by James Doig
“It’s Daniels, sir,” said a voice: “Daniels a-throwin’ up ov his soul-bolts, an’ not by chalks so jolly cock-a-noopy as he were just awhile agone, when he in-wited of us down to finish our suppers.”
Taking no notice of this, I said, as calmly as I could, to the clustered forms around, “That fok’sle of yours, lads, is a bit unhealthy just yet. It’s the fumes from the new paint gets working in a man’s brains, I expect. However, we’ll have the matter cleared up presently. Now lie aft, and get a good nip of grog each.”
Very thankful was I for the darkness that enabled me to escape the searching, inquisitive eyes that I could feel boring, as it were, into me. Afloat or ashore, the officer that gives way before his men is done spent—has outlived his usefulness. And, had it been daylight, I could hardly have answered for myself, so heavy and unexpected had been the shock to me. In the lighted alleyway near the pantry I met the captain. At sight of my face he started back, saying, “Hello! You look as if you’d seen something that didn’t agree with you! Or are you not feeling well? What’s the matter?”
I told him my story. At first he laughed, and cracked a joke or two at my expense. But, seeing that I really was nervous, shivering, and unstrung, he became grave, filled me out a stiff nip of rum, and said, “This is awkward, Forbes. We’ve got no place to put the men. Of course, it’s all imagination on your side as well as theirs. Somebody’s playing tricks down there. When you feel better we’ll try and settle the thing, you and I. In the meantime the men can have their supper aft here on the hatch. I’ll tell the second mate to keep all hands there while we’re away. Yes, of course, there must be something in it, or you wouldn’t pitch such a story. But it’s capable of rational explanation, I think. Just tell the steward to get the riding-lamp trimmed while I fetch my revolver. Put a pair of scissors in your pocket to cut the wick with, should it go out again; and when you’re ready let me know.”
“Now, truth to say, I had but little stomach for a second edition of the business. Still, seeing the captain so alert, cheery, and confident put heart into me, making me half willing to believe that my imagination might have had some share in the thing. Therefore, by the time he’d fixed up his revolver, and I’d taken another stiffener of rum to warm my chilled body, I was ready for the adventure.
As we passed out the second mate was calling the roll at the quarterdeck capstan, and the cook was bustling about the after-hatch with plates and dishes by the light of a similar lamp to the one I carried.
“All present, Mr Williams?” asked the captain, pausing a moment. “All here, sir,” replied the second mate. “Except the men at the wheel and lookout.”
“Call the lookout aft, too,” ordered the captain. “He can keep it on top of the spars awhile, ’til we return.”
This left us the whole fore-part of the ship to ourselves, and lonely enough it felt as we walked along the deserted deck and descended the fok’sle ladder.
A riding-lamp is globular in shape, of uncoloured thick glass, protected by rings of stout wire, can only be opened by unscrewing the bottom, and is impervious to wind or rain. It is a heavy lamp, made usually of copper, and is generally hoisted well up the forestay of a vessel at anchor.
Hanging it carefully on the iron hook in place of the other one, we sat down on a chest, close to each other, our eyes fixed steadily on the gloomy space for’ard, where the sides of the barque narrowed into the stem—the spot whence the Thing had appeared before. The last of the top tier of bunks, I knew, lay there; and I asked myself with a shiver if it might not be the one in which the corpse of the murdered man had been kept so long.
The air was close and stuffy, within it a predominant smell of new paint; the big lamp, swinging fore and aft to the motion of the ship, flung great blobs and splashes of white light athwart the dimness; now and again a heavier sea than usual would smite the bows with a sound as of giants slapping giants’ cheeks; a huge polished cockroach crawled out from under a chest and investigated the dark stains of tea and vinegar on the floor; and the empty oil skin suits opposite us rustled and swayed to and fro in the shadow of the bulkhead like a line of hanged men swinging in a breeze.
I was anxious—anxious to justify myself in my captain’s sight, and the time seemed endless. But not more than a few minutes could have passed ere the air grew cold. I nudged my companion’s arm. On this occasion there was leisure for scrutiny, and, knowing what was to happen, I felt steadier and calmer. At first all that was visible seemed a thick, filmy filling of the dim fore-part of the fok’sle—something like fog or smoke of a dull-grey colour. Then, gradually advancing, it took to our eyes human shape, becoming still more opaque as it did so. And at this stage I heard the revolver click to full-cock, while the cold grew so intense as, in spite of us, to set our teeth rattling. The Thing, by now, was only some four or five feet from us, a little to the right, and approaching with a slow gliding motion. There were the head, trunk, outstretched arms, legs, all the members perfect, even to the fingers; but, otherwise, all a dull vaporous blank—featureless. And the shocking, rotting, corpse-like odour made us gasp again for breath.
“Get between it and the lamp, Forbes!” whispered the captain with a shake in his voice. But I hesitated, thinking I was close enough. Whereupon, without waiting, he started from my side, throwing himself right in front of the phantom, then some three yards from the lamp. In a moment I saw the form close on him; the long grey arms curled round his neck—the light and he were both blotted out, two pale splashes of flame leapt from the darkness, two dull reports sounded, and something fell heavily to the deck. Then the cold and the stench vanished, leaving me sick and shaking.
Striking a match, I saw the captain lying flat on his face, one arm underneath him, the other outstretched and still grasping the pistol. Raising him, I found that, though sensible, he was shaking as with ague; also that his clothes were as soaking wet as though he had been towed overboard all day. Otherwise he was apparently unhurt.
“Shall we wait any longer?” I asked.
But, in place of answering, he staggered to the ladder, the water dripping in little rivulets from him, and his feet squelching in their boots. I had to take his arm to support him along the deck and to his cabin. Nor this time was any evasion of the dozens of inquisitive eyes possible; and all hands and the cook very soon had their tongues clacking, trying to guess what had happened to “the ole man” down in the fok’sle.
In spite of dry clothes and hot toddy, it was fully an hour before the skipper got over his shaking-fit; and even then he looked miserably ill and broken up. His fingers, too, constantly wandered to his throat, and he complained of a choking sensation there.”
“Are there any marks about my neck, Forbes?” he asked more than once.
“None, sir,” I replied, after looking.
“Well,” said he, “I’ll swear I felt them—ice-cold claws that gripped as if they meant to strangle me, and only let go when I fired. I’ll never get over it, Forbes,” he continued. “All the sun in Jamaica ’ll not make me feel properly warm again. It’s in my bones. Fix the men up as well as you can. I don’t think any of us will care to go back in this ship. I know I shan’t.”
Well, we managed to rig up a sort of fairly comfortable shanty by righting the great longboat that reached across the main hatch from the galley to the mainmast. And in this the crew lived for the remainder of the passage.
In spite of all reticence it got about that the skipper had fired at the Thing and grappled with it; and his condition emphasized the result. Indeed, by too time we reached Port Royal he had to be carried to the hospital, so ill was he. And then, before we finished discharging cargo, he died. I would have taken the Cumberland home could I have got hands. But not a man in the island would sign in her if offered £20 a month. Eventually she was sold, and dismantled, her decks ripped up, filled fore and aft with coal, and towed round to
Morant Bay, where she still lies, known only as Hulk No. 49.
MISS CROSSON’S FAMILIAR, by Rosa Praed
Stubble Before the Wind (1908)
Rosa Campbell Praed (1851-1935) was born in a slab hut on a remote station in south-east Queensland. In 1872 she married Campbell Praed, the younger son of a notable English family, who had been sent to Australia to make his fortune. The marriage was a disaster—they had no interests in common, and from the start, Rosa found sex repugnant, in stark contrast to her husband (she locked him out of the bedroom when his demands became too much). Rosa spent a miserable couple of years on Curtis Island, where her husband had bought a station, but things looked up when they moved to England in 1876. Rosa had long dreamed of going to England to pursue her literary ambitions, and her dreams were realised when her first novel, An Australian Heroine, became an overnight sensation when it was published in 1880. A string of bestsellers followed and she found herself fêted by celebrities such as Oscar Wilde and the Prince of Wales.
Always interested in spirituality and reincarnation, she became heavily involved in occultism, especially theosophy, and blended these interests into her novels and stories. Rosa’s life was marred by personal tragedy. Not only was she tied to a loveless marriage, but her daughter, deaf from birth, went insane and was committed to an asylum, and her three sons predeceased her, one by suicide. Her one consolation was her partner of many years, Nancy Harward, a medium whom Rosa believed to be the reincarnation of a Roman slave girl. Rosa died on 10 April 1935 in Torquay. “Miss Crosson’s Familiar” was published in Stubble Before the Wind (1908) a collection of connected stories, three of which are supernatural. The story references “The Ill-Omened House,” which I reprinted in Australian Nightmares.
Miss Crosson lived in a house some streets distant from that of Ill Omen, and oddly enough, her abode had a very similar association. I do not know why this should have been unless there are certain magnetic currents which draw together ghosts of the same genus. As far as I ever heard, these two are the only houses in Elchester with an uncanny reputation, but it is certainly true that they were said to be haunted by the same order of spirit. That particular evil genius, which, it was supposed, incited to crime dwellers in the House of Ill Omen, was reported to be the spirit of a valet who had there committed murder and suicide, while in Miss Crosson’s villa the malign influence was likewise a manservant’s ghost, which appeared to have accompanied the owner of the place thither.
Probably I should never have made Miss Crosson’s acquaintance had it not happened that my friend Nora Mitchell and her husband and children came to live in the house next that of Miss Crosson—their respective gardens being divided by one wall; and in later years, when books brought me an increase of income and I was less tied in London by journalistic work, I got into a way of paying the Mitchells frequent visits.
Nora Mitchell was a friend of my younger days, her father, the Honourable and Reverend Theodosius Chisholm, having been rector of Chalford, near Elchester. I had indeed been, in a sense, connected with a painful episode concerning her father’s death, and with a curious mystic experience by which Nora had been warned of the event. A year or two afterwards she had married Colonel—or as he then was, Captain Mitchell, and when he retired from the Indian Service, it had been quite natural that the pair, with their two sons and seventeen year-old daughter Una, should make a home at Elchester.
My friends were people of comparatively modest means for their position, and the street where they and Miss Crosson lived was not in the old and aristocratic part of Elchester, but in a newer region, and was composed chiefly of villa residences very much on the suburban pattern. Like all the rest, their house had its three storeys, its two bow windows, and its prim, box-edged flowerbeds in front, with the ornate railing and screen of lilac and laburnum that prevented passers-by from staring in at the dining-room and drawing-room windows. The largest space of ground lay at the back of each dwelling. Here, a stone wall separated the various territories, and these were laid out more or less ornamentally according, in different cases, to the taste of the tenant. Most of the enclosures owned a good-sized beech-tree—the site had been a park—which afforded pleasant shade in summer and gave a gratifying suggestion of ancestral acres. The Mitchells’ predecessors had thrown their back garden almost entirely into lawn, so that Una and her brothers enjoyed the benefit of a large croquet and tennis ground. Miss Crosson, however, being, as it seemed in the Mitchells’ first year of occupancy, quite alone in the world, did not of course want a tennis-court. Her plot was laid out in shrubbery at the bottom and, near the house, in grass, with narrow gravel paths bordered by standard rose-trees.
Miss Crosson spent much time in her garden, and from my bedroom window which overlooked the back, I could not fail to see her as she paced her paths, snipped her roses, and pottered about her “graveyard.” She had a small cemetery stretching along in the shadow of the wall—a collection of tiny mounds, marked by little wooden crosses, which we supposed contained the remains of deceased pets. It appeared a large assortment, considering that one very seldom saw an animal about her. We did notice, during a visit longer than usual which I paid the Mitchells, some cats and several dogs—a dachshund I remember, a terrier, and, I think, a spaniel. But as none seemed to stay more than a day or two, I concluded they were stray dogs and cats attracted by the profusion of scraps which one might almost have fancied had been laid to lure them. Thus I credited Miss Crosson with a benevolence she was far from possessing, assuming that after the waifs had been fed they were duly returned to their respective owners.
Miss Crosson spent much of her time in her garden, and her favourite occupation in it seemed to be the tendance of her graveyard. When she was not engaged upon her little mounds, which were all carefully grassed and clipped, I would see her pruning her roses and lopping her shrubs, sometimes with quite savage impetuosity, or performing various gardening operations in which she displayed an equally feverish energy. Then at other times, she would walk up and down her paths with an abstracted air while yet she cast stealthy glances around her in a furtive fashion that struck us all as eccentric, and, Una Mitchell declared, gave her quite a creepy feeling. It was her demeanour when walking in her garden that made Nora suspect Miss Crosson of being a little queer in her head. She was always alone, yet from her manner one might have imagined that she had a companion invisible to the ordinary eye. Frequently she would appear to be carrying on a conversation with this unseen companion, and would halt, shake her head remonstratively and gesticulate with her lean fingers as if she were trying to convince an opponent in some heated argument. Then she would show signs of great agitation, would seem to be pleading, denouncing, and at last, apparently vanquished, would move on, her head bent in, as far as could be judged, the deepest dejection. Again, she would come out upon occasions wearing a sort of defiant air, her bright black eyes fixed challengingly before her, her spare form erect, and a look of fierce resolution upon her sallow, witch-like face, which was framed in elfin masses of iron-grey hair. To me there was a horrible fascination in watching Miss Crosson from my bedroom window. Often, after a few minutes of firm pacing to and fro, during which she took no notice of anything or anybody, she would suddenly start and throw frightened glances behind in that furtive way of hers, as though she feared somebody was dogging her steps. Indeed, speaking generally, the expression of her face gave one an impression that she was watching or listening for something outside ordinary consciousness. I have seen her break off in the middle of a sentence, an intent and fearful look in her eyes, and no matter how noisily the young people’s tongues wagged around her she would sit silent and oblivious of all that was passing. I have noticed her too, when at dinner, pause suddenly, her knife in her hand, and with a nervous gesture, check, as it were some invisible prompter, and wait to continue her meal ’til she had, apparently, debated and decided some moot point that beset her mind. The more I saw Miss Cross
on the more did she give me the notion of a person fighting against some almost unconquerable prepossession.
In time, I did get to know her. So strong was the queer interest with which she inspired me that I allowed Nora no peace ’til she had effected the introduction and established a visiting acquaintanceship with Miss Crosson. I fancied that the old lady fought a little battle over us with her inward monitor, for it was with mingled eagerness and reluctance that she met our overtures. The difficulty would have been greater had it not been for the arrival, during my visit, of her niece Margery, a bright, charming girl, for whom Una Mitchell at once conceived a romantic friendship. Margery Grieve used to come pretty nearly every afternoon that summer and play tennis in the Mitchells’ court with the young people they collected about them. It was some time, however, before Miss Crosson could be induced to drink a cup of tea in Nora’s drawing-room.
On the first occasion a rather curious incident occurred which after events impressed upon my memory.
Nora had a favourite collie which was accustomed to take up a position, winter and summer alike, upon the rug in front of the fireplace in the drawing-room. He was the mildest, most sociable of beasts, and had constituted himself a sort of master of the ceremonies, it being a family joke with the Mitchells, that, by the number of paces Scot advanced in greeting a visitor, the status of that visitor might be accurately determined. Never had he been known to show anyone admitted as a guest the smallest discourtesy or unfriendliness, though, if Scot were on the watch, woe to the unauthorised intruder. Scot had never taken to Miss Crosson. He would growl when he met her out of doors and show signs of animosity for which we could not account, as the old lady was evidently desirous of being friendly with the beast. This time—the first when Miss Crosson had broken bread in the Mitchells’ house, it was plain that a battle waged in Scot’s breast between his sense of courtesy to a visitor and his instinctive dislike of that visitor. In truth, he deserved credit for the self-control he exercised, and it was interesting to see how he retired without belligerent demonstration from his customary position upon the hearthrug, allowing Miss Crosson to seat herself in peace upon a couch which was set at right angles with the fireplace.
