by James Doig
“The deuce!” exclaimed the skipper. “I’ve heard of her. But, Mr Jackson, if the devil himself comes and blows the fok’sle lamp out every night, I’m going to sail her if I can get a crew. And, at any rate (turning to me), here’s one to start with.”
My business was soon finished; only, finding that I held a master’s certificate, Captain Habden offered me the position of chief in place of second mate, the man who was to fill the former billet having unexpectedly resigned at the last minute through his wife’s illness. I liked this well, and signed without a question. Indeed, neither for Jack nor his masters were these the days for hesitation. Besides, I took to the frank, good-humoured face of my new skipper, seeing no sign therein of what fate had in store for him.
“Would you mind having a work with the men, Mr Forbes?” he asked me presently, “and trying to reason with them a bit. Fancy an old ghost story like that getting hold of Jack at this time o’ day to the extent of making him refuse a good trip and a comfortable ship when both are such scarce matters.” So out I went into the dirty waiting room, foul with tobacco, and thick with the rank smoke of the weed.
“Now, my lads,” I commenced, without any preamble, and knowing my marks, “what’s all this nonsense? Because some fools, a dozen years ago, hadn’t enough sense to keep a lamp alight, are you going to lose money, and let the old woman and the kids go hungry? Come now, I’ve signed as mate of the Cumberland; aren’t there ten bullies, not afraid of their own shadows, that’ll keep me company. I’ll help you to trim your lamp, if you want help. I came in through the hawse-pipes, not through the cabin door, and haven’t forgotten how to cut a wick yet, as well as turn in a deadeye, if need be.”
At this there was a laugh; and I think if it had not been for the big fellow I have mentioned before I would have got my men at once, for I saw several pocket their pipes and shake themselves, preparatory to making a move. But the grey-headed sailor, stepping forward, and chewing viciously on his quid, said, quietly enough, “I’m one o’ them fools, mister, as you’re speakin’ on. I sailed in the old tub ten years ago, when Hellfire Jack Brown was skipper on her. There was a curse put on her them days—not the trip I was aboard. P’raps it’s off now. Any way, I ain’t goin’ to make one to find out. Mind ye, I’m not sayin’ anythin’ agen the barque, mates. Mebbe her’d be better to han’le if she had double tawps’is ‘stead o’ they big whole uns. But she’s tight an’ dry, or was in them days, an’ no doubt she’s right enough still. It was the bloomin’ ghost as knocked us—none o’ yer half an half happaritions, but a gennywise forty-power stinkin’ speciment. He came inter the eyes of her, in the shape of a blasted fog bank, and doused the glim every time we lit it. An’ cold—lor! you could ’ear our teeth a-rattlin’. An’ stinkin’ worser’n tanyard and bilge water mixed! Well, o’ course we clears like redshanks, an’ Hellfire trying to bounce us as we’d seen nothin’! But it warn’t good enough. Then the old man hisself, down he goes. An’ when he comes up agen he looks more’n sick, altho’ he never lets on a word. Nor he didn’t cuss an’ haze us, as he used to do, any more. An’ he doesn’t hobjeck when we rigs a fores’l over the after hatch and camps there durin’ the rest of the passidge. We wants our discharges at Kingston; he wouldn’t give ’em to us. So we takes chokee instead, an’ glad to git it. An’ the ship goes round to Savannah la Mar; there the new crew clears; and there, never havin’ got over the chill he catched in the fok’sle, Hellfire dies. It was four months afore a crew could be got to take the barque home; an’ when she came to the dock they was camped same as we’d been—on the after hatch. Wages out o’ the port o’ London is three pun’ a month. An’ if ’twere thirty pun, mates, Joe Harris (that’s me) ’d think twice afore he shipped on that there Cumberland, helias Carlisle. Nor—”
“Come, come, my lad,” I broke in impatiently, “belay all that. Your slack jaw’s as long as the main-t’gallant halliards. One would ha’ thought you’d had time to outgrow your fright since all that happened. I don’t want any croakers in my watch. But I dare say some of these other hearties ’ll come and help me keep the barque’s fok’sle lamp alight. Why, hang me if it wouldn’t make a man believe he’s put back a hundred years to hear the way you talk! Now, then, you tarpaulins, I’ll give you five minutes to come along and sign. I don’t hanker after Dagoes or Lascars or Dutchmen; but the Cumberland’s got to have her crowd; and, you know, I can get her one in five minutes over at Green’s Home.” And, so saying, I went into the next room.
“You talked to ’em like a father, sir,” remarked the old shipping-master approvingly. “We’ve heard it all through the side window here. If that kind of jaw don’t fetch ’em, nothing will. And here they come!”
Sure enough, a dozen or so of my late audience came shuffling in, grinning and nudging each other and cracking dim jokes in husky undertones. They were, too, I was glad to see, all British. For, inveterate growler as he is, and insubordinate at times, and apt to give more trouble all round than the subservient “Dutchman,” or the sneaking Dago, I confess to a strong preference for the British sailor-man, with all his faults. Blood’s thicker than water, for one thing; and you know that when you’ve got a crowd of English speakers you’ve got something that’ll stick to you and to your ship through thick and thin, and not crawl below out of the hurly-burly, or holystone the decks with their knees and call upon Saint Antonio to do their work for ’em.
We got all we wanted out of the mob, including one to act as second mate and boatswain. And, business over, old Jackson came and had some lunch with us. During the course of the meal we got him to tell us what he knew regarding the legend of the lamp, which, after all, didn’t amount to very much.
“One trip,” said he, “the Carlisle had a real bad crowd. But amongst them was a half-witted sort of chap that old Brown had picked up to act as ‘Jimmy Ducks’ and slush about generally just for his tucker. Well, one night he neglected to trim the fok’sle lamp, and a couple or perhaps more of the brutes—regular packet-rats they were—kicked and pounded him, so that he presently died. They got scared then; and, giving out that he was ill, they kept the body for three or four days in one of the bunks. Then they hove it overboard, and swore the poor wretch had committed suicide. Well, that very night the lamp went out. Nor, despite all attempts—and, between ourselves, I don’t think they made many—could ever a lamp be got to burn in that fok’sle again. I remember one of the crew telling me that a single experience of the cold and stench combined when the apparition appeared was quite enough for any average man. Indeed, crowd after crowd either ran away or went to gaol sooner than sail in her; and what with delays and court work, the vessel used to eat her freights. So they laid her up for sale. But, until your owners bought her, no one would look at such a losing concern as a haunted ship. Why, it’s over five years now since she first took up her quarters in ‘Rotten-row.’”
“Well,” said Captain Hebden as we rose from table to go aboard the barque, “surely the curse is run out by this time, and the spectre laid. I suppose, Jackson, you never put any faith in such a cock and bull story, anyhow?”
But the ancient mariner scratched his baldpate doubtfully as he replied.
“Well, I don’t know, captain. I’ve seen some curious things at sea in my time. However, you’ll be able to give me your opinion on the matter when we meet again. And I hope you won’t come up the river, as I’ve seen the barque do afore now, with a spare main’sl rigged across a lower stu’nsl-boom over the after-hatch to serve instead of a fok’sle.”
“Not much danger!” laughed Captain Hebden gaily. “If I can’t follow my profession without being molested by nasty, freezing, evil-smelling ghosts—why, I may as well give it up. No, Jackson, I’ve got too many barnacles on my hide to be scared by anything in that line.”
“So old Hellfire thought,” retorted the other with a boding shake of the head; “but they say it killed him.”
But the captain only laughed again, and, bidding the shipping-master goodbye, we made for the docks. We found the Cumberland (the first fight of her for both of us) a sound, wholesome looking barque, strongly built after the fashion of twenty years back; square in the stern, and bluff in the bows; no double raids, donkey engines, patent capstans, or other modern fallals about her; but still a homely, comfortable seeming kind of creature of a ship, such as builders don’t turn out of hand in those days of iron, steam, and steel. The stevedores were stowing the last of the cargo in the square of the hatchways. The riggers had the sails bent and furled, gear rove, stays and back stays well set up, and everything aloft ataunto; and with her shining white lower masts, brightly scraped upper spars towering to gilt-trucked royal poles, and the big spread of her square yards she looked, to the eye, coming down, took in her great beam, massive bulwarks, and shining brass work, a notable contrast to the sharp-nosed, gim-crack iron clippers that surrounded her. A tub the moderns might sneeringly call her; but, very certainly, she was the sort of tub whose decks you might walk in slippers whilst their lee-scuppers were breast high with green seas. On her main deck she carried an enormous longboat, fit child of such a buxom mother, and intended to cruise around the islands amongst the planters for rum, molasses, and sugar with which to return to the anchored barque, and fill up the capacious maternal interior. Technically, this boat was known as a “drogher.” But it took a lot of room; and, in addition, there was a host of spare spars, big water-casks, etc., that gave the decks somewhat of a lumbered-up appearance.
We were to haul out at high water that night; and, even now, the men were straggling down, more or less sober, and dumping their round-bottomed bags and their chests into the dark hatchway that led to their quarters below.
I was kept too busy for a time to think of anything outside my work; but, after we brought up at the Nore with a westerly wind in our teeth, and I went aft to turn in for an hour or two, I laughed to myself when, glancing down the fok’sle scuttle, my eye caught the gleam of a brightly burning lamp, and my ear the dull, peaceful, rumbling notes of men’s voices. Before daybreak the wind came round with plenty of westing in it, and, calling all hands, we got up our anchor, made sail, and wallowed away down channel with a wake like a paddle-steamer; steady as a pyramid, dry as a baker’s oven, and with half-a-gale of wind roaring and hooting in the bellies of our topsails.
“Fok’sle lamp burn all right last night, Mr Forbes, d’ye know?” asked the skipper at breakfast with a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“At least, I’ve heard no complaint, so far.”
“Ah,” said he, laughing, “I thought that long spell in the docks would have taken all the energy out of the best and staunchest ghost going.”
And until we got clear of soundings it really seemed as if the captain was right; for his sake I only wish it had been so. But then the trouble began in earnest; and if I hadn’t so many available witnesses to back me up I don’t know that I’d care about putting what happened us into cold print. We had just cleared the Channel. It was four bells (six o’clock p.m.) in the second dog watch, a fine, bright cold evening, with a jump of a head sea on, and the Lizard light barely visible on the port quarter. As I stumped the poop to and fro from binnacle to break—having just relieved the second mate to let him get his supper—happening to glance for’ard, I saw, one after the other, the watch below come bolting up through their scuttle as if propelled from a catapult. It was not yet so dark but that I could distinguish the passionate gestures with which they told something to the little group of the port watch, that at once surrounded them, before, racing aft, they bundled up the poop ladder, at the head of which I met them. In each of the five faces fear and bewilderment strove for the mastery, and all five bodies shivered and trembled as with ague.
“If you please, sir,” at once began an elderly man named Jones, his brown face turned to a nasty slate colour, and his words jostling each other as they came out, “we can’t stop down there,” jerking for’ard with outstretched thumb. “We was just havin’ our supper whan a stinkin’, freezin’ THING comes an’ douses our lamp. We all seen It, so there’s no error. An’ we all felt It—leastways the cold an’ the stench of It. Poof! It’s in my mouth yet!” And he spat over the side, imitated scrupulously by his mates. “No, sir,” he went on, raising his voice as he saw me grinning at him, “we ain’t no fools, an’ we knows our work as sailor-men; but we ain’t a-goin’ to stand no such larks as them. Harris was right arter all. The ship’s harnted; an’ you can’t expec’, sir, as ornery flesh an’ blood ’ll put up wi’ a bloomin’ ghost as comes foggn’ an’ stinkin’, strong as a whole churchyard full o’ corpuses, into a man’s fok’sle whiles he’s a-eatin’ of his bit of supper.”
The fellow was perfectly civil, and I saw at once that, so bad a scare had they all got, the time had passed for an ordinary tongue-thrashing to have its usual effect.
“Ay, ay, Bill’s right,” remarked another in the pause that followed. “An’ Mr Forbes’ll remember his promise to help keep the fok’sle lamp trimmed.” This speech was received with a deep growl of approval. It was the starboard watch—good men all, and the last I should have thought to be easily frightened. And I felt puzzled. But clearly it was a time for action, not talk. The captain was napping, and I did not want to bother him about such rubbish; so, calling the second mate, who was smoking an after-supper pipe on the quarter-deck, I gave him charge of the ship while, followed by the men, I went for’ard and down the hatchway. Rather to my surprise, not a soul offered to accompany me.
“Now then,” I asked laughingly, as I stood halfway down the ladder, with my head over the coamings, “isn’t anybody coming to help me do Jimmy Duck’s work?”
None of the second mate’s watch made answer. But one of my own men, a little fellow called Daniels, belonging to the Isle of Wight, replied cheerily:
“Ay, ay, sir. I’ll come if old Nick hisself’s there. Wheer another man’s game to go I ain’t afeard.”
So down we went. It was black as pitch: and getting to the foot of the ladder, I struck a long wax vesta and glanced around. It wasn’t a very cheerful place. Along one side ran twelve bunks, six on top, six below. Underneath them were lashed chests; on the opposite bulkhead hung suits of oilskins; on the floor was a wooden tub containing a big lump of salt beef, and another one full of biscuits; from a capsized hook-pot the tea had flowed in a dark stream; close to it lay a square bottle of vinegar, out of which the liquor still ran when each heave of the barque canted it forward; about the chests were scattered plates and pots; disorder everywhere testifying to a very hurried evacuation. All this I noted before my match went out, and while my companion struck another. Taking it from him, I approached the lamp that swung from the ceiling nearly amid ships. It was just the ordinary tin receptacle, full of oil, from which projected a couple of long spouts for the wicks, that one still sees in many “sailers’” forecastles, where it has not been superseded by the kerosene-fed, closed “hurricane.” Applying the match to one of the wicks, it “fizzled” and would not light.
“The idiots!” I exclaimed. “The cotton’s wet as a soaked swab! They’ve been too lazy to trim it! Bring the thing on deck, Daniels, and I’ll get the steward to fix it properly.”
Taking the lamp aft to the pantry, I left my companion sitting on the hatch, and whistling with a fine assumption of devil-may-careness as the rest came round him.
“An’ ye saw nothin’—nothin’ at all, Dan?” I heard one of them say as I returned and lit the lamp under shelter of the hood that drew over the scuttle.
“Ne’er a thing,” replied Dan calmly. “What should us see? Come on, you star bowlines, an’ finish yer suppers; the mate an’ me ’ll purtect ye while yer stows ’em away.”
“Garn!” replied one of the taunted watch in a tone of exasperation. “Why, blast me if
I’m ever going to get warm again; to say nothin’ o’ the stink o’ rotten corpses as is in my nose yet! Damp wick! Ho!” and the speaker snorted indignantly.
Hanging the lamp on its hook, it burned clearly and with a good bright flame.
“There, now,” I remarked complacently, seating myself on a chest and filling my pipe; “what could be better than that? We’ll stay awhile to make sure; and then we’ll call those babies up there to finish their supper. And—” But, here, glancing at Daniels, I caught him staring open mouthed past me into the darksome corner right for’ard, known as the “eyes.” Following his intent gaze, I saw, coming slowly towards us, a sort of thick mist shaped like a human figure with outstretched arms, while the air, hitherto warm and close, grew icy cold with a chill in it that seemed to freeze my very marrow. And as if this were not enough, a horrible stench pervaded the fok’sle—a grisly, putrid stink that brought corrupt and festering corpses into the mind’s eye. As the Thing glided past a pricking sensation of horror swept through me; I broke out all over in a cold sweat, my teeth chattered like the rattle of a dynamo; and for a minute I thought I was going to faint. Then, all at once, came darkness and a comparatively clear atmosphere.
For a while, panting, spitting, and shaking with the awful cold, I couldn’t speak. Then I called Daniels. Receiving no answer, I struck a light. But I was alone; Daniels had disappeared. Pulling myself together, I struck another match, unhooked the lamp, and slowly went up the ladder on deck, having received the worst scare I ever got in my life, and studying only how not to show it. It was dark enough by this, and I nearly stumbled over a man sitting and groaning, with his back against the fore-hatch.
