Dracula by Bram Stoker(5)

My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have
to invent a new classification for him, and call him a
zoophagous (life-eating) maniac. What he desires is to
absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out
to achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many flies to
one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted
a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his
later steps?
It would almost be worth while to complete the
experiment. It might be done if there were only a
sufficient cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look
at its results today! Why not advance science in its most
difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of the brain?
Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the
key to the fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my
own branch of science to a pitch compared with which
Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain
knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a
sufficient cause! I must not think too much of this, or I
may be tempted. A good cause might turn the scale with
me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain,
congenitally?
How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within
their own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a
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man, or if at only one. He has closed the account most
accurately, and today begun a new record. How many of
us begin a new record with each day of our lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life
ended with my new hope, and that truly I began a new
record. So it shall be until the Great Recorder sums me up
and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or
loss.
Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I
be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours, but I
must only wait on hopeless and work. Work! Work!
If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend
there, a good, unselfish cause to make me work, that
would be indeed happiness.
MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL
26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express
myself here. It is like whispering to one’s self and listening
at the same time. And there is also something about the
shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I
am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not
heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very
concerned, but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always
so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking
him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just
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been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula,
and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like
Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy.
Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately
taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother
has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am
to lock the door of our room every night.
Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always
go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and
then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing
cry that echoes all over the place.
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she
tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same
habit, that he would get up in the night and dress himself
and go out, if he were not stopped.
Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already
planning out her dresses and how her house is to be
arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only
Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, and
shall have to try to make both ends meet.
Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood,
only son of Lord Godalming, is coming up here very
shortly, as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not
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very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments
till he comes.
She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard
cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the
waiting which disturbs her. She will be all right when he
arrives.
27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite
uneasy about him, though why I should I do not know,
but I do wish that he would write, if it were only a single
line.
Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am
awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately,
the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold. But still, the
anxiety and the perpetually being awakened is beginning
to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful
myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr.
Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his
father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the
postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her
looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely
rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had. I
pray it will all last.
3 August.—Another week gone by, and no news from
Jonathan, not even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have
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heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He surely would have
written. I look at that last letter of his, but somehow it
does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is
his writing. There is no mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week,
but there is an odd concentration about her which I do
not understand, even in her sleep she seems to be
watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked,
goes about the room searching for the key.
6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This
suspense is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write
to or where to go to, I should feel easier. But no one has
heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must only
pray to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well.
Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that
we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the
weather signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in
thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is gray
except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst
it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst
at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the
sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling in
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over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled
in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a
gray mist. All vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant
rocks, and there is a ‘brool’ over the sea that sounds like
some passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here
and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem
‘men like trees walking’. The fishing boats are racing for
home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep
into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old
Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see,
by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk.
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor
old man. When he sat down beside me, he said in a very
gentle way, ‘I want to say something to you, miss.’
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old
wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, ‘I’m afraid, my
deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked
things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like, for
weeks past, but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to
remember that when I’m gone. We aud folks that be
daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t
altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel
scart of it, and that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so
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that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye,
miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit, only I don’t want to
die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for
I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to
expect. And I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already
whettin’ his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of
caffin’ about it all at once. The chafts will wag as they be
used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will sound his
trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my
deary!’—for he saw that I was crying—‘if he should come
this very night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be,
after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re
doin’, and death be all that we can rightly depend on. But
I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’
quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and
wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s
bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad
hearts. Look! Look!’ he cried suddenly. ‘There’s
something in that wind and in the hoast beyont that
sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in
the air. I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful,
when my call comes!’ He held up his arms devoutly, and
raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were
praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook
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hands with me, and blessed me, and said goodbye, and
hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his
spyglass under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he
always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.
‘I can’t make her out,’ he said. ‘She’s a Russian, by the
look of her. But she’s knocking about in the queerest way.
She doesn’t know her mind a bit. She seems to see the
storm coming, but can’t decide whether to run up north
in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand on
the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll
hear more of her before this time tomorrow.’
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Chapter 7
CUTTING FROM ‘THE DAILYGRAPH’, 8
AUGUST
(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has
just been experienced here, with results both strange and
unique. The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not
to any degree uncommon in the month of August.
Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the
great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits
to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill,
Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in the
neighborhood of Whitby. The steamers Emma and
Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there
was an unusual amount of ‘tripping’ both to and from
Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the afternoon,
when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from the commanding eminence watch
the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called
attention to a sudden show of ‘mares tails’ high in the sky
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to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the
south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked ‘No. 2, light breeze.’
The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one
old fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept
watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an
emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The
approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its
masses of splendidly coloured clouds, that there was quite
an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped
below the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly
athwart the western sky, its downward way was marked by
myriad clouds of every sunset colour, flame, purple, pink,
green, violet, and all the tints of gold, with here and there
masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all
sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The
experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless
some of the sketches of the ‘Prelude to the Great Storm’
will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and
there that his ‘cobble’ or his ‘mule’, as they term the
different classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till
the storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during
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the evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a
sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on the
approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the
coasting steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely,
kept well to seaward, and but few fishing boats were in
sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with
all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The
foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific
theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and
efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the face of
her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with
sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea.
‘As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’
Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew
quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the
bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the
town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with
its lively French air, was like a dischord in the great
harmony of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came a
strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air
began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
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Then without warning the tempest broke. With a
rapidity which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even
afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of
nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in
growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a very
few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and
devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on
the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others
broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the
lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of
either pier of Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such
force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept
their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions.
It was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the
mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would
have increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and
dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland.
White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so
dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of
imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea
were touching their living brethren with the clammy
hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths
of sea-mist swept by.
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At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance
could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which came
thick and fast, followed by such peals of thunder that the
whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of
the footsteps of the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable
grandeur and of absorbing interest. The sea, running
mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty
masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch
at and whirl away into space. Here and there a fishing
boat, with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before
the blast, now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed
seabird. On the summit of the East Cliff the new
searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been
tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working
order, and in the pauses of onrushing mist swept with it
the surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most
effective, as when a fishing boat, with gunwale under
water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of
the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against
the piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port
there was a shout of joy from the mass of people on the
shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the
gale and was then swept away in its rush.
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Before long the searchlight discovered some distance
away a schooner with all sails set, apparently the same
vessel which had been noticed earlier in the evening. The
wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized
the terrible danger in which she now was.
Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on
which so many good ships have from time to time
suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present
quarter, it would be quite impossible that she should fetch
the entrance of the harbour.
It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves
were so great that in their troughs the shallows of the
shore were almost visible, and the schooner, with all sails
set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one
old salt, ‘she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in
hell". Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any
hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all
things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the
organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash
of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows
came through the damp oblivion even louder than before.
The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour
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mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected,
and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the
remnant of the sea fog melted in the blast. And then,
mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to
wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange
schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the
safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a
shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the
helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung
horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship. No other
form could be seen on the deck at all.
A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as
if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by
the hand of a dead man! However, all took place more
quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner
paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself
on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many
tides and many storms into the southeast corner of the pier
jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill
Pier.
There was of course a considerable concussion as the
vessel drove up on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and
stay was strained, and some of the ‘top-hammer’ came
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crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant the
shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck
from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running
forward, jumped from the bow on the sand.
Making straight for the steep cliff, where the
churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so
steeply that some of the flat tombstones, thruffsteans or
through-stones, as they call them in Whitby vernacular,
actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen
away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
It so happened that there was no one at the moment on
Tate Hill Pier, as all those whose houses are in close
proximity were either in bed or were out on the heights
above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of
the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was
the first to climb aboard. The men working the
searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour
without seeing anything, then turned the light on the
derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and
when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it,
and recoiled at once as though under some sudden
emotion. This seemed to pique general curiosity, and
quite a number of people began to run.
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It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the
Draw-bridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a
fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd.
When I arrived, however, I found already assembled on
the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused
to allow to come on board. By the courtesy of the chief
boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb
on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead
seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or
even awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen.
The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over
the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner
hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on
which it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel,
and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow
may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and
buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of
the wheel and had dragged him to and fro, so that the
cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the
bone.
Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a
doctor, Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place,
who came immediately after me, declared, after making
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examination, that the man must have been dead for quite
two days.
In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save
for a little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum
to the log.
The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own
hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a
coastguard was the first on board may save some
complications later on, in the Admiralty Court, for
coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of
the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already, however,
the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student
is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already
completely sacrificed, his property being held in
contravention of the statues of mortmain, since the tiller,
as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is
held in a dead hand.
It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been
reverently removed from the place where he held his
honourable watch and ward till death, a steadfastness as
noble as that of the young Casabianca, and placed in the
mortuary to await inquest.
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Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating. Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is
beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds.
I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details
of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously
into harbour in the storm.
9 August.—The sequel to the strange arrival of the
derelict in the storm last night is almost more startling than
the thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is Russian
from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost
entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount
of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled with
mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr.
S.F. Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning
went aboard and took formal possession of the goods
consigned to him.
The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party,
took formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour
dues, etc.
Nothing is talked about here today except the strange
coincidence. The officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been
made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a
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‘nine days wonder’, they are evidently determined that
there shall be no cause of other complaint.
A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog
which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few
of the members of the S.P.C.A., which is very strong in
Whitby, have tried to befriend the animal. To the general
disappointment, however, it was not to be found. It seems
to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that
it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where
it is still hiding in terror.
There are some who look with dread on such a
possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger,
for it is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large
dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close
to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite
its master’s yard. It had been fighting, and manifestly had
had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away, and its
belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.
Later.—By the kindness of the Board of Trade
inspector, I have been permitted to look over the log
book of the Demeter, which was in order up to within
three days, but contained nothing of special interest except
as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest, however,
is with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was
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today produced at the inquest. And a more strange
narrative than the two between them unfold it has not
been my lot to come across.
As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted
to use them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply
omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It
almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue
water, and that this had developed persistently throughout
the voyage. Of course my statement must be taken cum
grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of
the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time
being short.
LOG OF THE ‘DEMETER’ Varna to Whitby
Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I
shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land.
On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and
boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew,
five hands … two mates, cook, and myself, (captain).
On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by
Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under
way at 4 p.m.
On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs
officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh
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again. Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off
soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.
On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied
about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak
out.
On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all
steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not
make out what was wrong. They only told him there was
SOMETHING, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper
with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce
quarrel, but all was quiet.
On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of
the crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it.
Took larboard watch eight bells last night, was relieved by
Amramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast
than ever. All said they expected something of the kind,
but would not say more than there was SOMETHING
aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them. Feared
some trouble ahead.
On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came
to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that
he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He
said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the
deckhouse, as there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall,
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thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the
companionway, and go along the deck forward and
disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to
bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed.
He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the
panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today search the
entire ship carefully from stem to stern.
Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and
told them, as they evidently thought there was some one
in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate
angry, said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas
would demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with the handspike. I let him take the
helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all keeping
abreast, with lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As
there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd
corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved
when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First
mate scowled, but said nothing.
22 July.—Rough weather last three days, and all hands
busy with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to
have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on
good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed
Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.
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24 July.—There seems some doom over this ship.
Already a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with
wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost,
disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was
not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be
alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as
either he or the men will do some violence.
28 July.—Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of
maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one.
Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since
no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and
watch, and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind
abating, seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is
steadier.
29 July.—Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight,
as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came
on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised
outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no
one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a
panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait
for any sign of cause.
30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England.
Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept soundly,
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awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch and
steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left
to work ship.
1 August.—Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted.
Had hoped when in the English Channel to be able to
signal for help or get in somewhere. Not having power to
work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as
could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to
some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralised than
either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked
inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear, working
stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They
are Russian, he Roumanian.
2 August, midnight.—Woke up from few minutes
sleep by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could
see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against mate.
Tells me he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must
be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he
saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If
so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can
guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us, and
God seems to have deserted us.
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3 August.—At midnight I went to relieve the man at
the wheel and when I got to it found no one there. The
wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no
yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After
a few seconds, he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason
has given way. He came close to me and whispered
hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the
very air might hear. ‘It is here. I know it now. On the
watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and
ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept
behind It, and gave it my knife, but the knife went
through It, empty as the air.’ And as he spoke he took the
knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he went on,
‘But It is here, and I’ll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in
one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and see.
You work the helm.’ And with a warning look and his
finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing up a
choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him
come out on deck again with a tool chest and lantern, and
go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving
mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt
those big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull
them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I
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stay and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only
trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can’t
steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails, and lie by, and signal for help …
It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to
hope that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard
him knocking away at something in the hold, and work is
good for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up
on the deck he came as if shot from a gun, a raging
madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with
fear. ‘Save me! Save me!’ he cried, and then looked round
on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in
a steady voice he said, ‘You had better come too, captain,
before it is too late. He is there! I know the secret now.
The sea will save me from Him, and it is all that is left!’
Before I could say a word, or move forward to seize him,
he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself
into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was
this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and
now he has followed them himself. God help me! How
am I to account for all these horrors when I get to port?
When I get to port! Will that ever be?
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4 August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce, I
know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I
know not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the
helm, so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the
night I saw it, Him! God, forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man.
To die like a sailor in blue water, no man can object. But I
am captain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall baffle
this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel
when my strength begins to fail, and along with them I
shall tie that which He, It, dare not touch. And then,
come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my
honour as a captain. I am growing weaker, and the night is
coming on. If He can look me in the face again, I may not
have time to act… If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle
may be found, and those who find it may understand. If
not … well, then all men shall know that I have been true
to my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and the Saints
help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty …
Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no
evidence to adduce, and whether or not the man himself
committed the murders there is now none to say. The folk
here hold almost universally that the captain is simply a
hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is
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arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats
up the Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill
Pier and up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried in the
churchyard on the cliff. The owners of more than a
hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.
No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at
which there is much mourning, for, with public opinion
in its present state, he would, I believe, be adopted by the
town. Tomorrow will see the funeral, and so will end this
one more ‘mystery of the sea’.
MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL
8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I too,
could not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed
loudly among the chimney pots, it made me shudder.
When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun.
Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but she got up
twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke
in time and managed to undress her without waking her,
and got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this
sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any
physical way, her intention, if there be any, disappears,
and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her
life.
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Early in the morning we both got up and went down
to the harbour to see if anything had happened in the
night. There were very few people about, and though the
sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grimlooking
waves, that seemed dark themselves because the
foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves
in through the mouth of the harbour, like a bullying man
going through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan
was not on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he
on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting
fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do,
and could do anything!
10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea captain today
was most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to
be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way
from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with
me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege
of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down
again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession
nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near
our seat so that we stood on it, when the time came and
saw everything.
Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and
uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that her
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dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one
thing. She will not admit to me that there is any cause for
restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it
herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales
was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being
broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in
the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear
and horror on his face that the men said made them
shudder. Poor dear old man!
Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences
more acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite
upset by a little thing which I did not much heed, though
I am myself very fond of animals.
One of the men who came up here often to look for
the boats was followed by his dog. The dog is always with
him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw the
man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the
dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat
with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its
master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then
angrily. But it would neither come nor cease to make a
noise. It was in a fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hair
bristling out like a cat’s tail when puss is on the war path.
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Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and
kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck
and half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on
which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the stone
the poor thing began to tremble. It did not try to get
away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and
was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though
without effect, to comfort it.
Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to
touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way.
I greatly fear that she is of too super sensitive a nature to
go through the world without trouble. She will be
dreaming of this tonight, I am sure. The whole
agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a
dead man, his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix
and beads, the touching funeral, the dog, now furious and
now in terror, will all afford material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out
physically, so I shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs
to Robin Hood’s Bay and back. She ought not to have
much inclination for sleep-walking then.
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Chapter 8
MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL
Same day, 11 o’clock P.M.—Oh, but I am tired! If it
were not that I had made my diary a duty I should not
open it tonight. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while,
was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some dear cows who
came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,
and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot
everything, except of course, personal fear, and it seemed
to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a
capital ‘severe tea’ at Robin Hood’s Bay in a sweet little
old-fashioned inn, with a bow window right over the
seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should
have shocked the ‘New Woman’ with our appetites. Men
are more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with
some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and with our
hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to
bed as soon as we could. The young curate came in,
however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay for supper.
Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller. I
know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite
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