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(Pasted in Mina Murray's Journal.)
From a Correspondent.
8 August. 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 neighbourhood 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 that 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 north-west. 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 blow
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 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 face of her danger. Before the night shut
down she was seen with sails idly napping 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 discord
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
realise, 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. 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 piers from
the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would
have been 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. At times the mist cleared, and the sea
for some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which
now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden 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 sea-bird. 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 the inrushing 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
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 realised 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 grey 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 search-light
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 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 south-east 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- "thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as
they call them in the 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 on board. 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 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 tight 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
statutes 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 Casablanca- and placed
in the mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating; crowds are scattering homeward, 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.
Whitby.
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 a 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 formally took 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 to-day 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 after
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 to 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 to-day
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 rescript, 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 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 crew, Petrofsky,
was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells
last night; was relieved by Abramoff, 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 that 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 deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he
saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the
companion-way, 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 to-day
search 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 a handspike. I let him take
the helm, while the rest began 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 on 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 to-night, 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; awaked 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 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 his 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 a 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 narrow 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 to-day 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 quite 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 old 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! Perhaps he had seen
Death with his dying eyes! 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 sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and
all its hairs 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 became quiet and fell
all into a 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
supersensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. She
will be dreaming of this to-night, 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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