my men