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The Phantom Ship written by Captain Frederick Marryat

C >> Captain Frederick Marryat >> The Phantom Ship



THE PHANTOM SHIP

by

CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT

LONDON

MDCCCXCVI







Contents


CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII




Prefatory Note


_THE PHANTOM SHIP_ is the most notable of the three novels constructed
by Marryat on an historic basis, and like its predecessor in the
same category, _Snarleyyow_, depends largely for its interest on the
element of _diablerie_, which is very skilfully manipulated. Here,
however, the supernatural appearances are never explained away, and
the ghostly agencies are introduced in the spirit of serious, if
somewhat melodramatic, romance. Marryat's personal experience enabled
him, with little research, to produce a life-like picture of old Dutch
seamanship, and his powers in racy narrative have transformed the
Vanderdecken legend into a stirring tale of terror. The plot cannot
be called original, but it is more carefully worked out and, from the
nature of the material at hand, more effective than most of Marryat's
own. He has put life into it, moreover, by the creation of some
genuine characters, designed for nobler ends than to move the
machinery.

Amine, indeed, as Mr Hannay points out, "is by far his nearest
approach to an acceptable heroine." Her romantic and curiously
superstitious disposition is admirably restrained by strength of will
and true courage. The scenes of the Inquisition by which she meets
her death are forcibly described. Philip Vanderdecken is a very
respectable hero; daring, impetuous, and moody, without being too
improbably capable. The hand of destiny lends him a dignity of which
he is by no means unworthy. Krantz, the faithful friend, belongs to a
familiar type, but the one-eyed pilot is quite sufficiently weird
for the part he has to play. For the rest we have the usual exciting
adventures by sea and land; the usual "humours," in this case
certainly not overdone. The miser Dr Poots; the bulky Kloots, his
bear, and his supercargo; Barentz and his crazy lady-love the _Vrow
Katerina_; and the little Portuguese Commandant provide the reader
with a variety of good-natured entertainment. It was an act of
doubtful wisdom, perhaps, to introduce a second group of spirits from
the Hartz mountains, but the story of the weir-wolves is told simply,
without any straining after effect.

The general success, however, is marred by certain obvious failures
in detail. The attempt to produce an historic flavour by making the
characters, during their calmer moments, talk in would-be old English
is more amusing than culpable; but the author's philosophy of the
unseen, as expounded by Amine or Krantz, is both weak and tiresome,
and his religious discourses, coloured by prejudice against the
Romanists, are conventional and unconvincing. The closing scene
savours of the Sunday-school.

But these faults are not obtrusive, and the novel as a whole must take
a high place among its author's second-best.

_The Phantom Ship_ appeared in _The New Monthly Magazine_, 1838, 1839.
It is here reprinted from the first edition, in three volumes. Henry
Colburn, 1839.

R.B.J.




Chapter I


About the middle of the seventeenth century, in the outskirts of the
small but fortified town of Terneuse, situated on the right bank of
the Scheldt, and nearly opposite to the island of Walcheren, there was
to be seen, in advance of a few other even more humble tenements, a
small but neat cottage, built according to the prevailing taste of the
time. The outside front had, some years back, been painted of a deep
orange, the windows and shutters of a vivid green. To about three feet
above the surface of the earth, it was faced alternately with blue and
white tiles. A small garden, of about two rods of our measure of land,
surrounded the edifice; and this little plot was flanked by a low
hedge of privet, and encircled by a moat full of water, too wide to be
leaped with ease. Over that part of the moat which was in front of
the cottage door, was a small and narrow bridge, with ornamented
iron hand-rails, for the security of the passenger. But the colours,
originally so bright, with which the cottage had been decorated, had
now faded; symptoms of rapid decay were evident in the window-sills,
the door-jambs, and other wooden parts of the tenement, and many of
the white and blue tiles had fallen down, and had not been replaced.
That much care had once been bestowed upon this little tenement, was
as evident as that latterly it had been equally neglected.

The inside of the cottage, both on the basement and the floor above,
was divided into two larger rooms in front, and two smaller behind;
the rooms in front could only be called large in comparison with the
other two, as they were little more than twelve feet square, with but
one window to each. The upper floor was, as usual, appropriated to the
bedrooms; on the lower, the two smaller rooms were now used only as a
wash-house and a lumber-room; while one of the larger was fitted up as
a kitchen, and furnished with dressers, on which the metal utensils
for cookery shone clean and polished as silver. The room itself was
scrupulously neat; but the furniture, as well as the utensils, were
scanty. The boards of the floor were of a pure white, and so clean
that you might have laid anything down without fear of soiling it. A
strong deal table, two wooden-seated chairs, and a small easy couch,
which had been removed from one of the bedrooms upstairs, were all
the movables which this room contained. The other front room had been
fitted up as a parlour; but what might be the style of its furniture
was now unknown, for no eye had beheld the contents of that room for
nearly seventeen years, during which it had been hermetically sealed,
even to the inmates of the cottage.

The kitchen, which we have described, was occupied by two persons. One
was a woman, apparently about forty years of age, but worn down by
pain and suffering. She had evidently once possessed much beauty:
there were still the regular outlines, the noble forehead, and the
large dark eye; but there was a tenuity in her features, a wasted
appearance, such as to render the flesh transparent; her brow, when
she mused, would sink into deep wrinkles, premature though they were;
and the occasional flashing of her eyes strongly impressed you
with the idea of insanity. There appeared to be some deep-seated,
irremovable, hopeless cause of anguish, never for one moment permitted
to be absent from her memory: a chronic oppression, fixed and graven
there, only to be removed by death. She was dressed in the widow's
coif of the time; but although clean and neat, her garments were faded
from long wear. She was seated upon the small couch which we have
mentioned, evidently brought down as a relief to her, in her declining
state.

On the deal table in the centre of the room sat the other person, a
stout, fair-headed, florid youth of nineteen or twenty years old. His
features were handsome and bold, and his frame powerful to excess; his
eye denoted courage and determination, and as he carelessly swung his
legs, and whistled an air in an emphatic manner, it was impossible
not to form the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and reckless
character.

"Do not go to sea, Philip; oh, promise me _that_, my dear, dear
child," said the female, clasping her hands.

"And why not go to sea, mother?" replied Philip; "what's the use of my
staying here to starve?--for, by Heaven! it's little better. I must do
something for myself and for you. And what else can I do? My uncle Van
Brennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages.
Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficient
for your support at home."

"Philip--Philip, hear me. I shall die if you leave me. Whom have I in
the world but you? O my child, as you love me, and I know you _do_
love me, Philip, don't leave me; but if you will, at all events do not
go to sea."

Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while
his mother wept.

"Is it," said he at last, "because my father was drowned at sea, that
you beg so hard, mother?"

"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed the sobbing woman. "Would to God--"

"Would to God what, mother?"

"Nothing--nothing. Be merciful--be merciful, O God!" replied the
mother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side
of it, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer.

At last she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of more
composure.

Philip, who, during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, again
addressed his mother.

"Look ye, mother. You ask me to stay on shore with you, and
starve,--rather hard conditions:--now hear what I have to say. That
room opposite has been shut up ever since I can remember--why, you
will never tell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without
bread, and with no prospect of my uncle's return--you were then half
frantic, mother, as you know you sometimes are--"

"Well, Philip, what did you hear me say?" enquired his mother with
tremulous anxiety.

"You said, mother, that there was money in that room which would save
us; and then you screamed and raved, and said that you preferred
death. Now, mother, what is there in that chamber, and why has it been
so long shut up? Either I know that, or I go to sea."

At the commencement of this address of Philip, his mother appeared
to be transfixed, and motionless as a statue; gradually her lips
separated, and her eyes glared; she seemed to have lost the power of
reply; she put her hand to her right side, as if to compress it, then
both her hands, as if to relieve herself from excruciating torture: at
last she sank, with her head forward, and the blood poured out of her
mouth.

Philip sprang from the table to her assistance, and prevented her from
falling on the floor. He laid her on the couch, watching with alarm
the continued effusion.

"Oh! mother--mother, what is this?" cried he, at last, in great
distress.

For some time his mother could make him no reply; she turned further
on her side, that she might not be suffocated by the discharge from
the ruptured vessel, and the snow-white planks of the floor were soon
crimsoned with her blood.

"Speak, dearest mother, if you can," repeated Philip, in agony; "what
shall I do? what shall I give you? God Almighty! what is this?"

"Death, my child, death!" at length replied the poor woman, sinking
into a state of unconsciousness.

Philip, now much alarmed, flew out of the cottage, and called the
neighbours to his mother's assistance. Two or three hastened to the
call; and as soon as Philip saw them occupied in restoring his mother,
he ran as fast as he could to the house of a medical man, who lived
about a mile off--one Mynheer Poots, a little, miserable, avaricious
wretch, but known to be very skilful in his profession. Philip found
Poots at home, and insisted upon his immediate attendance.

"I will come--yes, most certainly," replied Poots, who spoke the
language but imperfectly; "but Mynheer Vanderdecken, who will pay me?"

"Pay you! my uncle will, directly that he comes home."

"Your uncle de Skipper Van Brennen: no, he owes me four guilders, and
he has owed me for a long time. Besides, his ship may sink."

"He shall pay you the four guilders, and for this attendance also,"
replied Philip, in a rage; "come directly, while you are disputing my
mother may be dead."

"But, Mr Philip, I cannot come, now I recollect; I have to see the
child of the burgomaster at Terneuse," replied Mynheer Poots.

"Look you, Mynheer Poots," exclaimed Philip, red with passion; "you
have but to choose,--will you go quietly, or must I take you there?
You'll not trifle with me."

Here Mynheer Poots was under considerable alarm, for the character of
Philip Vanderdecken was well known.

"I will come by-and-bye, Mynheer Philip, if I can."

"You'll come now, you wretched old miser," exclaimed Philip, seizing
hold of the little man by the collar, and pulling him out of his door.

"Murder! murder!" cried Poots, as he lost his legs, and was dragged
along by the impetuous young man.

Philip stopped, for he perceived that Poots was black in the face.

"Must I then choke you, to make you go quietly? for, hear me, go you
shall, alive or dead."

"Well, then," replied Poots, recovering himself, "I will go, but I'll
have you in prison to-night: and, as for your mother, I'll not--no,
that I will not--Mynheer Philip, depend upon it."

"Mark me, Mynheer Poots," replied Philip, "as sure as there is a God
in heaven, if you do not come with me, I'll choke you now; and when
you arrive, if you do not do your best for my poor mother, I'll murder
you there. You know that I always do what I say, so now take my
advice, come along quietly, and you shall certainly be paid, and well
paid--if I sell my coat."

This last observation of Philip, perhaps, had more effect than even
his threats. Poots was a miserable little atom, and like a child
in the powerful grasp of the young man. The doctor's tenement was
isolated, and he could obtain no assistance until within a hundred
yards of Vanderdecken's cottage; so Mynheer Poots decided that he
would go, first, because Philip had promised to pay him, and secondly,
because he could not help it.

This point being settled, Philip and Mynheer Poots made all haste to
the cottage; and on their arrival, they found his mother still in the
arms of two of her female neighbours, who were bathing her temples
with vinegar. She was in a state of consciousness, but she could not
speak. Poots ordered her to be carried upstairs and put to bed, and
pouring some acids down her throat, hastened away with Philip to
procure the necessary remedies.

"You will give your mother that directly, Mynheer Philip," said Poots,
putting a phial into his hand; "I will now go to the child of the
burgomaster, and will afterwards come back to your cottage."

"Don't deceive me," said Philip, with a threatening look.

"No, no, Mynheer Philip, I would not trust to your uncle Van Brennen
for payment, but you have promised, and I know that you always keep
your word. In one hour I will be with your mother; but you yourself
must now be quick."

Philip hastened home. After the potion had been administered, the
bleeding was wholly stopped; and in half an hour, his mother could
express her wishes in a whisper. When the little doctor arrived, he
carefully examined his patient, and then went downstairs with her son
into the kitchen.

"Mynheer Philip," said Poots, "by Allah! I have done my best, but I
must tell you that I have little hopes of your mother rising from her
bed again. She may live one day or two days, but not more. It is not
my fault, Mynheer Philip," continued Poots, in a deprecating tone.

"No, no; it is the will of Heaven," replied Philip, mournfully.

"And you will pay me, Mynheer Vanderdecken?" continued the doctor,
after a short pause.

"Yes," replied Philip in a voice of thunder, and starting from a
reverie. After a moment's silence, the doctor recommenced.

"Shall I come to-morrow, Mynheer Philip? You know that will be a
charge of another guilder: it is of no use to throw away money or time
either."

"Come to-morrow, come every hour, charge what you please; you shall
certainly be paid," replied Philip, curling his lip with contempt.

"Well, it is as you please. As soon as she is dead, the cottage and
the furniture will be yours, and you will sell them of course. Yes, I
will come. You will have plenty of money. Mynheer Philip, I would like
the first offer of the cottage, if it is to let."

Philip raised his arm in the air as if to crush Mynheer Poots, who
retreated to the corner.

"I did not mean until your mother was buried," said Poots, in a
coaxing tone.

"Go, wretch, go!" said Philip, covering his face with his hands, as he
sank down upon the blood-stained couch.

After a short interval, Philip Vanderdecken returned to the bedside
of his mother, whom he found much better; and the neighbours, having
their own affairs to attend to, left them alone. Exhausted with the
loss of blood, the poor woman slumbered for many hours, during which
she never let go the hand of Philip, who watched her breathing in
mournful meditation.

It was about one o'clock in the morning when the widow awoke. She had
in a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her
son:--

"My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner so
long?"

"My own inclination detained me, mother. I leave you not to others
until you are up and well again."

"That, Philip, I shall never be. I feel that death claims me; and, O,
my son, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing!
I have long been dying, Philip,--and long, long have I prayed for
death."

"And why so, mother?" replied Philip, bluntly; "I've done my best."

"You have, my child, you have: and may God bless you for it. Often
have I seen you curb your fiery temper--restrain yourself when
justified in wrath--to spare a mother's feelings. 'Tis now some days
that even hunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother. And,
Philip, you must have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and
yet to give no reason. I'll speak--again--directly."

The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for some
minutes; then, as if revived, she resumed:

"I believe I have been mad at times--have I not, Philip? And God knows
I have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy. It
has oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, and
now, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame: the
blow is struck, Philip,--I'm sure it is. I wait but to tell you
all,--and yet I would not,--'twill turn your brain as it has turned
mine, Philip."

"Mother," replied Philip, earnestly, "I conjure you, let me hear this
killing secret. Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not. Heaven
will not hurt me, and Satan I defy."

"I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip,--thy strength of mind. If
anyone could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst. My
brain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell
it to thee."

The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had to
confide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks;
she then appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regained
strength.

"Philip, it is of your father I would speak. It is supposed--that he
was--drowned at sea."

"And was he not, mother?" replied Philip, with surprise.

"O no!"

"But he has long been dead, mother?"

"No,--yes,--and yet--no," said the widow, covering her eyes.

Her brain wanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again:

"Then where is he, mother?"

The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her whole
frame, as she replied--

"IN LIVING JUDGMENT."

The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered her
head with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her
own memory. Philip was so much perplexed and astounded, that he could
make no reply. A silence of some minutes ensued, when, no longer able
to beat the agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered--

"The secret, mother, the secret; quick, let me hear it."

"I can now tell all, Philip," replied his mother, in a solemn tone of
voice. "Hear me, my son. Your father's disposition was but too like
your own;--O may his cruel fate be a lesson to you, my dear, dear
child! He was a bold, a daring, and, they say, a first-rate seaman.
He was not born here, but in Amsterdam; but he would not live there,
because he still adhered to the Catholic religion. The Dutch, you
know, Philip, are heretics, according to our creed. It is now
seventeen years or more that he sailed for India, in his fine ship
the _Amsterdammer_, with a valuable cargo. It was his third voyage to
India, Philip, and it was to have been, if it had so pleased God,
his last, for he had purchased that good ship with only part of his
earnings, and one more voyage would have made his fortune. O! how
often did we talk over what we would do upon his return, and how these
plans for the future consoled me at the idea of his absence, for I
loved him dearly, Philip,--he was always good and kind to me; and
after he had sailed, how I hoped for his return! The lot of a sailor's
wife is not to be envied. Alone and solitary for so many months,
watching the long wick of the candle, and listening to the howling of
the wind--foreboding evil and accident--wreck and widowhood. He had
been gone about six months, Philip, and there was still a long dreary
year to wait before I could expect him back. One night, you, my
child, were fast asleep; you were my only solace--my comfort in my
loneliness. I had been watching over you in your slumbers; you smiled
and half pronounced the name of mother; and at last I kissed your
unconscious lips, and I knelt and prayed--prayed for God's blessing on
you, my child, and upon him too--little thinking, at the time, that he
was so horribly, so fearfully CURSED."

The widow paused for breath, and then resumed. Philip could not speak.
His lips were sundered, and his eyes riveted upon his mother, as he
devoured her words.

"I left you and went downstairs into that room, Philip, which since
that dreadful night has never been re-opened. I sate me down and read,
for the wind was strong, and when the gale blows, a sailor's wife can
seldom sleep. It was past midnight, and the rain poured down. I felt
unusual fear,--I knew not why. I rose from the couch and dipped my
finger in the blessed water, and I crossed myself. A violent gust
of wind roared round the house, and alarmed me still more. I had a
painful, horrible foreboding; when, of a sudden, the windows and
window-shutters were all blown in, the light was extinguished, and
I was left in utter darkness. I screamed with fright; but at last I
recovered myself, and was proceeding towards the window that I
might reclose it, when whom should I behold, slowly entering at the
casement, but--your father,--Philip!--Yes, Philip,--it was your
father!"

"Merciful God!" muttered Philip, in a low tone almost subdued into a
whisper.

"I knew not what to think,--he was in the room; and although the
darkness was intense, his form and features were as clear and as
defined as if it were noon-day. Fear would have inclined me to recoil
from,--his loved presence to fly towards him. I remained on the spot
where I was, choked with agonising sensations. When he had entered the
room, the windows and shutters closed of themselves, and the candle
was relighted--then I thought it was his apparition, and I fainted on
the floor.

"When I recovered I found myself on the couch, and perceived that
a cold (O how cold!) and dripping hand was clasped in mine. This
reassured me, and I forgot the supernatural signs which accompanied
his appearance. I imagined that he had been unfortunate, and had
returned home. I opened my eyes, and beheld my loved husband and threw
myself into his arms. His clothes were saturated with the rain: I
felt as if I had embraced ice--but nothing can check the warmth of a
woman's love, Philip. He received my caresses, but he caressed
not again: he spoke not, but looked thoughtful and unhappy.
'William--William,' cried I! 'speak, Vanderdecken, speak to your dear
Catherine.'

"'I will,' replied he, solemnly, 'for my time is short.'

"'No, no, you must not go to sea again: you have lost your vessel, but
you are safe. Have I not you again?'

"'Alas! no--be not alarmed, but listen, for my time is short. I have
not lost my vessel, Catherine, BUT I HAVE LOST!!! Make no reply, but
listen; I am not dead, nor yet am I alive. I hover between this world
and the world of Spirits. Mark me.

"'For nine weeks did I try to force my passage against the elements
round the stormy Cape, but without success; and I swore terribly.
For nine weeks more did I carry sail against the adverse winds and
currents, and yet could gain no ground; and then I blasphemed,--ay,
terribly blasphemed. Yet still I persevered. The crew, worn out
with long fatigue, would have had me return to the Table Bay; but I
refused; nay, more, I became a murderer,--unintentionally, it is true,
but still a murderer. The pilot opposed me, and persuaded the men to
bind me, and in the excess of my fury, when he took me by the collar,
I struck at him; he reeled; and, with the sudden lurch of the vessel,
he fell overboard, and sank. Even this fearful death did not restrain
me; and I swore by the fragment of the Holy Cross, preserved in that
relic now hanging round your neck, that I would gain my point in
defiance of storm and seas, of lightning, of heaven, or of hell, even
if I should beat about until the Day of Judgment.