the bodies of the slain had been transferred, got under way and proceeded towards the island chosen for the place of burial.
The sun never rose more clearly, and nothing could have looked more beautiful and peaceful than did the little group of islands as we passed them in succession on our melancholy errand. Arriving at the last one, which was about ten miles from Malolo and uninhabited, we came to anchor. Two of the officers and three of the crew went on shore to select a place and dig a grave for both the victims. At one bell all hands were called to bury the dead. The two bodies were placed in the commodore’s gig, side by side, wrapped in their country’s flag, and rowed to the lonely little island, followed by other boats with the commodore, several of the officers, and twenty of the sailors (all dressed in white), who landed to pay this last tribute of respect to those who had gone through so many hardships and shared so many dangers with them.
The quiet of the scene, the solemnity of the occasion, and the smallness of the numbers were calculated to produce a deep impression. The bodies were borne to the grave, which was in the center of the little island, amid a small grove of ficus trees. It was a lovely spot that had been chosen. The grave was dug wide and deep, in the pure white coral sand. The funeral services were conducted so calmly, and yet with such feeling, that none who were present will ever forget that sad half-hour. After the bodies had been lowered, and the grave filled, three volleys were fired over it.
This pretty cluster of islands was named Underwood’s
