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 tookknife 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 know4 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'.
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not