Фредерик Марриет
Phantom Ship

“Nay! nay! Amine, — say not you reject the creed. Does not this,” — and Philip pulled from his bosom the holy relic, — “does not this, and the message sent by it, prove our creed is true?”

“I have thought much of it, Philip. At first it startled me almost into a belief; but even your own priests helped to undeceive me. They would not answer you; they would have left you to guide yourself; the message and the holy word, and the wonderful signs given, were not in unison with their creed, and they halted. May I not halt, if they did? The relic may be as mystic, as powerful as you describe; but the agencies may be false and wicked — the power given to it may have fallen into wrong hands; the power remains the same, but it is applied to uses not intended.”

“The power, Amine, can only be exercised by those who are friends to Him who died upon it.”

“Then is it no power at all or if a power, not half so great as that of the arch-fiend; for his can work for good and evil both. But on this point, dear Philip, we do not well agree, nor can we convince each other. You have been taught in one way, I another. That which our childhood has imbibed — which has grown up with our growth, and strengthened with our years — is not to be eradicated. I have seen my mother work great charms and succeed. You have knelt to priests. I blame not you! — blame not, then, your Amine. We both mean well — I trust do well.”

“If a life of innocence and purity were all that were required, my Amine would be sure of future bliss.”

“I think it is; and thinking so, it is my creed. There are many creeds: who shall say which is the true one? And what matters it? — they all have the same end in view — a future Heaven.”

“True Amine, true,” replied Philip, pacing the cabin thoughtfully; “and yet our priests say otherwise.”

“What is the basis of their creed, Philip?”

“Charity and good-will.”

“Does charity condemn to eternal misery those who have never heard this creed — who have lived and died worshipping the Great Being after their best endeavours, and little knowledge?”

“No, surely.”

Amine made no further observations; and Philip, after pacing for a few minutes in deep thought, walked out of the cabin.

The Utrecht arrived at the Cape, watered, and proceeded on her voyage, and, after two months of difficult navigation, cast anchor off Gambroon. During this time Amine had been unceasing in her attempts to gain the good-will of Schriften. She had often conversed with him on deck, and had done him every kindness, and had overcome that fear which his near approach had generally occasioned. Schriften gradually appeared mindful of this kindness, and at last to be pleased with Amine’s company. To Philip he was at times civil and courteous, but not always; but to Amine he was always deferent. His language was mystical, — she could not prevent his chuckling laugh, his occasional “He! he!” from breaking forth. But when they anchored at Gambroon, he was on such terms with her, that he would occasionally come into the cabin; and, although he would not sit down, would talk to Amine for a few minutes, and then depart. While the vessel lay at anchor at Gambroon, Schriften one evening walked up to Amine, who was sitting on the poop. “Lady,” said he, after a pause, “yon ship sails for your own country in a few days.”

“So I am told,” replied Amine.

“Will you take the advice of one who wishes you well? Return in that vessel — go back to your own cottage, and stay there till your husband comes to you once more.”

“Why is this advice given?”

“Because I forebode danger — nay, perhaps death, a cruel death — to one I would not harm.”

“To me!” replied Amine, fixing her eyes upon Schriften, and meeting his piercing gaze.

“Yes, to you. Some people can see into futurity further than others.”

“Not if they are mortal,” replied Amine.

“Yes, if they are mortal. But, mortal or not, I do see that which I would avert. Tempt not destiny further.”

“Who can avert it? If I take your counsel, still was it my destiny to take your counsel. If I take it not, still it was my destiny.”

“Well, then, avoid what threatens you.”

“I fear not, yet do I thank you. Tell me, Schriften, hast thou not thy fate some way interwoven with that of my husband? I feel that thou hast.”

“Why think you so, lady?”

“For many reasons: twice you have summoned him — twice have you been wrecked, and miraculously reappeared and recovered. You know, too, of his mission — that is evident.”

“But proves nothing.”

“Yes! it proves much; for it proves that you knew what was supposed to be known but to him alone.”

“It was known to you, and holy men debated on it,” replied Schriften, with a sneer.

“How knew you that, again?”

“He! he!” replied Schriften. “Forgive me, lady; I meant not to affront you.”

“You cannot deny that you are connected mysteriously and incomprehensibly with this mission of my husband’s. Tell me, is it, as he believes, true and holy?”

“If he thinks that it is true and holy, it becomes so.”

“Why, then, do you appear his enemy?”

“I am not his enemy, fair lady.”

“You are not his enemy? — why, then, did you once attempt to deprive him of the mystic relic by which the mission is to be accomplished?”

“I would prevent his further search, for reasons which must not be told. Does that prove that I am his enemy? Would it not be better that he should remain on shore with competence and you, than be crossing the wild seas on this mad search? Without the relic it is not to be accomplished. It were a kindness, then, to take it from him.”

Amine answered not, for she was lost in thought.

“Lady,” continued Schriften, after a time, “I wish you well. For your husband I care not, yet do I wish him no harm. Now, hear me; if you wish for your future life to be one of ease and peace — if you wish to remain long in this world with the husband of your choice, of your first and warmest love — if you wish that he should die in his bed at a good old age, and that you should close his eyes, with children’s tears lamenting, and their smiles reserved to cheer their mother — all this I see, and can promise is in futurity, if you will take that relic from his bosom and give it up to me. But if you would that he should suffer more than man has ever suffered, pass his whole life in doubt anxiety, and pain, until the deep wave receive his corpse, then let him keep it. If you would that your own days be shortened, and yet those remaining be long in human suffering — if you would be separated from him, and die a cruel death — then let him keep it. I can read futurity and such must be the destiny of both. Lady, consider well; I must leave you now. To-morrow I will have your answer.”

Schriften walked away and left Amine to her own reflections. For a long while she repeated to herself the conversation and denunciations of the man, whom she was now convinced was not of this world, and was in some way or another deeply connected with her husband’s fate. “To me he wishes well, no harm to my husband, and would prevent his search. Why would he? — that he will not tell. He has tempted me tempted me most strangely. How easy ’twere to take the relic whilst Philip sleeps upon my bosom — but how treacherous! And yet a life of competence and ease, a smiling family, a good old age; what offers to a fond and doting wife! And if not, toil, anxiety, and a watery grave; and for me! Pshaw! that’s nothing. And yet to die separated from Philip, is that nothing? Oh, no, the thought is dreadful. — I do believe him. Yes he has foretold the future, and told it truly. Could I persuade Philip? No! I know him well; he has vowed, and is not to be changed. And yet, if the relic were taken without his knowledge, he would not have to blame himself. Who then would he blame? Could I deceive him? I, the wife of his bosom, tell a lie? No! no! it must not be. Come what will, it is our destiny, and I am resigned. I would that Schriften had not spoken! Alas! we search into futurity, and then would fain retrace our steps, and wish we had remained in ignorance.”

“What makes you so pensive, Amine?” said Philip, who some time afterwards walked up to where she was seated.

Amine replied not at first. “Shall I tell him all?” thought she. “It is my only chance — I will.” Amine repeated the conversation between her and Schriften. Philip made no reply; he sat down by Amine and took her hand. Amine dropped her head upon her husband’s shoulder. “What think you, Amine?” said Philip, after a time.

“I could not steal your relic, Philip; perhaps you’ll give it to me.”

“And my father, Amine, my poor father — his dreadful doom to be eternal! He who appealed, was permitted to appeal to his son, that that dreadful doom might be averted. Does not the conversation of this man prove to you that my mission is not false? Does not his knowledge of it strengthen all? Yet, why would he prevent it?” continued Philip, musing.

“Why I cannot tell, Philip, but I would fain prevent it. I feel that he has power to read the future, and has read aright.”

“Be it so; he has spoken, but not plainly. He has promised me what I have long been prepared for — what I vowed to Heaven to suffer. Already have I suffered much, and am prepared to suffer more. I have long looked upon this world as a pilgrimage, and (selected as I have been) trust that my reward will be in the other. But, Amine, you are not bound by oath to Heaven, you have made no compact. He advised you to go home. He talked of a cruel death. Follow his advice and avoid it.”

“I am not bound by oath, Philip; but hear me; as I hope for future bliss, I now bind myself.”

“Hold, Amine!”

“Nay, Philip, you cannot prevent me; for if you do now, I will repeat it when you are absent. A cruel death were a charity to me, for I shall not see you suffer. Then may I never expect future bliss, may eternal misery be my portion, if I leave you as long as fate permits us to be together. I am yours — your wife; my fortunes, my present, my future, my all, are embarked with you, and destiny may do its worst, for Amine will not quail. I have no recreant heart to turn aside from danger or from suffering. In that one point, Philip, at least, you chose, you wedded well.”

Philip raised her hand to his lips in silence, and the conversation was not resumed. The next evening, Schriften came up again to Amine. “Well, lady?” said he.

“Schriften, it cannot be,” replied Amine; “yet do I thank you much.”

“Lady, if he must follow up his mission, why should you?”

“Schriften, I am his wife — as for ever, in this world, and the next. You cannot blame me.”

“No,” replied Schriften, “I do not blame, I admire you. I feel sorry. But, after all, what is death? Nothing. He! he!” and Schriften hastened away, and left Amine to herself.

Chapter Twenty Two

The Utrecht sailed from Gambroon, touched at Ceylon, and proceeded on her voyage in the Eastern seas. Schriften still remained on board; but since his last conversation with Amine he had kept aloof, and appeared to avoid both her and Philip; still there was not, as before, any attempt to make the ship’s company disaffected, nor did he indulge in his usual taunts and sneers. The communication he had made to Amine had also its effect upon her and Philip; they were more pensive and thoughtful; each attempted to conceal their gloom from the other; and when they embraced, it was with the mournful feeling that perhaps it was an indulgence they would soon be deprived of: at the same time, they steeled their hearts to endurance and prepared to meet the worst. Krantz wondered at the change, but of course could not account for it. The Utrecht was not far from the Andaman Isles, when Krantz, who had watched the barometer, came in early one morning and called Philip.

“We have every prospect of a typhoon, sir,” said Krantz; “the glass and the weather are both threatening.”

“Then we must make all snug. Send down top-gallant yards and small sails directly. We will strike top-gallant masts. I will be out in a minute.”

Philip hastened on deck. The sea was smooth, but already the moaning of the wind gave notice of the approaching storm. The vacuum in the air was about to be filled up, and the convulsion would be terrible; a white haze gathered fast, thicker and thicker; the men were turned up, everything of weight was sent below, and the guns were secured. Now came a blast of wind which careened the ship, passed over, and in a minute she righted as before; then another and another, fiercer and fiercer still. The sea, although smooth, at last appeared white as a sheet with foam, as the typhoon swept along in its impetuous career; it burst upon the vessel, which bowed down to her gunnel and there remained; in a quarter of an hour the hurricane had passed over, and the vessel was relieved, but the sea had risen, and the wind was strong. In another hour the blast again came, more wild, more furious than the first, the waves were dashed into their faces, torrents of rain descended, the ship was thrown on her beam ends, and thus remained till the wild blast had passed away, to sweep destruction far beyond them, leaving behind it a tumultuous angry sea.

“It is nearly over, I believe, sir,” said Krantz. “It is clearing up a little to windward.”

“We have had the worst of it, I believe,” said Philip.

“No! there is worse to come,” said a low voice near to Philip. It was Schriften who spoke.

“A vessel to windward scudding before the gale,” cried Krantz.

Philip looked to windward, and in the spot where the horizon was clearest, he saw a vessel under topsails and foresail, standing right down. “She is a large vessel; bring me my glass.” The telescope was brought from the cabin, but before Philip could use it, a haze had again gathered up to windward, and the vessel was not to be seen.

“Thick again,” observed Philip, as he shut in his telescope; “we must look out for that vessel, that she does not run too close to us.”

“She has seen us, no doubt, sir,” said Krantz.

After a few minutes the typhoon again raged, and the atmosphere was of a murky gloom. It seemed as if some heavy fog had been hurled along by the furious wind; nothing was to be distinguished except the white foam of the sea, and that not the distance of half a cable’s length, where it was lost in one dark grey mist. The storm-stay-sail, yielding to the force of the wind, was rent into strips and flogged and cracked with a noise even louder than the gale. The furious blast again blew over, and the mist cleared up a little.

“Ship on the weather beam close aboard of us,” cried one of the men.

Krantz and Philip sprang upon the gunwale, and beheld the large ship bearing right down upon them, not three cables’ length distant.

“Helm up! she does not see us, and she will be aboard of us!” cried Philip. “Helm up, I say, hard up, quick!”

The helm was put up, as the men, perceiving their imminent danger, climbed upon the guns to look if the vessel altered her course; but no — down she came, and the head-sails of the Utrecht having been carried away, to their horror they perceived that she would not answer her helm, and pay off as they required.

“Ship ahoy!” roared Philip through his trumpet — but the gale drove the sound back.

“Ship ahoy!” cried Krantz on the gunwale, waving his hat. It was useless — down she came, with the waters foaming under her bows, and was now within pistol-shot of the Utrecht.

“Ship ahoy!” roared all the sailors, with a shout that must have been heard: it was not attended to: down came the vessel upon them, and now her cutwater was within ten yards of the Utrecht. The men of the Utrecht, who expected that their vessel would be severed in half by the concussion, climbed upon the weather gunwale, all ready to catch at the ropes of the other vessel, and climb on board of her. Amine, who had been surprised at the noise on deck, had come out, and had taken Philip by the arm.

“Trust to me — the shock — ,” said Philip. He said no more; the cutwater of the stranger touched their sides; one general cry was raised by the sailors of the Utrecht, — they sprang to catch at the rigging of the other vessel’s bowsprit, which was now pointed between their masts — they caught at nothing — nothing — there was no shock — no concussion of the two vessels — the stranger appeared to cleave through them — her hull passed along in silence — no cracking of timbers — no falling of masts — the foreyard passed through their mainsail, yet the canvas was unrent — the whole vessel appeared to cut through the Utrecht, yet left no trace of injury — not fast, but slowly, as if she were really sawing through her by the heaving and tossing of the sea with her sharp prow. The stranger’s forechains had passed their gunwale before Philip could recover himself. “Amine,” cried he at last, “the Phantom Ship! — my father!”

The seamen of the Utrecht, more astounded by the marvellous result than by their former danger, threw themselves down upon deck; some hastened below, some prayed, others were dumb with astonishment and fear. Amine appeared more calm than any, not excepting Philip; she surveyed the vessel as it slowly forced its way through; she beheld the seamen on board of her coolly leaning over the gunwale, as if deriding the destruction they had occasioned; she looked for Vanderdecken himself, and on the poop of the vessel, with his trumpet under his arm she beheld the image of her Philip — the same hardy, strong build — the same features — about the same age apparently — there could be no doubt it was the doomed Vanderdecken.

“See, Philip,” said she, “see your father!”

“Even so — Merciful Heaven! It is — it is!” and Philip, overpowered by his feelings, sank upon deck.

The vessel had now passed over the Utrecht; the form of the elder Vanderdecken was seen to walk aft and look over the taffrail; Amine perceived it to start and turn away suddenly — she looked down, and saw Schriften shaking his fist in defiance at the supernatural being! Again the Phantom Ship flew to leeward before the gale, and was soon lost in the mist but, before that, Amine had turned and perceived the situation of Philip. No one but herself and Schriften appeared able to act or move. She caught the pilot’s eye, beckoned to him, and with his assistance Philip was led into the cabin.

Chapter Twenty Three

“I have then seen him,” said Philip, after he had lain down on the sofa in the cabin for some minutes to recover himself while Amine bent over him. “I have at last seen him, Amine! Can you doubt now?”

“No, Philip, I have now no doubt,” replied Amine, mournfully; “but take courage, Philip.”

“For myself, I want not courage — but for you, Amine — you know that his appearance portends a mischief that will surely come.”

“Let it come,” replied Amine, calmly; “I have long been prepared for it, and so have you.”

“Yes, for my self; but not for you.”

“You have been wrecked often, and have been saved — then why should not I?”

“But the sufferings!”

“Those suffer least who have most courage to bear up against them. I am but a woman weak and frail in body, but I trust I have that within me which will not make you feel ashamed of Amine. No, Philip, you will have no wailing; no expression of despair from Amine’s lips; if she can console you she will; if she can assist you she will; but come what may, if she cannot serve you, at least she will prove no burden to you.”

“Your presence in misfortune would unnerve me, Amine.”

“It shall not; it shall add to your resolution. Let fate do its worst.”

“Depend upon it, Amine, that will be ere long.”

“Be it so,” replied Amine; “but Philip, it were as well you showed yourself on deck; the men are frightened, and your absence will be observed.”

“You are right,” said Philip; and rising and embracing her, he left the cabin.

“It is but too true, then,” thought Amine. “Now to prepare for disaster and death; the warning has come. I would I could know more. Oh! mother, mother, look down upon thy child, and in a dream reveal the mystic arts which I have forgotten, — then should I know more; but I have promised Philip, that unless separated — yes, that idea is worse than death, and I have a sad foreboding; my courage fails me only when I think of that!”

Philip, on his return to the deck, found the crew of the vessel in great consternation. Krantz himself appeared bewildered — he had not forgotten the appearance of the Phantom Ship off Desolation Harbour, and the vessels following her their destruction. This second appearance, more awful than the former, quite unmanned him; and when Philip came out of the cabin he was leaning in gloomy silence against the weather-bulkhead.

“We shall never reach port again, sir,” said he to Philip, as he came up to him.

“Silence, silence; the men may hear you.”

“It matters not; they think the same,” replied Krantz.

“But they are wrong,” replied Philip, turning to the seamen. “My lads! that some disaster may happen to us, after the appearance of this vessel is most probable; I have seen her before more than once, and disasters did then happen; but here I am, alive and well, therefore it does not prove that we cannot escape as I have before done. We must do our best, and trust in Heaven. The gale is breaking fast, and in a few hours we shall have fine weather. I have met this Phantom Ship before, and care not how often I meet it again. Mr Krantz, get up the spirits — the men have had hard work, and must be fatigued.”

The very prospect of obtaining liquor appeared to give courage to the men; they hastened to obey the order, and the quantity served out was sufficient to give courage to the most tearful, and induce others to defy old Vanderdecken and his whole crew of imps. The next morning the weather was fine, the sea smooth, and the Utrecht went gaily on her voyage.

Many days of gentle breezes and favouring winds gradually wore off the panic occasioned by the supernatural appearance; and, if not forgotten, it was referred to either in jest or with indifference, he now had run through the straits of Malacca, and entered the Polynesian archipelago. Philip’s orders were to refresh and call for instructions at the small island of Boton, then in possession of the Dutch. They arrived there in safety, and after remaining two days, again sailed on their voyage, intending to make their passage between the Celebes and the island of Galago. The weather was still clear and the wind light; they proceeded cautiously, on account of the reefs and currents, and with a careful watch for the piratical vessels, which have for centuries infested those seas; but they were not molested, and had gained well up among the islands to the north of Galago, when it fell calm, and the vessel was borne to the eastward of it by the current. The calm lasted several days, and they could procure no anchorage; at last they found themselves among the cluster of islands near to the northern coast of New Guinea.

The anchor was dropped, and the sails furled for the night; a drizzling small rain came on, the weather was thick, and watches were stationed in every part of the ship, that they might not be surprised by the pirate proas, for the current ran past the ship at the rate of eight or nine miles per hour, and these vessels, if hid among the islands, might sweep down upon them unperceived.

It was twelve o’clock at night, when Philip, who was in bed, was awakened by a shock; he thought it might be a proa running alongside, and he started from his bed and ran out. He found Krantz, who had been awakened by the same cause, running up undressed. Another shock succeeded, and the ship careened to port. Philip then knew that the ship was on shore.

The thickness of the night prevented them from ascertaining where the were, but the lead was thrown over the side, and they found that they were lying on shore on a sandbank, with not more than fourteen feet water on the deepest side, and that they were broadside on with a strong current pressing them further up on the bank; indeed the current ran like a mill-race, and each minute they were swept into shallow water.

On examination they found that the ship had dragged her anchor which, with the cable, was still taut from the starboard bow, but this did not appear to prevent the vessel from being swept further up on the bank. It was supposed that the anchor had parted at the shank, and another anchor was let go.

Nothing more could be done till daybreak, and impatiently did they wait till the next morning. As the sun rose, the mist cleared away, and they discovered that they were on shore on a sandbank, a small portion of which was above water, and round which the current ran with great impetuosity. About three miles from them was a cluster of small islands with cocoa-trees growing on them, but with no appearance of inhabitants.

“I fear we have little chance,” observed Krantz to Philip. “If we lighten the vessel the anchor may not hold, and we shall be swept further on, and it is impossible to lay out an anchor against the force of this current.”

“At all events we must try; but I grant that our situation is anything but satisfactory. Send all the hands aft.”

The men came aft, gloomy and dispirited.

“My lads!” said Philip, “why are you disheartened?”

“We are doomed, sir; we knew it would be so.”

“I thought it probable that the ship would be lost — I told you so; but the loss of the ship does not involve that of the ship’s company — nay, it does not follow that the ship is to be lost, although she may be in great difficulty, as she is at present. What fear is there for us, my men? — the water is smooth — we have plenty of time before us — we can make a raft and take to our boats — it never blows among these islands, and we have land close under our lee. Let us first try what we can do with the ship; if we fail we must then take care of ourselves.”

The men caught at the idea and went to work willingly; the water-casks were started, the pumps set going, and everything that could be spared was thrown over to lighten the ship; but the anchor still dragged, from the strength of the current and bad holding-ground; and Philip and Krantz perceived that they were swept further on the bank.

Night came on before they quitted their toil, and then a fresh breeze sprung up and created a swell, which occasioned the vessel to heat on the hard sand; thus did they continue until the next morning. At daylight the men resumed their labours, and the pumps were again manned to clear the vessel of the water which had been started, but after a time they pumped up sand. This told them that a plank had started and that their labours were useless; the men left their work, but Philip again encouraged them and pointed out that they could easily save themselves, and all that they had to do was to construct a raft which would hold provisions for them, and receive that portion of the crew who could not be taken into the boats.

After some repose the men again set to work; the top-sails were struck, the yards lowered down, and the raft was commenced under the lee of the vessel, where the strong current was checked. Philip, recollecting his former disaster took great pains in the construction of this raft, and aware that as the water and provisions were expended there would be no occasion to tow so heavy a mass, he constructed it in two parts, which might easily be severed, and thus the boats would have less to tow, as soon as circumstances would enable them to part with one of them.

Night again terminated their labours, and the men retired to rest the weather continuing fine, with very little wind. By noon the next day the raft was complete; water and provisions were safely stowed on board; a secure and dry place was fitted up for Amine in the centre of one portion; spare robes, sails, and everything which could prove useful in case of their being forced on shore, were put in. Muskets and ammunition were also provided, and everything was ready, when the men came aft and pointed out to Philip that there was plenty of money on board, which it was folly to leave, and that they wished to carry as much as they could away with them. As this intimation was given in a way that made it evident they intended that it should be complied with, Philip did not refuse; but resolved, in his own mind, that when they arrived at a place where he could exercise his authority, the money should be reclaimed for the Company to whom it belonged. The men went down below, and while Philip was making arrangements with Amine, handed the casks of dollars out of the hold, broke them open and helped themselves — quarrelling with each other for the first possession, as each cask was opened. At last every man had obtained as much as he could carry, and had placed his spoil on the raft with his baggage, or in the boat to which he had been appointed. All was now ready — Amine was lowered down, and took her station — the boats took in tow the raft which was cast off from the vessel, and away they went with the current, pulling with all their strength to avoid being stranded upon that part of the sandbank which appeared above water. This was the great danger which they had to encounter, and which they very narrowly escaped.

They numbered eighty-six souls in all: in the boats there were thirty-two; the rest were on the raft, which, being well-built and full of timber, floated high out of the water, now that the sea was so smooth. It had been agreed upon by Philip and Krantz, that one of them should remain on the raft and the other in one of the boats; but at the time the raft quitted the ship, they were both on the raft, as they wished to consult, as soon as they discovered the direction of the current, which would be the most advisable course for them to pursue. It appeared, that as soon as the current had passed the bank, it took a more southerly direction towards New Guinea. It was then debated between them whether they should or should not land on that island, the natives of which were known to be pusillanimous, yet treacherous. A long debate ensued, which ended, however, in their resolve not to decide as yet, but wait and see what might occur. In the mean time, the boats pulled to the westward, while the current set them fast down in a southerly direction.