CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH", 8 AUGUST
(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just
been experienced here, with results both strange and
unique. The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to
any degree uncommon in the month of August. Saturday
evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great body
of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave
Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and
the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The
steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the
coast, and there was an unusual amount of `tripping' both
to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the
afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East
Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence watch
the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called
attention to a sudden show of `mares tails' high in the sky
to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the
south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked `No. 2, light breeze.'
The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old
fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept watch
on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an
emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach
of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of
splendidly coloured clouds, that there was quite an
assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped
below the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart
the western sky, its downward way was marked by myriad
clouds of every sunset colour, flame, purple, pink, green,
violet, and all the tints of gold, with here and there
masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in
all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal
silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters,
and doubtless some of the sketches of the `Prelude to the
Great Storm' will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May
next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and there that
his `cobble' or his `mule', as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the
storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the
evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry
heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on the approach
of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the
coasting steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely,
kept well to seaward, and but few fishing boats were in
sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner
with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards.
The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a
prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight,
and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the
face of her danger. Before the night shut down she was
seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the
undulating swell of the sea.
"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew
quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the
bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the
town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with
its lively French air, was like a dischord in the great
harmony of nature's silence. A little after midnight came
a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the
air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity
which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards
is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at
once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury,
each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring
monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands
and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the
piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the
lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of
Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that
it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their
feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It
was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass
of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would
have increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and
dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting
inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly
fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but
little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of
those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with
the clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the
wreaths of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance
could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which came
thick and fast, followed by such peals of thunder that the
whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the
footsteps of the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable
grandeur and of absorbing interest. The sea, running
mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty masses
of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and
whirl away into space. Here and there a fishing boat, with
a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast,
now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed seabird. On
the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready
for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers
in charge of it got it into working order, and in the
pauses of onrushing mist swept with it the surface of the
sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when
a fishing boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the
harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to
avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each
boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of
joy from the mass of people on the shore, a shout which for
a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away
in its rush.
Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a
schooner with all sails set, apparently the same vessel
which had been noticed earlier in the evening. The wind
had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized
the terrible danger in which she now was.
Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so
many good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with
the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be
quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the
harbour.
It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were
so great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore
were almost visible, and the schooner, with all sails set,
was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old
salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in
hell". Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any
hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all
things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the
organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the
crash of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows
came through the damp oblivion even louder than before.
The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour
mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected,
and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the remnant
of the sea fog melted in the blast. And then, mirabile
dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it
rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before
the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the
harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran
through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a
corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro
at each motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on
the deck at all.
A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as
if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by
the hand of a dead man! However, all took place more
quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner
paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself
on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides
and many storms into the southeast corner of the pier
jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill
Pier.
There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel
drove up on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was
strained, and some of the `top-hammer' came crashing down.
But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was
touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if
shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from
the bow on the sand.
Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard
hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that
some of the flat tombstones, thruffsteans or
through-stones, as they call them in Whitby vernacular,
actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen
away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate
Hill Pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity
were either in bed or were out on the heights above. Thus
the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour,
who at once ran down to the little pier, was the first to
climb aboard. The men working the searchlight, after
scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing
anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it
there. The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the
wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as
though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique
general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to
run.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the
Draw-bridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a
fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When
I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a
crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I
was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and
was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst
actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even
awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen. The
man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the
other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and
the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was
fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept
fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been
seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the
sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and had
dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was
tied had cut the flesh to the bone.
Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a
doctor, Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place, who
came immediately after me, declared, after making
examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two
days.
In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for
a little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to
the log.
The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own
hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a
coastguard was the first on board may save some
complications later on, in the Admiralty Court, for
coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of
the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already,
however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law
student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner
are already completely sacrificed, his property being held
in contravention of the statues of mortmain, since the
tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated
possession, is held in a dead hand.
It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been
reverently removed from the place where he held his
honourable watch and ward till death, a steadfastness as
noble as that of the young Casabianca, and placed in the
mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating. Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is
beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds.
I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details
of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously
into harbour in the storm.
9 August.--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict
in the storm last night is almost more startling than the
thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is Russian
from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost
entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small
amount of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled with
mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.F.
Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went
aboard and took formal possession of the goods consigned to
him.
The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took
formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues,
etc.
Nothing is talked about here today except the strange
coincidence. The officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made
with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a `nine
days wonder', they are evidently determined that there
shall be no cause of other complaint.
A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which
landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the
members of the S.P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby,
have tried to befriend the animal. To the general
disappointment, however, it was not to be found. It seems
to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that
it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where
it is still hiding in terror.
There are some who look with dread on such a possibility,
lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large
dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close
to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite
its master's yard. It had been fighting, and manifestly
had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.
Later.--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I
have been permitted to look over the log book of the
Demeter, which was in order up to within three days, but
contained nothing of special interest except as to facts of
missing men. The greatest interest, however, is with
regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was today
produced at the inquest. And a more strange narrative than
the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come
across.
As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use
them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply
omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It
almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water,
and that this had developed persistently throughout the
voyage. Of course my statement must be taken cum grano,
since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the
Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being
short.
LOG OF THE "DEMETER" Varna to Whitby
Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall
keep accurate note henceforth till we land.
On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and 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'.
MINA MURRAY'S 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 from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat,
whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came
down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all
the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so that we
stood on it, when the time came and saw everything.
Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time,
and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her.
She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to me that there is
any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it
herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead
this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as
the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for
there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made
them shudder. Poor dear old man!
Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely
than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing
which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals.
One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was
followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet
persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During
the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat
with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master
spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would
neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a fury, with its
eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a cat's tail when puss
is on the war path.
Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and
then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw
it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched
the stone the poor thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away,
but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable
state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort it.
Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog,
but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she
is of too super sensitive a nature to go through the world without
trouble. She will be dreaming of this tonight, I am sure. The whole
agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a dead man, his
attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads, the touching
funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will all afford
material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I
shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and
back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.
