“Just this. The Wandering Star was once the Atalanta, a fine passenger steamer, and, coming out her last trip, she fell in for the tail of a cyclone, and came to grief off the Laccadives; blown out of her course, engine-fires put out, went on a rock, and sank in ten fathoms; every soul on board went down, except a steward and a fireman, who got off on a hen-coop. It was an awful business—sixty-nine passengers, besides officers and crew. She sank like a stone, no time to get battered to pieces, and so she was right well worth her salvage. A company bought her cheap; she was but little damaged—they raised and sold her. She was intended for the pilgrim traffic, from Bombay to Mecca, and in fact she did make a couple of trips; but somehow she got a bad name; the pilgrims said she was possessed of devils—ha! ha!—and so the owners put her into the wheat and rice and general cargo trade, and we have no complaints. She has been at it these five years, and is, as I take you to witness, a grand sea-boat, and has fine accommodation betweendecks as well as aft; it’s only in real dirty weather that there is anything amiss, and that in the saloon. They say,” lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, “they kept the passengers below, battened down; they got no chance for their lives. It was a mistake; they were all drowned like rats in their holes. Mind you, I’ve seen nothing, and I’m not a superstitious man.”
“Would you sleep in the saloon?” I sternly demanded.
“No; for in a blow my place is on the bridge. But I’ll not deny that a second officer, who has left us, tried a bunk down there once, out of curiosity, and did not repeat the experiment; he was properly scared;” and the captain chuckled at the recollection.
“I suppose we shall get in to-night?” I remarked, as we paced the deck together.
“Yes, about eleven o’clock. We are doing our twelve knots, dirty-looking old hooker as we are!”
“So much the better,” I answered, “for you will not be surprised to hear that I’m not anxious to occupy my berth again.”
I am thankful to relate that I slept on land that same night, and was not “disturbed.”
I often glance at the shipping lists, to see if there is any news of the Wandering Star. I note that she is still tramping the ocean from China to Peru, and I have not the smallest doubt but that, on stormy nights, the saloon is still crowded with the distracted spectres of her former passengers.