“Who is that?” he asked, peering down, and Simon replied:
“It’s me, father, and Nathan Crowninshield. We saw what the man called a ghost, and were frightened by it.”
“Then you had best go ashore when next we make port, an’ say that you are not fitted for sailormen,” the captain cried, sharply. “Are you all turned fools that a shadow shall persuade you there’s a ghost aboard?”
“It was not a shadow, sir,” I made bold to say. “Simon and I were sitting just abaft the mizzenmast, and I saw something white rise out of the forecastle hatchway, even before any one spoke. Then it disappeared as the men began calling one to another.”
“What was it like?” the captain asked, with a scornful laugh.
“Like nothing, sir,” Simon replied. “It was simply a white shape, but there was no fire about it, as one of the men has stated, neither did I detect any odour.”
“Of course you didn’t, because there was nothing in the hatchway. Most likely it was a reflection of the canvas.”
“How could there be a reflection on a night like this, sir?” a voice asked from out the darkness. “This ’ere is worse than a fog-storm for smother, an’ if them as were amidships saw something come out of the fore-hatchway, it is more than could be done if one of the crew was nearabout there.”
All this was truth, as I realised on the instant.