CHAPTER VIII.
THE LEGEND OF FOUL-WEATHER DON.
Stout Jem told it thus:—
‘My story, mates, is a strange one, and I say not whether it be true or false. I heard it in the middle watch, one fine night, slipping down the coast of Porto Rico, and the seaman who told it to us, said, that when he was a boy he sailed with the man to whom the thing happened, in a big ship which hailed from Bristol. That the spirits of the dead walk the world—ay, and sail the seas—is a thing I cannot say nay to. I cannot tell you that I ever saw anything of the sort myself, but credible mariners and grave and sober men have assured me of things which have made my marrow creep, and the hair stand up, all bristling out of my flesh. Well, then, about this story. The man to whom the adventure happened, was by name Ned Purvis, a mariner. It must be nigh sixty years ago since he sailed out of the port of London, on a trading voyage to the coast of Guinea. Purvis was then a younker, there being little better than a year since he had followed the sea, and this was his first voyage abroad; he having undertaken it in the ship of his uncle, a good old man, of a mild disposition, and well loved of the crew. As for Ned Purvis, he was a reckless, ruffling blade, that cared neither for man nor devil, when his blood was up, and who thought but little of the glimmer of a drawn cutlass, or the flash of a pistol, in a quarrel. But as I told you, mates, the old man, the captain, was mild of speech and of heart, and greatly loved his nephew, and thought much of the lad’s spunk and wild spirit. So they sailed southerly, as became navigators, bound as they were to traffic for spices and rich oils and gold with the blacks of Africa.
‘Having lost sight of England, they had prosperous winds and pleasant weather, and nought occurred until the seventh day from that in which they saw the last of the white cliffs. Then they were just moving through the water and no more, for the breeze was but a puff, and the sun going down, when all of a sudden they saw a boat with a man in it, so close aboard that you might toss a biscuit into her. It was curious, mates, that almost all the men on deck saw her at once, when she was, as it might be, alongside; and yet no one had seen her approaching. But strange as that was, comrades, it was not so strange as the cut of the boat, and, for that matter, the cut of the man in her. The stem and stern of the craft were very high, and ended in curled bits of carved wood. Her gunwale, too, was all carved and sculptured, in such a way as you may have seen the pulpits and choirs of cathedrals and abbeys, and such buildings in England and France, and the Low Countries, being very artificial work done with gravers and chisels.
‘Ned Purvis remembered afterwards, when he saw a great Spanish painting of Christopher Columbus, landing on his second voyage upon the island of Hispaniola, that the admiral sailed in a barge, carved and ornamented after the fashion of that of which I am now telling you. And the man, mates, looked as old as his boat. He had on a high, conical hat, with a feather in it, and he wore a grave coloured doublet, of an old fashion, with slashes in the arms, and brocaded flowers embroidered thereon. Round his neck was a stiff ruff. He had red stockings, and great bunches of ribbon in his shoes. The face of this strange person was severe and grave. He had no moustachoes, but a thin peaked beard which fell over his frill. Every now and then he smiled with a strange, wild expression, which was that of a bitter sneer; and his eyes shot a sparkling light, which was stony and cold, and from which men turned their heads, as if by instinct. Well, then, the captain, when he saw this queer cruizer, seemed fascinated, and gazed upon him, as you may have seen small birds on the boughs gaze at snakes, whose eyes glitter out of the grass beneath, and presently the man in the boat waved his arm, as a signal to those on board to take him in. Well, no one stirred but Ned Purvis, and before the old captain could prevent him, Ned flung a rope to the stranger, who straightway caught hold of it and mounted on deck.
‘“Where is your captain?” says he, in a hollow harsh voice.
‘The old man comes forward, as pale as a corpse, and, quoth he—
‘“In the name of God, what want ye on board my ship?”
‘Now, at the name of God, Ned Purvis thought that the strange man started and shook: but he replied not, only taking the old captain by the hand, pointed to his boat, which was towing astern.
‘“Men,” said the old mariner, faintly, “he will not be denied; get his boat aboard.”