Mysterious Sea Stories

by William Pattrick

  He stumbled gasping into the thick gloom, and the roar of the traffic came to his bewildered ears.

  ‘Let’s go to the telegraph-office and cable,’ I said. ‘Can’t you hear the New York World crying for news of the great sea-serpent, blind, white, and smelling of musk, stricken to death by a submarine volcano, and assisted by his loving wife to die in mid-ocean, as visualised by an American citizen, the breezy, newsy, brainy newspaper man of Dayton, Ohio? ’Rah for the Buckeye State. Step lively! Both gates! Szz! Boom! Aah!’ Keller was a Princeton man, and he seemed to need encouragement.

  ‘You’ve got me on your own ground,’ said he, tugging at his overcoat pocket. He pulled out his copy, with the cable forms -for he had written out his telegram - and put them all into my hand, groaning, ‘I pass. If I hadn’t come to your cursed country -If I’d sent it off at Southampton - If I ever get you west of the Alleghannies, if - ’

  ‘Never mind, Keller. It isn’t your fault. It’s the fault of your country. If you had been seven hundred years older you’d have done what I am going to do.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Tell it as a lie.’

  ‘Fiction?’ This with the full-blooded disgust of a journalist for the illegitimate branch of the profession.

  ‘You can call it that if you like. I shall call it a lie. ’

  168

  And a lie it has become; for Truth is a naked lady, and if by accident she is drawn up from the bottom of the sea, it behoves a gentleman either to give her a print petticoat or to turn his face to the wall and vow that he did not see.

  THE FINDING OF THE GRAIKEN

  William Hope Hodgson

  The Sargasso Sea is that legendary area of the Atlantic blighted by seaweed, in which for generations unwary skips and their crews were helplessly and fatally trapped. The rotting hulks which marked this dreadful place were also said to be filled with fearsome rats and the most terrible forms of sea life. . .

  The man who immortalised the Sargasso Sea was William Hope Hodgson (1878-1918), for years a shamefully neglected writer, now at last gaining the international reputation he so richly deserves through new paperback editions of his best work. Bom the second of twelve children of an Essex clergyman, he ran away to sea in his youth. Though his life afloat was extremely harsh and unhappy for years, it provided him with a cause - to better the lives of seamen - and the raw material for a whole succession of books and short stories about life at sea. He dwelt in particular on the wilder and lesser-known areas of ocean.

  His first novel was the eerie Boats of the ‘Glen Carrig’ (1907), followed by the even stranger 'Ghost Pirates' (1909). He began to exploit his interest in the Sargasso Sea through a series of interrelated tales which, strangely, have never been collected in a single volume, although there have been several anthologies of his best sea stories including 'The Luck of the Strong' (1916) and 'Men of Deep Waters' (1917).

  William Hope Hodgson was killed while serving bravely with the Army in France in 1918, but it has taken well over half a century for his importance as a writer to be recognised. I am, therefore, pleased to be playing my own small part by returning to print one of his best Sargasso Sea stories, ‘The Finding of the Graiken' (1913) and would urge any reader who has not done so, to investigate the other works by this marvellous writer of sea mysteries.

  I

  When a year had passed, and still there was no news of the full-rigged ship Graiken, even the most sanguine of my old chum’s friends had ceased to hope perchance, somewhere, she might be above water.

  Yet Ned Barlow, in his inmost thoughts, I knew, still hugged to himself the hope that she would win home. Poor, dear old fellow, how my heart did go out towards him in his sorrow!

  For it was in the Graiken that his sweetheart had sailed on that dull January day some twelve months previously.

  The voyage had been taken for the sake of her health; yet since then - save for a distant signal recorded at the Azores - there had been from all the mystery of ocean no voice; the ship and they within her had vanished utterly.

  And still Barlow hoped. He said nothing actually, but at times his deeper thoughts would float up and show through the sea of his usual talk, and thus I would know in an indirect way of the thing that his heart was thinking.

  Nor was time a healer.

  It was later that my present good fortune came to me. My uncle died, and 1 - hitherto poor - was now a rich man. In a breath, it seemed, I had become possessor of houses, lands, and money; also - in my eyes almost more important - a fine fore-and-aft-rigged yacht of some two hundred tons register.

  It seemed scarcely believable that the thing was mine, and I was all in a scutter to run away down to Falmouth and get to sea.

  In old times, when my uncle had been more than usually gracious, he had invited me to accompany him for a trip round the coast or elsewhere, as the fit might take him; yet never, even in my most hopeful moments, had it occurred to me that ever she might be mine.

  And now I was hurrying my preparations for a good long sea trip - for to me the sea is, and always has been, a comrade.

  Still, with all the prospects before me, I was by no means completely satisfied, for I wanted Ned Barlow with me, and yet was afraid to ask him.

  I had the feeling that, in view of his overwhelming loss, he must positively hate the sea; and yet I could not be happy at the thought of leaving him, and going alone.

  He had not been well lately, and a sea voyage would be the very thing for him, if only it were not going to freshen painful memories.

  Eventually I decided to suggest it, and this I did a couple of days before the date I had fixed for sailing.

  ‘Ned,’ I said, ‘you need a change.’

  ‘Yes,’ he assented wearily.

  ‘Come with me, old chap,’ I went on, growing bolder. ‘I’m taking a trip in the yacht. It would be splendid to have- ’

  To my dismay, he jumped to his feet and came towards me excitedly.

  II

  We had been at sea a couple of weeks, and were alone upon the Atlantic - at least, so much of it as presented itself to our view.

  I was leaning over the taffrail, staring down into the boil of the wake; yet I noticed nothing, for I was wrapped in a tissue of somewhat uncomfortable thought. It was about Ned Barlow.

  He had been queer, decidedly queer, since leaving port. His whole attitude mentally had been that of a man under the influence of an all-pervading excitement. I had said that he was in need of a change, and had trusted that the splendid tonic of the sea breeze would serve to put him soon to rights mentally and physically; yet here was the poor old chap acting in a manner calculated to cause me anxiety as to his balance.

  Scarcely a word had been spoken since leaving the Channel. When I ventured to speak to him, often he would take not the least notice, other times he would answer only by a brief word; but talk-never.

  In addition, his whole time was spent on deck among the men, and with some of them he seemed to converse both long and earnestly; yet to me, his chum and true friend, not a word.

  Another thing came to me as a surprise - Barlow betrayed the greatest interest in the position of the vessel, and the courses set, all in such a manner as left me no room to doubt but that his knowledge of navigation was considerable.

  Once I ventured to express my astonishment at this knowledge, and ask a question or two as to the way in which he had gathered it, but had been treated with such an absurdly stony silence that since then I had not spoken to him.

  Wi** all this it may be easily conceived that my thoughts, as I

  stared down into the wake, were troublesome.

  Suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow:

  ‘I should like to have a word with you, sir.’I turned sharply. It was my skipper, and something in his face told me that all was not as it should be.

  ‘Well, Jenkins, fire away.’

  He looked round, as if afraid of being overheard; then came closer to me.


  ‘Someone’s been messing with the compasses, sir,* he said in a low voice.

  ‘What?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘They’ve been meddled with, sir. The magnets have been shifted, and by someone who’s a good idea of what he’s doing.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?* I inquired. ‘Why should anyone mess about with them? What good would it do them? You must be mistaken.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m not. They’ve been touched within the last forty-eight hours, and by someone that understands what he’s doing. ’

  I stared at him. The man was so certain. I felt bewildered.

  ‘But why should they?’

  ‘That’s more than I can say, sir; but it’s a serious matter, and I want to know what I’m to do. It looks to me as though there were something funny going on. I’d give a month’s pay to know just who it was, for certain.*

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if they have been touched, it can only be by one of the officers. You say the chap who has done it must understand what he is doing.’

  He shook his head. ‘No sir - * he began, and then stopped abruptly. His gaze met mine. I think the same thought must have come to us simultaneously. I gave a little gasp of amazement.

  He wagged his head at me. ‘I’ve had my suspicions for a bit, sir,* he went on; ‘but seeing that he’s - he’s - ’ He was fairly struck for the moment.

  I took my weight off the rail and stood upright.

  ‘To whom are you referring?’ I asked curtly.

  ‘Why, sir, to him - Mr Ned - ’

  He would have gone on, but I cut him short.

  ‘That will do, Jenkins!’ I cried. ‘Mr Ned Barlow is my friend. You are forgetting yourself a little. You will accuse me of tampering with the compasses next!’

  I turned away, leaving little Captain Jenkins speechless. I had spoken with an almost vehement over-loyalty, to quiet my own suspicions.

  All the same, I was horribly bewildered, not knowing what to think or do or say, so that, eventually, I did just nothing.

  III

  It was early one morning, about a week later, that I opened my eyes abruptly. I was lying on my back in my bunk, and the daylight was beginning to creep wanly in through the ports.

  I had a vague consciousness that all was not as it should be, and feeling thus, I made to grasp the edge of my bunk, and sit up, but failed, owing to the fact that my wrists were securely fastened by a pair of heavy steel handcuffs.

  Utterly confounded, I let my head fall back upon the pillow; and then, in the midst of my bewilderment, there sounded the sharp report of a pistol-shot somewhere on the decks over my head. There came a second, and the sound of voices and footsteps, and then a long spell of silence.

  Into my mind had rushed the single word - mutiny! My temples throbbed a little, but I struggled to keep calm and think, and then, all adrift, I fell to searching round for a reason. Who was it? and why?

  Perhaps an hour passed, during which I asked myself ten thousand vain questions. All at once I heard a key inserted in the door. So I had been locked in! It turned, and the steward walked into the cabin. He did not look at me, but went to the arm-rack and began to remove the various weapons.

  ‘What the devil is the meaning of all this, Jones?’ I roared, getting up a bit on one elbow. ‘What’s happening.?’

  But the fool answered not a word - just went to and fro carrying out the weapons from my cabin into the next, so that at last I ceased from questioning him, and lay silent, promising

  myself future vengeance.

  When he had removed the arms, the steward began to go through my table drawers, emptying them, so it appeared to me, of everything that could be used as a weapon or tool.

  Having completed his task, he vanished, locking the door after him.

  Some time passed, and at last, about seven bells, he reappeared, this time bringing a tray with my breakfast. Placing it upon the table, he came across to me and proceeded to unlock the cuffs from off my wrists. Then for the first time he spoke.

  ‘Mr Barlow desires me to say, sir, that you have the liberty of your cabin so long as you will agree not to cause any bother. Should you wish for anything, I am under his orders to supply you.’ He retreated hastily toward the door.

  On my pan, I was almost speechless with astonishment and rage.

  ‘One minute, Jones!’ I shouted, just as he was in the act of leaving the cabin. ‘Kindly explain what you mean. You said Mr Barlow. Is it to him that I owe all this?’ And I waved my hand towards the irons which the man still held.

  ‘It is by his orders,’ replied he, and turned once more to leave the cabin.

  ‘I don’t understand!’ I said, bewildered. ‘Mr Barlow is my friend, and this is my yacht! By what right do you dare to take your orders from him? Let me out!’

  As I shouted the last command, I leapt from my bunk, and made a dash for the door, but the steward, so far from attempting to bar it, flung it open and stepped quickly through, thus allowing me to see that a couple of the sailors were stationed in the alleyway.

  ‘Get on deck at once! ’ I said angrily. ‘What are you doing down here?*

  ‘Sorry sir,’ said one of the men. ‘We’d take it kindly if you’d make no trouble. But we ain’t lettin’ you out, sir. Don’t make no bloomin’ error.’

  I hesitated, then went to the table and sat down. I would, at least, do my best to preserve my dignity.

  After an inquiry as to whether he could do anything further, the steward left me to breakfast and my thoughts. As may be imagined, the latter were by no means pleasant.

  Here was I prisoner in my own yacht, and by the hand of the very man I had loved and befriended through many years. Oh, it Was too incredible and mad!

  For a while, leaving the table, I paced the deck of my room; then, growing calmer, I sat down again and attempted to make some sort of a meal.

  As I breakfasted, my chief thought was as to why my one-time chum was treating me thus; and after that I fell to puzzlinghaw he had managed to get the yacht into his own hands.

  Many things came back to me - his familiarity with the men, his treatment of me - which I had put down to a temporary want of balance - the fooling with the compasses; for I was certain now that he had been the doer of that piece of mischief. But why? That was the great point.

  As I turned the matter over in my brain, an incident that had occurred some six days back came to me. It had been on the very day after the captain’s report to me of the tampering with the compasses.

  Barlow had, for the first time, relinquished his brooding and silence, and had started to talk to me, but in such a wild strain that he had made me feel vaguely uncomfortable about his sanity for he told me some yarn of an idea which he had got into his head. And then, in an overbearing way, he demanded that the navigation of the yacht should be put into his hands.

  He had been very incoherent, and was plainly in a state of considerable mental excitement. He had rambled on about some derelict, and then had talked in an extraordinary fashion of a vast world of seaweed.

  Once or twice in his bewilderingly disconnected speech he had mentioned the name of his sweetheart, and now it was the memory of her name that gave me the first inkling of what might possibly prove a solution of the whole affair.

  I wished now that I had encouraged his incoherent ramble of speech, instead of heading him off; but I had done so because I could not bear to have him talk as he had.

  Yet, with the little I remembered, I began to shape out a theory. It seemed to me that he might be nursing some idea that had formed - goodness knows how or when - that his sweetheart (still alive) was aboard some derelict in the midst of an enormous ‘world,’ he had termed it, of seaweed.

  He might have grown more explicit had I not attempted to reason with him, and so lost the rest.

  Yet, remembering back, it seemed to me that he must undoubtedly have meant the enormous Sargasso Sea - that great seaweed-laden ocean, vast almost as Continental Europe, and the final resting-pla
ce of the Atlantic’s wreckage.

  Surely, if he proposed any attempt to search through that, then there could be no doubt but that he was temporarily unbalanced. And yet I could do nothing. I was a prisoner and helpless.

  IV

  Eight days of variable but strongish winds passed, and still I was a prisoner in my cabin. From the ports that opened out astern and on each side - for my cabin runs right across the whole width of the stern - I was able to command a good view of the surrounding ocean, which now had commenced to be laden with great floating patches of Gulf weed - many of them hundreds and hundreds of yards in length.

  And still we held on, apparently towards the nucleus of the Sargasso Sea. This I was able to assume by means of a chart which I found in one of the lockers, and the course I had been able to gather from the ‘tell-tale’ compass let into the cabin ceiling.

  And so another and another day went by, and now we were among weed so thick that at times the vessel found difficulty in forcing her way through, while the surface of the sea had assumed a curious oily appearance, though the wind was still quite strong.

  It was later in the day that we encountered a bank of weed so prodigious that we had to up helm and run round it, and after that the same experience was many times repeated; and so the night found us.

  The following morning found me at the ports, eagerly peering out across the water. From one of those on the starboard side I could discern at a considerable distance a huge bank of weed that seemed to be unending, and to run parallel with our broadside. It appeared to rise in places a couple of feet above the level of the surrounding sea.