CHAPTER VII
CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH,"
(Pasted in Mina Murray journal)
8 August
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 to the northwest. The wind
was then blowing from the southwest 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
was 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 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. 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 overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately
glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. Whitecrested 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 at the
wreaths of sea-mist sweptby. 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.
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 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 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.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge 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 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.
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 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 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 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 SOME-
THING, 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, 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.
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 malestrom, 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, 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.
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 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 ?
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 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.
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, grim-looking 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 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.
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.
