It was only the last few pages that were decipherable, and much to Antonio’s disappointment, when he took the book carefully out and placed it on the table, he found that it gave no clue to the name of the ship, her port of departure, nor her destination.
But it told briefly and irregularly of the last terrible sufferings of the crew.
The hand that wrote these lines must have been weak and quivering, the head of the writer congested, if not delirious.
The lines, too, and sentences were strangely disconnected and rambling. I give but a portion of them.
“The last writings of Ben Meredith of Lark Cove, Mass., U.S.A.
“If found—to my wife or beloved father, both of that territory—twenty days out, fearful weather, decks swept, topmasts carried away—middle of night awful collision, carried away figure-head and jibboom, and shattered bowsprit and bulwarks—drifting for weeks a hopeless—half the crew stole boats and went away we know not whither. Took the great Sea of Gulf-Weed. Misery untold, and no hopes of ever getting clear. Water lasted, but food ran out—living on seaweed and rats—few fish caught—men down with fever—I and mate last of—terrible sufferings. Think am mad—killed boy and ate him—this ends all, and to-night we die. Mate will shoot me, then kill himself—I shall not know the hour I am to be shot—this has been agreed upon, and ’tis better thus—Heaven forgive us, but we are mad—mad—mad!”
There was more of this rambling, but it was not decipherable. But those two skeletons revealed this secret of the sea.
Long, long years ago the men had gone to their account, and He who knew their terrible sufferings and temptations would judge them mercifully and righteously.
. . . . . .
There was little good to be wrought by staying longer on board this awful slimy derelict ship, so full of loathsome things that crept or crawled, so full of death and mystery.