Striving to climb up the iron stanchions to get near the fore-peak deck, and make herself heard, she had fallen back into the depths of that dark hold, and, clutching at the cases to save herself, had torn her finger-nails off. God only knows the intense misery that that wretched castaway must have suffered down in the bowels of that steamer. It’s bad enough when two strong men stow away, and have each other’s companionship, but how terrible for that frail girl down there, quite alone, accompanied by her memories and her misery.
She was nearly dead when, a week out from Tai-o-hae, they discovered her, broken, bleeding and starved.
The storm had blown itself out. We were cutting along at about eleven knots. It was one of those nights when the monotony of the sea was broken by the glorious expanse of the illimitable heavens.
The vastness of the ocean set in those dim, encircling sky-lines had stirred my imagination. I was standing on a visionary ship in a rolling world of illusions. The far-off, pale horizons on every side were not horizons of reality, but dim, far-off sky-lines of more distant, wonderful, unknown seas, where sailed the old ships that were loaded with magical, sweet-scented cargoes of human dreams. I fancied I could hear the faint moaning of the deep, moving waters, the waves breaking away from God’s mighty Imagination, an Imagination sparkling the wonderful foam of Immortal Beauty. I heard the winds of sorrow drifting across the reefs of starry thought, beating finely, steadfastly, against Eternity. I was only called back to the realms of Time by the shuffling of sea-boots coming along the deck.
I took my pipe from my lips, wondering on the sudden, unusual commotion. As I stared through the gloom, I saw the huddled crew coming aft. It was a perfect night, hardly a breath of wind to stir the canvas. The sails bellied out and then—flop!—they went, like grey drums beating out muffled réveillés to the stars. The skipper was tramping to and fro on the poop as the crew stood by the gangway whispering together.
“What on earth’s the matter?” was my mental comment, as one of their number, a sleek-faced Yankee, went on to the poop as spokesman.
As he approached the “Old Man,” I half wondered if a mutiny was on, and calculated in my mind as to which side I should join, while my heart leaped with excitement. Then I heard the Yankee say:
“Cap’en, we got a serious matter to speak about.”
“Well, get on with it,” said the skipper, as he stared at the men about him as though he thought they had gone mad.
“Well, Cap’en,” said the sailor once more, as he expectorated so as to relieve his feelings. Then, to my astonishment, he blurted out: “This God-damned ship’s ’aunted!”