Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Phantom Ship, by Captain Marryat.
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Captain Frederick Marryat was born July 10 1792, and died August 8 1848.He retired from the British navy in 1828 in order to devote himself towriting. In the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which areamong the very best of English literature, and some of which are stillin print.
Marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in hisstories. He says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, henever knew what he was going to write. He certainly was a literarygenius.
"The Phantom Ship" was published in 1839, the thirteenth book to flowfrom Marryat's pen. It is one of his very best books.
This e-text was transcribed in 1998 by Nick Hodson, and was reformattedin 2003, and again in 2005.
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THE PHANTOM SHIP, BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT.
CHAPTER ONE.
About the middle of the seventeenth century, in the outskirts of thesmall but fortified town of Terneuse, situated on the right bank of theScheldt, and nearly opposite to the island of Walcheren, there was to beseen in advance of a few other even more humble tenements, a small butneat cottage, built according to the prevailing taste of the time. Theoutside front had, some years back, been painted of a deep orange, thewindows and shutters of a vivid green. To about three feet above thesurface of the earth, it was faced alternately with blue and whitetiles. A small garden, of about two rods of our measure of land,surrounded the edifice; and this little plot was flanked by a low hedgeof privet, and encircled by a moat full of water, too wide to be leapedwith ease. Over that part of the moat which was in front of thecottage-door was a small and narrow bridge, with ornamented ironhandrails, for the security of the passenger. But the colours,originally so bright, with which the cottage had been decorated, had nowfaded; symptoms of rapid decay were evident in the window-sills, thedoor-jambs, and other wooden parts of the tenement and many of the whiteand blue tiles had fallen down and had not been replaced. That muchcare had once been bestowed upon this little tenement, was as evident asthat latterly it had been equally neglected.
The inside of the cottage, both on the basement and the floor above, wasdivided into two larger rooms in front, and two smaller behind; therooms in front could only be called large in comparison with the othertwo, as they were little more than twelve feet square, with but onewindow to each. The upper floor was, as usual, appropriated to thebedrooms; on the lower, the two smaller rooms were now used only as awash-house and a lumber-room; while one of the larger was fitted up as akitchen, and furnished with dressers, on which the metal utensils forcookery shone clean and polished as silver. The room itself wasscrupulously neat; but the furniture as well as the utensils, werescanty. The boards of the floor were of a pure white, and so clean thatyou might have laid anything down without fear of soiling it. A strongdeal table, two wooden-seated chairs, and a small easy couch, which hadbeen removed from one of the bedrooms upstairs, were all the moveableswhich this room contained. The other front room had been fitted up as aparlour; but what might be the style of its furniture was now unknown,for no eye had beheld the contents of that room for nearly seventeenyears, during which it had been hermetically sealed, even to the inmatesof the cottage.
The kitchen, which we have described, was occupied by two persons. Onewas a woman, apparently about forty years of age, but worn down by painand suffering. She had evidently once possessed much beauty: there werestill the regular outlines, the noble forehead, and the large dark eye;but there was a tenuity in her features, a wasted appearance, such as torender the flesh transparent; her brow, when she mused, would sink intodeep wrinkles, premature though they were; and the occasional flashingof her eyes strongly impressed you with the idea of insanity. Thereappeared to be some deep-seated, irremoveable, hopeless cause ofanguish, never for one moment permitted to be absent from her memory: achronic oppression, fixed and graven there, only to be removed by death.She was dressed in the widow's coif of the time; but although clean andneat, her garments were faded from long wear. She was seated upon thesmall couch which we have mentioned, evidently brought down as a reliefto her, in her declining state.
On the deal table in the centre of the room sat the other person, astout, fair-haired, florid youth of nineteen or twenty years old. Hisfeatures were handsome and bold, and his frame powerful to excess; hiseye denoted courage and determination, and as he carelessly swung hislegs, and whistled an air in an emphatic manner, it was impossible notto form the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and recklesscharacter.
"Do not go to sea, Philip; oh, promise me _that_, my dear child," saidthe female, clasping her hands.
"And why not go to sea, mother?" replied Philip; "what's the use of mystaying here to starve?--for, by Heaven! it's little better, I must dosomething for myself and for you. And what else can I do? My uncle VanBrennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages.Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficientfor your support at home."
"Philip--Philip, hear me. I shall die if you leave me. Whom have I inthe world but you? O my child, as you love me, and I know you _do_ loveme, Philip, don't leave me; but if you will, at all events do not go tosea."
Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while hismother wept.
"Is it," said he at last, "because my father was drowned at sea that youbeg so hard, mother?"
"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed the sobbing woman. "Would to God--"
"Would to God what, mother?"
"Nothing--nothing. Be merciful--be merciful, O God!" replied themother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side ofit, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer. Atlast she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of morecomposure.
Philip, who during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, againaddressed his mother.
"Look ye, mother. You ask me to stay on shore with you, and starve,--rather hard conditions:--now hear what I have to say. That roomopposite has been shut up ever since I can remember--why, you will nevertell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without bread and withno prospect of my uncle's return--you were then half frantic, mother, asyou know you sometimes are--"
"Well, Philip, what did you hear me say?" inquired his mother, withtremulous anxiety.
"You said, mother, that there was money in that room which would saveus; and then you screamed and raved, and said that you preferred death.Now, mother, what is there in that chamber, and why has it been so longshut up? Either I know that, or I go to sea."
At the commencement of this address of Philip, his mother appeared to betransfixed, and motionless as a statue; gradually her lips separated,and her eyes glared; she seemed to have lost the power of reply; she puther hand to her right side, as if to compress it, then both her hands,as if to relieve herself from excruciating torture: at last she sank,with her head forward, and the blood poured out of her mouth.
Philip sprang from the table to her assistance, and prevented her fromfalling on the floor. He laid her on the couch, watching with alarm thecontinued effusion.
"Oh! mother--mother, what is this?" cried he, at last, in greatdistress.
For some time his mother could make him no reply; she turned further onher side, that she might not be suffocated by the discharge from theruptured vessel, and the snow-white planks of the floor were sooncrimsoned with her blood.
"Speak, dearest mother, if you can," repeated Philip in agony; "Whatshall I do?--what shall I give you? God Almighty! what is this?"
"Death, my child, death!" at length replied the poor woman, sinking intoa state of unconsciousness.
Philip, now much alarmed, flew out of the cottage, and called theneighbours to his mother's assistance. Two or three hastened to thecall; and as soon as Philip saw them occupied in restoring his mother,he ran as fast as he could to the house of a medical man, who livedabout a mile off;--one Mynheer Poots, a little, miserable, avariciouswretch but known to be very skilful in his profession. Philip foundPoots at home, and insisted upon his immediate attendance.
"I will come--yes, most certainly," replied Poots, who spoke thelanguage but imperfectly; "but, Mynheer Vanderdecken, who will pay me?"
"Pay you! my uncle will, directly that he comes home."
"Your uncle, de Skipper Vanbrennen: no, he owe me four guilders, and hehas owed me for a long time. Besides his ship may sink."
"He shall pay you the four guilders, and for this attendance also,"replied Philip in a rage; "come directly,--while you are disputing, mymother may be dead."
"But, Mr Philip, I cannot come, now I recollect. I have to see thechild of the Burgomaster at Terneuse," replied Mynheer Poots.
"Look you, Mynheer Poots," exclaimed Philip, red with passion; "you havebut to choose,--will you go quietly, or must I take you there? You'llnot trifle with me."
Here Mynheer Poots was under considerable alarm, for the character ofPhilip Vanderdecken was well known.
"I will come by-and-by, Mynheer Philip, if I can."
"You'll come now, you wretched old miser," exclaimed Philip, seizinghold of the little man by the collar, and pulling him out of his door.
"Murder! murder!" cried Poots, as he lost his legs, and was draggedalong by the impetuous young man.
Philip stopped, for he perceived that Poots was black in the face.
"Must I then choke you, to make you go quietly? for, hear me, go youshall, alive or dead."
"Well, then," replied Poots, recovering himself, "I will go, but I'llhave you in prison to-night: and, as for your mother, I'll not--no, thatI will not--Mynheer Philip, depend upon it."
"Mark me, Mynheer Poots," replied Philip, "as sure as there is a God inheaven, if you do not come with me, I'll choke you now; and when youarrive, if you do not your best for my poor mother, I'll murder youthere. You know that I always do what I say, so now take my advice,come along quietly, and you shall certainly be paid, and well paid--if Isell my coat."
This last observation of Philip, perhaps, had more effect than even histhreats. Poots was a miserable little atom, and like a child in thepowerful grasp of the young man. The doctor's tenement was isolated,and he could obtain no assistance until within a hundred yards ofVanderdecken's cottage; so Mynheer Poots decided that he would go--first, because Philip had promised to pay him, and secondly, because hecould not help it.
This point being settled, Philip and Mynheer Poots made all haste to thecottage; and on their arrival, they found his mother still in the armsof two of her female neighbours, who were bathing her temples withvinegar. She was in a state of consciousness, but she could not speak;Poots ordered her to be carried up stairs and put to bed, and pouringsome acids down her throat, hastened away with Philip to procure thenecessary remedies.
"You will give your mother that directly, Mynheer Philip," said Poots,putting a phial into his hand; "I will now go to the child of theBurgomaster, and will afterwards come back to your cottage."
"Don't deceive me," said Philip, with a threatening look.
"No, no, Mynheer Philip, I would not trust to your uncle Vanbrennen forpayment, but you have promised, and I know that you always keep yourword. In one hour I will be with your mother; but you yourself must nowbe quick."
Philip hastened home. After the potion had been administered, thebleeding was wholly stopped; and in half an hour, his mother couldexpress her wishes in a whisper. When the little doctor arrived, hecarefully examined his patient, and then went down stairs with her soninto the kitchen.
"Mynheer Philip," said Poots, "by Allah! I have done my best, but Imust tell you that I have little hopes of your mother rising from herbed again. She may live one day or two days, but not more. It is notmy fault, Mynheer Philip," continued Poots, in a deprecating tone.
"No, no; it is the will of Heaven," replied Philip, mournfully.
"And you will pay me, Mynheer Vanderdecken?" continued the doctor aftera short pause.
"Yes," replied Philip in a voice of thunder, and starting from areverie. After a moment's silence, the doctor recommenced:
"Shall I come to-morrow, Mynheer Philip? You know that will be a chargeof another guilder: it is of no use to throw away money or time either."
"Come to-morrow, come every hour, charge what you please; you shallcertainly be paid," replied Philip, curling his lip with contempt.
"Well, it is as you please. As soon as she is dead the cottage and thefurniture will be yours, and you will sell them of course. Yes, I willcome. You will have plenty of money. Mynheer Philip, I would like thefirst offer of the cottage, if it is to let."
Philip raised his arm in the air as if to crush Mynheer Poots, whoretreated to the corner.
"I did not mean until your mother was buried," said Poots, in a coaxingtone.
"Go, wretch, go!" said Philip, covering his face with his hands, as hesank down upon the blood-stained couch.
After a short interval, Philip Vanderdecken returned to the bedside ofhis mother, whom he found much better; and the neighbours, having theirown affairs to attend to, left them alone. Exhausted with the loss ofblood, the poor woman slumbered for many hours, during which she neverlet go the hand of Philip, who watched her breathing in mournfulmeditation.
It was about one o'clock in the morning when the widow awoke. She hadin a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her son:--
"My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner solong?"
"My own inclination detained me, mother. I leave you not to othersuntil you are up and well again."
"That, Philip, I shall never be. I feel that death claims me; and O myson, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing! Ihave long been dying, Philip,--and long, long have I prayed for death."
"And why so, mother?" replied Philip, bluntly; "I've done my best."
"You have, my child, you have: and may God bless you for it. Often haveI seen you curb your fiery temper--restrain yourself when justified inwrath--to spare a mother's feelings. 'Tis now some days that evenhunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother. And, Philip, youmust have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and yet to giveno reason. I'll speak--again--directly."
The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for someminutes; then, as if revived, she resumed:
"I believe I have been mad at times--have I not, Philip? And God knowsI have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy. Ithas oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, andnow, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame: the blowis struck, Philip--I'm sure it is. I wait but to tell you all,--and yetI would not,--'twill turn your brain as it has turned mine, Philip."
"Mother," replied Philip, earnestly, "I conjure you, let me hear thiskilling secret. Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not. Heavenwill not hurt me and Satan I defy."
"I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip,--thy strength of mind. If anyone could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst. Mybrain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell itto thee."
The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had toconfide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks; shethen appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regainedstrength.
"Philip, it is of your father I would speak. It is supposed--that hewas--drowned at sea."
"And was he not, mother?" replied Philip, with surprise.
"O no!"
"But he has lo
ng been dead, mother?"
"No,--yes,--and yet--no," said the widow, covering her eyes. Her brainwanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again:
"Then where is he, mother?"
The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her wholeframe, as she replied--
"In LIVING JUDGMENT."
The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered herhead with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her ownmemory. Philip was so much perplexed and astounded, that he could makeno reply. A silence of some minutes ensued when, no longer able to bearthe agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered--
"The secret, mother, the secret; quick, let me hear it."
"I can now tell all, Philip," replied his mother, in a solemn tone ofvoice. "Hear me, my son. Your father's disposition was but too likeyour own;--O may his cruel fate be a lesson to you, my dear, dear child!He was a bold, a daring, and, they say, a first-rate seaman. He wasnot born here, but in Amsterdam; but he would not live there, because hestill adhered to the Catholic religion. The Dutch, you know, Philip,are heretics, according to our creed. It is now seventeen years or morethat he sailed for India, in his fine ship the Amsterdammer, with avaluable cargo. It was his third voyage to India, Philip, and it was tohave been, if it had so pleased God, his last, for he had purchased thatgood ship with only part of his earnings, and one more voyage would havemade his fortune. O! how often did we talk over what we would do uponhis return, and how these plans for the future consoled me at the ideaof his absence, for I loved him dearly, Philip,--he was always good andkind to me! and after he had sailed, how I hoped for his return! Thelot of a sailor's wife is not to be envied. Alone and solitary for somany months, watching the long wick of the candle and listening to thehowling of the wind--foreboding evil and accident--wreck and widowhood.He had been gone about six months, Philip, and there was still a longdreary year to wait before I could expect him back. One night, you, mychild, were fast asleep; you were my only solace--my comfort in myloneliness. I had been watching over you in your slumbers: you smiledand half pronounced the name of mother; and at last I kissed yourunconscious lips, and I knelt and prayed--prayed for God's blessing onyou, my child, and upon him too--little thinking, at the time, that hewas so horribly, so fearfully CURSED."
The widow paused for breath, and then resumed. Philip could not speak.His lips were sundered, and his eyes riveted upon his mother, as hedevoured her words.
"I left you and went down stairs into that room, Philip, which sincethat dreadful night has never been re-opened. I sate me down and read,for the wind was strong, and when the gale blows, a sailor's wife canseldom sleep. It was past midnight, and the rain poured down. I feltunusual fear,--I knew not why, I rose from the couch and dipped myfinger in the blessed water, and I crossed myself. A violent gust ofwind roared round the house and alarmed me still more. I had a painful,horrible foreboding; when, of a sudden, the windows and window-shutterswere all blown in, the light was extinguished, and I was left in utterdarkness. I screamed with fright--but at last I recovered myself, andwas proceeding towards the window that I might reclose it, when whomshould I behold, slowly entering at the casement, but--your father,--Philip!--Yes, Philip,--it was your father!"
"Merciful God!" muttered Philip, in a low tone almost subdued into awhisper.
"I knew not what to think,--he was in the room; and although thedarkness was intense, his form and features were as clear and as definedas if it were noon-day. Fear would have inclined me to recoil from,--his loved presence to fly towards him. I remained on the spot where Iwas, choked with agonising sensations. When he had entered the room,the windows and shutters closed of themselves, and the candle wasrelighted--then I thought it was his apparition, and I fainted on thefloor.
"When I recovered I found myself on the couch, and perceived that a cold(O how cold!) and dripping hand was clasped in mine. This reassured me,and I forgot the supernatural signs which accompanied his appearance. Iimagined that he had been unfortunate, and had returned home. I openedmy eyes, and beheld my loved husband and threw myself into his arms.His clothes were saturated with the rain; I felt as if I had embracedice--but nothing can check the warmth of woman's love, Philip. Hereceived my caresses but he caressed not again: he spoke not, but lookedthoughtful and unhappy. `William--William,' cried I; `speak, to yourdear Catherine.'
"`I will,' replied he, solemnly, `for my time is short.'
"`No, no, you must not go to sea again; you have lost your vessel butyou are safe. Have I not you again?'
"`Alas! no--be not alarmed, but listen? for my time is short. I havenot lost my vessel, Catherine, BUT I HAVE LOST!--Make no reply, butlisten; I am not dead, nor yet am I alive. I hover between this worldand the world of spirits. Mark me.'
"`For nine weeks did I try to force my passage against the elementsround the stormy Cape, but without success; and I swore terribly. Fornine weeks more did I carry sail against the adverse winds and currents,and yet could gain no ground and then I blasphemed,--ay, terriblyblasphemed. Yet still I persevered. The crew, worn out with longfatigue, would have had me return to the Table Bay; but I refused; nay,more, I became a murderer--unintentionally, it is true, but still amurderer. The pilot opposed me, and persuaded the men to bind me, andin the excess of my fury, when he took me by the collar, I struck athim; he reeled; and, with the sudden lurch of the vessel, he felloverboard, and sank. Even this fearful death did not restrain me; and Iswore by the fragment of the Holy Cross, preserved in that relic nowhanging round your neck, that I would gain my point in defiance of stormand seas, of lightning, of heaven, or of hell, even if I should beatabout until the Day of Judgment.'
"`My oath was registered in thunder, and in streams of sulphurous fire.The hurricane burst upon the ship, the canvass flew away in ribbons;mountains of seas swept over us, and in the centre of a deep o'erhangingcloud, which shrouded all in utter darkness, were written in letters oflivid flame, these words--UNTIL THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT.'
"`Listen to me, Catherine, my time is short. _One hope_ alone remains,and for this am I permitted to come here. Take this letter.' He put asealed paper on the table. `Read it, Catherine, dear, and try if youcan assist me. Read it, and now farewell--my time is come.'
"Again the window and window-shutters burst open--again the light wasextinguished, and the form of my husband was, as it were, wafted in thedark expanse. I started up and followed him with outstretched arms andfrantic screams as he sailed through the window;--my glaring eyes beheldhis form borne away like lightning on the wings of the wild gale, tillit was lost as a speck of light, and then it disappeared. Again thewindows closed, the light burned, and I was left alone!
"Heaven, have mercy! My brain!--my brain!--Philip!--Philip!" shriekedthe poor woman; "don't leave me--don't--don't--pray don't!"
During these exclamations the frantic widow had raised herself from thebed, and, at the last, had fallen into the arms of her son. Sheremained there some minutes without motion. After a time Philip feltalarmed at her long quiescence; he laid her gently down upon the bed,and as he did so her head fell back--her eyes were turned--the widowVanderdecken was no more.