Then came the open country already heated; through
shady groves where exquisite butterflies, on velvety
blue wings, flitted in masses. On either side,
waved tall luxuriant palms, and quantities of flowers
in splendid profusion. At last we came to the
cemetery, with mandarins’ tombs and many-coloured
inscriptions, adorned with paintings of dragons and
other monsters; amid astounding foliage and plants
growing everywhere. The spot where we laid him
down to rest resembled a nook in the gardens of Indra.
Into the earth we drove the little wooden cross, lettered:
SYLVESTRE MOAN, AGED 19.
And we left him, forced to go because of the hot rising
sun; we turned back once more to look at him under
those marvellous trees and huge nodding flowers.
The trooper continued its course through the Indian
Ocean. Down below in the floating hospital other
death-scenes went on. On deck there was carelessness
of health and youth. Round about, over the sea,
was a very feast of pure sun and air.
In this fine trade-wind weather, the sailors, stretched
in the shade of the sails, were playing with little
pet parrots and making them run races. In this
Singapore, which they had just left, the sailors buy
all kinds of tame animals. They had all chosen
baby parrots, with childish looks upon their hooknose
faces; they had no tails yet; they were green, of
a wonderful shade. As they went running over the
clean white planks, they looked like fresh young leaves,
fallen from tropical trees.
Sometimes the sailors gathered them all together in
one lot, when they inspected one another funnily;
twisting about their throats, to be seen under all
aspects. They comically waddled about like so
many lame people, or suddenly started off in a great
hurry for some unknown destination; and some fell
down in their excitement. And there were monkeys,
learning tricks of all kinds, another source of amusement.
Some were most tenderly loved and even kissed extravagantly,
as they nestled against the callous bosoms of their
masters, gazing fondly at them with womanish eyes,
half-grotesque and half-touching.
Upon the stroke of three o’clock, the quartermasters
brought on deck two canvas bags, sealed with huge
red seals, bearing Sylvestre’s name; for by
order of the regulations in regard to the dead, all
his clothes and personal worldly belongings were to
be sold by auction. The sailors gaily grouped
themselves around the pile; for, on board a hospital
ship, too many of these sales of effects are seen
to excite any particular emotion. Besides, Sylvestre
had been but little known upon that ship.
His jackets and shirts and blue-striped jerseys were
fingered and turned over and then bought up at different
prices, the buyers forcing the bidding just to amuse
themselves.
Then came the turn of the small treasure-box, which
was sold for fifty sous. The letters and military
medal had been taken out of it, to be sent back to
the family; but not the book of songs and the work
of Confucious, with the needles, cotton, and buttons,
and all the petty requisites placed there by the forethought
of Granny Moan for sewing and mending.
