The Cursed Castle

Chapter 9

boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five

hands … two mates, cook, and myself, (captain).

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at

4 p.m.

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again.

Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At

dark passed into Archipelago.

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about

something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all

steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not

make out what was wrong. They only told him there was

SOMETHING, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper

with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce

quarrel, but all was quiet.

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of the

crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it. Took

larboard watch eight bells last night, was relieved by Amramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than

ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but

would not say more than there was SOMETHING aboard.

Mate getting very impatient with them. Feared some trouble ahead.

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to

my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he

thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He said

that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall, thin

man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear.

He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no

one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of

superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To

allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully from

stem to stern.

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told

them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the

ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry,

said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep them out of

trouble with the handspike. I let him take the helm, while

the rest began a thorough search, all keeping abreast, with

lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were only

the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a

man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and

went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said

nothing.

22 July.—Rough weather last three days, and all hands

busy with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to have

forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good

terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.

24 July.—There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild

weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not

seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin,

asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate

angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the

men will do some violence.

28 July.—Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of

maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one.

Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no

one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch,

and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating, seas

still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier.

29 July.—Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as

crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on

deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry,

and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found.

Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate

and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign

of cause.

30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England.

Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept soundly,

awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch and

steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left

to work ship.

1 August.—Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had

hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for

help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails,

have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise

them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible doom.

Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself.

Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently, with

minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he Roumanian.

2 August, midnight.—Woke up from few minutes sleep

by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see

nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against mate. Tells

me he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One

more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits

of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in

the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog, which

seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us.

3 August.—At midnight I went to relieve the man at the

wheel and when I got to it found no one there. The wind was

steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I dared

not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds,

he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed

and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given way. He

came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth

to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear. ‘It is

here. I know it now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a

man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and

looking out. I crept behind It, and gave it my knife, but the

knife went through It, empty as the air.’ And as he spoke

he took the knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he

went on, ‘But It is here, and I’ll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one

and see. You work the helm.’ And with a warning look and

his finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing

up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool chest and lantern,

and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt

those big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them

about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay and

mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in

God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can’t steer to any

harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails, and lie

by, and signal for help …

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope

that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him

knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good

for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled

scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck

he came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his

eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. ‘Save me! Save

me!’ he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog.

His horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said,

‘You had better come too, captain, before it is too late. He

is there! I know the secret now. The sea will save me from

Him, and it is all that is left!’ Before I could say a word, or

move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and

deliberately threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know

the secret too, now. It was this madman who had got rid of

the men one by one, and now he has followed them himself.

God help me! How am I to account for all these horrors

when I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?

4 August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce, I

know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the helm, so here

all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I saw it,

Him! God, forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man. To die like a sailor in

blue water, no man can object. But I am captain, and I must

not leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster,

for I shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with them I shall tie that which He, It,

dare not touch. And then, come good wind or foul, I shall

save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am growing

weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the

face again, I may not have time to act… If we are wrecked,

mayhap this bottle may be found, and those who find it may

understand. If not … well, then all men shall know that I

have been true to my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and

the Saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty …

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce, and whether or not the man himself

committed the murders there is now none to say. The folk

here hold almost universally that the captain is simply a

hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up

the Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier

and up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners of more than a hundred boats

have already given in their names as wishing to follow him

to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at which

there is much mourning, for, with public opinion in its

present state, he would, I believe, be adopted by the town.

Tomorrow will see the funeral, and so will end this one

more ‘mystery of the sea’.

JOURNAL

8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I too,

could not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed

loudly among the chimney pots, it made me shudder.

When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun.

Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but she got up twice

and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time

and managed to undress her without waking her, and got

her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way,

her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to

the harbour to see if anything had happened in the night.

There were very few people about, and though the sun was

bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking

waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that

topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through

the mouth of the harbour, like a bullying man going through

a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the

sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea?

Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about

him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea captain today

was most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to

be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way