Фредерик Марриет
Phantom Ship

Chapter Twenty Seven

The raft was found to answer well, and although her progress through the water was not very rapid, she obeyed the helm and was under command. Both Philip and Krantz were very careful in taking such marks and observations of the island as should enable them, if necessary, to find it again. With the current to assist them they now proceeded rapidly to the southward, in order that they might examine a large island which lay in that direction. Their object, after seeking for Amine was to find out the direction of Ternate; the king of which they knew to be at variance with the Portuguese, who had a fort and factory at Tidore, not very far distant from it; and from thence to obtain a passage in one of the Chinese junks, which, on their way to Bantam, called at that island.

Towards evening they had neared the large island, and they soon ran down it close to the beach. Philip’s eyes wandered in every direction to ascertain whether anything on the shore indicated the presence of Amine’s raft, but he could perceive nothing of the kind, nor did he see any inhabitants.

That they might not pass the object of their search during the night, they ran their raft on shore, in a small cove where the waters were quite smooth, and remained there until the next morning, when they again made sail and prosecuted their voyage. Krantz was steering with the long sweep they had fitted for the purpose, when he observed Philip, who had been for some time silent, take from his breast the relic which he wore, and gaze attentively upon it.

“Is that your picture, Philip?” observed Krantz.

“Alas! no, it is my destiny,” replied Philip, answering without reflection.

“Your destiny! What mean you?”

“Did I say my destiny? I hardly know what I said,” replied Philip, replacing the relic in his bosom.

“I rather think you said more than you intended,” replied Krantz; “but at the same time something near the truth. I have often perceived you with that trinket in your hand, and I have not forgotten how anxious Schriften was to obtain it and the consequences of his attempt upon it. Is there not some secret — some mystery attached to it? Surely, if so, you must now sufficiently know me as your friend to feel me worthy of your confidence.”

“That you are my friend, Krantz, I feel; my sincere and much-valued friend, for we have shared much danger together and that is sufficient to make us friends; that I could trust you, I believe, but I feel as if I dare not trust any one. There is a mystery attached to this relic (for a relic it is), which as yet has been confided to my wife and holy men alone.”

“And if trusted to holy men, surely it may be trusted to sincere friendship, than which nothing is more holy.”

“But I have a presentiment that the knowledge of my secret would prove fatal to you. Why I feel such a presentiment I know not; but I feel it, Krantz; and I cannot afford to lose you, my valued friend.”

“You will not then make use of my friendship, it appears,” replied Krantz. “I have risked my life with you before now and I am not to be deterred from the duties of friendship by a childish foreboding on your part, the result of an agitated mind and a weakened body. Can anything be more absurd than to suppose that a secret confided to me can be pregnant with danger, unless it be, indeed, that my zeal to assist you may lead me into difficulties. I am not of a prying disposition; but we have been so long connected together, and are now so isolated from the rest of the world, that it appears to me it would be a solace to you, were you to confide in one whom you can trust, what evidently has long preyed upon your mind. The consolation and advice of a friend, Philip, are not to be despised, and you will feel relieved if able to talk over with him a subject which evidently oppresses you. If, therefore, you value my friendship, let me share with you in your sorrows.”

There are few who have passed through life so quietly, as not to recollect how much grief has been assuaged by confiding its cause to, and listening to the counsels and consolations of some dear friend. It must not, therefore appear surprising that, situated as he was, and oppressed with the loss of Amine, Philip should regard Krantz as one to whom he might venture to confide his important secret. He commenced his narrative with no injunctions, for he felt that if Krantz could not respect his secret for his secret’s sake, or from good will towards him, he was not likely to be bound by any promise; and as, during the day, the raft passed by the various small capes and headlands of the island, he poured into Krantz’s ear the history which the reader is acquainted with. “Now you know all,” said Philip, with a deep sigh, as the narrative was concluded. “What think you? Do you credit my strange tale, or do you imagine as some well would, that it is a mere phantom of a disordered brain?”

“That it is not so, Philip, I believe,” replied Krantz; “for I too have had ocular proof of the correctness of a part of your history. Remember how often I have seen this Phantom Ship — and if your father is permitted to range over the seas, why should you not be selected and permitted to reverse his doom? I fully believe every word that you have told me, and since you have told me this, I can comprehend much that in your behaviour at times appeared unaccountable; there are many who would pity you, Philip, but I envy you.”

“Envy me?” cried Philip.

“Yes! envy you: and gladly would I take the burden of your doom on my own shoulders, were it only possible. Is it not a splendid thought that you are summoned to so great a purpose, — that instead of roaming through the world as we all do in pursuit of wealth, which possibly we may lose after years of cost and hardship, by the venture of a day, and which, at all events, we must leave behind us, — you are selected to fulfil a great and glorious work — the work of angels, I may say — that of redeeming the soul of a father, suffering indeed for his human frailties, but not doomed to perish for eternity; you have, indeed, an object of pursuit worthy of all the hardships and dangers of a maritime life. If it ends in your death, what then? Where else ends our futile cravings, our continual toil, after nothing? We all must die — but how few — who, indeed, besides yourself — was ever permitted before his death to ransom the soul of the author of his existence! Yes, Philip, I envy you!”

“You think and speak like Amine. She, too, is of a wild and ardent soul, that would mingle with the beings of the other world, and hold intelligence with disembodied spirits.”

“She is right,” replied Krantz; “there are events in my life, or rather connected with my family, which have often fully convinced me that this is not only possible but permitted. Your story has only corroborated what I already believed.”

“Indeed! Krantz?”

“Indeed, yes; but of that hereafter: the night is closing in we must again put our little bark in safety for the night, and there is a cove which I think appears suited for the purpose.”

Before morning a strong breeze, right on shore, had sprung up, and the surf became so high as to endanger the raft; to continue their course was impossible; they could only haul up their raft, to prevent its being dashed to pieces by the force of the waves, as the seas broke on the shore. Philip’s thoughts were, as usual, upon Amine; and as he watched the tossing waters, as the sunbeams lightened up their crests, he exclaimed, “Ocean, hast thou my Amine? If so, give up thy dead! What is that?” continued he, pointing to a speck on the horizon.

“The sail of a small craft of some description or another,” replied Krantz; “and apparently coming down before the wind to shelter herself in the very nook we have selected.”

“You are right; it is the sail of a vessel — of one of those peroquas which skim over these seas; how she rises on the swell! She is full of men apparently.”

The peroqua rapidly approached, and was soon close to the beach; the sail was lowered, and she was backed in through the surf.

“Resistance is useless should they prove enemies,” observed Philip. “We shall soon know our fate.”

The people in the peroqua took no notice of them until the craft had been hauled up and secured; three of them then advanced towards Philip and Krantz, with spears in their hands, but evidently with no hostile intentions. One addressed them in Portuguese asking them who they were.

“We are Hollanders,” replied Philip.

“A part of the crew of the vessel which was wrecked?” inquired he.

“Yes!”

“You have nothing to fear — you are enemies to the Portuguese, and so are we. We belong to the island of Ternate — our king is at war with the Portuguese, who are villains. Where are your companions? on which island?”

“They are all dead,” replied Philip. “May I ask you whether you have fallen in with a woman, who was adrift on a part of the raft by herself: or have you heard of her?”

“We have heard that a woman was picked up on the beach to the southward, and carried away by the Tidore people to the Portuguese settlement, on the supposition that she was a Portuguese.”

“Then God be thanked, she is saved,” cried Philip. “Merciful Heaven! accept my thanks. — To Tidore you said?”

“Yes; we are at war with the Portuguese, we cannot take you there.”

“No! but we shall meet again.”

The person who accosted them was evidently of consequence. His dress was to a certain degree Mahometan, but mixed up with Malay; he carried arms in his girdle and a spear in his hand; his turban was of printed chintz; and his deportment like most persons of rank in that country, was courteous and dignified.

“We are now returning to Ternate, and will take you with us. Our king will be pleased to receive any Hollanders, especially as you are enemies to the Portuguese dogs. I forgot to tell you that we have one of your companions with us in the boat; we picked him up at sea much exhausted, but he is now doing well.”

“Who can it be?” observed Krantz; “it must be some one belonging to some other vessel.”

“No,” replied Philip, shuddering, “it must be Schriften.”

“Then my eyes must behold him before I believe it,” replied Krantz.

“Then believe your eyes,” replied Philip, pointing to the form of Schriften, who was now walking towards them.

“Mynheer Vanderdecken, glad to see you. Mynheer Krantz, I hope you are well. How lucky that we should all be saved. He! he!”

“The ocean has then, indeed, given up its dead, as I requested,” thought Philip.

In the mean time, Schriften, without making any reference to the way in which they had so unceremoniously parted company, addressed Krantz with apparent good-humour, and some slight tinge of sarcasm. It was some time before Krantz could rid himself of him.

“What think you of him, Krantz?”

“That he is a part of the whole, and has his destiny to fulfil as well as you. He has his part to play in this wondrous mystery, and will remain until it is finished. Think not of him. Recollect, your Amine is safe.”

“True,” replied Philip, “the wretch is not worth a thought; we have now nothing to do but to embark with these people; hereafter we may rid ourselves of him, and strive then to rejoin my dearest Amine.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

When Amine again came to her senses, she found herself lying on the leaves of the palmetto, in a small hut. A hideous black child sat by her, brushing off the flies. Where was she?

The raft had been tossed about for two days, during which Amine remained in a state of alternate delirium and stupor. Driven by the current and the gale, it had been thrown on shore on the eastern end of the coast of New Guinea. She had been discovered by some of the natives, who happened to be on the beach trafficking with some of the Tidore people. At first they hastened to rid her of her garments, although they perceived that she was not dead; but before they had left her as naked as themselves, a diamond of great value, which had been given to her by Philip, attracted the attention of one of the savages; failing in his attempt to pull it off, he pulled out a rusty, blunt knife, and was busily sawing at the finger, when an old woman of authority interfered and bade him desist. The Tidore people also, who were friends with the Portuguese, pointed out that to save one of that nation would insure a reward; they stated moreover, that they would, on their return, inform the people of the Factory establishment that one of their countrywomen had been thrown on shore on a raft. To this Amine owed the care and attention that was paid to her; that part of New Guinea being somewhat civilised by occasional intercourse with the Tidore people, who came there to exchange European finery and trash for the more useful productions of the island.

The Papoose woman carried Amine into her hut, and there she lay for many days, wavering between life and death, carefully attended, but requiring little except the moistening of her parched lips with water, and the brushing off of the mosquitoes and flies.

When Amine opened her eyes, the little Papoose ran out to acquaint the woman, who followed her into the hut. She was of large size, very corpulent and unwieldy, with little covering on her body; her hair, which was woolly in its texture, was partly plaited, partly frizzled, a cloth round her waist, and a piece of faded yellow silk on her shoulders, was all her dress. A few silver rings, on her fat fingers, and a necklace of mother-of-pearl, were her ornaments. Her teeth were jet black, from the use of the betel-nut, and her whole appearance was such as to excite disgust in the breast of Amine.

She addressed Amine, but her words were unintelligible: and the sufferer, exhausted with the slight effort she had made, fell back into her former position, and closed her eyes. But if the woman was disgusting, she was kind, and by her attention and care Amine was able in the course of three weeks, to crawl out of the hut and enjoy the evening breeze. The natives of the island would at times surround her, but they treated her with respect, from fear of the old woman. Their woolly hair was frizzled or plaited, sometimes powdered white with chunam. A few palmetto-leaves round the waist and descending to the knee was their only attire; rings through the nose and ears, and feathers of birds, particularly the bird of paradise, were their ornaments; but their language was wholly unintelligible. Amine felt grateful for life; she sat under the shade of the trees, and watched the swift peroquas as they skimmed the blue sea which was expanded before her; but her thoughts were elsewhere — they were on Philip.

One morning Amine came out of the hut with joy on her countenance, and took her usual seat under the trees. “Yes, mother, dearest mother, I thank thee; thou hast appeared to me; thou hast recalled to me thy arts, which I had forgotten, and had I but the means of conversing with these people, even now would I know where my Philip might be.”

For two months did Amine remain under the care of the Papoose woman. When the Tidore people returned, they had an order to bring the white woman, who had been cast on shore, to the Factory, and repay those who had taken charge of her. They made signs to Amine, who had now quite recovered her beauty, that she was to go with them. Any change was preferable to staying where she was, and Amine followed them down to a peroqua, on which she was securely fixed, and was soon darting through the water with her new companions; and, as they flew along the smooth seas, Amine thought of Philip’s dream and the mermaid’s shell.

By the evening they had arrived at the southern point of Galolo, where they landed for the night: the next day they gained the place of their destination, and Amine was led up to the Portuguese factory.

That the curiosity of those who were stationed there was roused, is not to be wondered at — the history given by the natives of Amine’s escape appeared so miraculous. From the commandant to the lowest servant, every one was waiting to receive her. The beauty of Amine, her perfect form, astonished them. The commandant addressed a long compliment to her in Portuguese, and was astonished that she did not make a suitable reply — but as Amine did not understand a word that he said, it would have been more surprising if she had.

As Amine made signs that she could not understand the language, it was presumed that she was either English or Dutch, and an interpreter was sent for. She then explained that she was the wife of a Dutch captain, whose vessel had been wrecked, and that she did not know whether the crew had been saved or not. The Portuguese were very glad to hear that a Dutch vessel had been wrecked, and very glad that so lovely a creature as Amine had been saved. She was informed by the commandant that she was welcome, and that during her stay there everything should be done to make her comfortable; that in three months they expected a vessel from the Chinese seas, proceeding to Goa, and that, if inclined, she should have a passage to Goa in that vessel, and from that city she would easily find other vessels to take her wherever she might please to go; she was then conducted to an apartment, and left with a little negress to attend upon her.

The Portuguese commandant was a small, meagre, little man dried up to a chip, from long sojourning under a tropical sun. He had very large whiskers, and a very long sword: these were the two most remarkable features in his person and dress.

His attentions could not be misinterpreted; and Amine would have laughed at him, had she not been fearful that she might be detained. In a few weeks, by due attention, she gained the Portuguese language so far as to ask for what she required; and before she quitted the island of Tidore she could converse fluently. But her anxiety to leave, and to ascertain what had become of Philip, became greater every day; and at the expiration of the three months her eyes were continually bent to seaward, to catch the first glimpse of the vessel which was expected. At last it appeared; and as Amine watched the approach of the canvas from the west, the commandant fell on his knees, and declaring his passion, requested her not to think I of departure, but to unite her fate with his.

Amine was cautious in her reply, for she knew that she was in his power. “She must first receive intelligence of her husband’s death, which was not yet certain; she would proceed to Goa, and if she discovered that she was single, she would write to him.”

This answer, as it will be discovered, was the cause of great suffering to Philip. The commandant, fully assured that he could compass Philip’s death, was satisfied — declared that, as soon as he had any positive intelligence, he would bring it to Goa himself, and made a thousand protestations of truth and fidelity.

“Fool!” thought Amine, as she watched the ship, which was now close to the anchorage.

In half an hour the vessel had anchored, and the people had landed. Amine observed a priest with them as they walked up to the fort. She shuddered — she knew not why. When they arrived, she found herself in the presence of Father Mathias.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Both Amine and Father Mathias started, and drew back with surprise, at this unexpected meeting. Amine was the first to extend her hand; she had almost forgotten at the moment how they had parted, in the pleasure she experienced in meeting with a well-known face.

Father Mathias coldly took her hand, and laying his own upon her head, said; “May God bless thee, and forgive thee, my daughter, as I have long done.” Then the recollection of what had passed rushed into Amine’s mind, and she coloured deeply.

Had Father Mathias forgiven her? The event would show; but this is certain, he now treated her as an old friend, listened with interest to her history of the wreck, and agreed with her upon the propriety of her accompanying him to Goa.

In a few days the vessel sailed, and Amine quitted the factory and its enamoured commandant. They ran through the Archipelago in safety, and were crossing the mouth of the Bay of Bengal, without having had any interruption to fine weather.

Father Mathias had returned to Lisbon when he quitted Ternicore, and, tired of idleness, had again volunteered to proceed as a missionary to India. He had arrived at Formosa, and, shortly after his arrival, had received directions from his superior to return, on important business, to Goa; and thus it was that he fell in with Amine at Tidore.

It would be difficult to analyse the feelings of Father Mathias towards Amine — they varied so often. At one moment he would call to mind the kindness shown to him by her and Philip, the regard he had for the husband, and the many good qualities which he acknowledged that she possessed; and now he would recollect the disgrace, the unmerited disgrace, he had suffered through her means and he would then canvass whether she really did believe him an intruder in her chamber for other motives than those which actuated him or whether she had taken advantage of his indiscretion. These accounts were nearly balanced in his mind: he could have forgiven all if he had thought that Amine was a sincere convert to the Church; but his strong conviction that she was not only an unbeliever, but that she practised forbidden arts, turned the scale against her. He watched her narrowly and when in her conversation she showed any religious feeling, his heart warmed towards her: but when, on the contrary, any words escaped her lips which seemed to show that she thought lightly of his creed, then the full tide of indignation and vengeance poured into his bosom.

It was in crossing the Bay of Bengal, to pass round the southern cape of Ceylon, that they first met with bad weather; and when the storm increased, the superstitious seamen lighted candles before the small image of the saint which was shrined on deck. Amine observed it, and smiled with scorn; and as she did so, almost unwittingly, she perceived that the eye of Father Mathias was earnestly fixed upon her.

“The Papooses I have just left do no worse than worship their idols, and are termed idolaters,” muttered Amine. “What, then, are these Christians?”

“Would you not be better below?” said Father Mathias, coming over to Amine. “This is no time for women to be on deck; they would be better employed in offering up prayers for safety.”

“Nay, father, I can pray better here. I like this conflict of the elements; and as I view, I bow down in admiration of the Deity who rules the storm — who sends the winds forth in their wrath, or soothes them into peace.”

“It is well said, my child,” replied Father Mathias; “but the Almighty is not only to be worshipped in his works, but in the closet, with meditation, self-examination and faith. Hast thou followed up the precepts which thou hast been taught? — hast thou reverenced the sublime mysteries which have been unfolded to thee?”

“I have done my best, father,” replied Amine, turning away her head, and watching the rolling wave.

“Hast thou called upon the Holy Virgin, and upon the saints — those intercessors for mortals erring like thyself?”

Amine made no answer; she did not wish to irritate the priest, neither would she tell an untruth.

“Answer me, child,” continued the priest with severity.

“Father,” replied Amine, “I have appealed to God alone — the God of the Christians — the God of the whole universe!”

“Who believes not everything, believes nothing, young woman. I thought as much! I saw thee smile with scorn just now. Why didst thou smile?”

“At my own thoughts, good father.”

“Say rather at the true faith shown by others.”

Amine made no answer.

“Thou art still an unbeliever and a heretic. Beware, young woman! — beware!”

“Beware of what, good father? Why should I beware? Are there not millions in these climes more unbelieving and more heretic, perhaps, than I? How many have you converted to your faith? What trouble, what toil, what dangers have you not undergone to propagate that creed; and why do you succeed so ill? Shall I tell you, father? It is because the people have already had a creed of their own — a creed taught to them from their infancy, and acknowledged by all who live about them. Am I not in the same position? I was brought up in another creed; and can you expect that that can be dismissed, and the prejudices of early years at once eradicated? I have thought much of what you have told me — have felt that much is true — that the tenets of your creed are godlike: is not that much? and yet you are not content. You would have blind acknowledgment, blind obedience: I were then an unworthy convert. We shall soon be in port: then teach me, and convince me, if you will. I am ready to examine and confess, but on conviction only. Have patience, good father, and the time may come when I may feel what now I do not — that yon bit of painted wood is a thing to bow down to and adore.”

Notwithstanding this taunt at the close of this speech, there was so much truth in the observations of Amine, that Father Mathias felt their power. As the wife of a Catholic he had been accustomed to view Amine as one who had backslided from the Church of Rome — not as one who had been brought up in another creed. He now recalled to mind that she had never yet been received into the Church, for Father Seysen had not considered her as in a proper state to be admitted, and had deferred her baptism until he was satisfied of her full belief.

“You speak boldly; but you speak as you feel, my child,” replied Father Mathias, after a pause. “We will, when we arrive at Goa, talk over these things, and, with the blessing of God, the new faith shall be made manifest to you.”

“So be it,” replied Amine.

Little did the priest imagine that Amine’s thoughts were at that moment upon a dream she had had at New Guinea, in which her mother appeared, and revealed to her her magic arts, and that Amine was longing to arrive at Goa that she might practise them.

Every hour the gale increased, and the vessel laboured and leaked. The Portuguese sailors were frightened, and invoked their saints. Father Mathias and the other passengers gave themselves up for lost, for the pumps could not keep the vessel free; and their cheeks blanched as the waves washed furiously over the vessel: they prayed and trembled. Father Mathias gave them absolution. Some cried like children, some tore their hair, some cursed, and cursed the saints they had but the day before invoked. But Amine stood unmoved; and as she heard them curse, she smiled in scorn.

“My child,” said Father Mathias, checking his tremulous voice, that he might not appear agitated before one whom he saw so calm and unmoved amidst the roaring of the elements — “my child, let not this hour of peril pass away. Before thou art summoned, let me receive thee into the bosom of our Church — give thee pardon for thy sins, and certainty of bliss hereafter.”

“Good father, Amine is not to be frightened into belief, even if she feared the storm,” replied she; “nor will she credit your power to forgive her sins merely because she says in fear that which in her calm reason she might reject. If ever fear could have subjected me, it was when I was alone upon the raft — that was, indeed a trial of my strength of mind, the bare recollection of which is, at this moment, more dreadful than the storm now raging, and the death which may await us. There is a God on high in whose mercy I trust — in whose love I confide — to whose will I bow. Let him do his will.”

“Die not, my child, in unbelief.”

“Father,” replied Amine, pointing to the passengers and seamen, who were on the deck crying and wailing, “these are Christians — these men have been promised by you, but now, the inheritance of perfect bliss. What is their faith, that it does not give them strength to die like men? Why is it that a woman quails not, while they lie grovelling on the deck?”

“Life is sweet, my child — they leave their wives, their children, and they dread hereafter. Who is prepared to die?”

“I am,” replied Amine. “I have no husband — at least, I fear I have no husband. For me life has no sweets; yet, one little hope remains — a straw to the sinking wretch. I fear not death, for I have nought to live for. Were Philip here, why, then indeed — but he is gone before me, and now, to follow him is all I ask.”

“He died in the faith, my child — if you would meet him, do the same.”

“He never died like these,” replied Amine, looking with scorn at the passengers.

“Perhaps he lived not as they have lived,” replied Father Mathias. “A good man dies in peace, and hath no fear.”

“So die the good men of all creeds, father,” replied Amine; “and in all creeds death is equally terrible to the wicked.”

“I will pray for thee, my child,” said Father Mathias, sinking on his knees.

“Many thanks — thy prayers will be heard, even though offered for one like me,” replied Amine, who, clinging to the man-ropes, made her way up to the ladder, and gained the deck.

“Lost! signora, lost!” exclaimed the captain, wringing his hands as he crouched under the bulwark.

“No!” replied Amine, who had gained the weather side, and held on by a rope; “not lost this time.”

“How say you, signora?” replied the captain, looking with admiration at Amine’s calm and composed countenance. “How say you, signora?”

“Something tells me, good captain, that you will not be lost if you exert yourselves — something tells it to me here,” and Amine laid her hand to her heart. Amine had a conviction that the vessel would not be lost, for it had not escaped her observation that the storm was less violent, although, in their terror, this had been unnoticed by the sailors.