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The Captain of the Polestar, and Other Tales

by Arthur Conan Doyle · English · Gutenberg #294 · 481,658 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Captain of the Polestar, and Other Tales

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle


        
Release date: July 1, 1995 [eBook #294]
                Most recently updated: April 30, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/294

Credits: Mike Lough and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLESTAR, AND OTHER TALES ***




THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLESTAR

AND OTHER TALES.

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


     TO
     MY FRIEND
     MAJOR-GENERAL A. W. DRAYSON
     AS A SLIGHT TOKEN
     OF
     MY ADMIRATION FOR HIS GREAT
     AND AS YET UNRECOGNISED SERVICES TO ASTRONOMY
     This little Volume
     IS
     DEDICATED





PREFACE For the use of some of the following Tales I am indebted to the
courtesy of the Proprietors of “Cornhill,” “Temple Bar,” “Belgravia,”
 “London Society,” “Cassell’s,” and “The Boys’ Own Paper.”

A. CONAN DOYLE, M.D.



CONTENTS.

     THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE-STAR
     J. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT
     THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT
     THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL
     THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX
     JOHN HUXFORD’S HIATUS
     A LITERARY MOSAIC
     JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES
     THE PARSON OF JACKMAN’S GULCH
     THE RING OF THOTH





THE CAPTAIN OF THE “POLE-STAR.”

     [Being an extract from the singular journal of JOHN
     M’ALISTER RAY, student of medicine.]


September 11th.--Lat. 81 degrees 40’ N.; long. 2 degrees E. Still
lying-to amid enormous ice fields. The one which stretches away to the
north of us, and to which our ice-anchor is attached, cannot be smaller
than an English county. To the right and left unbroken sheets extend
to the horizon. This morning the mate reported that there were signs of
pack ice to the southward. Should this form of sufficient thickness
to bar our return, we shall be in a position of danger, as the food, I
hear, is already running somewhat short. It is late in the season, and
the nights are beginning to reappear.

This morning I saw a star twinkling just over the fore-yard, the first
since the beginning of May. There is considerable discontent among the
crew, many of whom are anxious to get back home to be in time for the
herring season, when labour always commands a high price upon the Scotch
coast. As yet their displeasure is only signified by sullen countenances
and black looks, but I heard from the second mate this afternoon that
they contemplated sending a deputation to the Captain to explain their
grievance. I much doubt how he will receive it, as he is a man of fierce
temper, and very sensitive about anything approaching to an infringement
of his rights. I shall venture after dinner to say a few words to him
upon the subject. I have always found that he will tolerate from me what
he would resent from any other member of the crew. Amsterdam Island,
at the north-west corner of Spitzbergen, is visible upon our starboard
quarter--a rugged line of volcanic rocks, intersected by white seams,
which represent glaciers. It is curious to think that at the present
moment there is probably no human being nearer to us than the Danish
settlements in the south of Greenland--a good nine hundred miles as the
crow flies. A captain takes a great responsibility upon himself when he
risks his vessel under such circumstances. No whaler has ever remained
in these latitudes till so advanced a period of the year.

9 P.M,--I have spoken to Captain Craigie, and though the result has been
hardly satisfactory, I am bound to say that he listened to what I had to
say very quietly and even deferentially. When I had finished he put on
that air of iron determination which I have frequently observed upon his
face, and paced rapidly backwards and forwards across the narrow cabin
for some minutes. At first I feared that I had seriously offended him,
but he dispelled the idea by sitting down again, and putting his hand
upon my arm with a gesture which almost amounted to a caress. There
was a depth of tenderness too in his wild dark eyes which surprised
me considerably. “Look here, Doctor,” he said, “I’m sorry I ever took
you--I am indeed--and I would give fifty pounds this minute to see you
standing safe upon the Dundee quay. It’s hit or miss with me this time.
There are fish to the north of us. How dare you shake your head, sir,
when I tell you I saw them blowing from the masthead?”--this in a sudden
burst of fury, though I was not conscious of having shown any signs of
doubt. “Two-and-twenty fish in as many minutes as I am a living man,
and not one under ten foot.[1] Now, Doctor, do you think I can leave the
country when there is only one infernal strip of ice between me and my
fortune? If it came on to blow from the north to-morrow we could fill
the ship and be away before the frost could catch us. If it came on to
blow from the south--well, I suppose the men are paid for risking their
lives, and as for myself it matters but little to me, for I have more to
bind me to the other world than to this one. I confess that I am sorry
for you, though. I wish I had old Angus Tait who was with me last
voyage, for he was a man that would never be missed, and you--you said
once that you were engaged, did you not?”


[Footnote 1: A whale is measured among whalers not by the length of its
body, but by the length of its whalebone.]


“Yes,” I answered, snapping the spring of the locket which hung from my
watch-chain, and holding up the little vignette of Flora.

“Curse you!” he yelled, springing out of his seat, with his very beard
bristling with passion. “What is your happiness to me? What have I to do
with her that you must dangle her photograph before my eyes?” I almost
thought that he was about to strike me in the frenzy of his rage, but
with another imprecation he dashed open the door of the cabin and rushed
out upon deck, leaving me considerably astonished at his extraordinary
violence. It is the first time that he has ever shown me anything but
courtesy and kindness. I can hear him pacing excitedly up and down
overhead as I write these lines.

I should like to give a sketch of the character of this man, but it
seems presumptuous to attempt such a thing upon paper, when the idea in
my own mind is at best a vague and uncertain one. Several times I have
thought that I grasped the clue which might explain it, but only to be
disappointed by his presenting himself in some new light which would
upset all my conclusions. It may be that no human eye but my own shall
ever rest upon these lines, yet as a psychological study I shall attempt
to leave some record of Captain Nicholas Craigie.

A man’s outer case generally gives some indication of the soul within.
The Captain is tall and well-formed, with dark, handsome face, and a
curious way of twitching his limbs, which may arise from nervousness, or
be simply an outcome of his excessive energy. His jaw and whole cast
of countenance is manly and resolute, but the eyes are the distinctive
feature of his face. They are of the very darkest hazel, bright and
eager, with a singular mixture of recklessness in their expression, and
of something else which I have sometimes thought was more allied with
horror than any other emotion. Generally the former predominated, but on
occasions, and more particularly when he was thoughtfully inclined, the
look of fear would spread and deepen until it imparted a new character
to his whole countenance. It is at these times that he is most subject
to tempestuous fits of anger, and he seems to be aware of it, for I have
known him lock himself up so that no one might approach him until his
dark hour was passed. He sleeps badly, and I have heard him shouting
during the night, but his cabin is some little distance from mine, and I
could never distinguish the words which he said.

This is one phase of his character, and the most disagreeable one. It
is only through my close association with him, thrown together as we
are day after day, that I have observed it. Otherwise he is an agreeable
companion, well-read and entertaining, and as gallant a seaman as ever
trod a deck. I shall not easily forget the way in which he handled the
ship when we were caught by a gale among the loose ice at the beginning
of April. I have never seen him so cheerful, and even hilarious, as he
was that night, as he paced backwards and forwards upon the bridge amid
the flashing of the lightning and the howling of the wind. He has told
me several times that the thought of death was a pleasant one to him,
which is a sad thing for a young man to say; he cannot be much more than
thirty, though his hair and moustache are already slightly grizzled.
Some great sorrow must have overtaken him and blighted his whole life.
Perhaps I should be the same if I lost my Flora--God knows! I think if
it were not for her that I should care very little whether the wind blew
from the north or the south to-morrow.

There, I hear him come down the companion, and he has locked himself up
in his room, which shows that he is still in an unamiable mood. And so
to bed, as old Pepys would say, for the candle is burning down (we have
to use them now since the nights are closing in), and the steward has
turned in, so there are no hopes of another one.

September 12th.--Calm, clear day, and still lying in the same position.
What wind there is comes from the south-east, but it is very slight.
Captain is in a better humour, and apologised to me at breakfast for his
rudeness. He still looks somewhat distrait, however, and retains that
wild look in his eyes which in a Highlander would mean that he was
“fey”--at least so our chief engineer remarked to me, and he has some
reputation among the Celtic portion of our crew as a seer and expounder
of omens.

It is strange that superstition should have obtained such mastery over
this hard-headed and practical race. I could not have believed to what
an extent it is carried had I not observed it for myself. We have had a
perfect epidemic of it this voyage, until I have felt inclined to serve
out rations of sedatives and nerve-tonics with the Saturday allowance
of grog. The first symptom of it was that shortly after leaving Shetland
the men at the wheel used to complain that they heard plaintive cries
and screams in the wake of the ship, as if something were following it
and were unable to overtake it. This fiction has been kept up during the
whole voyage, and on dark nights at the beginning of the seal-fishing
it was only with great difficulty that men could be induced to do
their spell. No doubt what they heard was either the creaking of the
rudder-chains, or the cry of some passing sea-bird. I have been fetched
out of bed several times to listen to it, but I need hardly say that I
was never able to distinguish anything unnatural.

The men, however, are so absurdly positive upon the subject that it is
hopeless to argue with them. I mentioned the matter to the Captain once,
but to my surprise he took it very gravely, and indeed appeared to be
considerably disturbed by what I told him. I should have thought that he
at least would have been above such vulgar delusions.

All this disquisition upon superstition leads me up to the fact that Mr.
Manson, our second mate, saw a ghost last night--or, at least, says that
he did, which of course is the same thing. It is quite refreshing to
have some new topic of conversation after the eternal routine of bears
and whales which has served us for so many months. Manson swears the
ship is haunted, and that he would not stay in her a day if he had any
other place to go to. Indeed the fellow is honestly frightened, and I
had to give him some chloral and bromide of potassium this morning to
steady him down. He seemed quite indignant when I suggested that he had
been having an extra glass the night before, and I was obliged to pacify
him by keeping as grave a countenance as possible during his
story, which he certainly narrated in a very straight-forward and
matter-of-fact way.

“I was on the bridge,” he said, “about four bells in the middle watch,
just when the night was at its darkest. There was a bit of a moon, but
the clouds were blowing across it so that you couldn’t see far from the
ship. John M‘Leod, the harpooner, came aft from the foc’sle-head and
reported a strange noise on the starboard bow.

“I went forrard and we both heard it, sometimes like a bairn crying and
sometimes like a wench in pain. I’ve been seventeen years to the country
and I never heard seal, old or young, make a sound like that. As we
were standing there on the foc’sle-head the moon came out from behind
a cloud, and we both saw a sort of white figure moving across the ice
field in the same direction that we had heard the cries. We lost sight
of it for a while, but it came back on the port bow, and we could just
make it out like a shadow on the ice. I sent a hand aft for the rifles,
and M‘Leod and I went down on to the pack, thinking that maybe it might
be a bear. When we got on the ice I lost sight of M‘Leod, but I pushed
on in the direction where I could still hear the cries. I followed them
for a mile or maybe more, and then running round a hummock I came right
on to the top of it standing and waiting for me seemingly. I don’t
know what it was. It wasn’t a bear any way. It was tall and white and
straight, and if it wasn’t a man nor a woman, I’ll stake my davy it
was something worse. I made for the ship as hard as I could run, and
precious glad I was to find myself aboard. I signed articles to do my
duty by the ship, and on the ship I’ll stay, but you don’t catch me on
the ice again after sundown.”

That is his story, given as far as I can in his own words. I fancy what
he saw must, in spite of his denial, have been a young bear erect upon
its hind legs, an attitude which they often assume when alarmed. In
the uncertain light this would bear a resemblance to a human figure,
especially to a man whose nerves were already somewhat shaken. Whatever
it may have been, the occurrence is unfortunate, for it has produced a
most unpleasant effect upon the crew. Their looks are more sullen than
before, and their discontent more open. The double grievance of being
debarred from the herring fishing and of being detained in what they
choose to call a haunted vessel, may lead them to do something rash.
Even the harpooners, who are the oldest and steadiest among them, are
joining in the general agitation.

Apart from this absurd outbreak of superstition, things are looking
rather more cheerful. The pack which was forming to the south of us has
partly cleared away, and the water is so warm as to lead me to believe
that we are lying in one of those branches of the gulf-stream which run
up between Greenland and Spitzbergen. There are numerous small Medusae
and sealemons about the ship, with abundance of shrimps, so that there
is every possibility of “fish” being sighted. Indeed one was seen
blowing about dinner-time, but in such a position that it was impossible
for the boats to follow it.

September 13th.--Had an interesting conversation with the chief mate,
Mr. Milne, upon the bridge. It seems that our Captain is as great an
enigma to the seamen, and even to the owners of the vessel, as he has
been to me. Mr. Milne tells me that when the ship is paid off, upon
returning from a voyage, Captain Craigie disappears, and is not seen
again until the approach of another season, when he walks quietly
into the office of the company, and asks whether his services will be
required. He has no friend in Dundee, nor does any one pretend to be
acquainted with his early history. His position depends entirely upon
his skill as a seaman, and the name for courage and coolness which
he had earned in the capacity of mate, before being entrusted with a
separate command. The unanimous opinion seems to be that he is not a
Scotchman, and that his name is an assumed one. Mr. Milne thinks that he
has devoted himself to whaling simply for the reason that it is the most
dangerous occupation which he could select, and that he courts death in
every possible manner. He mentioned several instances of this, one of
which is rather curious, if true. It seems that on one occasion he
did not put in an appearance at the office, and a substitute had to
be selected in his place. That was at the time of the last Russian and
Turkish war. When he turned up again next spring he had a puckered wound
in the side of his neck which he used to endeavour to conceal with his
cravat. Whether the mate’s inference that he had been engaged in the war
is true or not I cannot say. It was certainly a strange coincidence.

The wind is veering round in an easterly direction, but is still very
slight. I think the ice is lying closer than it did yesterday. As far
as the eye can reach on every side there is one wide expanse of spotless
white, only broken by an occasional rift or the dark shadow of a
hummock. To the south there is the narrow lane of blue water which is
our sole means of escape, and which is closing up every day. The Captain
is taking a heavy responsibility upon himself. I hear that the tank of
potatoes has been finished, and even the biscuits are running short,
but he preserves the same impassible countenance, and spends the greater
part of the day at the crow’s nest, sweeping the horizon with his glass.
His manner is very variable, and he seems to avoid my society, but there
has been no repetition of the violence which he showed the other night.

7.30 P.M.--My deliberate opinion is that we are commanded by a madman.
Nothing else can account for the extraordinary vagaries of Captain
Craigie. It is fortunate that I have kept this journal of our voyage, as
it will serve to justify us in case we have to put him under any sort
of restraint, a step which I should only consent to as a last resource.
Curiously enough it was he himself who suggested lunacy and not mere
eccentricity as the secret of his strange conduct. He was standing upon
the bridge about an hour ago, peering as usual through his glass, while
I was walking up and down the quarterdeck. The majority of the men were
below at their tea, for the watches have not been regularly kept of
late. Tired of walking, I leaned against the bulwarks, and admired the
mellow glow cast by the sinking sun upon the great ice fields which
surround us. I was suddenly aroused from the reverie into which I had
fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow, and starting round I found that
the Captain had descended and was standing by my side. He was staring
out over the ice with an expression in which horror, surprise, and
something approaching to joy were contending for the mastery. In
spite of the cold, great drops of perspiration were coursing down his
forehead, and he was evidently fearfully excited.

His limbs twitched like those of a man upon the verge of an epileptic
fit, and the lines about his mouth were drawn and hard.

“Look!” he gasped, seizing me by the wrist, but still keeping his
eyes upon the distant ice, and moving his head slowly in a horizontal
direction, as if following some object which was moving across the field
of vision. “Look! There, man, there! Between the hummocks! Now coming
out from behind the far one! You see her--you MUST see her! There still!
Flying from me, by God, flying from me--and gone!”

He uttered the last two words in a whisper of concentrated agony which
shall never fade from my remembrance. Clinging to the ratlines he
endeavoured to climb up upon the top of the bulwarks as if in the hope
of obtaining a last glance at the departing object. His strength was not
equal to the attempt, however, and he staggered back against the saloon
skylights, where he leaned panting and exhausted. His face was so livid
that I expected him to become unconscious, so lost no time in leading
him down the companion, and stretching him upon one of the sofas in the
cabin. I then poured him out some brandy, which I held to his lips, and
which had a wonderful effect upon him, bringing the blood back into his
white face and steadying his poor shaking limbs. He raised himself up
upon his elbow, and looking round to see that we were alone, he beckoned
to me to come and sit beside him.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” he asked, still in the same subdued awesome
tone so foreign to the nature of the man.

“No, I saw nothing.”

His head sank back again upon the cushions. “No, he wouldn’t without the
glass,” he murmured. “He couldn’t. It was the glass that showed her to
me, and then the eyes of love--the eyes of love.

“I say, Doc, don’t let the steward in! He’ll think I’m mad. Just bolt the
door, will you!”

I rose and did what he had commanded.

He lay quiet for a while, lost in thought apparently, and then raised
himself up upon his elbow again, and asked for some more brandy.

“You don’t think I am, do you, Doc?” he asked, as I was putting the
bottle back into the after-locker. “Tell me now, as man to man, do you
think that I am mad?”

“I think you have something on your mind,” I answered, “which is
exciting you and doing you a good deal of harm.”

“Right there, lad!” he cried, his eyes sparkling from the effects of the
brandy. “Plenty on my mind--plenty! But I can work out the latitude and
the longitude, and I can handle my sextant and manage my logarithms. You
couldn’t prove me mad in a court of law, could you, now?” It was curious
to hear the man lying back and coolly arguing out the question of his
own sanity.

“Perhaps not,” I said; “but still I think you would be wise to get home
as soon as you can, and settle down to a quiet life for a while.”

“Get home, eh?” he muttered, with a sneer upon his face. “One word for
me and two for yourself, lad. Settle down with Flora--pretty little
Flora. Are bad dreams signs of madness?”

“Sometimes,” I answered.

“What else? What would be the first symptoms?”

“Pains in the head, noises in the ears flashes before the eyes,
delusions”----

“Ah! what about them?” he interrupted. “What would you call a delusion?”

“Seeing a thing which is not there is a delusion.”

“But she WAS there!” he groaned to himself. “She WAS there!” and rising,
he unbolted the door and walked with slow and uncertain steps to his
own cabin, where I have no doubt that he will remain until to-morrow
morning. His system seems to have received a terrible shock, whatever it
may have been that he imagined himself to have seen. The man becomes a
greater mystery every day, though I fear that the solution which he has
himself suggested is the correct one, and that his reason is affected.
I do not think that a guilty conscience has anything to do with his
behaviour. The idea is a popular one among the officers, and, I believe,
the crew; but I have seen nothing to support it. He has not the air of
a guilty man, but of one who has had terrible usage at the hands of
fortune, and who should be regarded as a martyr rather than a criminal.

The wind is veering round to the south to-night. God help us if it
blocks that narrow pass which is our only road to safety! Situated as
we are on the edge of the main Arctic pack, or the “barrier” as it
is called by the whalers, any wind from the north has the effect of
shredding out the ice around us and allowing our escape, while a wind
from the south blows up all the loose ice behind us and hems us in
between two packs. God help us, I say again!

September 14th.--Sunday, and a day of rest. My fears have been
confirmed, and the thin strip of blue water has disappeared from the
southward. Nothing but the great motionless ice fields around us, with
their weird hummocks and fantastic pinnacles. There is a deathly silence
over their wide expanse which is horrible. No lapping of the waves
now, no cries of seagulls or straining of sails, but one deep universal
silence in which the murmurs of the seamen, and the creak of their boots
upon the white shining deck, seem discordant and out of place. Our only
visitor was an Arctic fox, a rare animal upon the pack, though common
enough upon the land. He did not come near the ship, however, but after
surveying us from a distance fled rapidly across the ice. This was
curious conduct, as they generally know nothing of man, and being of an
inquisitive nature, become so familiar that they are easily captured.
Incredible as it may seem, even this little incident produced a bad
effect upon the crew. “Yon puir beastie kens mair, ay, an’ sees mair nor
you nor me!” was the comment of one of the leading harpooners, and the
others nodded their acquiescence. It is vain to attempt to argue against
such puerile superstition. They have made up their minds that there is
a curse upon the ship, and nothing will ever persuade them to the
contrary.

The Captain remained in seclusion all day except for about half an hour
in the afternoon, when he came out upon the quarterdeck. I observed that
he kept his eye fixed upon the spot where the vision of yesterday had
appeared, and was quite prepared for another outburst, but none such
came. He did not seem to see me although I was standing close beside
him. Divine service was read as usual by the chief engineer. It is a
curious thing that in whaling vessels the Church of England Prayer-book
is always employed, although there is never a member of that Church
among either officers or crew. Our men are all Roman Catholics or
Presbyterians, the former predominating. Since a ritual is used which
is foreign to both, neither can complain that the other is preferred
to them, and they listen with all attention and devotion, so that the
system has something to recommend it.

A glorious sunset, which made the great fields of ice look like a lake
of blood. I have never seen a finer and at the same time more weird
effect. Wind is veering round. If it will blow twenty-four hours from
the north all will yet be well.

September 15th.--To-day is Flora’s birthday. Dear lass! it is well that
she cannot see her boy, as she used to call me, shut up among the ice
fields with a crazy captain and a few weeks’ provisions. No doubt she
scans the shipping list in the Scotsman every morning to see if we are
reported from Shetland. I have to set an example to the men and look
cheery and unconcerned; but God knows, my heart is very heavy at times.

The thermometer is at nineteen Fahrenheit to-day. There is but little
wind, and what there is comes from an unfavourable quarter. Captain is
in an excellent humour; I think he imagines he has seen some other omen
or vision, poor fellow, during the night, for he came into my room early
in the morning, and stooping down over my bunk, whispered, “It wasn’t a
delusion, Doc; it’s all right!” After breakfast he asked me to find out
how much food was left, which the second mate and I proceeded to do. It
is even less than we had expected. Forward they have half a tank full
of biscuits, three barrels of salt meat, and a very limited supply of
coffee beans and sugar. In the after-hold and lockers there are a good
many luxuries, such as tinned salmon, soups, haricot mutton, &c., but
they will go a very short way among a crew of fifty men. There are two
barrels of flour in the store-room, and an unlimited supply of tobacco.
Altogether there is about enough to keep the men on half rations for
eighteen or twenty days--certainly not more. When we reported the
state of things to the Captain, he ordered all hands to be piped,
and addressed them from the quarterdeck. I never saw him to better
advantage. With his tall, well-knit figure, and dark animated face, he
seemed a man born to command, and he discussed the situation in a cool
sailor-like way which showed that while appreciating the danger he had
an eye for every loophole of escape.

“My lads,” he said, “no doubt you think I brought you into this fix, if
it is a fix, and maybe some of you feel bitter against me on account of
it. But you must remember that for many a season no ship that comes to
the country has brought in as much oil-money as the old Pole-Star,
and every one of you has had his share of it. You can leave your wives
behind you in comfort while other poor fellows come back to find their
lasses on the parish. If you have to thank me for the one you have to
thank me for the other, and we may call it quits. We’ve tried a bold
venture before this and succeeded, so now that we’ve tried one and
failed we’ve no cause to cry out about it. If the worst comes to the
worst, we can make the land across the ice, and lay in a stock of
seals which will keep us alive until the spring. It won’t come to that,
though, for you’ll see the Scotch coast again before three weeks are
out. At present every man must go on half rations, share and share
alike, and no favour to any. Keep up your hearts and you’ll pull through
this as you’ve pulled through many a danger before.” These few
simple words of his had a wonderful effect upon the crew. His former
unpopularity was forgotten, and the old harpooner whom I have already
mentioned for his superstition, led off three cheers, which were
heartily joined in by all hands.

September 16th.--The wind has veered round to the north during the
night, and the ice shows some symptoms of opening out. The men are in
a good humour in spite of the short allowance upon which they have been
placed. Steam is kept up in the engine-room, that there may be no delay
should an opportunity for escape present itself. The Captain is in
exuberant spirits, though he still retains that wild “fey” expression
which I have already remarked upon. This burst of cheerfulness puzzles
me more than his former gloom. I cannot understand it. I think I
mentioned in an early part of this journal that one of his oddities is
that he never permits any person to enter his cabin, but insists upon
making his own bed, such as it is, and performing every other office for
himself. To my surprise he handed me the key to-day and requested me to
go down there and take the time by his chronometer while he measured
the altitude of the sun at noon. It is a bare little room, containing
a washing-stand and a few books, but little else in the way of luxury,
except some pictures upon the walls. The majority of these are small
cheap oleographs, but there was one water-colour sketch of the head of a
young lady which arrested my attention. It was evidently a portrait, and
not one of those fancy types of female beauty which sailors particularly
affect. No artist could have evolved from his own mind such a curious
mixture of character and weakness. The languid, dreamy eyes, with their
drooping lashes, and the broad, low brow, unruffled by thought or care,
were in strong contrast with the clean-cut, prominent jaw, and the
resolute set of the lower lip. Underneath it in one of the corners was
written, “M. B., aet. 19.” That any one in the short space of nineteen
years of existence could develop such strength of will as was stamped
upon her face seemed to me at the time to be well-nigh incredible. She
must have been an extraordinary woman. Her features have thrown such
a glamour over me that, though I had but a fleeting glance at them, I
could, were I a draughtsman, reproduce them line for line upon this page
of the journal. I wonder what part she has played in our Captain’s
life. He has hung her picture at the end of his berth, so that his eyes
continually rest upon it. Were he a less reserved man I should make
some remark upon the subject. Of the other things in his cabin there
was nothing worthy of mention--uniform coats, a camp-stool, small
looking-glass, tobacco-box, and numerous pipes, including an oriental
hookah--which, by-the-bye, gives some colour to Mr. Milne’s story about
his participation in the war, though the connection may seem rather a
distant one.

11.20 P.M.--Captain just gone to bed after a long and interesting
conversation on general topics. When he chooses he can be a most
fascinating companion, being remarkably well-read, and having the power
of expressing his opinion forcibly without appearing to be dogmatic. I
hate to have my intellectual toes trod upon. He spoke about the nature
of the soul, and sketched out the views of Aristotle and Plato upon
the subject in a masterly manner. He seems to have a leaning for
metempsychosis and the doctrines of Pythagoras. In discussing them we
touched upon modern spiritualism, and I made some joking allusion to
the impostures of Slade, upon which, to my surprise, he warned me most
impressively against confusing the innocent with the guilty, and argued
that it would be as logical to brand Christianity as an error because
Judas, who professed that religion, was a villain. He shortly afterwards
bade me good-night and retired to his room.

The wind is freshening up, and blows steadily from the north. The nights
are as dark now as they are in England. I hope to-morrow may set us free
from our frozen fetters.

September 17th.--The Bogie again. Thank Heaven that I have strong
nerves! The superstition of these poor fellows, and the circumstantial
accounts which they give, with the utmost earnestness and
self-conviction, would horrify any man not accustomed to their ways.
There are many versions of the matter, but the sum-total of them all is
that something uncanny has been flitting round the ship all night,
and that Sandie M’Donald of Peterhead and “lang” Peter Williamson of
Shetland saw it, as also did Mr. Milne on the bridge--so, having three
witnesses, they can make a better case of it than the second mate did.
I spoke to Milne after breakfast, and told him that he should be above
such nonsense, and that as an officer he ought to set the men a better
example. He shook his weather-beaten head ominously, but answered with
characteristic caution, “Mebbe aye, mebbe na, Doctor,” he said; “I didna
ca’ it a ghaist. I canna’ say I preen my faith in sea-bogles an’ the
like, though there’s a mony as claims to ha’ seen a’ that and waur. I’m
no easy feared, but maybe your ain bluid would run a bit cauld, mun, if
instead o’ speerin’ aboot it in daylicht ye were wi’ me last night, an’
seed an awfu’ like shape, white an’ gruesome, whiles here, whiles there,
an’ it greetin’ and ca’ing in the darkness like a bit lambie that hae
lost its mither. Ye would na’ be sae ready to put it a’ doon to auld
wives’ clavers then, I’m thinkin’.” I saw it was hopeless to reason with
him, so contented myself with begging him as a personal favour to call
me up the next time the spectre appeared--a request to which he acceded
with many ejaculations expressive of his hopes that such an opportunity
might never arise.

As I had hoped, the white desert behind us has become broken by many
thin streaks of water which intersect it in all directions. Our latitude
to-day was 80 degrees 52’ N., which shows that there is a strong
southerly drift upon the pack. Should the wind continue favourable it
will break up as rapidly as it formed. At present we can do nothing but
smoke and wait and hope for the best. I am rapidly becoming a fatalist.
When dealing with such uncertain factors as wind and ice a man can be
nothing else. Perhaps it was the wind and sand of the Arabian deserts
which gave the minds of the original followers of Mahomet their tendency
to bow to kismet.

These spectral alarms have a very bad effect upon the Captain. I feared
that it might excite his sensitive mind, and endeavoured to conceal the
absurd story from him, but unfortunately he overheard one of the men
making an allusion to it, and insisted upon being informed about it. As
I had expected, it brought out all his latent lunacy in an exaggerated
form. I can hardly believe that this is the same man who discoursed
philosophy last night with the most critical acumen and coolest
judgment. He is pacing backwards and forwards upon the quarterdeck like
a caged tiger, stopping now and again to throw out his hands with a
yearning gesture, and stare impatiently out over the ice. He keeps up a
continual mutter to himself, and once he called out, “But a little time,
love--but a little time!” Poor fellow, it is sad to see a gallant seaman
and accomplished gentleman reduced to such a pass, and to think that
imagination and delusion can cow a mind to which real danger was but the
salt of life. Was ever a man in such a position as I, between a demented
captain and a ghost-seeing mate? I sometimes think I am the only really
sane man aboard the vessel--except perhaps the second engineer, who is
a kind of ruminant, and would care nothing for all the fiends in the Red
Sea so long as they would leave him alone and not disarrange his tools.

The ice is still opening rapidly, and there is every probability of
our being able to make a start to-morrow morning. They will think I
am inventing when I tell them at home all the strange things that have
befallen me.

12 P.M.--I have been a good deal startled, though I feel steadier now,
thanks to a stiff glass of brandy. I am hardly myself yet, however, as
this handwriting will testify. The fact is, that I have gone through
a very strange experience, and am beginning to doubt whether I was
justified in branding every one on board as madmen because they
professed to have seen things which did not seem reasonable to my
understanding. Pshaw! I am a fool to let such a trifle unnerve me; and
yet, coming as it does after all these alarms, it has an additional
significance, for I cannot doubt either Mr. Manson’s story or that of
the mate, now that I have experienced that which I used formerly to
scoff at.

After all it was nothing very alarming--a mere sound, and that was all.
I cannot expect that any one reading this, if any one ever should read
it, will sympathise with my feelings, or realise the effect which it
produced upon me at the time. Supper was over, and I had gone on deck
to have a quiet pipe before turning in. The night was very dark--so dark
that, standing under the quarter-boat, I was unable to see the officer
upon the bridge. I think I have already mentioned the extraordinary
silence which prevails in these frozen seas. In other parts of the
world, be they ever so barren, there is some slight vibration of the
air--some faint hum, be it from the distant haunts of men, or from the
leaves of the trees, or the wings of the birds, or even the faint rustle
of the grass that covers the ground. One may not actively perceive the
sound, and yet if it were withdrawn it would be missed. It is only here
in these Arctic seas that stark, unfathomable stillness obtrudes itself
upon you in all its gruesome reality. You find your tympanum straining
to catch some little murmur, and dwelling eagerly upon every accidental
sound within the vessel. In this state I was leaning against the
bulwarks when there arose from the ice almost directly underneath me a
cry, sharp and shrill, upon the silent air of the night, beginning,
as it seemed to me, at a note such as prima donna never reached, and
mounting from that ever higher and higher until it culminated in a long
wail of agony, which might have been the last cry of a lost soul. The
ghastly scream is still ringing in my ears. Grief, unutterable grief,
seemed to be expressed in it, and a great longing, and yet through it
all there was an occasional wild note of exultation. It shrilled out
from close beside me, and yet as I glared into the darkness I could
discern nothing. I waited some little time, but without hearing any
repetition of the sound, so I came below, more shaken than I have ever
been in my life before. As I came down the companion I met Mr. Milne
coming up to relieve the watch. “Weel, Doctor,” he said, “maybe that’s
auld wives’ clavers tae? Did ye no hear it skirling? Maybe that’s a
supersteetion? What d’ye think o’t noo?” I was obliged to apologise to
the honest fellow, and acknowledge that I was as puzzled by it as he
was. Perhaps to-morrow things may look different. At present I dare
hardly write all that I think. Reading it again in days to come, when
I have shaken off all these associations, I should despise myself for
having been so weak.

September 18th.--Passed a restless and uneasy night, still haunted by
that strange sound. The Captain does not look as if he had had much
repose either, for his face is haggard and his eyes bloodshot. I have
not told him of my adventure of last night, nor shall I. He is already
restless and excited, standing up, sitting down, and apparently utterly
unable to keep still.

A fine lead appeared in the pack this morning, as I had expected, and we
were able to cast off our ice-anchor, and steam about twelve miles in a
west-sou’-westerly direction. We were then brought to a halt by a
great floe as massive as any which we have left behind us. It bars our
progress completely, so we can do nothing but anchor again and wait
until it breaks up, which it will probably do within twenty-four hours,
if the wind holds. Several bladder-nosed seals were seen swimming in the
water, and one was shot, an immense creature more than eleven feet long.
They are fierce, pugnacious animals, and are said to be more than
a match for a bear. Fortunately they are slow and clumsy in their
movements, so that there is little danger in attacking them upon the
ice.

The Captain evidently does not think we have seen the last of our
troubles, though why he should take a gloomy view of the situation is
more than I can fathom, since every one else on board considers that we
have had a miraculous escape, and are sure now to reach the open sea.

“I suppose you think it’s all right now, Doctor?” he said, as we sat
together after dinner.

“I hope so,” I answered.

“We mustn’t be too sure--and yet no doubt you are right. We’ll all be
in the arms of our own true loves before long, lad, won’t we? But we
mustn’t be too sure--we mustn’t be too sure.”

He sat silent a little, swinging his leg thoughtfully backwards and
forwards. “Look here,” he continued; “it’s a dangerous place this, even
at its best--a treacherous, dangerous place. I have known men cut off
very suddenly in a land like this. A slip would do it sometimes--a
single slip, and down you go through a crack, and only a bubble on the
green water to show where it was that you sank. It’s a queer thing,”
 he continued with a nervous laugh, “but all the years I’ve been in this
country I never once thought of making a will--not that I have anything
to leave in particular, but still when a man is exposed to danger he
should have everything arranged and ready--don’t you think so?”

“Certainly,” I answered, wondering what on earth he was driving at.

“He feels better for knowing it’s all settled,” he went on. “Now if
anything should ever befall me, I hope that you will look after things
for me. There is very little in the cabin, but such as it is I should
like it to be sold, and the money divided in the same proportion as the
oil-money among the crew. The chronometer I wish you to keep yourself
as some slight remembrance of our voyage. Of course all this is a mere
precaution, but I thought I would take the opportunity of speaking
to you about it. I suppose I might rely upon you if there were any
necessity?”

“Most assuredly,” I answered; “and since you are taking this step, I may
as well”----

“You! you!” he interrupted. “YOU’RE all right. What the devil is the
matter with YOU? There, I didn’t mean to be peppery, but I don’t like
to hear a young fellow, that has hardly began life, speculating about
death. Go up on deck and get some fresh air into your lungs instead of
talking nonsense in the cabin, and encouraging me to do the same.”

The more I think of this conversation of ours the less do I like it. Why
should the man be settling his affairs at the very time when we seem to
be emerging from all danger? There must be some method in his madness.
Can it be that he contemplates suicide? I remember that upon one
occasion he spoke in a deeply reverent manner of the heinousness of the
crime of self-destruction. I shall keep my eye upon him, however, and
though I cannot obtrude upon the privacy of his cabin, I shall at least
make a point of remaining on deck as long as he stays up.

Mr. Milne pooh-poohs my fears, and says it is only the “skipper’s little
way.” He himself takes a very rosy view of the situation. According
to him we shall be out of the ice by the day after to-morrow, pass Jan
Meyen two days after that, and sight Shetland in little more than a
week. I hope he may not be too sanguine. His opinion may be fairly
balanced against the gloomy precautions of the Captain, for he is an old
and experienced seaman, and weighs his words well before uttering them.

                      *****

The long-impending catastrophe has come at last. I hardly know what to
write about it. The Captain is gone. He may come back to us again alive,
but I fear me--I fear me. It is now seven o’clock of the morning of the
19th of September. I have spent the whole night traversing the great
ice-floe in front of us with a party of seamen in the hope of coming
upon some trace of him, but in vain. I shall try to give some account of
the circumstances which attended upon his disappearance. Should any
one ever chance to read the words which I put down, I trust they will
remember that I do not write from conjecture or from hearsay, but that
I, a sane and educated man, am describing accurately what actually
occurred before my very eyes. My inferences are my own, but I shall be
answerable for the facts.

The Captain remained in excellent spirits after the conversation which
I have recorded. He appeared to be nervous and impatient, however,
frequently changing his position, and moving his limbs in an aimless
choreic way which is characteristic of him at times. In a quarter of an
hour he went upon deck seven times, only to descend after a few hurried
paces. I followed him each time, for there was something about his face
which confirmed my resolution of not letting him out of my sight. He
seemed to observe the effect which his movements had produced, for he
endeavoured by an over-done hilarity, laughing boisterously at the very
smallest of jokes, to quiet my apprehensions.

After supper he went on to the poop once more, and I with him. The night
was dark and very still, save for the melancholy soughing of the wind
among the spars. A thick cloud was coming up from the north-west, and the
ragged tentacles which it threw out in front of it were drifting across
the face of the moon, which only shone now and again through a rift in
the wrack. The Captain paced rapidly backwards and forwards, and then
seeing me still dogging him, he came across and hinted that he thought
I should be better below--which, I need hardly say, had the effect of
strengthening my resolution to remain on deck.

I think he forgot about my presence after this, for he stood silently
leaning over the taffrail, and peering out across the great desert of
snow, part of which lay in shadow, while part glittered mistily in
the moonlight. Several times I could see by his movements that he was
referring to his watch, and once he muttered a short sentence, of which
I could only catch the one word “ready.” I confess to having felt an
eerie feeling creeping over me as I watched the loom of his tall figure
through the darkness, and noted how completely he fulfilled the idea of
a man who is keeping a tryst. A tryst with whom? Some vague perception
began to dawn upon me as I pieced one fact with another, but I was
utterly unprepared for the sequel.

By the sudden intensity of his attitude I felt that he saw something.
I crept up behind him. He was staring with an eager questioning gaze
at what seemed to be a wreath of mist, blown swiftly in a line with
the ship. It was a dim, nebulous body, devoid of shape, sometimes more,
sometimes less apparent, as the light fell on it. The moon was dimmed
in its brilliancy at the moment by a canopy of thinnest cloud, like the
coating of an anemone.

“Coming, lass, coming,” cried the skipper, in a voice of unfathomable
tenderness and compassion, like one who soothes a beloved one by some
favour long looked for, and as pleasant to bestow as to receive.

What followed happened in an instant. I had no power to interfere.

He gave one spring to the top of the bulwarks, and another which took
him on to the ice, almost to the feet of the pale misty figure. He
held out his hands as if to clasp it, and so ran into the darkness with
outstretched arms and loving words. I still stood rigid and motionless,
straining my eyes after his retreating form, until his voice died away
in the distance. I never thought to see him again, but at that moment
the moon shone out brilliantly through a chink in the cloudy heaven, and
illuminated the great field of ice. Then I saw his dark figure already
a very long way off, running with prodigious speed across the frozen
plain. That was the last glimpse which we caught of him--perhaps
the last we ever shall. A party was organised to follow him, and I
accompanied them, but the men’s hearts were not in the work, and nothing
was found. Another will be formed within a few hours. I can hardly
believe I have not been dreaming, or suffering from some hideous
nightmare, as I write these things down.

7.30 P.M.--Just returned dead beat and utterly tired out from a second
unsuccessful search for the Captain. The floe is of enormous extent, for
though we have traversed at least twenty miles of its surface, there has
been no sign of its coming to an end. The frost has been so severe of
late that the overlying snow is frozen as hard as granite, otherwise we
might have had the footsteps to guide us. The crew are anxious that we
should cast off and steam round the floe and so to the southward, for
the ice has opened up during the night, and the sea is visible upon the
horizon. They argue that Captain Craigie is certainly dead, and that
we are all risking our lives to no purpose by remaining when we have an
opportunity of escape. Mr. Milne and I have had the greatest difficulty
in persuading them to wait until to-morrow night, and have been
compelled to promise that we will not under any circumstances delay our
departure longer than that. We propose therefore to take a few hours’
sleep, and then to start upon a final search.

September 20th, evening.--I crossed the ice this morning with a party of
men exploring the southern part of the floe, while Mr. Milne went off
in a northerly direction. We pushed on for ten or twelve miles without
seeing a trace of any living thing except a single bird, which fluttered
a great way over our heads, and which by its flight I should judge to
have been a falcon. The southern extremity of the ice field tapered away
into a long narrow spit which projected out into the sea. When we came
to the base of this promontory, the men halted, but I begged them to
continue to the extreme end of it, that we might have the satisfaction
of knowing that no possible chance had been neglected.

We had hardly gone a hundred yards before M’Donald of Peterhead cried
out that he saw something in front of us, and began to run. We all got a
glimpse of it and ran too. At first it was only a vague darkness against
the white ice, but as we raced along together it took the shape of a
man, and eventually of the man of whom we were in search. He was lying
face downwards upon a frozen bank. Many little crystals of ice and
feathers of snow had drifted on to him as he lay, and sparkled upon his
dark seaman’s jacket. As we came up some wandering puff of wind caught
these tiny flakes in its vortex, and they whirled up into the air,
partially descended again, and then, caught once more in the current,
sped rapidly away in the direction of the sea. To my eyes it seemed but
a snow-drift, but many of my companions averred that it started up in
the shape of a woman, stooped over the corpse and kissed it, and then
hurried away across the floe. I have learned never to ridicule any man’s
opinion, however strange it may seem. Sure it is that Captain Nicholas
Craigie had met with no painful end, for there was a bright smile upon
his blue pinched features, and his hands were still outstretched as
though grasping at the strange visitor which had summoned him away into
the dim world that lies beyond the grave.

We buried him the same afternoon with the ship’s ensign around him, and
a thirty-two pound shot at his feet. I read the burial service, while
the rough sailors wept like children, for there were many who owed much
to his kind heart, and who showed now the affection which his strange
ways had repelled during his lifetime. He went off the grating with a
dull, sullen splash, and as I looked into the green water I saw him go
down, down, down until he was but a little flickering patch of white
hanging upon the outskirts of eternal darkness. Then even that faded
away, and he was gone. There he shall lie, with his secret and his
sorrows and his mystery all still buried in his breast, until that great
day when the sea shall give up its dead, and Nicholas Craigie come out
from among the ice with the smile upon his face, and his stiffened arms
outstretched in greeting. I pray that his lot may be a happier one in
that life than it has been in this.

I shall not continue my journal. Our road to home lies plain and clear
before us, and the great ice field will soon be but a remembrance of
the past. It will be some time before I get over the shock produced by
recent events. When I began this record of our voyage I little thought
of how I should be compelled to finish it. I am writing these final
words in the lonely cabin, still starting at times and fancying I hear
the quick nervous step of the dead man upon the deck above me. I entered
his cabin to-night, as was my duty, to make a list of his effects in
order that they might be entered in the official log. All was as it
had been upon my previous visit, save that the picture which I have
described as having hung at the end of his bed had been cut out of its
frame, as with a knife, and was gone. With this last link in a strange
chain of evidence I close my diary of the voyage of the Pole-Star.


[NOTE by Dr. John M’Alister Ray, senior.--I have read over the strange
events connected with the death of the Captain of the Pole-Star, as
narrated in the journal of my son. That everything occurred exactly as
he describes it I have the fullest confidence, and, indeed, the
most positive certainty, for I know him to be a strong-nerved and
unimaginative man, with the strictest regard for veracity. Still, the
story is, on the face of it, so vague and so improbable, that I was long
opposed to its publication. Within the last few days, however, I have
had independent testimony upon the subject which throws a new light
upon it. I had run down to Edinburgh to attend a meeting of the British
Medical Association, when I chanced to come across Dr. P----, an old
college chum of mine, now practising at Saltash, in Devonshire. Upon my
telling him of this experience of my son’s, he declared to me that he
was familiar with the man, and proceeded, to my no small surprise, to
give me a description of him, which tallied remarkably well with that
given in the journal, except that he depicted him as a younger man.
According to his account, he had been engaged to a young lady of
singular beauty residing upon the Cornish coast. During his absence at
sea his betrothed had died under circumstances of peculiar horror.]




J. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT.

In the month of December in the year 1873, the British ship Dei Gratia
steered into Gibraltar, having in tow the derelict brigantine Marie
Celeste, which had been picked up in latitude 38 degrees 40’, longitude
17 degrees 15’ W. There were several circumstances in connection with
the condition and appearance of this abandoned vessel which excited
considerable comment at the time, and aroused a curiosity which has
never been satisfied. What these circumstances were was summed up in an
able article which appeared in the Gibraltar Gazette. The curious can
find it in the issue for January 4, 1874, unless my memory deceives me.
For the benefit of those, however, who may be unable to refer to the
paper in question, I shall subjoin a few extracts which touch upon the
leading features of the case.

“We have ourselves,” says the anonymous writer in the Gazette, “been
over the derelict Marie Celeste, and have closelY questioned the officers
of the Dei Gratia on every point which might throw light on the affair.
They are of opinion that she had been abandoned several days, or perhaps
weeks, before being picked up. The official log, which was found in the
cabin, states that the vessel sailed from Boston to Lisbon, starting
upon October 16. It is, however, most imperfectly kept, and affords
little information. There is no reference to rough weather, and, indeed,
the state of the vessel’s paint and rigging excludes the idea that she
was abandoned for any such reason. She is perfectly watertight. No signs
of a struggle or of violence are to be detected, and there is absolutely
nothing to account for the disappearance of the crew. There are several
indications that a lady was present on board, a sewing-machine being
found in the cabin and some articles of female attire. These probably
belonged to the captain’s wife, who is mentioned in the log as having
accompanied her husband. As an instance of the mildness of the weather,
it may be remarked that a bobbin of silk was found standing upon
the sewing-machine, though the least roll of the vessel would have
precipitated it to the floor. The boats were intact and slung upon the
davits; and the cargo, consisting of tallow and American clocks, was
untouched. An old-fashioned sword of curious workmanship was discovered
among some lumber in the forecastle, and this weapon is said to exhibit
a longitudinal striation on the steel, as if it had been recently wiped.
It has been placed in the hands of the police, and submitted to Dr.
Monaghan, the analyst, for inspection. The result of his examination
has not yet been published. We may remark, in conclusion, that Captain
Dalton, of the Dei Gratia, an able and intelligent seaman, is of opinion
that the Marie Celeste may have been abandoned a considerable distance
from the spot at which she was picked up, since a powerful current runs
up in that latitude from the African coast. He confesses his inability,
however, to advance any hypothesis which can reconcile all the facts of
the case. In the utter absence of a clue or grain of evidence, it is to
be feared that the fate of the crew of the Marie Celeste will be added
to those numerous mysteries of the deep which will never be solved until
the great day when the sea shall give up its dead. If crime has been
committed, as is much to be suspected, there is little hope of bringing
the perpetrators to justice.”

I shall supplement this extract from the Gibraltar Gazette by quoting
a telegram from Boston, which went the round of the English papers, and
represented the total amount of information which had been collected
about the Marie Celeste. “She was,” it said, “a brigantine of 170 tons
burden, and belonged to White, Russell & White, wine importers, of this
city. Captain J. W. Tibbs was an old servant of the firm, and was a man
of known ability and tried probity. He was accompanied by his wife, aged
thirty-one, and their youngest child, five years old. The crew consisted
of seven hands, including two coloured seamen, and a boy. There were
three passengers, one of whom was the well-known Brooklyn specialist on
consumption, Dr. Habakuk Jephson, who was a distinguished advocate
for Abolition in the early days of the movement, and whose pamphlet,
entitled “Where is thy Brother?” exercised a strong influence on public
opinion before the war. The other passengers were Mr. J. Harton, a
writer in the employ of the firm, and Mr. Septimius Goring, a half-caste
gentleman, from New Orleans. All investigations have failed to throw
any light upon the fate of these fourteen human beings. The loss of Dr.
Jephson will be felt both in political and scientific circles.”

I have here epitomised, for the benefit of the public, all that has been
hitherto known concerning the Marie Celeste and her crew, for the past
ten years have not in any way helped to elucidate the mystery. I have
now taken up my pen with the intention of telling all that I know of the
ill-fated voyage. I consider that it is a duty which I owe to society,
for symptoms which I am familiar with in others lead me to believe
that before many months my tongue and hand may be alike incapable of
conveying information. Let me remark, as a preface to my narrative, that
I am Joseph Habakuk Jephson, Doctor of Medicine of the University
of Harvard, and ex-Consulting Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of
Brooklyn.

Many will doubtless wonder why I have not proclaimed myself before,
and why I have suffered so many conjectures and surmises to pass
unchallenged. Could the ends of justice have been served in any way by
my revealing the facts in my possession I should unhesitatingly have
done so. It seemed to me, however, that there was no possibility of such
a result; and when I attempted, after the occurrence, to state my case
to an English official, I was met with such offensive incredulity that
I determined never again to expose myself to the chance of such an
indignity. I can excuse the discourtesy of the Liverpool magistrate,
however, when I reflect upon the treatment which I received at the hands
of my own relatives, who, though they knew my unimpeachable character,
listened to my statement with an indulgent smile as if humouring the
delusion of a monomaniac. This slur upon my veracity led to a quarrel
between myself and John Vanburger, the brother of my wife, and
confirmed me in my resolution to let the matter sink into oblivion--a
determination which I have only altered through my son’s solicitations.
In order to make my narrative intelligible, I must run lightly over one
or two incidents in my former life which throw light upon subsequent
events.

My father, William K. Jephson, was a preacher of the sect called
Plymouth Brethren, and was one of the most respected citizens of Lowell.
Like most of the other Puritans of New England, he was a determined
opponent to slavery, and it was from his lips that I received those
lessons which tinged every action of my life. While I was studying
medicine at Harvard University, I had already made a mark as an advanced
Abolitionist; and when, after taking my degree, I bought a third share
of the practice of Dr. Willis, of Brooklyn, I managed, in spite of my
professional duties, to devote a considerable time to the cause which I
had at heart, my pamphlet, “Where is thy Brother?” (Swarburgh, Lister &
Co., 1859) attracting considerable attention.

When the war broke out I left Brooklyn and accompanied the 113th New
York Regiment through the campaign. I was present at the second battle
of Bull’s Run and at the battle of Gettysburg. Finally, I was severely
wounded at Antietam, and would probably have perished on the field had
it not been for the kindness of a gentleman named Murray, who had me
carried to his house and provided me with every comfort. Thanks to his
charity, and to the nursing which I received from his black domestics,
I was soon able to get about the plantation with the help of a stick. It
was during this period of convalescence that an incident occurred which
is closely connected with my story.

Among the most assiduous of the negresses who had watched my couch
during my illness there was one old crone who appeared to exert
considerable authority over the others. She was exceedingly attentive
to me, and I gathered from the few words that passed between us that
she had heard of me, and that she was grateful to me for championing her
oppressed race.

One day as I was sitting alone in the verandah, basking in the sun, and
debating whether I should rejoin Grant’s army, I was surprised to see
this old creature hobbling towards me. After looking cautiously around
to see that we were alone, she fumbled in the front of her dress and
produced a small chamois leather bag which was hung round her neck by a
white cord.

“Massa,” she said, bending down and croaking the words into my ear,
“me die soon. Me very old woman. Not stay long on Massa Murray’s
plantation.”

“You may live a long time yet, Martha,” I answered. “You know I am a
doctor. If you feel ill let me know about it, and I will try to cure
you.”

“No wish to live--wish to die. I’m gwine to join the heavenly host.”
 Here she relapsed into one of those half-heathenish rhapsodies in which
negroes indulge. “But, massa, me have one thing must leave behind me
when I go. No able to take it with me across the Jordan. That one thing
very precious, more precious and more holy than all thing else in the
world. Me, a poor old black woman, have this because my people, very
great people, ‘spose they was back in the old country. But you cannot
understand this same as black folk could. My fader give it me, and his
fader give it him, but now who shall I give it to? Poor Martha hab no
child, no relation, nobody. All round I see black man very bad man.
Black woman very stupid woman. Nobody worthy of the stone. And so I say,
Here is Massa Jephson who write books and fight for coloured folk--he
must be good man, and he shall have it though he is white man, and
nebber can know what it mean or where it came from.” Here the old woman
fumbled in the chamois leather bag and pulled out a flattish black
stone with a hole through the middle of it. “Here, take it,” she said,
pressing it into my hand; “take it. No harm nebber come from anything
good. Keep it safe--nebber lose it!” and with a warning gesture the old
crone hobbled away in the same cautious way as she had come, looking
from side to side to see if we had been observed.

I was more amused than impressed by the old woman’s earnestness, and was
only prevented from laughing during her oration by the fear of hurting
her feelings. When she was gone I took a good look at the stone which
she had given me. It was intensely black, of extreme hardness, and oval
in shape--just such a flat stone as one would pick up on the seashore if
one wished to throw a long way. It was about three inches long, and an
inch and a half broad at the middle, but rounded off at the extremities.
The most curious part about it were several well-marked ridges which ran
in semicircles over its surface, and gave it exactly the appearance of a
human ear. Altogether I was rather interested in my new possession,
and determined to submit it, as a geological specimen, to my friend
Professor Shroeder of the New York Institute, upon the earliest
opportunity. In the meantime I thrust it into my pocket, and rising from
my chair started off for a short stroll in the shrubbery, dismissing the
incident from my mind.

As my wound had nearly healed by this time, I took my leave of Mr.
Murray shortly afterwards. The Union armies were everywhere victorious
and converging on Richmond, so that my assistance seemed unnecessary,
and I returned to Brooklyn. There I resumed my practice, and married the
second daughter of Josiah Vanburger, the well-known wood engraver. In
the course of a few years I built up a good connection and acquired
considerable reputation in the treatment of pulmonary complaints. I
still kept the old black stone in my pocket, and frequently told the
story of the dramatic way in which I had become possessed of it. I also
kept my resolution of showing it to Professor Shroeder, who was much
interested both by the anecdote and the specimen. He pronounced it to
be a piece of meteoric stone, and drew my attention to the fact that its
resemblance to an ear was not accidental, but that it was most carefully
worked into that shape. A dozen little anatomical points showed that the
worker had been as accurate as he was skilful. “I should not wonder,”
 said the Professor, “if it were broken off from some larger statue,
though how such hard material could be so perfectly worked is more than
I can understand. If there is a statue to correspond I should like to
see it!” So I thought at the time, but I have changed my opinion since.

The next seven or eight years of my life were quiet and uneventful.

Summer followed spring, and spring followed winter, without any
variation in my duties. As the practice increased I admitted J. S.
Jackson as partner, he to have one-fourth of the profits. The continued
strain had told upon my constitution, however, and I became at last so
unwell that my wife insisted upon my consulting Dr. Kavanagh Smith, who
was my colleague at the Samaritan Hospital.

That gentleman examined me, and pronounced the apex of my left lung to
be in a state of consolidation, recommending me at the same time to go
through a course of medical treatment and to take a long sea-voyage.

My own disposition, which is naturally restless, predisposed me strongly
in favour of the latter piece of advice, and the matter was clinched
by my meeting young Russell, of the firm of White, Russell & White, who
offered me a passage in one of his father’s ships, the Marie Celeste,
which was just starting from Boston. “She is a snug little ship,” he
said, “and Tibbs, the captain, is an excellent fellow. There is nothing
like a sailing ship for an invalid.” I was very much of the same opinion
myself, so I closed with the offer on the spot.

My original plan was that my wife should accompany me on my travels.
She has always been a very poor sailor, however, and there were strong
family reasons against her exposing herself to any risk at the time, so
we determined that she should remain at home. I am not a religious or an
effusive man; but oh, thank God for that! As to leaving my practice, I
was easily reconciled to it, as Jackson, my partner, was a reliable and
hard-working man.

I arrived in Boston on October 12, 1873, and proceeded immediately to
the office of the firm in order to thank them for their courtesy. As
I was sitting in the counting-house waiting until they should be
at liberty to see me, the words Marie Celeste suddenly attracted my
attention. I looked round and saw a very tall, gaunt man, who was
leaning across the polished mahogany counter asking some questions of
the clerk at the other side. His face was turned half towards me, and
I could see that he had a strong dash of negro blood in him, being
probably a quadroon or even nearer akin to the black. His curved
aquiline nose and straight lank hair showed the white strain; but the
dark restless eye, sensuous mouth, and gleaming teeth all told of his
African origin. His complexion was of a sickly, unhealthy yellow, and as
his face was deeply pitted with small-pox, the general impression was so
unfavourable as to be almost revolting. When he spoke, however, it
was in a soft, melodious voice, and in well-chosen words, and he was
evidently a man of some education.

“I wished to ask a few questions about the Marie Celeste,” he repeated,
leaning across to the clerk. “She sails the day after to-morrow, does
she not?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young clerk, awed into unusual politeness by the
glimmer of a large diamond in the stranger’s shirt front.

“Where is she bound for?”

“Lisbon.”

“How many of a crew?”

“Seven, sir.”

“Passengers?”

“Yes, two. One of our young gentlemen, and a doctor from New York.”

“No gentleman from the South?” asked the stranger eagerly.

“No, none, sir.”

“Is there room for another passenger?”

“Accommodation for three more,” answered the clerk.

“I’ll go,” said the quadroon decisively; “I’ll go, I’ll engage my
passage at once. Put it down, will you--Mr. Septimius Goring, of New
Orleans.”

The clerk filled up a form and handed it over to the stranger, pointing
to a blank space at the bottom. As Mr. Goring stooped over to sign it
I was horrified to observe that the fingers of his right hand had been
lopped off, and that he was holding the pen between his thumb and the
palm. I have seen thousands slain in battle, and assisted at every
conceivable surgical operation, but I cannot recall any sight which gave
me such a thrill of disgust as that great brown sponge-like hand with
the single member protruding from it. He used it skilfully enough,
however, for, dashing off his signature, he nodded to the clerk and
strolled out of the office just as Mr. White sent out word that he was
ready to receive me.

I went down to the Marie Celeste that evening, and looked over my
berth, which was extremely comfortable considering the small size of the
vessel. Mr. Goring, whom I had seen in the morning, was to have the one
next mine. Opposite was the captain’s cabin and a small berth for Mr.
John Harton, a gentleman who was going out in the interests of the firm.
These little rooms were arranged on each side of the passage which led
from the main-deck to the saloon. The latter was a comfortable room,
the panelling tastefully done in oak and mahogany, with a rich
Brussels carpet and luxurious settees. I was very much pleased with the
accommodation, and also with Tibbs the captain, a bluff, sailor-like
fellow, with a loud voice and hearty manner, who welcomed me to the ship
with effusion, and insisted upon our splitting a bottle of wine in his
cabin. He told me that he intended to take his wife and youngest child
with him on the voyage, and that he hoped with good luck to make Lisbon
in three weeks. We had a pleasant chat and parted the best of friends,
he warning me to make the last of my preparations next morning, as he
intended to make a start by the midday tide, having now shipped all
his cargo. I went back to my hotel, where I found a letter from my wife
awaiting me, and, after a refreshing night’s sleep, returned to the
boat in the morning. From this point I am able to quote from the journal
which I kept in order to vary the monotony of the long sea-voyage. If
it is somewhat bald in places I can at least rely upon its accuracy in
details, as it was written conscientiously from day to day.

October 16.--Cast off our warps at half-past two and were towed out into
the bay, where the tug left us, and with all sail set we bowled along at
about nine knots an hour. I stood upon the poop watching the low land of
America sinking gradually upon the horizon until the evening haze hid it
from my sight. A single red light, however, continued to blaze balefully
behind us, throwing a long track like a trail of blood upon the water,
and it is still visible as I write, though reduced to a mere speck. The
Captain is in a bad humour, for two of his hands disappointed him at
the last moment, and he was compelled to ship a couple of negroes
who happened to be on the quay. The missing men were steady, reliable
fellows, who had been with him several voyages, and their non-appearance
puzzled as well as irritated him. Where a crew of seven men have to work
a fair-sized ship the loss of two experienced seamen is a serious one,
for though the negroes may take a spell at the wheel or swab the decks,
they are of little or no use in rough weather. Our cook is also a black
man, and Mr. Septimius Goring has a little darkie servant, so that we
are rather a piebald community. The accountant, John Harton, promises to
be an acquisition, for he is a cheery, amusing young fellow. Strange how
little wealth has to do with happiness! He has all the world before him
and is seeking his fortune in a far land, yet he is as transparently
happy as a man can be. Goring is rich, if I am not mistaken, and so am
I; but I know that I have a lung, and Goring has some deeper trouble
still, to judge by his features. How poorly do we both contrast with the
careless, penniless clerk!

October 17.--Mrs. Tibbs appeared upon deck for the first time this
morning--a cheerful, energetic woman, with a dear little child just able
to walk and prattle. Young Harton pounced on it at once, and carried
it away to his cabin, where no doubt he will lay the seeds of future
dyspepsia in the child’s stomach. Thus medicine doth make cynics of us
all! The weather is still all that could be desired, with a fine fresh
breeze from the west-sou’-west. The vessel goes so steadily that you
would hardly know that she was moving were it not for the creaking of
the cordage, the bellying of the sails, and the long white furrow in our
wake. Walked the quarter-deck all morning with the Captain, and I think
the keen fresh air has already done my breathing good, for the exercise
did not fatigue me in any way. Tibbs is a remarkably intelligent man,
and we had an interesting argument about Maury’s observations on ocean
currents, which we terminated by going down into his cabin to consult
the original work. There we found Goring, rather to the Captain’s
surprise, as it is not usual for passengers to enter that sanctum unless
specially invited. He apologised for his intrusion, however, pleading
his ignorance of the usages of ship life; and the good-natured sailor
simply laughed at the incident, begging him to remain and favour us with
his company. Goring pointed to the chronometers, the case of which
he had opened, and remarked that he had been admiring them. He has
evidently some practical knowledge of mathematical instruments, as he
told at a glance which was the most trustworthy of the three, and also
named their price within a few dollars. He had a discussion with the
Captain too upon the variation of the compass, and when we came back to
the ocean currents he showed a thorough grasp of the subject. Altogether
he rather improves upon acquaintance, and is a man of decided culture
and refinement. His voice harmonises with his conversation, and both are
the very antithesis of his face and figure.

The noonday observation shows that we have run two hundred and twenty
miles. Towards evening the breeze freshened up, and the first mate
ordered reefs to be taken in the topsails and top-gallant sails in
expectation of a windy night. I observe that the barometer has fallen to
twenty-nine. I trust our voyage will not be a rough one, as I am a poor
sailor, and my health would probably derive more harm than good from
a stormy trip, though I have the greatest confidence in the Captain’s
seamanship and in the soundness of the vessel. Played cribbage with Mrs.
Tibbs after supper, and Harton gave us a couple of tunes on the violin.

October 18.--The gloomy prognostications of last night were not
fulfilled, as the wind died away again, and we are lying now in a long
greasy swell, ruffled here and there by a fleeting catspaw which is
insufficient to fill the sails. The air is colder than it was yesterday,
and I have put on one of the thick woollen jerseys which my wife knitted
for me. Harton came into my cabin in the morning, and we had a cigar
together. He says that he remembers having seen Goring in Cleveland,
Ohio, in ‘69. He was, it appears, a mystery then as now, wandering
about without any visible employment, and extremely reticent on his own
affairs. The man interests me as a psychological study. At breakfast
this morning I suddenly had that vague feeling of uneasiness which comes
over some people when closely stared at, and, looking quickly up, I
met his eyes bent upon me with an intensity which amounted to ferocity,
though their expression instantly softened as he made some conventional
remark upon the weather. Curiously enough, Harton says that he had
a very similar experience yesterday upon deck. I observe that Goring
frequently talks to the coloured seamen as he strolls about--a trait
which I rather admire, as it is common to find half-breeds ignore their
dark strain and treat their black kinsfolk with greater intolerance than
a white man would do. His little page is devoted to him, apparently,
which speaks well for his treatment of him. Altogether, the man is a
curious mixture of incongruous qualities, and unless I am deceived in
him will give me food for observation during the voyage.

The Captain is grumbling about his chronometers, which do not register
exactly the same time. He says it is the first time that they have ever
disagreed. We were unable to get a noonday observation on account of the
haze. By dead reckoning, we have done about a hundred and seventy miles
in the twenty-four hours. The dark seamen have proved, as the skipper
prophesied, to be very inferior hands, but as they can both manage the
wheel well they are kept steering, and so leave the more experienced men
to work the ship. These details are trivial enough, but a small thing
serves as food for gossip aboard ship. The appearance of a whale in the
evening caused quite a flutter among us. From its sharp back and forked
tail, I should pronounce it to have been a rorqual, or “finner,” as they
are called by the fishermen.

October 19.--Wind was cold, so I prudently remained in my cabin all day,
only creeping out for dinner. Lying in my bunk I can, without moving,
reach my books, pipes, or anything else I may want, which is one
advantage of a small apartment. My old wound began to ache a little
to-day, probably from the cold. Read “Montaigne’s Essays” and nursed
myself. Harton came in in the afternoon with Doddy, the Captain’s child,
and the skipper himself followed, so that I held quite a reception.

October 20 and 21.--Still cold, with a continual drizzle of rain, and
I have not been able to leave the cabin. This confinement makes me feel
weak and depressed. Goring came in to see me, but his company did not
tend to cheer me up much, as he hardly uttered a word, but contented
himself with staring at me in a peculiar and rather irritating manner.
He then got up and stole out of the cabin without saying anything. I am
beginning to suspect that the man is a lunatic. I think I mentioned that
his cabin is next to mine. The two are simply divided by a thin wooden
partition which is cracked in many places, some of the cracks being
so large that I can hardly avoid, as I lie in my bunk, observing his
motions in the adjoining room. Without any wish to play the spy, I see
him continually stooping over what appears to be a chart and working
with a pencil and compasses. I have remarked the interest he displays
in matters connected with navigation, but I am surprised that he should
take the trouble to work out the course of the ship. However, it is a
harmless amusement enough, and no doubt he verifies his results by those
of the Captain.

I wish the man did not run in my thoughts so much. I had a nightmare on
the night of the 20th, in which I thought my bunk was a coffin, that I
was laid out in it, and that Goring was endeavouring to nail up the
lid, which I was frantically pushing away. Even when I woke up, I could
hardly persuade myself that I was not in a coffin. As a medical man, I
know that a nightmare is simply a vascular derangement of the cerebral
hemispheres, and yet in my weak state I cannot shake off the morbid
impression which it produces.

October 22.--A fine day, with hardly a cloud in the sky, and a fresh
breeze from the sou’-west which wafts us gaily on our way. There has
evidently been some heavy weather near us, as there is a tremendous
swell on, and the ship lurches until the end of the fore-yard nearly
touches the water. Had a refreshing walk up and down the quarter-deck,
though I have hardly found my sea-legs yet. Several small
birds--chaffinches, I think--perched in the rigging.

4.40 P.M.--While I was on deck this morning I heard a sudden explosion
from the direction of my cabin, and, hurrying down, found that I had
very nearly met with a serious accident. Goring was cleaning a revolver,
it seems, in his cabin, when one of the barrels which he thought was
unloaded went off. The ball passed through the side partition and
imbedded itself in the bulwarks in the exact place where my head usually
rests. I have been under fire too often to magnify trifles, but there is
no doubt that if I had been in the bunk it must have killed me. Goring,
poor fellow, did not know that I had gone on deck that day, and must
therefore have felt terribly frightened. I never saw such emotion in a
man’s face as when, on rushing out of his cabin with the smoking pistol
in his hand, he met me face to face as I came down from deck. Of
course, he was profuse in his apologies, though I simply laughed at the
incident.

11 P.M.--A misfortune has occurred so unexpected and so horrible that
my little escape of the morning dwindles into insignificance. Mrs. Tibbs
and her child have disappeared--utterly and entirely disappeared. I can
hardly compose myself to write the sad details.

About half-past eight Tibbs rushed into my cabin with a very white face
and asked me if I had seen his wife. I answered that I had not. He then
ran wildly into the saloon and began groping about for any trace of her,
while I followed him, endeavouring vainly to persuade him that his fears
were ridiculous. We hunted over the ship for an hour and a half without
coming on any sign of the missing woman or child. Poor Tibbs lost
his voice completely from calling her name. Even the sailors, who are
generally stolid enough, were deeply affected by the sight of him as
he roamed bareheaded and dishevelled about the deck, searching with
feverish anxiety the most impossible places, and returning to them again
and again with a piteous pertinacity. The last time she was seen was
about seven o’clock, when she took Doddy on to the poop to give him a
breath of fresh air before putting him to bed. There was no one there
at the time except the black seaman at the wheel, who denies having seen
her at all. The whole affair is wrapped in mystery. My own theory
is that while Mrs. Tibbs was holding the child and standing near the
bulwarks it gave a spring and fell overboard, and that in her convulsive
attempt to catch or save it, she followed it. I cannot account for the
double disappearance in any other way. It is quite feasible that such a
tragedy should be enacted without the knowledge of the man at the wheel,
since it was dark at the time, and the peaked skylights of the saloon
screen the greater part of the quarter-deck. Whatever the truth may be
it is a terrible catastrophe, and has cast the darkest gloom upon our
voyage. The mate has put the ship about, but of course there is not the
slightest hope of picking them up. The Captain is lying in a state of
stupor in his cabin. I gave him a powerful dose of opium in his coffee
that for a few hours at least his anguish may be deadened.

October 23.--Woke with a vague feeling of heaviness and misfortune, but
it was not until a few moments’ reflection that I was able to recall
our loss of the night before. When I came on deck I saw the poor skipper
standing gazing back at the waste of waters behind us which contains
everything dear to him upon earth. I attempted to speak to him, but he
turned brusquely away, and began pacing the deck with his head sunk upon
his breast. Even now, when the truth is so clear, he cannot pass a boat
or an unbent sail without peering under it. He looks ten years older
than he did yesterday morning. Harton is terribly cut up, for he was
fond of little Doddy, and Goring seems sorry too. At least he has shut
himself up in his cabin all day, and when I got a casual glance at him
his head was resting on his two hands as if in a melancholy reverie. I
fear we are about as dismal a crew as ever sailed. How shocked my wife
will be to hear of our disaster! The swell has gone down now, and we
are doing about eight knots with all sail set and a nice little breeze.
Hyson is practically in command of the ship, as Tibbs, though he does
his best to bear up and keep a brave front, is incapable of applying
himself to serious work.

October 24.--Is the ship accursed? Was there ever a voyage which began
so fairly and which changed so disastrously? Tibbs shot himself through
the head during the night. I was awakened about three o’clock in the
morning by an explosion, and immediately sprang out of bed and rushed
into the Captain’s cabin to find out the cause, though with a terrible
presentiment in my heart. Quickly as I went, Goring went more quickly
still, for he was already in the cabin stooping over the dead body of
the Captain. It was a hideous sight, for the whole front of his face
was blown in, and the little room was swimming in blood. The pistol was
lying beside him on the floor, just as it had dropped from his hand. He
had evidently put it to his mouth before pulling the trigger. Goring
and I picked him reverently up and laid him on his bed. The crew had all
clustered into his cabin, and the six white men were deeply grieved, for
they were old hands who had sailed with him many years. There were dark
looks and murmurs among them too, and one of them openly declared that
the ship was haunted. Harton helped to lay the poor skipper out, and
we did him up in canvas between us. At twelve o’clock the foreyard was
hauled aback, and we committed his body to the deep, Goring reading the
Church of England burial service. The breeze has freshened up, and we
have done ten knots all day and sometimes twelve. The sooner we reach
Lisbon and get away from this accursed ship the better pleased shall I
be. I feel as though we were in a floating coffin.

Little wonder that the poor sailors are superstitious when I, an
educated man, feel it so strongly.

October 25.--Made a good run all day. Feel listless and depressed.

October 26.--Goring, Harton, and I had a chat together on deck in the
morning. Harton tried to draw Goring out as to his profession, and his
object in going to Europe, but the quadroon parried all his questions
and gave us no information. Indeed, he seemed to be slightly offended
by Harton’s pertinacity, and went down into his cabin. I wonder why
we should both take such an interest in this man! I suppose it is his
striking appearance, coupled with his apparent wealth, which piques our
curiosity. Harton has a theory that he is really a detective, that he
is after some criminal who has got away to Portugal, and that he chooses
this peculiar way of travelling that he may arrive unnoticed and
pounce upon his quarry unawares. I think the supposition is rather a
far-fetched one, but Harton bases it upon a book which Goring left
on deck, and which he picked up and glanced over. It was a sort of
scrap-book it seems, and contained a large number of newspaper cuttings.
All these cuttings related to murders which had been committed at
various times in the States during the last twenty years or so. The
curious thing which Harton observed about them, however, was that they
were invariably murders the authors of which had never been brought
to justice. They varied in every detail, he says, as to the manner of
execution and the social status of the victim, but they uniformly wound
up with the same formula that the murderer was still at large, though,
of course, the police had every reason to expect his speedy capture.
Certainly the incident seems to support Harton’s theory, though it
may be a mere whim of Gorings, or, as I suggested to Harton, he may be
collecting materials for a book which shall outvie De Quincey. In any
case it is no business of ours.

October 27, 28.--Wind still fair, and we are making good progress.
Strange how easily a human unit may drop out of its place and be
forgotten! Tibbs is hardly ever mentioned now; Hyson has taken
possession of his cabin, and all goes on as before. Were it not for
Mrs. Tibbs’s sewing-machine upon a side-table we might forget that the
unfortunate family had ever existed. Another accident occurred on board
to-day, though fortunately not a very serious one. One of our white
hands had gone down the afterhold to fetch up a spare coil of rope, when
one of the hatches which he had removed came crashing down on the top of
him. He saved his life by springing out of the way, but one of his feet
was terribly crushed, and he will be of little use for the remainder of
the voyage. He attributes the accident to the carelessness of his negro
companion, who had helped him to shift the hatches. The latter, however,
puts it down to the roll of the ship. Whatever be the cause, it reduces
our shorthanded crew still further. This run of ill-luck seems to be
depressing Harton, for he has lost his usual good spirits and joviality.
Goring is the only one who preserves his cheerfulness. I see him still
working at his chart in his own cabin. His nautical knowledge would be
useful should anything happen to Hyson--which God forbid!

October 29, 30.--Still bowling along with a fresh breeze. All quiet and
nothing of note to chronicle.

October 31.--My weak lungs, combined with the exciting episodes of the
voyage, have shaken my nervous system so much that the most trivial
incident affects me. I can hardly believe that I am the same man who
tied the external iliac artery, an operation requiring the nicest
precision, under a heavy rifle fire at Antietam. I am as nervous as a
child. I was lying half dozing last night about four bells in the middle
watch trying in vain to drop into a refreshing sleep. There was no light
inside my cabin, but a single ray of moonlight streamed in through the
port-hole, throwing a silvery flickering circle upon the door. As I lay
I kept my drowsy eyes upon this circle, and was conscious that it was
gradually becoming less well-defined as my senses left me, when I was
suddenly recalled to full wakefulness by the appearance of a small
dark object in the very centre of the luminous disc. I lay quietly and
breathlessly watching it. Gradually it grew larger and plainer, and then
I perceived that it was a human hand which had been cautiously inserted
through the chink of the half-closed door--a hand which, as I observed
with a thrill of horror, was not provided with fingers. The door swung
cautiously backwards, and Goring’s head followed his hand. It appeared
in the centre of the moonlight, and was framed as it were in a ghastly
uncertain halo, against which his features showed out plainly. It seemed
to me that I had never seen such an utterly fiendish and merciless
expression upon a human face. His eyes were dilated and glaring, his
lips drawn back so as to show his white fangs, and his straight black
hair appeared to bristle over his low forehead like the hood of a cobra.
The sudden and noiseless apparition had such an effect upon me that I
sprang up in bed trembling in every limb, and held out my hand towards
my revolver. I was heartily ashamed of my hastiness when he explained
the object of his intrusion, as he immediately did in the most courteous
language. He had been suffering from toothache, poor fellow! and had
come in to beg some laudanum, knowing that I possessed a medicine chest.
As to a sinister expression he is never a beauty, and what with my state
of nervous tension and the effect of the shifting moonlight it was easy
to conjure up something horrible. I gave him twenty drops, and he went
off again with many expressions of gratitude. I can hardly say how much
this trivial incident affected me. I have felt unstrung all day.

A week’s record of our voyage is here omitted, as nothing eventful
occurred during the time, and my log consists merely of a few pages of
unimportant gossip.

November 7.--Harton and I sat on the poop all the morning, for the
weather is becoming very warm as we come into southern latitudes. We
reckon that we have done two-thirds of our voyage. How glad we shall
be to see the green banks of the Tagus, and leave this unlucky ship for
ever! I was endeavouring to amuse Harton to-day and to while away the
time by telling him some of the experiences of my past life. Among
others I related to him how I came into the possession of my black
stone, and as a finale I rummaged in the side pocket of my old shooting
coat and produced the identical object in question. He and I were
bending over it together, I pointing out to him the curious ridges upon
its surface, when we were conscious of a shadow falling between us and
the sun, and looking round saw Goring standing behind us glaring over
our shoulders at the stone. For some reason or other he appeared to be
powerfully excited, though he was evidently trying to control himself
and to conceal his emotion. He pointed once or twice at my relic with
his stubby thumb before he could recover himself sufficiently to ask
what it was and how I obtained it--a question put in such a brusque
manner that I should have been offended had I not known the man to be an
eccentric. I told him the story very much as I had told it to Harton. He
listened with the deepest interest, and then asked me if I had any idea
what the stone was. I said I had not, beyond that it was meteoric. He
asked me if I had ever tried its effect upon a negro. I said I had not.
“Come,” said he, “we’ll see what our black friend at the wheel thinks
of it.” He took the stone in his hand and went across to the sailor,
and the two examined it carefully. I could see the man gesticulating and
nodding his head excitedly as if making some assertion, while his face
betrayed the utmost astonishment, mixed I think with some reverence.
Goring came across the deck to us presently, still holding the stone in
his hand. “He says it is a worthless, useless thing,” he said, “and fit
only to be chucked overboard,” with which he raised his hand and would
most certainly have made an end of my relic, had the black sailor behind
him not rushed forward and seized him by the wrist. Finding himself
secured Goring dropped the stone and turned away with a very bad grace
to avoid my angry remonstrances at his breach of faith. The black
picked up the stone and handed it to me with a low bow and every sign of
profound respect. The whole affair is inexplicable. I am rapidly coming
to the conclusion that Goring is a maniac or something very near
one. When I compare the effect produced by the stone upon the sailor,
however, with the respect shown to Martha on the plantation, and the
surprise of Goring on its first production, I cannot but come to the
conclusion that I have really got hold of some powerful talisman which
appeals to the whole dark race. I must not trust it in Goring’s hands
again.

November 8, 9.--What splendid weather we are having! Beyond one little
blow, we have had nothing but fresh breezes the whole voyage. These two
days we have made better runs than any hitherto.

It is a pretty thing to watch the spray fly up from our prow as it cuts
through the waves. The sun shines through it and breaks it up into a
number of miniature rainbows--“sun-dogs,” the sailors call them. I stood
on the fo’csle-head for several hours to-day watching the effect, and
surrounded by a halo of prismatic colours.

The steersman has evidently told the other blacks about my wonderful
stone, for I am treated by them all with the greatest respect. Talking
about optical phenomena, we had a curious one yesterday evening which
was pointed out to me by Hyson. This was the appearance of a triangular
well-defined object high up in the heavens to the north of us. He
explained that it was exactly like the Peak of Teneriffe as seen from
a great distance--the peak was, however, at that moment at least five
hundred miles to the south. It may have been a cloud, or it may have
been one of those strange reflections of which one reads. The weather
is very warm. The mate says that he never knew it so warm in these
latitudes. Played chess with Harton in the evening.

November 10.--It is getting warmer and warmer. Some land birds came and
perched in the rigging today, though we are still a considerable way
from our destination. The heat is so great that we are too lazy to do
anything but lounge about the decks and smoke. Goring came over to me
to-day and asked me some more questions about my stone; but I answered
him rather shortly, for I have not quite forgiven him yet for the cool
way in which he attempted to deprive me of it.

November 11, 12.--Still making good progress. I had no idea Portugal was
ever as hot as this, but no doubt it is cooler on land. Hyson himself
seemed surprised at it, and so do the men.

November 13.--A most extraordinary event has happened, so extraordinary
as to be almost inexplicable. Either Hyson has blundered wonderfully,
or some magnetic influence has disturbed our instruments. Just about
daybreak the watch on the fo’csle-head shouted out that he heard the
sound of surf ahead, and Hyson thought he saw the loom of land. The ship
was put about, and, though no lights were seen, none of us doubted that
we had struck the Portuguese coast a little sooner than we had expected.
What was our surprise to see the scene which was revealed to us at break
of day! As far as we could look on either side was one long line of
surf, great, green billows rolling in and breaking into a cloud of foam.
But behind the surf what was there! Not the green banks nor the
high cliffs of the shores of Portugal, but a great sandy waste which
stretched away and away until it blended with the skyline. To right and
left, look where you would, there was nothing but yellow sand, heaped
in some places into fantastic mounds, some of them several hundred feet
high, while in other parts were long stretches as level apparently as a
billiard board. Harton and I, who had come on deck together, looked
at each other in astonishment, and Harton burst out laughing. Hyson
is exceedingly mortified at the occurrence, and protests that the
instruments have been tampered with. There is no doubt that this is the
mainland of Africa, and that it was really the Peak of Teneriffe which
we saw some days ago upon the northern horizon. At the time when we saw
the land birds we must have been passing some of the Canary Islands. If
we continued on the same course, we are now to the north of Cape Blanco,
near the unexplored country which skirts the great Sahara. All we can
do is to rectify our instruments as far as possible and start afresh for
our destination.

8.30 P.M.--Have been lying in a calm all day. The coast is now about a
mile and a half from us. Hyson has examined the instruments, but cannot
find any reason for their extraordinary deviation.

This is the end of my private journal, and I must make the remainder of
my statement from memory. There is little chance of my being mistaken
about facts which have seared themselves into my recollection. That very
night the storm which had been brewing so long burst over us, and I came
to learn whither all those little incidents were tending which I had
recorded so aimlessly. Blind fool that I was not to have seen it sooner!
I shall tell what occurred as precisely as I can.

I had gone into my cabin about half-past eleven, and was preparing to go
to bed, when a tap came at my door. On opening it I saw Goring’s little
black page, who told me that his master would like to have a word with
me on deck. I was rather surprised that he should want me at such a late
hour, but I went up without hesitation. I had hardly put my foot on the
quarter-deck before I was seized from behind, dragged down upon my back,
and a handkerchief slipped round my mouth. I struggled as hard as I
could, but a coil of rope was rapidly and firmly wound round me, and I
found myself lashed to the davit of one of the boats, utterly powerless
to do or say anything, while the point of a knife pressed to my throat
warned me to cease my struggles. The night was so dark that I had
been unable hitherto to recognise my assailants, but as my eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, and the moon broke out through the clouds that
obscured it, I made out that I was surrounded by the two negro sailors,
the black cook, and my fellow-passenger Goring. Another man was
crouching on the deck at my feet, but he was in the shadow and I could
not recognise him.

All this occurred so rapidly that a minute could hardly have elapsed
from the time I mounted the companion until I found myself gagged and
powerless. It was so sudden that I could scarce bring myself to realise
it, or to comprehend what it all meant. I heard the gang round me
speaking in short, fierce whispers to each other, and some instinct told
me that my life was the question at issue. Goring spoke authoritatively
and angrily--the others doggedly and all together, as if disputing his
commands. Then they moved away in a body to the opposite side of
the deck, where I could still hear them whispering, though they were
concealed from my view by the saloon skylights.

All this time the voices of the watch on deck chatting and laughing at
the other end of the ship were distinctly audible, and I could see them
gathered in a group, little dreaming of the dark doings which were going
on within thirty yards of them. Oh! that I could have given them one
word of warning, even though I had lost my life in doing it! but it was
impossible. The moon was shining fitfully through the scattered clouds,
and I could see the silvery gleam of the surge, and beyond it the vast
weird desert with its fantastic sand-hills. Glancing down, I saw that
the man who had been crouching on the deck was still lying there, and
as I gazed at him, a flickering ray of moonlight fell full upon his
upturned face. Great Heaven! even now, when more than twelve years
have elapsed, my hand trembles as I write that, in spite of distorted
features and projecting eyes, I recognised the face of Harton, the
cheery young clerk who had been my companion during the voyage. It
needed no medical eye to see that he was quite dead, while the twisted
handkerchief round the neck, and the gag in his mouth, showed the
silent way in which the hell-hounds had done their work. The clue which
explained every event of our voyage came upon me like a flash of light
as I gazed on poor Harton’s corpse. Much was dark and unexplained, but I
felt a great dim perception of the truth.

I heard the striking of a match at the other side of the skylights, and
then I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Goring standing up on the bulwarks
and holding in his hands what appeared to be a dark lantern. He lowered
this for a moment over the side of the ship, and, to my inexpressible
astonishment, I saw it answered instantaneously by a flash among the
sand-hills on shore, which came and went so rapidly, that unless I
had been following the direction of Goring’s gaze, I should never have
detected it. Again he lowered the lantern, and again it was answered
from the shore. He then stepped down from the bulwarks, and in doing so
slipped, making such a noise, that for a moment my heart bounded with
the thought that the attention of the watch would be directed to
his proceedings. It was a vain hope. The night was calm and the ship
motionless, so that no idea of duty kept them vigilant. Hyson, who after
the death of Tibbs was in command of both watches, had gone below to
snatch a few hours’ sleep, and the boatswain who was left in charge was
standing with the other two men at the foot of the foremast. Powerless,
speechless, with the cords cutting into my flesh and the murdered man at
my feet, I awaited the next act in the tragedy.

The four ruffians were standing up now at the other side of the deck.
The cook was armed with some sort of a cleaver, the others had knives,
and Goring had a revolver. They were all leaning against the rail and
looking out over the water as if watching for something. I saw one of
them grasp another’s arm and point as if at some object, and following
the direction I made out the loom of a large moving mass making towards
the ship. As it emerged from the gloom I saw that it was a great canoe
crammed with men and propelled by at least a score of paddles. As it
shot under our stern the watch caught sight of it also, and raising
a cry hurried aft. They were too late, however. A swarm of gigantic
negroes clambered over the quarter, and led by Goring swept down the
deck in an irresistible torrent. All opposition was overpowered in a
moment, the unarmed watch were knocked over and bound, and the sleepers
dragged out of their bunks and secured in the same manner.

Hyson made an attempt to defend the narrow passage leading to his cabin,
and I heard a scuffle, and his voice shouting for assistance. There
was none to assist, however, and he was brought on to the poop with the
blood streaming from a deep cut in his forehead. He was gagged like the
others, and a council was held upon our fate by the negroes. I saw our
black seamen pointing towards me and making some statement, which was
received with murmurs of astonishment and incredulity by the savages.
One of them then came over to me, and plunging his hand into my pocket
took out my black stone and held it up. He then handed it to a man who
appeared to be a chief, who examined it as minutely as the light would
permit, and muttering a few words passed it on to the warrior beside
him, who also scrutinised it and passed it on until it had gone from
hand to hand round the whole circle. The chief then said a few words
to Goring in the native tongue, on which the quadroon addressed me in
English. At this moment I seem to see the scene. The tall masts of the
ship with the moonlight streaming down, silvering the yards and bringing
the network of cordage into hard relief; the group of dusky warriors
leaning on their spears; the dead man at my feet; the line of
white-faced prisoners, and in front of me the loathsome half-breed,
looking in his white linen and elegant clothes a strange contrast to his
associates.

“You will bear me witness,” he said in his softest accents, “that I am
no party to sparing your life. If it rested with me you would die as
these other men are about to do. I have no personal grudge against
either you or them, but I have devoted my life to the destruction of the
white race, and you are the first that has ever been in my power and has
escaped me. You may thank that stone of yours for your life. These poor
fellows reverence it, and indeed if it really be what they think it
is they have cause. Should it prove when we get ashore that they are
mistaken, and that its shape and material is a mere chance, nothing can
save your life. In the meantime we wish to treat you well, so if there
are any of your possessions which you would like to take with you, you
are at liberty to get them.” As he finished he gave a sign, and a couple
of the negroes unbound me, though without removing the gag. I was
led down into the cabin, where I put a few valuables into my pockets,
together with a pocket-compass and my journal of the voyage. They then
pushed me over the side into a small canoe, which was lying beside the
large one, and my guards followed me, and shoving off began paddling for
the shore. We had got about a hundred yards or so from the ship when
our steersman held up his hand, and the paddlers paused for a moment
and listened. Then on the silence of the night I heard a sort of dull,
moaning sound, followed by a succession of splashes in the water. That
is all I know of the fate of my poor shipmates. Almost immediately
afterwards the large canoe followed us, and the deserted ship was left
drifting about--a dreary, spectre-like hulk. Nothing was taken from her
by the savages. The whole fiendish transaction was carried through as
decorously and temperately as though it were a religious rite.

The first grey of daylight was visible in the east as we passed through
the surge and reached the shore. Leaving half-a-dozen men with the
canoes, the rest of the negroes set off through the sand-hills, leading
me with them, but treating me very gently and respectfully. It was
difficult walking, as we sank over our ankles into the loose, shifting
sand at every step, and I was nearly dead beat by the time we reached
the native village, or town rather, for it was a place of considerable
dimensions. The houses were conical structures not unlike bee-hives,
and were made of compressed seaweed cemented over with a rude form of
mortar, there being neither stick nor stone upon the coast nor anywhere
within many hundreds of miles. As we entered the town an enormous crowd
of both sexes came swarming out to meet us, beating tom-toms and howling
and screaming. On seeing me they redoubled their yells and assumed a
threatening attitude, which was instantly quelled by a few words shouted
by my escort. A buzz of wonder succeeded the war-cries and yells of the
moment before, and the whole dense mass proceeded down the broad central
street of the town, having my escort and myself in the centre.

My statement hitherto may seem so strange as to excite doubt in the
minds of those who do not know me, but it was the fact which I am now
about to relate which caused my own brother-in-law to insult me by
disbelief. I can but relate the occurrence in the simplest words, and
trust to chance and time to prove their truth. In the centre of this
main street there was a large building, formed in the same primitive way
as the others, but towering high above them; a stockade of beautifully
polished ebony rails was planted all round it, the framework of the door
was formed by two magnificent elephant’s tusks sunk in the ground on
each side and meeting at the top, and the aperture was closed by a
screen of native cloth richly embroidered with gold. We made our way
to this imposing-looking structure, but, on reaching the opening in the
stockade, the multitude stopped and squatted down upon their hams, while
I was led through into the enclosure by a few of the chiefs and
elders of the tribe, Goring accompanying us, and in fact directing the
proceedings. On reaching the screen which closed the temple--for such it
evidently was--my hat and my shoes were removed, and I was then led in,
a venerable old negro leading the way carrying in his hand my stone,
which had been taken from my pocket. The building was only lit up by
a few long slits in the roof, through which the tropical sun poured,
throwing broad golden bars upon the clay floor, alternating with
intervals of darkness.

The interior was even larger than one would have imagined from the
outside appearance. The walls were hung with native mats, shells, and
other ornaments, but the remainder of the great space was quite empty,
with the exception of a single object in the centre. This was the figure
of a colossal negro, which I at first thought to be some real king or
high priest of titanic size, but as I approached it I saw by the way in
which the light was reflected from it that it was a statue admirably cut
in jet-black stone. I was led up to this idol, for such it seemed to be,
and looking at it closer I saw that though it was perfect in every other
respect, one of its ears had been broken short off. The grey-haired
negro who held my relic mounted upon a small stool, and stretching up
his arm fitted Martha’s black stone on to the jagged surface on the side
of the statue’s head. There could not be a doubt that the one had been
broken off from the other. The parts dovetailed together so accurately
that when the old man removed his hand the ear stuck in its place for
a few seconds before dropping into his open palm. The group round
me prostrated themselves upon the ground at the sight with a cry of
reverence, while the crowd outside, to whom the result was communicated,
set up a wild whooping and cheering.

In a moment I found myself converted from a prisoner into a demi-god.
I was escorted back through the town in triumph, the people pressing
forward to touch my clothing and to gather up the dust on which my foot
had trod. One of the largest huts was put at my disposal, and a banquet
of every native delicacy was served me. I still felt, however, that I
was not a free man, as several spearmen were placed as a guard at the
entrance of my hut. All day my mind was occupied with plans of escape,
but none seemed in any way feasible. On the one side was the great arid
desert stretching away to Timbuctoo, on the other was a sea untraversed
by vessels. The more I pondered over the problem the more hopeless did
it seem.

I little dreamed how near I was to its solution.

Night had fallen, and the clamour of the negroes had died gradually
away. I was stretched on the couch of skins which had been provided
for me, and was still meditating over my future, when Goring walked
stealthily into the hut. My first idea was that he had come to complete
his murderous holocaust by making away with me, the last survivor, and
I sprang up upon my feet, determined to defend myself to the last.
He smiled when he saw the action, and motioned me down again while he
seated himself upon the other end of the couch.

“What do you think of me?” was the astonishing question with which he
commenced our conversation.

“Think of you!” I almost yelled. “I think you the vilest, most unnatural
renegade that ever polluted the earth. If we were away from these black
devils of yours I would strangle you with my hands!”

“Don’t speak so loud,” he said, without the slightest appearance
of irritation. “I don’t want our chat to be cut short. So you would
strangle me, would you!” he went on, with an amused smile. “I suppose I
am returning good for evil, for I have come to help you to escape.”

“You!” I gasped incredulously.

“Yes, I,” he continued.

“Oh, there is no credit to me in the matter. I am quite consistent.
There is no reason why I should not be perfectly candid with you. I wish
to be king over these fellows--not a very high ambition, certainly, but
you know what Caesar said about being first in a village in Gaul. Well,
this unlucky stone of yours has not only saved your life, but has turned
all their heads so that they think you are come down from heaven, and
my influence will be gone until you are out of the way. That is why I am
going to help you to escape, since I cannot kill you”--this in the most
natural and dulcet voice, as if the desire to do so were a matter of
course.

“You would give the world to ask me a few questions,” he went on, after
a pause; “but you are too proud to do it. Never mind, I’ll tell you one
or two things, because I want your fellow white men to know them when
you go back--if you are lucky enough to get back. About that cursed
stone of yours, for instance. These negroes, or at least so the legend
goes, were Mahometans originally. While Mahomet himself was still alive,
there was a schism among his followers, and the smaller party moved away
from Arabia, and eventually crossed Africa. They took away with them, in
their exile, a valuable relic of their old faith in the shape of a large
piece of the black stone of Mecca. The stone was a meteoric one, as you
may have heard, and in its fall upon the earth it broke into two pieces.
One of these pieces is still at Mecca. The larger piece was carried away
to Barbary, where a skilful worker modelled it into the fashion which
you saw to-day. These men are the descendants of the original seceders
from Mahomet, and they have brought their relic safely through all their
wanderings until they settled in this strange place, where the desert
protects them from their enemies.”

“And the ear?” I asked, almost involuntarily.

“Oh, that was the same story over again. Some of the tribe wandered away
to the south a few hundred years ago, and one of them, wishing to have
good luck for the enterprise, got into the temple at night and carried
off one of the ears. There has been a tradition among the negroes ever
since that the ear would come back some day. The fellow who carried
it was caught by some slaver, no doubt, and that was how it got
into America, and so into your hands--and you have had the honour of
fulfilling the prophecy.”

He paused for a few minutes, resting his head upon his hands, waiting
apparently for me to speak. When he looked up again, the whole
expression of his face had changed. His features were firm and set, and
he changed the air of half levity with which he had spoken before for
one of sternness and almost ferocity.

“I wish you to carry a message back,” he said, “to the white race,
the great dominating race whom I hate and defy. Tell them that I have
battened on their blood for twenty years, that I have slain them
until even I became tired of what had once been a joy, that I did this
unnoticed and unsuspected in the face of every precaution which their
civilisation could suggest. There is no satisfaction in revenge when
your enemy does not know who has struck him. I am not sorry, therefore,
to have you as a messenger. There is no need why I should tell you
how this great hate became born in me. See this,” and he held up his
mutilated hand; “that was done by a white man’s knife. My father was
white, my mother was a slave. When he died she was sold again, and I, a
child then, saw her lashed to death to break her of some of the little
airs and graces which her late master had encouraged in her. My young
wife, too, oh, my young wife!” a shudder ran through his whole frame.
“No matter! I swore my oath, and I kept it. From Maine to Florida, and
from Boston to San Francisco, you could track my steps by sudden deaths
which baffled the police. I warred against the whole white race as they
for centuries had warred against the black one. At last, as I tell you,
I sickened of blood. Still, the sight of a white face was abhorrent to
me, and I determined to find some bold free black people and to throw
in my lot with them, to cultivate their latent powers, and to form
a nucleus for a great coloured nation. This idea possessed me, and I
travelled over the world for two years seeking for what I desired. At
last I almost despaired of finding it. There was no hope of regeneration
in the slave-dealing Soudanese, the debased Fantee, or the Americanised
negroes of Liberia. I was returning from my quest when chance brought me
in contact with this magnificent tribe of dwellers in the desert, and I
threw in my lot with them. Before doing so, however, my old instinct of
revenge prompted me to make one last visit to the United States, and I
returned from it in the Marie Celeste.

“As to the voyage itself, your intelligence will have told you by this
time that, thanks to my manipulation, both compasses and chronometers
were entirely untrustworthy. I alone worked out the course with correct
instruments of my own, while the steering was done by my black friends
under my guidance. I pushed Tibbs’s wife overboard. What! You look
surprised and shrink away. Surely you had guessed that by this time. I
would have shot you that day through the partition, but unfortunately
you were not there. I tried again afterwards, but you were awake. I shot
Tibbs. I think the idea of suicide was carried out rather neatly.
Of course when once we got on the coast the rest was simple. I had
bargained that all on board should die; but that stone of yours upset my
plans. I also bargained that there should be no plunder. No one can
say we are pirates. We have acted from principle, not from any sordid
motive.”

I listened in amazement to the summary of his crimes which this strange
man gave me, all in the quietest and most composed of voices, as though
detailing incidents of every-day occurrence. I still seem to see him
sitting like a hideous nightmare at the end of my couch, with the single
rude lamp flickering over his cadaverous features.

“And now,” he continued, “there is no difficulty about your escape.
These stupid adopted children of mine will say that you have gone back
to heaven from whence you came. The wind blows off the land. I have
a boat all ready for you, well stored with provisions and water. I am
anxious to be rid of you, so you may rely that nothing is neglected.
Rise up and follow me.”

I did what he commanded, and he led me through the door of the hut.

The guards had either been withdrawn, or Goring had arranged matters
with them. We passed unchallenged through the town and across the sandy
plain. Once more I heard the roar of the sea, and saw the long white
line of the surge. Two figures were standing upon the shore arranging
the gear of a small boat. They were the two sailors who had been with us
on the voyage.

“See him safely through the surf,” said Goring. The two men sprang in
and pushed off, pulling me in after them. With mainsail and jib we ran
out from the land and passed safely over the bar. Then my two companions
without a word of farewell sprang overboard, and I saw their heads like
black dots on the white foam as they made their way back to the shore,
while I scudded away into the blackness of the night. Looking back I
caught my last glimpse of Goring. He was standing upon the summit of a
sand-hill, and the rising moon behind him threw his gaunt angular figure
into hard relief. He was waving his arms frantically to and fro; it may
have been to encourage me on my way, but the gestures seemed to me at
the time to be threatening ones, and I have often thought that it was
more likely that his old savage instinct had returned when he realised
that I was out of his power. Be that as it may, it was the last that I
ever saw or ever shall see of Septimius Goring.

There is no need for me to dwell upon my solitary voyage. I steered as
well as I could for the Canaries, but was picked up upon the fifth day
by the British and African Steam Navigation Company’s boat Monrovia.
Let me take this opportunity of tendering my sincerest thanks to Captain
Stornoway and his officers for the great kindness which they showed me
from that time till they landed me in Liverpool, where I was enabled to
take one of the Guion boats to New York.

From the day on which I found myself once more in the bosom of my family
I have said little of what I have undergone. The subject is still an
intensely painful one to me, and the little which I have dropped
has been discredited. I now put the facts before the public as they
occurred, careless how far they may be believed, and simply writing them
down because my lung is growing weaker, and I feel the responsibility of
holding my peace longer. I make no vague statement. Turn to your map of
Africa. There above Cape Blanco, where the land trends away north and
south from the westernmost point of the continent, there it is that
Septimius Goring still reigns over his dark subjects, unless retribution
has overtaken him; and there, where the long green ridges run swiftly in
to roar and hiss upon the hot yellow sand, it is there that Harton lies
with Hyson and the other poor fellows who were done to death in the
Marie Celeste.




THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT.

Of all the sciences which have puzzled the sons of men, none had such
an attraction for the learned Professor von Baumgarten as those which
relate to psychology and the ill-defined relations between mind and
matter. A celebrated anatomist, a profound chemist, and one of the first
physiologists in Europe, it was a relief for him to turn from these
subjects and to bring his varied knowledge to bear upon the study of
the soul and the mysterious relationship of spirits. At first, when as a
young man he began to dip into the secrets of mesmerism, his mind seemed
to be wandering in a strange land where all was chaos and darkness,
save that here and there some great unexplainable and disconnected fact
loomed out in front of him. As the years passed, however, and as the
worthy Professor’s stock of knowledge increased, for knowledge begets
knowledge as money bears interest, much which had seemed strange and
unaccountable began to take another shape in his eyes. New trains of
reasoning became familiar to him, and he perceived connecting links
where all had been incomprehensible and startling.

By experiments which extended over twenty years, he obtained a basis
of facts upon which it was his ambition to build up a new exact science
which should embrace mesmerism, spiritualism, and all cognate subjects.
In this he was much helped by his intimate knowledge of the more
intricate parts of animal physiology which treat of nerve currents and
the working of the brain; for Alexis von Baumgarten was Regius Professor
of Physiology at the University of Keinplatz, and had all the resources
of the laboratory to aid him in his profound researches.

Professor von Baumgarten was tall and thin, with a hatchet face and
steel-grey eyes, which were singularly bright and penetrating. Much
thought had furrowed his forehead and contracted his heavy eyebrows, so
that he appeared to wear a perpetual frown, which often misled people
as to his character, for though austere he was tender-hearted. He
was popular among the students, who would gather round him after his
lectures and listen eagerly to his strange theories. Often he would call
for volunteers from amongst them in order to conduct some experiment, so
that eventually there was hardly a lad in the class who had not, at one
time or another, been thrown into a mesmeric trance by his Professor.

Of all these young devotees of science there was none who equalled
in enthusiasm Fritz von Hartmann. It had often seemed strange to his
fellow-students that wild, reckless Fritz, as dashing a young fellow
as ever hailed from the Rhinelands, should devote the time and trouble
which he did in reading up abstruse works and in assisting the Professor
in his strange experiments. The fact was, however, that Fritz was a
knowing and long-headed fellow. Months before he had lost his heart
to young Elise, the blue-eyed, yellow-haired daughter of the lecturer.
Although he had succeeded in learning from her lips that she was not
indifferent to his suit, he had never dared to announce himself to her
family as a formal suitor. Hence he would have found it a difficult
matter to see his young lady had he not adopted the expedient of making
himself useful to the Professor. By this means he frequently was asked
to the old man’s house, where he willingly submitted to be experimented
upon in any way as long as there was a chance of his receiving one
bright glance from the eyes of Elise or one touch of her little hand.

Young Fritz von Hartmann was a handsome lad enough. There were broad
acres, too, which would descend to him when his father died. To many
he would have seemed an eligible suitor; but Madame frowned upon his
presence in the house, and lectured the Professor at times on his
allowing such a wolf to prowl around their lamb. To tell the truth,
Fritz had an evil name in Keinplatz. Never was there a riot or a duel,
or any other mischief afoot, but the young Rhinelander figured as a
ringleader in it. No one used more free and violent language, no one
drank more, no one played cards more habitually, no one was more idle,
save in the one solitary subject.

No wonder, then, that the good Frau Professorin gathered her Fräulein
under her wing, and resented the attentions of such a _mauvais sujet_. As
to the worthy lecturer, he was too much engrossed by his strange studies
to form an opinion upon the subject one way or the other.

For many years there was one question which had continually obtruded
itself upon his thoughts. All his experiments and his theories turned
upon a single point. A hundred times a day the Professor asked himself
whether it was possible for the human spirit to exist apart from
the body for a time and then to return to it once again. When the
possibility first suggested itself to him his scientific mind had
revolted from it. It clashed too violently with preconceived ideas
and the prejudices of his early training. Gradually, however, as he
proceeded farther and farther along the pathway of original research,
his mind shook off its old fetters and became ready to face any
conclusion which could reconcile the facts. There were many things
which made him believe that it was possible for mind to exist apart
from matter. At last it occurred to him that by a daring and original
experiment the question might be definitely decided.

“It is evident,” he remarked in his celebrated article upon invisible
entities, which appeared in the Keinplatz wochenliche Medicalschrift
about this time, and which surprised the whole scientific world--“it
is evident that under certain conditions the soul or mind does separate
itself from the body. In the case of a mesmerised person, the body lies
in a cataleptic condition, but the spirit has left it. Perhaps you reply
that the soul is there, but in a dormant condition. I answer that
this is not so, otherwise how can one account for the condition of
clairvoyance, which has fallen into disrepute through the knavery of
certain scoundrels, but which can easily be shown to be an undoubted
fact. I have been able myself, with a sensitive subject, to obtain an
accurate description of what was going on in another room or another
house. How can such knowledge be accounted for on any hypothesis save
that the soul of the subject has left the body and is wandering through
space? For a moment it is recalled by the voice of the operator and
says what it has seen, and then wings its way once more through the air.
Since the spirit is by its very nature invisible, we cannot see these
comings and goings, but we see their effect in the body of the subject,
now rigid and inert, now struggling to narrate impressions which could
never have come to it by natural means. There is only one way which I
can see by which the fact can be demonstrated. Although we in the flesh
are unable to see these spirits, yet our own spirits, could we separate
them from the body, would be conscious of the presence of others. It is
my intention, therefore, shortly to mesmerise one of my pupils. I shall
then mesmerise myself in a manner which has become easy to me. After
that, if my theory holds good, my spirit will have no difficulty in
meeting and communing with the spirit of my pupil, both being separated
from the body. I hope to be able to communicate the result of this
interesting experiment in an early number of the Keinplatz wochenliche
Medicalschrift.”

When the good Professor finally fulfilled his promise, and published an
account of what occurred, the narrative was so extraordinary that it was
received with general incredulity. The tone of some of the papers was
so offensive in their comments upon the matter that the angry savant
declared that he would never open his mouth again or refer to the
subject in any way--a promise which he has faithfully kept. This
narrative has been compiled, however, from the most authentic sources,
and the events cited in it may be relied upon as substantially correct.

It happened, then, that shortly after the time when Professor von
Baumgarten conceived the idea of the above-mentioned experiment, he was
walking thoughtfully homewards after a long day in the laboratory, when
he met a crowd of roystering students who had just streamed out from a
beer-house. At the head of them, half-intoxicated and very noisy, was
young Fritz von Hartmann. The Professor would have passed them, but his
pupil ran across and intercepted him.

“Heh! my worthy master,” he said, taking the old man by the sleeve, and
leading him down the road with him. “There is something that I have to
say to you, and it is easier for me to say it now, when the good beer is
humming in my head, than at another time.”

“What is it, then, Fritz?” the physiologist asked, looking at him in
mild surprise.

“I hear, mein herr, that you are about to do some wondrous experiment in
which you hope to take a man’s soul out of his body, and then to put it
back again. Is it not so?”

“It is true, Fritz.”

“And have you considered, my dear sir, that you may have some difficulty
in finding some one on whom to try this? Potztausend! Suppose that the
soul went out and would not come back. That would be a bad business. Who
is to take the risk?”

“But, Fritz,” the Professor cried, very much startled by this view of
the matter, “I had relied upon your assistance in the attempt. Surely
you will not desert me. Consider the honour and glory.”

“Consider the fiddlesticks!” the student cried angrily. “Am I to be paid
always thus? Did I not stand two hours upon a glass insulator while
you poured electricity into my body? Have you not stimulated my phrenic
nerves, besides ruining my digestion with a galvanic current round my
stomach? Four-and-thirty times you have mesmerised me, and what have I
got from all this? Nothing. And now you wish to take my soul out, as you
would take the works from a watch. It is more than flesh and blood can
stand.”

“Dear, dear!” the Professor cried in great distress. “That is very true,
Fritz. I never thought of it before. If you can but suggest how I can
compensate you, you will find me ready and willing.”

“Then listen,” said Fritz solemnly. “If you will pledge your word that
after this experiment I may have the hand of your daughter, then I am
willing to assist you; but if not, I shall have nothing to do with it.
These are my only terms.”

“And what would my daughter say to this?” the Professor exclaimed, after
a pause of astonishment.

“Elise would welcome it,” the young man replied. “We have loved each
other long.”

“Then she shall be yours,” the physiologist said with decision, “for you
are a good-hearted young man, and one of the best neurotic subjects
that I have ever known--that is when you are not under the influence of
alcohol. My experiment is to be performed upon the fourth of next month.
You will attend at the physiological laboratory at twelve o’clock. It
will be a great occasion, Fritz. Von Gruben is coming from Jena, and
Hinterstein from Basle. The chief men of science of all South Germany
will be there.

“I shall be punctual,” the student said briefly; and so the two parted.
The Professor plodded homeward, thinking of the great coming event,
while the young man staggered along after his noisy companions, with
his mind full of the blue-eyed Elise, and of the bargain which he had
concluded with her father.

The Professor did not exaggerate when he spoke of the widespread
interest excited by his novel psychophysiological experiment. Long
before the hour had arrived the room was filled by a galaxy of talent.
Besides the celebrities whom he had mentioned, there had come from
London the great Professor Lurcher, who had just established his
reputation by a remarkable treatise upon cerebral centres. Several great
lights of the Spiritualistic body had also come a long distance to
be present, as had a Swedenborgian minister, who considered that the
proceedings might throw some light upon the doctrines of the Rosy Cross.

There was considerable applause from this eminent assembly upon
the appearance of Professor von Baumgarten and his subject upon the
platform. The lecturer, in a few well-chosen words, explained what his
views were, and how he proposed to test them. “I hold,” he said, “that
when a person is under the influence of mesmerism, his spirit is for the
time released from his body, and I challenge any one to put forward
any other hypothesis which will account for the fact of clairvoyance.
I therefore hope that upon mesmerising my young friend here, and
then putting myself into a trance, our spirits may be able to commune
together, though our bodies lie still and inert. After a time nature
will resume her sway, our spirits will return into our respective
bodies, and all will be as before. With your kind permission, we shall
now proceed to attempt the experiment.”

The applause was renewed at this speech, and the audience settled down
in expectant silence. With a few rapid passes the Professor mesmerised
the young man, who sank back in his chair, pale and rigid. He then took
a bright globe of glass from his pocket, and by concentrating his gaze
upon it and making a strong mental effort, he succeeded in throwing
himself into the same condition. It was a strange and impressive sight
to see the old man and the young sitting together in the same cataleptic
condition. Whither, then, had their souls fled? That was the question
which presented itself to each and every one of the spectators.

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then fifteen, and then fifteen
more, while the Professor and his pupil sat stiff and stark upon the
platform. During that time not a sound was heard from the assembled
savants, but every eye was bent upon the two pale faces, in search of
the first signs of returning consciousness. Nearly an hour had elapsed
before the patient watchers were rewarded. A faint flush came back to
the cheeks of Professor von Baumgarten. The soul was coming back once
more to its earthly tenement. Suddenly he stretched out his long thin
arms, as one awaking from sleep, and rubbing his eyes, stood up from
his chair and gazed about him as though he hardly realised where he was.
“Tausend Teufel!” he exclaimed, rapping out a tremendous South German
oath, to the great astonishment of his audience and to the disgust of
the Swedenborgian. “Where the Henker am I then, and what in thunder
has occurred? Oh yes, I remember now. One of these nonsensical mesmeric
experiments. There is no result this time, for I remember nothing at all
since I became unconscious; so you have had all your long journeys for
nothing, my learned friends, and a very good joke too;” at which the
Regius Professor of Physiology burst into a roar of laughter and slapped
his thigh in a highly indecorous fashion. The audience were so enraged
at this unseemly behaviour on the part of their host, that there might
have been a considerable disturbance, had it not been for the judicious
interference of young Fritz von Hartmann, who had now recovered from
his lethargy. Stepping to the front of the platform, the young man
apologised for the conduct of his companion. “I am sorry to say,” he
said, “that he is a harum-scarum sort of fellow, although he appeared so
grave at the commencement of this experiment. He is still suffering from
mesmeric reaction, and is hardly accountable for his words. As to the
experiment itself, I do not consider it to be a failure. It is very
possible that our spirits may have been communing in space during this
hour; but, unfortunately, our gross bodily memory is distinct from our
spirit, and we cannot recall what has occurred. My energies shall now be
devoted to devising some means by which spirits may be able to recollect
what occurs to them in their free state, and I trust that when I have
worked this out, I may have the pleasure of meeting you all once again
in this hall, and demonstrating to you the result.” This address, coming
from so young a student, caused considerable astonishment among the
audience, and some were inclined to be offended, thinking that he
assumed rather too much importance. The majority, however, looked upon
him as a young man of great promise, and many comparisons were made as
they left the hall between his dignified conduct and the levity of
his professor, who during the above remarks was laughing heartily in a
corner, by no means abashed at the failure of the experiment.

Now although all these learned men were filing out of the lecture-room
under the impression that they had seen nothing of note, as a matter of
fact one of the most wonderful things in the whole history of the world
had just occurred before their very eyes Professor von Baumgarten had
been so far correct in his theory that both his spirit and that of his
pupil had been for a time absent from his body. But here a strange and
unforeseen complication had occurred. In their return the spirit of
Fritz von Hartmann had entered into the body of Alexis von Baumgarten,
and that of Alexis von Baumgarten had taken up its abode in the frame of
Fritz von Hartmann. Hence the slang and scurrility which issued from
the lips of the serious Professor, and hence also the weighty words
and grave statements which fell from the careless student. It was an
unprecedented event, yet no one knew of it, least of all those whom it
concerned.

The body of the Professor, feeling conscious suddenly of a great
dryness about the back of the throat, sallied out into the street, still
chuckling to himself over the result of the experiment, for the soul of
Fritz within was reckless at the thought of the bride whom he had won so
easily. His first impulse was to go up to the house and see her, but on
second thoughts he came to the conclusion that it would be best to stay
away until Madame Baumgarten should be informed by her husband of the
agreement which had been made. He therefore made his way down to the
Grüner Mann, which was one of the favourite trysting-places of the
wilder students, and ran, boisterously waving his cane in the air, into
the little parlour, where sat Spiegler and Müller and half a dozen other
boon companions.

“Ha, ha! my boys,” he shouted. “I knew I should find you here. Drink
up, every one of you, and call for what you like, for I’m going to stand
treat to-day.”

Had the green man who is depicted upon the signpost of that well-known
inn suddenly marched into the room and called for a bottle of wine,
the students could not have been more amazed than they were by this
unexpected entry of their revered professor. They were so astonished
that for a minute or two they glared at him in utter bewilderment
without being able to make any reply to his hearty invitation.

“Donner und Blitzen!” shouted the Professor angrily. “What the deuce
is the matter with you, then? You sit there like a set of stuck pigs
staring at me. What is it, then?”

“It is the unexpected honour,” stammered Spiegel, who was in the chair.

“Honour--rubbish!” said the Professor testily. “Do you think that just
because I happen to have been exhibiting mesmerism to a parcel of old
fossils, I am therefore too proud to associate with dear old friends
like you? Come out of that chair, Spiegel my boy, for I shall preside
now. Beer, or wine, or shnapps, my lads--call for what you like, and put
it all down to me.”

Never was there such an afternoon in the Grüner Mann. The foaming
flagons of lager and the green-necked bottles of Rhenish circulated
merrily. By degrees the students lost their shyness in the presence of
their Professor. As for him, he shouted, he sang, he roared, he balanced
a long tobacco-pipe upon his nose, and offered to run a hundred yards
against any member of the company. The Kellner and the barmaid whispered
to each other outside the door their astonishment at such proceedings on
the part of a Regius Professor of the ancient university of Kleinplatz.
They had still more to whisper about afterwards, for the learned man
cracked the Kellner’s crown, and kissed the barmaid behind the kitchen
door.

“Gentlemen,” said the Professor, standing up, albeit somewhat
totteringly, at the end of the table, and balancing his high
old-fashioned wine glass in his bony hand, “I must now explain to you
what is the cause of this festivity.”

“Hear! hear!” roared the students, hammering their beer glasses against
the table; “a speech, a speech!--silence for a speech!”

“The fact is, my friends,” said the Professor, beaming through his
spectacles, “I hope very soon to be married.”

“Married!” cried a student, bolder than the others “Is Madame dead,
then?”

“Madame who?”

“Why, Madame von Baumgarten, of course.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Professor; “I can see, then, that you know all
about my former difficulties. No, she is not dead, but I have reason to
believe that she will not oppose my marriage.”

“That is very accommodating of her,” remarked one of the company.

“In fact,” said the Professor, “I hope that she will now be induced to
aid me in getting a wife. She and I never took to each other very much;
but now I hope all that may be ended, and when I marry she will come and
stay with me.”

“What a happy family!” exclaimed some wag.

“Yes, indeed; and I hope you will come to my wedding, all of you. I
won’t mention names, but here is to my little bride!” and the Professor
waved his glass in the air.

“Here’s to his little bride!” roared the roysterers, with shouts of
laughter. “Here’s her health. Sie soll leben--Hoch!” And so the fun
waxed still more fast and furious, while each young fellow followed the
Professor’s example, and drank a toast to the girl of his heart.

While all this festivity had been going on at the Grüner Mann, a very
different scene had been enacted elsewhere. Young Fritz von Hartmann,
with a solemn face and a reserved manner, had, after the experiment,
consulted and adjusted some mathematical instruments; after which,
with a few peremptory words to the janitors, he had walked out into the
street and wended his way slowly in the direction of the house of the
Professor. As he walked he saw Von Althaus, the professor of anatomy, in
front of him, and quickening his pace he overtook him.

“I say, Von Althaus,” he exclaimed, tapping him on the sleeve, “you were
asking me for some information the other day concerning the middle coat
of the cerebral arteries. Now I find----”

“Donnerwetter!” shouted Von Althaus, who was a peppery old fellow. “What
the deuce do you mean by your impertinence! I’ll have you up before the
Academical Senate for this, sir;” with which threat he turned on
his heel and hurried away. Von Hartmann was much surprised at this
reception. “It’s on account of this failure of my experiment,” he said
to himself, and continued moodily on his way.

Fresh surprises were in store for him, however. He was hurrying along
when he was overtaken by two students. These youths, instead of raising
their caps or showing any other sign of respect, gave a wild whoop of
delight the instant that they saw him, and rushing at him, seized him
by each arm and commenced dragging him along with them.

“Gott in himmel!” roared Von Hartmann. “What is the meaning of this
unparalleled insult? Where are you taking me?”

“To crack a bottle of wine with us,” said the two students. “Come along!
That is an invitation which you have never refused.”

“I never heard of such insolence in my life!” cried Von Hartmann. “Let
go my arms! I shall certainly have you rusticated for this. Let me go, I
say!” and he kicked furiously at his captors.

“Oh, if you choose to turn ill-tempered, you may go where you like,” the
students said, releasing him. “We can do very well without you.”

“I know you. I’ll pay you out,” said Von Hartmann furiously, and
continued in the direction which he imagined to be his own home, much
incensed at the two episodes which had occurred to him on the way.

Now, Madame von Baumgarten, who was looking out of the window and
wondering why her husband was late for dinner, was considerably
astonished to see the young student come stalking down the road. As
already remarked, she had a great antipathy to him, and if ever he
ventured into the house it was on sufferance, and under the protection
of the Professor. Still more astonished was she, therefore, when she
beheld him undo the wicket-gate and stride up the garden path with the
air of one who is master of the situation.

She could hardly believe her eyes, and hastened to the door with all her
maternal instincts up in arms. From the upper windows the fair Elise had
also observed this daring move upon the part of her lover, and her heart
beat quick with mingled pride and consternation.

“Good day, sir,” Madame Baumgarten remarked to the intruder, as she
stood in gloomy majesty in the open doorway.

“A very fine day indeed, Martha,” returned the other. “Now, don’t stand
there like a statue of Juno, but bustle about and get the dinner ready,
for I am well-nigh starved.”

“Martha! Dinner!” ejaculated the lady, falling back in astonishment.

“Yes, dinner, Martha, dinner!” howled Von Hartmann, who was becoming
irritable. “Is there anything wonderful in that request when a man
has been out all day? I’ll wait in the dining-room. Anything will do.
Schinken, and sausage, and prunes--any little thing that happens to be
about. There you are, standing staring again. Woman, will you or will
you not stir your legs?”

This last address, delivered with a perfect shriek of rage, had the
effect of sending good Madame Baumgarten flying along the passage and
through the kitchen, where she locked herself up in the scullery and
went into violent hysterics. In the meantime Von Hartmann strode into
the room and threw himself down upon the sofa in the worst of tempers.

“Elise!” he shouted. “Confound the girl! Elise!”

Thus roughly summoned, the young lady came timidly downstairs and into
the presence of her lover. “Dearest!” she cried, throwing her arms round
him, “I know this is all done for my sake! It is a <i>ruse</i> in order to see
me.”

Von Hartmann’s indignation at this fresh attack upon him was so great
that he became speechless for a minute from rage, and could only glare
and shake his fists, while he struggled in her embrace. When he at last
regained his utterance, he indulged in such a bellow of passion that the
young lady dropped back, petrified with fear, into an armchair.

“Never have I passed such a day in my life,” Von Hartmann cried,
stamping upon the floor. “My experiment has failed. Von Althaus has
insulted me. Two students have dragged me along the public road. My wife
nearly faints when I ask her for dinner, and my daughter flies at me and
hugs me like a grizzly bear.”

“You are ill, dear,” the young lady cried. “Your mind is wandering. You
have not even kissed me once.”

“No, and I don’t intend to either,” Von Hartmann said with decision.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why don’t you go and fetch my
slippers, and help your mother to dish the dinner?”

“And is it for this,” Elise cried, burying her face in her
handkerchief--“is it for this that I have loved you passionately for
upwards of ten months? Is it for this that I have braved my mother’s
wrath? Oh, you have broken my heart; I am sure you have!” and she sobbed
hysterically.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” roared Von Hartmann furiously.
“What the deuce does the girl mean? What did I do ten months ago which
inspired you with such a particular affection for me? If you are really
so very fond, you would do better to run away down and find the schinken
and some bread, instead of talking all this nonsense.”

“Oh, my darling!” cried the unhappy maiden, throwing herself into the
arms of what she imagined to be her lover, “you do but joke in order to
frighten your little Elise.”

Now it chanced that at the moment of this unexpected embrace Von
Hartmann was still leaning back against the end of the sofa, which,
like much German furniture, was in a somewhat rickety condition. It also
chanced that beneath this end of the sofa there stood a tank full of
water in which the physiologist was conducting certain experiments
upon the ova of fish, and which he kept in his drawing-room in order
to insure an equable temperature. The additional weight of the maiden,
combined with the impetus with which she hurled herself upon him, caused
the precarious piece of furniture to give way, and the body of the
unfortunate student was hurled backwards into the tank, in which his
head and shoulders were firmly wedged, while his lower extremities
flapped helplessly about in the air. This was the last straw.
Extricating himself with some difficulty from his unpleasant position,
Von Hartmann gave an inarticulate yell of fury, and dashing out of the
room, in spite of the entreaties of Elise, he seized his hat and rushed
off into the town, all dripping and dishevelled, with the intention
of seeking in some inn the food and comfort which he could not find at
home.

As the spirit of Von Baumgarten encased in the body of Von Hartmann
strode down the winding pathway which led down to the little town,
brooding angrily over his many wrongs, he became aware that an elderly
man was approaching him who appeared to be in an advanced state of
intoxication. Von Hartmann waited by the side of the road and watched
this individual, who came stumbling along, reeling from one side of
the road to the other, and singing a student song in a very husky and
drunken voice. At first his interest was merely excited by the fact
of seeing a man of so venerable an appearance in such a disgraceful
condition, but as he approached nearer, he became convinced that he knew
the other well, though he could not recall when or where he had met him.
This impression became so strong with him, that when the stranger came
abreast of him he stepped in front of him and took a good look at his
features.

“Well, sonny,” said the drunken man, surveying Von Hartmann and swaying
about in front of him, “where the Henker have I seen you before? I know
you as well as I know myself. Who the deuce are you?”

“I am Professor von Baumgarten,” said the student. “May I ask who you
are? I am strangely familiar with your features.”

“You should never tell lies, young man,” said the other. “You’re
certainly not the Professor, for he is an ugly snuffy old chap, and you
are a big broad-shouldered young fellow. As to myself, I am Fritz von
Hartmann at your service.”

“That you certainly are not,” exclaimed the body of Von Hartmann. “You
might very well be his father. But hullo, sir, are you aware that you
are wearing my studs and my watch-chain?”

“Donnerwetter!” hiccoughed the other. “If those are not the trousers for
which my tailor is about to sue me, may I never taste beer again.”

Now as Von Hartmann, overwhelmed by the many strange things which had
occurred to him that day, passed his hand over his forehead and cast his
eyes downwards, he chanced to catch the reflection of his own face in a
pool which the rain had left upon the road. To his utter astonishment he
perceived that his face was that of a youth, that his dress was that of
a fashionable young student, and that in every way he was the antithesis
of the grave and scholarly figure in which his mind was wont to dwell.
In an instant his active brain ran over the series of events which had
occurred and sprang to the conclusion. He fairly reeled under the blow.

“Himmel!” he cried, “I see it all. Our souls are in the wrong bodies.
I am you and you are I. My theory is proved--but at what an expense!
Is the most scholarly mind in Europe to go about with this frivolous
exterior? Oh the labours of a lifetime are ruined!” and he smote his
breast in his despair.

“I say,” remarked the real Von Hartmann from the body of the Professor,
“I quite see the force of your remarks, but don’t go knocking my body
about like that. You received it in excellent condition, but I perceive
that you have wet it and bruised it, and spilled snuff over my ruffled
shirt-front.”

“It matters little,” the other said moodily. “Such as we are so must we
stay. My theory is triumphantly proved, but the cost is terrible.”

“If I thought so,” said the spirit of the student, “it would be hard
indeed. What could I do with these stiff old limbs, and how could I woo
Elise and persuade her that I was not her father? No, thank Heaven, in
spite of the beer which has upset me more than ever it could upset my
real self, I can see a way out of it.”

“How?” gasped the Professor.

“Why, by repeating the experiment. Liberate our souls once more, and
the chances are that they will find their way back into their respective
bodies.”

No drowning man could clutch more eagerly at a straw than did Von
Baumgarten’s spirit at this suggestion. In feverish haste he dragged his
own frame to the side of the road and threw it into a mesmeric trance;
he then extracted the crystal ball from the pocket, and managed to bring
himself into the same condition.

Some students and peasants who chanced to pass during the next hour
were much astonished to see the worthy Professor of Physiology and
his favourite student both sitting upon a very muddy bank and both
completely insensible. Before the hour was up quite a crowd had
assembled, and they were discussing the advisability of sending for an
ambulance to convey the pair to hospital, when the learned savant opened
his eyes and gazed vacantly around him. For an instant he seemed to
forget how he had come there, but next moment he astonished his audience
by waving his skinny arms above his head and crying out in a voice of
rapture, “Gott sei gedanket! I am myself again. I feel I am!” Nor was
the amazement lessened when the student, springing to his feet, burst
into the same cry, and the two performed a sort of _pas de joie_ in the
middle of the road.

For some time after that people had some suspicion of the sanity of both
the actors in this strange episode. When the Professor published his
experiences in the Medicalschrift as he had promised, he was met by an
intimation, even from his colleagues, that he would do well to have
his mind cared for, and that another such publication would certainly
consign him to a madhouse. The student also found by experience that it
was wisest to be silent about the matter.

When the worthy lecturer returned home that night he did not receive
the cordial welcome which he might have looked for after his strange
adventures. On the contrary, he was roundly upbraided by both his female
relatives for smelling of drink and tobacco, and also for being absent
while a young scapegrace invaded the house and insulted its occupants.
It was long before the domestic atmosphere of the lecturer’s house
resumed its normal quiet, and longer still before the genial face of
Von Hartmann was seen beneath its roof. Perseverance, however, conquers
every obstacle, and the student eventually succeeded in pacifying the
enraged ladies and in establishing himself upon the old footing. He
has now no longer any cause to fear the enmity of Madame, for he is
Hauptmann von Hartmann of the Emperor’s own Uhlans, and his loving wife
Elise has already presented him with two little Uhlans as a visible sign
and token of her affection.




THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL.


On the fourth day of March, in the year 1867, being at that time in
my five-and-twentieth year, I wrote down the following words in my
note-book--the result of much mental perturbation and conflict:--

“The solar system, amidst a countless number of other systems as large
as itself, rolls ever silently through space in the direction of the
constellation of Hercules. The great spheres of which it is composed
spin and spin through the eternal void ceaselessly and noiselessly. Of
these one of the smallest and most insignificant is that conglomeration
of solid and of liquid particles which we have named the earth. It
whirls onwards now as it has done before my birth, and will do after my
death--a revolving mystery, coming none know whence, and going none know
whither. Upon the outer crust of this moving mass crawl many mites,
of whom I, John M‘Vittie, am one, helpless, impotent, being dragged
aimlessly through space. Yet such is the state of things amongst us that
the little energy and glimmering of reason which I possess is entirely
taken up with the labours which are necessary in order to procure
certain metallic disks, wherewith I may purchase the chemical elements
necessary to build up my ever-wasting tissues, and keep a roof over me
to shelter me from the inclemency of the weather. I thus have no thought
to expend upon the vital questions which surround me on every side.
Yet, miserable entity as I am, I can still at times feel some degree of
happiness, and am even--save the mark!--puffed up occasionally with a
sense of my own importance.”

These words, as I have said, I wrote down in my note-book, and they
reflected accurately the thoughts which I found rooted far down in my
soul, ever present and unaffected by the passing emotions of the hour.
At last, however, came a time when my uncle, M‘Vittie of Glencairn,
died--the same who was at one time chairman of committees of the House
of Commons. He divided his great wealth among his many nephews, and I
found myself with sufficient to provide amply for my wants during the
remainder of my life, and became at the same time owner of a bleak tract
of land upon the coast of Caithness, which I think the old man must have
bestowed upon me in derision, for it was sandy and valueless, and he had
ever a grim sense of humour. Up to this time I had been an attorney in
a midland town in England. Now I saw that I could put my thoughts into
effect, and, leaving all petty and sordid aims, could elevate my mind
by the study of the secrets of nature. My departure from my English home
was somewhat accelerated by the fact that I had nearly slain a man in
a quarrel, for my temper was fiery, and I was apt to forget my own
strength when enraged. There was no legal action taken in the matter,
but the papers yelped at me, and folk looked askance when I met them.
It ended by my cursing them and their vile, smoke-polluted town, and
hurrying to my northern possession, where I might at last find peace and
an opportunity for solitary study and contemplation. I borrowed from
my capital before I went, and so was able to take with me a choice
collection of the most modern philosophical instruments and books,
together with chemicals and such other things as I might need in my
retirement.

The land which I had inherited was a narrow strip, consisting mostly of
sand, and extending for rather over two miles round the coast of Mansie
Bay, in Caithness. Upon this strip there had been a rambling, grey-stone
building--when erected or wherefore none could tell me--and this I had
repaired, so that it made a dwelling quite good enough for one of my
simple tastes. One room was my laboratory, another my sitting-room, and
in a third, just under the sloping roof, I slung the hammock in which
I always slept. There were three other rooms, but I left them vacant,
except one which was given over to the old crone who kept house for me.
Save the Youngs and the M‘Leods, who were fisher-folk living round at
the other side of Fergus Ness, there were no other people for many miles
in each direction. In front of the house was the great bay, behind it
were two long barren hills, capped by other loftier ones beyond. There
was a glen between the hills, and when the wind was from the land it
used to sweep down this with a melancholy sough and whisper among the
branches of the fir-trees beneath my attic window.

I dislike my fellow-mortals. Justice compels me to add that they appear
for the most part to dislike me. I hate their little crawling ways,
their conventionalities, their deceits, their narrow rights and wrongs.
They take offence at my brusque outspokenness, my disregard for their
social laws, my impatience of all constraint. Among my books and my
drugs in my lonely den at Mansie I could let the great drove of
the human race pass onwards with their politics and inventions and
tittle-tattle, and I remained behind stagnant and happy. Not stagnant
either, for I was working in my own little groove, and making progress.
I have reason to believe that Dalton’s atomic theory is founded upon
error, and I know that mercury is not an element.

During the day I was busy with my distillations and analyses. Often I
forgot my meals, and when old Madge summoned me to my tea I found my
dinner lying untouched upon the table. At night I read Bacon, Descartes,
Spinoza, Kant--all those who have pried into what is unknowable.
They are all fruitless and empty, barren of result, but prodigal of
polysyllables, reminding me of men who, while digging for gold, have
turned up many worms, and then exhibit them exultantly as being what
they sought. At times a restless spirit would come upon me, and I would
walk thirty and forty miles without rest or breaking fast. On these
occasions, when I used to stalk through the country villages, gaunt,
unshaven, and dishevelled, the mothers would rush into the road and
drag their children indoors, and the rustics would swarm out of their
pot-houses to gaze at me. I believe that I was known far and wide as the
“mad laird o’ Mansie.” It was rarely, however, that I made these raids
into the country, for I usually took my exercise upon my own beach,
where I soothed my spirit with strong black tobacco, and made the ocean
my friend and my confidant.

What companion is there like the great restless, throbbing sea? What
human mood is there which it does not match and sympathise with? There
are none so gay but that they may feel gayer when they listen to its
merry turmoil, and see the long green surges racing in, with the glint
of the sunbeams in their sparkling crests. But when the grey waves toss
their heads in anger, and the wind screams above them, goading them on
to madder and more tumultuous efforts, then the darkest-minded of men
feels that there is a melancholy principle in Nature which is as gloomy
as his own thoughts. When it was calm in the Bay of Mansie the surface
would be as clear and bright as a sheet of silver, broken only at one
spot some little way from the shore, where a long black line projected
out of the water looking like the jagged back of some sleeping monster.
This was the top of the dangerous ridge of rocks known to the fishermen
as the “ragged reef o’ Mansie.” When the wind blew from the east the
waves would break upon it like thunder, and the spray would be tossed
far over my house and up to the hills behind. The bay itself was a bold
and noble one, but too much exposed to the northern and eastern gales,
and too much dreaded for its reef, to be much used by mariners. There
was something of romance about this lonely spot. I have lain in my boat
upon a calm day, and peering over the edge I have seen far down the
flickering, ghostly forms of great fish--fish, as it seemed to me, such
as naturalist never knew, and which my imagination transformed into the
genii of that desolate bay. Once, as I stood by the brink of the waters
upon a quiet night, a great cry, as of a woman in hopeless grief, rose
from the bosom of the deep, and swelled out upon the still air, now
sinking and now rising, for a space of thirty seconds. This I heard with
my own ears.

In this strange spot, with the eternal hills behind me and the eternal
sea in front, I worked and brooded for more than two years unpestered
by my fellow men. By degrees I had trained my old servant into habits of
silence, so that she now rarely opened her lips, though I doubt not that
when twice a year she visited her relations in Wick, her tongue during
those few days made up for its enforced rest. I had come almost to
forget that I was a member of the human family, and to live entirely
with the dead whose books I pored over, when a sudden incident occurred
which threw all my thoughts into a new channel.

Three rough days in June had been succeeded by one calm and peaceful
one. There was not a breath of air that evening. The sun sank down in
the west behind a line of purple clouds, and the smooth surface of the
bay was gashed with scarlet streaks. Along the beach the pools left by
the tide showed up like gouts of blood against the yellow sand, as if
some wounded giant had toilfully passed that way, and had left these
red traces of his grievous hurt behind him. As the darkness closed
in, certain ragged clouds which had lain low on the eastern horizon
coalesced and formed a great irregular cumulus. The glass was still low,
and I knew that there was mischief brewing. About nine o’clock a
dull moaning sound came up from the sea, as from a creature who, much
harassed, learns that the hour of suffering has come round again. At ten
a sharp breeze sprang up from the eastward. At eleven it had increased
to a gale, and by midnight the most furious storm was raging which I
ever remember upon that weather-beaten coast.

As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against my
attic window, and the wind was screaming as though every gust were a
lost soul. By that time the sounds of the tempest had become a lullaby
to me. I knew that the grey walls of the old house would buffet it out,
and for what occurred in the world outside I had small concern. Old
Madge was usually as callous to such things as I was myself. It was
a surprise to me when, about three in the morning, I was awoke by the
sound of a great knocking at my door and excited cries in the wheezy
voice of my house-keeper. I sprang out of my hammock, and roughly
demanded of her what was the matter.

“Eh, maister, maister!” she screamed in her hateful dialect. “Come doun,
mun; come doun! There’s a muckle ship gaun ashore on the reef, and the
puir folks are a’ yammerin’ and ca’in’ for help--and I doobt they’ll a’
be drooned. Oh, Maister M‘Vittie, come doun!”

“Hold your tongue, you hag!” I shouted back in a passion. “What is it to
you whether they are drowned or not? Get back to your bed and leave me
alone.” I turned in again and drew the blankets over me. “Those men out
there,” I said to myself, “have already gone through half the horrors of
death. If they be saved they will but have to go through the same once
more in the space of a few brief years. It is best therefore that they
should pass away now, since they have suffered that anticipation which
is more than the pain of dissolution.” With this thought in my mind I
endeavoured to compose myself to sleep once more, for that philosophy
which had taught me to consider death as a small and trivial incident
in man’s eternal and everchanging career, had also broken me of much
curiosity concerning worldly matters. On this occasion I found, however,
that the old leaven still fermented strongly in my soul. I tossed from
side to side for some minutes endeavouring to beat down the impulses of
the moment by the rules of conduct which I had framed during months of
thought. Then I heard a dull roar amid the wild shriek of the gale,
and I knew that it was the sound of a signal-gun. Driven by an
uncontrollable impulse, I rose, dressed, and having lit my pipe, walked
out on to the beach.

It was pitch dark when I came outside, and the wind blew with such
violence that I had to put my shoulder against it and push my way along
the shingle. My face pringled and smarted with the sting of the gravel
which was blown against it, and the red ashes of my pipe streamed away
behind me, dancing fantastically through the darkness. I went down to
where the great waves were thundering in, and shading my eyes with
my hands to keep off the salt spray, I peered out to sea. I could
distinguish nothing, and yet it seemed to me that shouts and great
inarticulate cries were borne to me by the blasts. Suddenly as I gazed I
made out the glint of a light, and then the whole bay and the beach were
lit up in a moment by a vivid blue glare. They were burning a coloured
signal-light on board of the vessel. There she lay on her beam ends
right in the centre of the jagged reef, hurled over to such an
angle that I could see all the planking of her deck. She was a large
two-masted schooner, of foreign rig, and lay perhaps a hundred and
eighty or two hundred yards from the shore. Every spar and rope and
writhing piece of cordage showed up hard and clear under the livid
light which sputtered and flickered from the highest portion of the
forecastle. Beyond the doomed ship out of the great darkness came the
long rolling lines of black waves, never ending, never tiring, with
a petulant tuft of foam here and there upon their crests. Each as it
reached the broad circle of unnatural light appeared to gather strength
and volume, and to hurry on more impetuously until, with a roar and
a jarring crash, it sprang upon its victim. Clinging to the weather
shrouds I could distinctly see some ten or twelve frightened seamen,
who, when their light revealed my presence, turned their white faces
towards me and waved their hands imploringly. I felt my gorge rise
against these poor cowering worms. Why should they presume to shirk the
narrow pathway along which all that is great and noble among mankind has
travelled? There was one there who interested me more than they. He was
a tall man, who stood apart from the others, balancing himself upon the
swaying wreck as though he disdained to cling to rope or bulwark.
His hands were clasped behind his back and his head was sunk upon his
breast, but even in that despondent attitude there was a litheness
and decision in his pose and in every motion which marked him as a man
little likely to yield to despair. Indeed, I could see by his occasional
rapid glances up and down and all around him that he was weighing every
chance of safety, but though he often gazed across the raging surf to
where he could see my dark figure upon the beach, his self-respect or
some other reason forbade him from imploring my help in any way. He
stood, dark, silent, and inscrutable, looking down on the black sea, and
waiting for whatever fortune Fate might send him.

It seemed to me that that problem would very soon be settled. As I
looked, an enormous billow, topping all the others, and coming after
them, like a driver following a flock, swept over the vessel. Her
foremast snapped short off, and the men who clung to the shrouds were
brushed away like a swarm of flies. With a rending, riving sound the
ship began to split in two, where the sharp back of the Mansie reef was
sawing into her keel. The solitary man upon the forecastle ran rapidly
across the deck and seized hold of a white bundle which I had already
observed but failed to make out. As he lifted it up the light fell upon
it, and I saw that the object was a woman, with a spar lashed across her
body and under her arms in such a way that her head should always rise
above water. He bore her tenderly to the side and seemed to speak for a
minute or so to her, as though explaining the impossibility of remaining
upon the ship. Her answer was a singular one. I saw her deliberately
raise her hand and strike him across the face with it. He appeared to
be silenced for a moment or so by this, but he addressed her again,
directing her, as far as I could gather from his motions, how she should
behave when in the water. She shrank away from him, but he caught her in
his arms. He stooped over her for a moment and seemed to press his lips
against her forehead. Then a great wave came welling up against the side
of the breaking vessel, and leaning over he placed her upon the summit
of it as gently as a child might be committed to its cradle. I saw her
white dress flickering among the foam on the crest of the dark billow,
and then the light sank gradually lower, and the riven ship and its
lonely occupant were hidden from my eyes.

As I watched those things my manhood overcame my philosophy, and I felt
a frantic impulse to be up and doing. I threw my cynicism to one side as
a garment which I might don again at leisure, and I rushed wildly to my
boat and my sculls. She was a leaky tub, but what then? Was I, who had
cast many a wistful, doubtful glance at my opium bottle, to begin now to
weigh chances and to cavil at danger. I dragged her down to the sea with
the strength of a maniac and sprang in. For a moment or two it was a
question whether she could live among the boiling surge, but a dozen
frantic strokes took me through it, half full of water but still afloat.
I was out on the unbroken waves now, at one time climbing, climbing
up the broad black breast of one, then sinking down, down on the other
side, until looking up I could see the gleam of the foam all around me
against the dark heavens. Far behind me I could hear the wild wailings
of old Madge, who, seeing me start, thought no doubt that my madness had
come to a climax. As I rowed I peered over my shoulder, until at last on
the belly of a great wave which was sweeping towards me I distinguished
the vague white outline of the woman. Stooping over, I seized her as she
swept by me, and with an effort lifted her, all sodden with water, into
the boat. There was no need to row back, for the next billow carried us
in and threw us upon the beach. I dragged the boat out of danger, and
then lifting up the woman I carried her to the house, followed by my
housekeeper, loud with congratulation and praise.

Now that I had done this thing a reaction set in upon me. I felt that
my burden lived, for I heard the faint beat of her heart as I pressed
my ear against her side in carrying her. Knowing this, I threw her down
beside the fire which Madge had lit, with as little sympathy as though
she had been a bundle of fagots. I never glanced at her to see if she
were fair or no. For many years I had cared little for the face of a
woman. As I lay in my hammock upstairs, however, I heard the old woman
as she chafed the warmth back into her, crooning a chorus of, “Eh, the
puir lassie! Eh, the bonnie lassie!” from which I gathered that this
piece of jetsam was both young and comely.


The morning after the gale was peaceful and sunny. As I walked along the
long sweep of sand I could hear the panting of the sea. It was heaving
and swirling about the reef, but along the shore it rippled in gently
enough. There was no sign of the schooner, nor was there any wreckage
upon the beach, which did not surprise me, as I knew there was a great
undertow in those waters. A couple of broad-winged gulls were hovering
and skimming over the scene of the shipwreck, as though many strange
things were visible to them beneath the waves. At times I could hear
their raucous voices as they spoke to one another of what they saw.

When I came back from my walk the woman was waiting at the door for me.
I began to wish when I saw her that I had never saved her, for here was
an end of my privacy. She was very young--at the most nineteen, with a
pale somewhat refined face, yellow hair, merry blue eyes, and shining
teeth. Her beauty was of an ethereal type. She looked so white and light
and fragile that she might have been the spirit of that storm-foam from
out of which I plucked her. She had wreathed some of Madge’s garments
round her in a way which was quaint and not unbecoming. As I strode
heavily up the pathway, she put out her hands with a pretty child-like
gesture, and ran down towards me, meaning, as I surmise, to thank me for
having saved her, but I put her aside with a wave of my hand and passed
her. At this she seemed somewhat hurt, and the tears sprang into
her eyes, but she followed me into the sitting-room and watched me
wistfully. “What country do you come from?” I asked her suddenly.

She smiled when I spoke, but shook her head.

“Francais?” I asked. “Deutsch?” “Espagnol?”--each time she shook her
head, and then she rippled off into a long statement in some tongue of
which I could not understand one word.

After breakfast was over, however, I got a clue to her nationality.

Passing along the beach once more, I saw that in a cleft of the ridge a
piece of wood had been jammed. I rowed out to it in my boat, and brought
it ashore. It was part of the sternpost of a boat, and on it, or rather
on the piece of wood attached to it, was the word “Archangel,” painted
in strange, quaint lettering.

“So,” I thought, as I paddled slowly back, “this pale damsel is a
Russian. A fit subject for the White Czar and a proper dweller on
the shores of the White Sea!” It seemed to me strange that one of her
apparent refinement should perform so long a journey in so frail
a craft. When I came back into the house, I pronounced the word
“Archangel” several times in different intonations, but she did not
appear to recognise it.

I shut myself up in the laboratory all the morning, continuing a
research which I was making upon the nature of the allotropic forms of
carbon and of sulphur. When I came out at mid-day for some food she was
sitting by the table with a needle and thread, mending some rents in her
clothes, which were now dry. I resented her continued presence, but I
could not turn her out on the beach to shift for herself. Presently she
presented a new phase of her character. Pointing to herself and then
to the scene of the shipwreck, she held up one finger, by which I
understood her to be asking whether she was the only one saved. I nodded
my head to indicate that she was. On this she sprang out of the chair
with a cry of great joy, and holding the garment which she was mending
over her head, and swaying it from side to side with the motion of her
body, she danced as lightly as a feather all round the room, and then
out through the open door into the sunshine. As she whirled round
she sang in a plaintive shrill voice some uncouth barbarous chant,
expressive of exultation. I called out to her, “Come in, you young
fiend, come in and be silent!” but she went on with her dance. Then she
suddenly ran towards me, and catching my hand before I could pluck
it away, she kissed it. While we were at dinner she spied one of my
pencils, and taking it up she wrote the two words “Sophie Ramusine” upon
a piece of paper, and then pointed to herself as a sign that that was
her name. She handed the pencil to me, evidently expecting that I would
be equally communicative, but I put it in my pocket as a sign that I
wished to hold no intercourse with her.

Every moment of my life now I regretted the unguarded precipitancy with
which I had saved this woman. What was it to me whether she had lived
or died? I was no young, hot-headed youth to do such things. It was bad
enough to be compelled to have Madge in the house, but she was old
and ugly, and could be ignored. This one was young and lively, and so
fashioned as to divert attention from graver things. Where could I send
her, and what could I do with her? If I sent information to Wick it
would mean that officials and others would come to me and pry, and peep,
and chatter--a hateful thought. It was better to endure her presence
than that.

I soon found that there were fresh troubles in store for me. There is no
place safe from the swarming, restless race of which I am a member. In
the evening, when the sun was dipping down behind the hills, casting
them into dark shadow, but gilding the sands and casting a great glory
over the sea, I went, as is my custom, for a stroll along the beach.
Sometimes on these occasions I took my book with me. I did so on this
night, and stretching myself upon a sand-dune I composed myself to read.
As I lay there I suddenly became aware of a shadow which interposed
itself between the sun and myself. Looking round, I saw to my great
surprise a very tall, powerful man, who was standing a few yards off,
and who, instead of looking at me, was ignoring my existence completely,
and was gazing over my head with a stern set face at the bay and the
black line of the Mansie reef. His complexion was dark, with black hair,
and short, curling beard, a hawk-like nose, and golden earrings in his
ears--the general effect being wild and somewhat noble. He wore a
faded velveteen jacket, a red-flannel shirt, and high sea boots, coming
half-way up his thighs. I recognised him at a glance as being the same
man who had been left on the wreck the night before.

“Hullo!” I said, in an aggrieved voice. “You got ashore all right,
then?”

“Yes,” he answered, in good English. “It was no doing of mine. The waves
threw me up. I wish to God I had been allowed to drown!”

There was a slight foreign lisp in his accent which was rather pleasing.
“Two good fishermen, who live round yonder point, pulled me out and
cared for me; yet I could not honestly thank them for it.”

“Ho! ho!” thought I, “here is a man of my own kidney. Why do you wish to
be drowned?” I asked.

“Because,” he cried, throwing out his long arms with a passionate,
despairing gesture, “there--there in that blue smiling bay, lies my
soul, my treasure--everything that I loved and lived for.”

“Well, well,” I said. “People are ruined every day, but there’s no use
making a fuss about it. Let me inform you that this ground on which
you walk is my ground, and that the sooner you take yourself off it the
better pleased I shall be. One of you is quite trouble enough.”

“One of us?” he gasped.

“Yes--if you could take her off with you I should be still more
grateful.”

He gazed at me for a moment as if hardly able to realise what I said,
and then with a wild cry he ran away from me with prodigious speed and
raced along the sands towards my house. Never before or since have
I seen a human being run so fast. I followed as rapidly as I could,
furious at this threatened invasion, but long before I reached the house
he had disappeared through the open door. I heard a great scream
from the inside, and as I came nearer the sound of a man’s bass voice
speaking rapidly and loudly. When I looked in the girl, Sophie Ramusine,
was crouching in a corner, cowering away, with fear and loathing
expressed on her averted face and in every line of her shrinking form.
The other, with his dark eyes flashing, and his outstretched hands
quivering with emotion, was pouring forth a torrent of passionate
pleading words. He made a step forward to her as I entered, but she
writhed still further away, and uttered a sharp cry like that of a
rabbit when the weasel has him by the throat.

“Here!” I said, pulling him back from her. “This is a pretty to-do!
What do you mean? Do you think this is a wayside inn or place of public
accommodation?”

“Oh, sir,” he said, “excuse me. This woman is my wife, and I feared that
she was drowned. You have brought me back to life.”

“Who are you?” I asked roughly.

“I am a man from Archangel,” he said simply; “a Russian man.”

“What is your name?”

“Ourganeff.”

“Ourganeff!--and hers is Sophie Ramusine. She is no wife of yours. She
has no ring.”

“We are man and wife in the sight of Heaven,” he said solemnly, looking
upwards. “We are bound by higher laws than those of earth.” As he spoke
the girl slipped behind me and caught me by the other hand, pressing it
as though beseeching my protection. “Give me up my wife, sir,” he went
on. “Let me take her away from here.”

“Look here, you--whatever your name is,” I said sternly; “I don’t want
this wench here. I wish I had never seen her. If she died it would be
no grief to me. But as to handing her over to you, when it is clear she
fears and hates you, I won’t do it. So now just clear your great body
out of this, and leave me to my books. I hope I may never look upon your
face again.”

“You won’t give her up to me?” he said hoarsely.

“I’ll see you damned first!” I answered.

“Suppose I take her,” he cried, his dark face growing darker.

All my tigerish blood flushed up in a moment. I picked up a billet of
wood from beside the fireplace. “Go,” I said, in a low voice; “go quick,
or I may do you an injury.” He looked at me irresolutely for a moment,
and then he left the house. He came back again in a moment, however, and
stood in the doorway looking in at us.

“Have a heed what you do,” he said. “The woman is mine, and I shall have
her. When it comes to blows, a Russian is as good a man as a Scotchman.”

“We shall see that,” I cried, springing forward, but he was already
gone, and I could see his tall form moving away through the gathering
darkness.

For a month or more after this things went smoothly with us. I never
spoke to the Russian girl, nor did she ever address me. Sometimes when
I was at work in my laboratory she would slip inside the door and sit
silently there watching me with her great eyes. At first this intrusion
annoyed me, but by degrees, finding that she made no attempt to distract
my attention, I suffered her to remain. Encouraged by this concession,
she gradually came to move the stool on which she sat nearer and nearer
to my table, until after gaining a little every day during some weeks,
she at last worked her way right up to me, and used to perch herself
beside me whenever I worked. In this position she used, still without
ever obtruding her presence in any way, to make herself very useful
by holding my pens, test-tubes, or bottles, and handing me whatever I
wanted, with never-failing sagacity. By ignoring the fact of her being
a human being, and looking upon her as a useful automatic machine,
I accustomed myself to her presence so far as to miss her on the few
occasions when she was not at her post. I have a habit of talking aloud
to myself at times when I work, so as to fix my results better in my
mind. The girl must have had a surprising memory for sounds, for she
could always repeat the words which I let fall in this way, without, of
course, understanding in the least what they meant. I have often been
amused at hearing her discharge a volley of chemical equations and
algebraic symbols at old Madge, and then burst into a ringing laugh when
the crone would shake her head, under the impression, no doubt, that she
was being addressed in Russian.

She never went more than a few yards from the house, and indeed never
put her foot over the threshold without looking carefully out of each
window in order to be sure that there was nobody about. By this I
knew that she suspected that her fellow-countryman was still in the
neighbourhood, and feared that he might attempt to carry her off. She
did something else which was significant. I had an old revolver with
some cartridges, which had been thrown away among the rubbish. She found
this one day, and at once proceeded to clean it and oil it. She hung
it up near the door, with the cartridges in a little bag beside it, and
whenever I went for a walk, she would take it down and insist upon my
carrying it with me. In my absence she would always bolt the door.
Apart from her apprehensions she seemed fairly happy, busying herself
in helping Madge when she was not attending upon me. She was wonderfully
nimble-fingered and natty in all domestic duties.

It was not long before I discovered that her suspicions were well
founded, and that this man from Archangel was still lurking in the
vicinity. Being restless one night I rose and peered out of the window.
The weather was somewhat cloudy, and I could barely make out the line
of the sea, and the loom of my boat upon the beach. As I gazed, however,
and my eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, I became aware that
there was some other dark blur upon the sands, and that in front of
my very door, where certainly there had been nothing of the sort the
preceding night. As I stood at my diamond-paned lattice still peering
and peeping to make out what this might be, a great bank of clouds
rolled slowly away from the face of the moon, and a flood of cold, clear
light was poured down upon the silent bay and the long sweep of its
desolate shores. Then I saw what this was which haunted my doorstep. It
was he, the Russian. He squatted there like a gigantic toad, with his
legs doubled under him in strange Mongolian fashion, and his eyes fixed
apparently upon the window of the room in which the young girl and the
housekeeper slept. The light fell upon his upturned face, and I saw
once more the hawk-like grace of his countenance, with the single
deeply-indented line of care upon his brow, and the protruding beard
which marks the passionate nature. My first impulse was to shoot him
as a trespasser, but, as I gazed, my resentment changed into pity and
contempt. “Poor fool,” I said to myself, “is it then possible that you,
whom I have seen looking open-eyed at present death, should have your
whole thoughts and ambition centred upon this wretched slip of a girl--a
girl, too, who flies from you and hates you. Most women would love
you--were it but for that dark face and great handsome body of
yours--and yet you must needs hanker after the one in a thousand who
will have no traffic with you.” As I returned to my bed I chuckled much
to myself over this thought. I knew that my bars were strong and my
bolts thick. It mattered little to me whether this strange man spent his
night at my door or a hundred leagues off, so long as he was gone by the
morning. As I expected, when I rose and went out there was no sign of
him, nor had he left any trace of his midnight vigil.

It was not long, however, before I saw him again. I had been out for a
row one morning, for my head was aching, partly from prolonged stooping,
and partly from the effects of a noxious drug which I had inhaled the
night before. I pulled along the coast some miles, and then, feeling
thirsty, I landed at a place where I knew that a fresh water stream
trickled down into the sea. This rivulet passed through my land, but the
mouth of it, where I found myself that day, was beyond my boundary line.
I felt somewhat taken aback when rising from the stream at which I had
slaked my thirst I found myself face to face with the Russian. I was
as much a trespasser now as he was, and I could see at a glance that he
knew it.

“I wish to speak a few words to you,” he said gravely.

“Hurry up, then!” I answered, glancing at my watch. “I have no time to
listen to chatter.”

“Chatter!” he repeated angrily. “Ah, but there. You Scotch people are
strange men. Your face is hard and your words rough, but so are those
of the good fishermen with whom I stay, yet I find that beneath it all
there lie kind honest natures. No doubt you are kind and good, too, in
spite of your roughness.”

“In the name of the devil,” I said, “say your say, and go your way.
I am weary of the sight of you.”

“Can I not soften you in any way?” he cried. “Ah, see--see here”--he
produced a small Grecian cross from inside his velvet jacket. “Look at
this. Our religions may differ in form, but at least we have some common
thoughts and feelings when we see this emblem.”

“I am not so sure of that,” I answered.

He looked at me thoughtfully.

“You are a very strange man,” he said at last. “I cannot understand you.
You still stand between me and Sophie. It is a dangerous position to
take, sir. Oh, believe me, before it is too late. If you did but know
what I have done to gain that woman--how I have risked my body, how
I have lost my soul! You are a small obstacle to some which I have
surmounted--you, whom a rip with a knife, or a blow from a stone, would
put out of my way for ever. But God preserve me from that,” he cried
wildly. “I am deep--too deep--already. Anything rather than that.”

“You would do better to go back to your country,” I said, “than to skulk
about these sand-hills and disturb my leisure. When I have proof that
you have gone away I shall hand this woman over to the protection of the
Russian Consul at Edinburgh. Until then, I shall guard her myself, and
not you, nor any Muscovite that ever breathed, shall take her from me.”

“And what is your object in keeping me from Sophie?” he asked. “Do you
imagine that I would injure her? Why, man, I would give my life freely
to save her from the slightest harm. Why do you do this thing?”

“I do it because it is my good pleasure to act so,” I answered. “I give
no man reasons for my conduct.”

“Look here!” he cried, suddenly blazing into fury, and advancing towards
me with his shaggy mane bristling and his brown hands clenched. “If I
thought you had one dishonest thought towards this girl--if for a moment
I had reason to believe that you had any base motive for detaining
her--as sure as there is a God in Heaven I should drag the heart out of
your bosom with my hands.” The very idea seemed to have put the man in
a frenzy, for his face was all distorted and his hands opened and shut
convulsively. I thought that he was about to spring at my throat.

“Stand off,” I said, putting my hand on my pistol. “If you lay a finger
on me I shall kill you.”

He put his hand into his pocket, and for a moment I thought he was about
to produce a weapon too, but instead of that he whipped out a cigarette
and lit it, breathing the smoke rapidly into his lungs.

No doubt he had found by experience that this was the most effectual way
of cu

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