Tales of terror
He ceased speaking, and I noticed the wild, scared look in his eyes
which I had seen before. The perspiration was streaming down his face,
he appeared to be suffering great mental agony. I tried to soothe him,
but it was no use, and he kept on repeating that he was doomed.
Now let me say here at once that I did not believe the captain had
seen any real supernatural appearance. I regarded him as a highly
imaginative and sensitive man. On such a man Gibson’s curses and
threats would be sure to make a very deep impression. It could
hardly be otherwise, seeing that the two men had practically grown
up together. They had been schoolmates and shipmates, and Gibson’s
violent end must have affected his once friend in no ordinary degree.
Long dwelling upon the dramatic scene in the prison at Havana, the
day previous to the execution, had taken such a hold on the skipper’s
imagination that he had worried himself into a belief in a mere chimera
of the brain. To him, no doubt, the visions were real enough, although
they were nothing more than disturbed brain fancies.
Such was the theory I consoled myself with, and I determined there
and then to use every possible endeavour to get the captain out of his
morbid condition, and prove to him by gentle reasoning that he was
simply a victim to his own gloomy fears. I was so far successful at
that moment that I induced him to turn in, having first of all called
the mate down and given him certain instructions; then I compounded him
a simple soothing draught from ingredients in the medicine chest, and
at his own request I sat by him and read certain passages in the Bible,
until he fell into a sound sleep.
I was considerably exercised in my own mind as to the proper course I
ought to adopt, and I was tempted at first to take the Spanish lady
into my confidence, and discuss the matter with her. But this idea was
put out of my head at once, for she was sitting in the cuddy, as she
usually did in the evening, where she passed her time either reading or
in doing needlework. She saw that I came from the captain’s cabin, and
tackled me.
‘How is the skipper?’ she asked.
‘He is a little indisposed to-night, but will be all right to-morrow,
no doubt,’ I answered.
‘Not he,’ she exclaimed. ‘I tell you that man’s a haunted man, and will
either go mad or commit suicide.’
Remembering how dogmatically she had expressed herself on a previous
occasion on the subject of supernatural visitations, I deemed it
desirable not to enter into any discussion, and I also made up my mind
that it would be a fatal mistake to let her know that captain’s story,
so I merely said, in answer to her statement, ‘I hope not,’ and passed
to my cabin.
Now I want to repeat here, and for very obvious reasons, what were
the views I held at this stage. I considered that the captain was
suffering from a distressing nervous illness, the result of long
pondering over an incident which could not fail to make a tremendous
impression on him. But not for a moment did I entertain any belief in
the supernatural. Necessarily I was exceedingly anxious, for there was
no doctor on board, I had no medical knowledge myself, and we could not
hope to reach our destination for another three weeks. There was every
prospect then of the prognostications about a fine and rapid passage
being falsified. The barometer had been steadily falling for some time,
and all the indications were for bad weather. I knew that in that
latitude, at that time of year, heavy storms were not uncommon, and it
seemed likely that we should experience them. The anxious state of my
mind kept me awake for some time, revolving all sorts of schemes, but
nothing that seemed to me satisfactory. Eight bells midnight sounded,
and I heard the mate come out of his room and go on deck to take the
watch. I slipped out of bed, put on my dressing-gown and slippers, and
stole over to the captain’s cabin. To my intense relief I found he was
sleeping soundly.
As the motion of the vessel made it evident there was a heavy sea on,
I went up the companion-way to see what the weather was like. It was a
wild, weird night. A south-west gale was blowing and a tremendous sea
running. There was no moon, but the stars shone with a superb lustre
wherever the ragged, storm-driven scud allowed them to be seen. I
passed a few words with the mate, and asked him what he thought of the
weather.
‘It’s a bad wind for us,’ he answered, ‘and the heavy squalls that come
up every now and then prevent our setting much sail. But if I were
skipper, I would crack on and let things rip. I’d drive the ship even
at the risk of losing canvas.’
‘Why don’t you do so, as it is?’ I asked. ‘You’ve got charge of the
deck for the next four hours, and have practically a free hand.’
‘No I haven’t,’ he answered. ‘I’ve got to obey orders, though I think
sometimes, between you and me, sir, that the old man’s got a bee in his
bonnet, as they say in Scotland.’
‘What makes you think that?’ I queried, my interest in the skipper
making me anxious to hear what the mate had to say. I had not before
had any conversation with him about the captain’s condition. Indeed,
he was not a very talkative or communicative person. He was what is
termed a cautious Scotsman.
‘Well, I think it’s because he’s given to seeing the devil, or
something as bad.’
I laughed, although I was serious enough; and being anxious to draw the
officer out, I remarked:
‘Well, I shouldn’t say it’s quite as bad as that; but he is ill, there
is no doubt about it, and wants looking after.’
‘I should think he does,’ was the reply, given with peculiar
decisiveness. Then, bending his head towards me, the better to make
himself heard without raising his voice too much, for the howling of
the wind made it difficult to hear sometimes, he added, ‘Look here, Mr.
Gibling, will you give me your promise that, if I express an opinion,
it won’t go any farther?’
‘Yes, I think you may trust me,’ I answered.
‘Well, look here, sir, if you have any influence with the old man,
you should persuade him to keep his room for the rest of the passage.
And if he won’t, I say that in his own interest and the interest of
everyone on board this craft, that he should be made to stay there.’
Never before had the mate been so outspoken to me, and it was further
evidence, if I needed any, that the skipper’s condition had not escaped
the observation of others; and I seriously determined to act on the
suggestion, and use every effort to induce the captain to keep his room.
As a slight shift in the wind here necessitated the mate ordering
the watch to trim the yards, I went below, and, feeling thoroughly
exhausted, I drank a glass of whisky, and turning in, fell asleep.
I must have slept between three and four hours, when I awoke with
a start, for overhead was a tremendous hubbub. The tramping of
heavily-booted feet, the rattling of cordage, the shaking of sails;
while the ship, which was heeled over at an unusual angle, was
quivering. I hastily donned my dressing-gown, and rushed on deck. A
very heavy squall had struck us, and had torn the main-sail out of the
bolt ropes. ‘All hands’ had been called on deck, and what with the
shrieking wind and roaring sea, and the hoarse voices of the sailors,
the situation seemed alarming enough to a landsman like myself. A lurch
of the ship drove me down to the lee rail against the mizzen shrouds,
which I clung to for dear life. Suddenly I felt myself gripped round
the waist, and a body seemed to fall at my feet. I realised in an
instant that it was the captain. He had only his shirt and drawers on.
His feet were bare, his head was bare. So much I was able to make out
in the darkness that wasn’t altogether darkness, for a few stars still
shone.
‘For the love of God, for the sake of the Christ that was crucified,
save me!’ shrieked the unhappy man, as he crouched on his knees and
linked his hands round my body.
‘Don’t give way like this,’ I said, feeling almost distracted myself.
‘Come, let me lead you down to your cabin. The mate will look after the
ship. She is in good hands.’
It seemed as if the unhappy man did not understand what I had said to
him, for pointing to the sea, he cried in a voice of acute terror:
‘There, there, don’t you see it? there on that wave? Oh, my God, it’s
awful!’
Mechanically I turned my eyes to where he pointed, and to my
astonishment I saw what appeared to me to be a pale, lambent flame,
shapeless and blue and nebulous. But I am conscious of thinking to
myself that this was some natural phenomenon, like the well-known St.
Elmo’s fire. Slowly, however, even as I watched (for my eyes were
riveted on that light by some strange fascination), I saw the shapeless
mass grow brighter. Then for the first time it seemed to dawn upon me
that I was gazing upon something unearthly. My heart leaped to my mouth
at the conviction, and a cold shivering thrilled through my body. I
tried to shut out the vision, but my eyes would not close; I was under
some spell, against which I had no power of resistance.
As I gazed, the flame assumed shape; the shape of a human being. I
distinguished a face, wan and ghastly. The eyes were lustreless and
fixed, like those of a dead man. In the naked body were many wounds,
and from these wounds blood spurted out in streams, and as it seemed
to me made the sea around crimson. I shuddered with horror at this
dreadful sight; my knees bent under me, and I was on the point of
sinking down, when I made a supreme effort and rallied. For the skipper
was still clinging to me. I felt his weight, I heard his groans, but
I saw nothing save that spectral figure with the gory streams pouring
from its body.
Panting and breathless, a cold perspiration bursting through every
pore, and with a feeling as if the scalp of my head was shrinking to
nothing, I continued to gaze. The figure remained motionless, but its
dull, glazed, dead eyes riveted themselves upon me as I thought, and
I could not endure their gaze. I felt my brain maddening with terror;
driven to frenzy I made a supreme effort to lift the captain in my arms
and carry him bodily down to his room. But he broke from me. He made as
it seemed a flying leap from the poop to the waist of the ship; then
another flying leap over the rail into the dark seething waters. I
heard the heavy splash his falling body made. One long, piercing shriek
as he floated astern filled the air.
I remember little more. There was a cry of ‘Man overboard!’; a wild rush
of feet; a hasty cutting away of lifebuoys; hoarse voices mingling with
flapping sails. How I got below I don’t know, but I found myself lying
in my berth with the Spanish lady standing over me, putting eau de
cologne on my temples.
‘Do you feel better now?’ she asked in a not unkindly way.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I answered, feeling confused; ‘but tell me, what does
it mean? What has happened?’
‘Why, don’t you know?’ she exclaimed; ‘the captain has jumped
overboard. I told you what would happen. He was haunted and went mad, I
suppose. Anyway the poor fellow’s gone.’
‘And how did I get here?’ I asked, with a dreadful sinking sensation at
the heart and a dazed numb feeling in the brain.
‘Well, you tumbled down the companion-way and were insensible when the
stewards picked you up. You fainted, I suppose, with fright, eh?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ I murmured. ‘It’s all a dream.’
‘Now tell me and speak the truth?’ she said, in a commanding tone. ‘Did
you see anything?’
‘Yes’
‘What?’
‘The vision of a bleeding man.’
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed triumphantly, ‘how about your scepticism now, eh?’
I had to confess that, according to my belief, I had seen the spectre
of a man bleeding from several wounds; but still I thought it was
nothing more than a delusion.