(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
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 swept by.
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.
