Mysterious Sea Stories

by William Pattrick

  ‘“Any way,” said he, “it’s strange that his voice is only heard in your watch. It’s never favoured me with any remarks. The creaking and groaning of an old wooden ship is often like spoken words, and what you’ve been hearing may be nothing but a deception of the ear.”

  “‘A deception in your eye!” cried the skipper. “The timbers of an old wooden ship may strain and creak in the Dutch language, but hang me if they ever talked good sensible English. However, Pm not going to worry. For my part,” said he, with a nervous glance around him, “I don’t believe in ghosts; whatever it is that’s talking in the hold may go on jawing, so long as he sticks to that, and don’t frighten the men with an ugly mug, nor come upon us for a man’s allowance.”

  ‘“If it’s anybody’s ghost,” said I, “it must be the Italian’s, the chap that was starved in the forepeak.”

  ‘“I doubt that,” said the skipper. “I didn’t detect anything foreign in what he said. To my ear it sounded more like Whitechapel than Italiano.”

  ‘Well, for another week we heard little more of the ghost. It’s true that one middle watch a chap I had sent aloft to loose the main-royal had hardly stepped out of the lower rigging, after lingering in the crosstrees to overhaul his clewlines, when he comes rushing up to me and cries out, “I’ve been hailed from aloft, sir! a voice has just sung out, ‘Tommy, jump aloft again that I may have a good look at you!”’

  “‘Who’s up, there?” I asked him, staring into the gloom where the mast and yards went towering.

  ‘“There’s no one up there, sir: I’ll swear it. I was bound to see him had any one been there,” he answered, evidently very much frightened.

  ‘It occurred to me that some one of the crew might be lying hid in the top, and that if I could catch him I might find out who the ghost was. So I jumped into the rigging and trotted aloft, keeping my eye on the lee rigging, to make sure that no one descended by it. I gained the top, but nobody was there. I mounted to the crosstrees, but the deuce a sign of any one could I see. I came down, feeling both foolish and scared; for you see I had heard the voice myself in the hold, there was no question that there was a voice, belonging to nobody knew what, knocking about the ship, and consequently it was now impossible to help believing a man when he said he heard it.

  ‘However, it was necessary to keep the men in heart, and this was not to be done by captain and mates appearing scared; so I reasoned a bit with the man, told him that there were no such things as ghosts, that a voice was bound to come from a live person, because a spectre couldn’t possibly have lungs, those organs being of a perishable nature, and then sent him forward, but no easier in his mind, I suspect, than I was. Anyhow I was glad when eight bells were struck and it was my turn to go below. But, as I have said, nothing much came of this - at least, nothing that reached my ears. But not many nights following the ship lay becalmed - there wasn’t a breath of air, and the sea lay smooth as polished jet. This time I had the middle watch again. I was walking quietly up and down the poop, on the look-out for a deeper shadow upon the sea to indicate the approach of wind, when a man came up the ladder and said, “There’s someone a-talking to the ship under the bows.”

  “‘Are you awake?” said I.

  ‘“Heaven help me, as I stand here, sir,” exclaimed the fellow, solemnly, “if that there voice which talked in the hold t’other day ain’t now over the side.”

  ‘I ran forward, and found most of the watch huddled together near the starboard cathead. I peered over, and there was a dead silence.

  “‘What are you looking over that side for? I’m here!” said a thin, faint voice, that seemed more in the air than in the sea.

  ‘“There!” exclaimed one of the seamen, in a hoarse whisper, “That’s the third time. Whichever side we look, he’s on the other.”

  “‘But there must be some one in the water,” said another man. “Anybody see his outline? cuss me if I couldn’t swear I see a chap swimmin’ just now.”

  “‘No, no,” answered some one gruffly, “nothing but phosphorus, Joe, and the right sort o’ stuff too, for if this ain’t Old Nick-”

  ‘“You’re a liar, Sam!” came the voice clear and as one could swear, plain from over the side.

  ‘There was a general recoil, and a sort of groan ran among the men.

  ‘At the same moment I collared a figure standing near me, and slewed him round to bring his face fair to the starlight, clear of the staysail. “Come you along with me, Master Dick,” said I; and I marched him off the forecastle, along the main deck, and up on to the poop, “Soyou're the ghost, eh?” said I. “Why, to have kept your secret you should have given my elbow a wider berth. No wonder the Voice only makes observations in my watch. You’re too lazy, I suppose, to leave your hammock to try your wonderful power on the mate, eh? Now see here,” said I, finding him silent, and noticing how white his face glimmered to the stars, “I know you’re the man, so you’d better confess. Own the truth and I’ll keep your secret, providing you belay all further tricks of this same kind; deny that you’re the ghost and I’ll speak to the captain and set the men upon you.”

  ‘This fairly frightened him. “Well, sir, it’s true; I’m the Voice, sir; but for God’s sake keep the secret, sir. The men ’ud have my life if they found out that it was me as scared them.” ‘This confession was what I needed, for though when standing pretty close to him on the forecastle I could have sworn that it was he who uttered the words which perplexed and awed the sailors, yet so perfect was the deception, so fine, in short, was his skill as a ventriloquist that, had he stoutly denied and gone on denying that he was the “voice,” I should have believed him and continued sharing in the wonder and superstition of the crew. I kept his secret as I promised; but, somehow or other, it leaked out in time that he could deceive the ear by apparently pitching his voice among the rigging, or under the deck, or over the side, though the discovery was not made until the “ghost” had for a long time ceased to trouble the ship’s company, and until the men’s superstitious awe had faded somewhat, and they had recovered their old cheerfulness. We then sent for Dick to the cabin, where he gave a real entertainment as a ventriloquist, imitating all sorts of animals and producing sounds as of women in distress and men singing out for help in the berths; indeed, such was the skill that I’d often see the skipper and mate turning startled to look in the direction whence the voices proceeded. He made his peace with the men by amusing them in the same way; so that, instead of getting the rope’s-ending aft and the pummelling forward which he deserved, he ended as a real and general favourite, and one of the most amusing fellows that a man ever was shipmate with. I used to tell him that if he chose to perform ashore he was sure to make plenty of money, since such ventriloquial powers as his were the rarest thing in the world; and I’d sometimes fancy he meant to take my advice. But whether he died or kept on going to sea I don’t know, for after he left the ship I never saw nor heard of him again.”

  J. HABAKUK JEPHSON’S STATEMENT

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  The mystery of W. Clark Russell's ‘A Bewitched Ship' was explained simply enough, but the sea has a great many famous true mysteries which have defied all attempts to explain them. The legend of the phantom ship The Flying Dutchman, which I have already mentioned, is one; while the curious case of the abandoned vessel the Marie Celeste is another which has intrigued a lot of people for many years. In the next two stories a pair of distinguished writers attempt to offer solutions to these puzzling cases.

  In 'J. Habakuk Jephson's Statement', Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) uses the kind of clever analytical powers that his famous detective Sherlock Holmes possessed to try to unravel the mystery of the brigantine Marie Celeste, found drifting and deserted at sea in 1873. Conan Doyle poses an intriguing and unexpected solution, which I will not discuss here to avoid spoiling your enjoyment. However, I must just say that when the story was first published anonymously in the Cornhill Magazine in 1884 it was taken as a serious ac
count by certain officials in the British government.

  I think all keen students of the Sherlock Holmes1 stories will know why I have placed this tale immediately after that by W. Clark Russell. Russell's stories were, of course, the favourite reading material of the good Doctor Watson!

  In the month of December in the year 1873, the British Ship Dei Gratia steered into Gibraltar, having in tow the derelict brigantine Marie Celeste which had been picked up in latitude 38° 40', longitude 17° 14' W. There were several circumstances in connection with the condition and appearance of this abandoned vessel which excited considerable comment at the time, and aroused a curiosity which has never been satisfied. What these circumstances were was summed up in an able article which appeared in the Gibraltar Gazette. The curious can find it in the issue for January 4,1874, unless my memory deceives me. For the benefit of those, however, who may be unable to refer to the paper in question, I shall subjoin a few extracts which touch upon the leading features of the case.

  ‘We have ourselves,’ says the anonymous writer in the Gazette, ‘been over the derelict Marie Celeste, and have closely questioned the officers of the Dei Gratia on every point which might throw light on the affair. They are of opinion that she had been abandoned several days, or perhaps weeks, before being picked up. The official log, which was found in the cabin, states that the vessel sailed from Boston to Lisbon, starting upon October 16. It is, however, most imperfectly kept, and affords little information. There is no reference to rough weather, and, indeed, the state of the vessel’s paint and rigging excludes the idea that she was abandoned for any such reason. She is perfectly watertight. No signs of a struggle or of violence are to be detected, and there is absolutely nothing to account for the disappearance of the crew. There are several indications that a lady was present on board, a sewing-machine being found in the cabin and some articles of female attire. These probably belonged to the captain’s wife, who is mentioned in the log as having accompanied her husband. As an instance of the mildness of the weather, it may be remarked that a bobbin of silk was found standing upon the sewing-machine, though the least roll of the vessel would have precipitated it to the floor. The boats were intact and slung upon the davits; and the cargo, consisting of tallow and American clocks, was untouched. An old-fashioned sword of curious workmanship was discovered among some lumber in the forecastle, and this weapon is said to exhibit a longitudinal striation on the steel, as if it had been recently wiped. It has been placed in the hands of the police, and submitted to Dr Monaghan, the analyst, for inspection. The ~esult of his examination has not yet been published. We may remark, in conclusion, that Captain Dalton, of the Dei Gratia, an able and intelligent seaman, is of opinion that the Marie Celeste may have been abandoned a considerable distance from the spot at which she was picked up, since a powerful current runs up in that latitude from the African coast. He confesses his inability, however, to advance any hypothesis which can reconcile all the facts of the case. In the utter absence of a clue or grain of evidence, it is to be feared that the fate of the crew of the Marie Celeste will be added to those numerous mysteries of the deep which will never be solved until the great day when the sea shall give up its dead. If crime has been committed, as is much to be suspected, there is little hope of bringing the perpetrators to justice.’

  I shall supplement this extract from the Gibraltar Gazette by quoting a telegram from Boston, which went the round of the English papers, and represented the total amount of information which had been collected about the Marie Celeste. ‘She was,’ it said, ‘a brigantine of 170 tons burden, and belonged to White, Russell & White, wine importers, of this city. Captain J. W. Tibbs was an old servant of the firm, and was a man of known ability and tried probity. He was accompanied by his wife, aged thirty-one, and their youngest child, five years old. The crew consisted of seven hands, including two coloured seamen, and a boy. There were three passengers, one of whom was the well-known Brooklyn specialist on consumption, Dr Habakuk Jephson, who was a distinguished advocate for Abolition in the early days of the movement, and whose pamphlet, entitled “Where is thy Brother?” exercised a strong influence on public opinion before the war. The other passengers were Mr J. Harton, a writer in the employ of the firm, and Mr Septimius Goring, a half-caste gentleman, from New Orleans. All investigations have failed to throw any light upon the fate of these fourteen human beings. The loss of Dr Jephson will be felt both in political and scientific circles.’

  I have here epitomised, for the benefit of the public, all that has been hitherto known concerning the Marie Celeste and her crew, for the past ten years have not in any way helped to elucidate the mystery. I have now taken up my pen with the intention of telling all that I know of the ill-fated voyage. I consider that it is a duty which I owe to society, for symptoms which I am familiar with in others lead me to believe that before many months my tongue and hand may be alike incapable of conveying information. Let me remark, as a preface to my narrative, that I am Joseph Habakuk Jephson, Doctor of Medicine of the University of Harvard, and ex-Consulting Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of Brooklyn.

  Many will doubtless wonder why I have not proclaimed myself before, and why I have suffered so many conjectures and surmises to pass unchallenged. Could the ends of justice have been served in any way by my revealing the facts in my possession I should unhesitatingly have done so. It seemed to me, however, that there was no possibility of such a result; and when I attempted after the occurrence, to state my case to an English official, I was met with such offensive incredulity that I determined never again to expose myself to the chance of such an indignity. I can excuse the discourtesy of the Liverpool magistrate, however, when I reflect upon the treatment which I received at the hands of my own relatives, who, though they knew my unimpeachable character, listened to my statement with an indulgent smile as if humouring the delusion of a monomaniac. This slur upon my veracity led to a quarrel between myself and John Vanburger, the brother of my wife, and confirmed me in my resolution to let the matter sink into oblivion - a determination which I have only altered through my son’s solicitations. In order to make my narrative intelligible, I must run lightly over one or two incidents in my former life which throw light upon subsequent events.

  My father, William K. Jephson, was a preacher of the sect called Plymouth Brethren, and was one of the most respected citizens of Lowell. Like most of the other Puritans of New England, he was a determined opponent of slavery, and it was from his lips that I received those lessons which tinged every action of my life. While I was studying medicine at Harvard University, I had already made a mark as an advanced Abolitionist; and when, after taking my degree, I bought a third share of the practice of Dr Willis, of Brooklyn, I managed, in spite of my professional duties to devote a considerable time to the cause which I had at heart, my pamphlet, ‘Where is thy Brother?’ (Swarburgh, Lister & Co., 1859) attracting considerable attention.

  When the war broke out I left Brooklyn and accompanied the 113th New York Regiment through the campaign. I was present at the second battle of Bull’s Run and at the battle of Gettysburg. Finally, I was severely wounded at Antietam, and would probably have perished on the field had it not been for the kindness of a gentleman named Murray, who had me carried to his house and provided me with every comfort. Thanks to his charity, and to the nursing which I received from his black domestics, I was soon able to get about the plantation with the help of a stick. It was during this period of convalescence that an incident occurred which is closely connected with my story.

  Among the most assiduous of the negresses who had watched my couch during my illness there was one old crone who appeared to exert considerable authority over the others. She was exceedingly attentive to me, and I gathered from the few words that passed between us that she had heard of me, and that she was grateful to me for championing her oppressed race.

  One day as I was sitting alone in the verandah, basking in the sun, and debating whether I should rejoin Grant
’s army, I was surprised to see this old creature hobbling towards me. After looking cautiously around to see that we were alone, she fumbled in the front of her dress, and produced a small chamois leather bag which was hung round her neck by a white cord.

  ‘Massa,’ she said, bending down and croaking the words into my ear, ‘me die soon. Me very old woman. Not stay long on Massa Murray’s plantation.’

  ‘You may live a long time yet, Martha,’ I answered. ‘You know I am a doctor. If you feel ill let me know about it, and I will try to cure you.’

  ‘No wish to live - wish to die. I’m gwine to join the heavenly host.’ Here she relapsed into one of those half-heathenish rhapsodies in which negroes indulge.

  ‘But, massa, me have one thing must leave behind me when I go. No able to take it with me across the Jordan. That one thing very precious, more precious and more holy than all thing else in the world. Me, a poor old black woman, have this because my people, very great people, ’spose they was back in the old country. But you cannot understand this same as black folk could. My fader give it me, and his fader give it him, but now who shall I give it to? Poor Martha hab no child, no relation, nobody. All round I see black man very bad man. Black woman very stupid woman. Nobody worthy of the stone. And so I say, Here is Massa Jephson who write books and fight for coloured folk - he must be a good man, and he shall have it though he is white man, and nebber can know what it mean or where it came from.’ Here the old woman fumbled in the chamois leather bag and pulled out a flattish black stone with a hole through the middle of it. ‘Here, take it,’ she said, pressing it into my hand; ‘take it. No harm nebber come from anything good. Keep it safe - nebber lose it!’ and with a warning gesture the old crone hobbled away in the same cautious way as she had come, looking from side to side to see if we had been observed.