[Being an extract from the singular journal of JOHN
M’ALISTER RAY, student of medicine.]
September 11th.--Lat. 81 degrees 40’ N.; long. 2 degrees E. Still
lying-to amid enormous ice fields. The one which stretches away to the
north of us, and to which our ice-anchor is attached, cannot be smaller
than an English county. To the right and left unbroken sheets extend
to the horizon. This morning the mate reported that there were signs of
pack ice to the southward. Should this form of sufficient thickness
to bar our return, we shall be in a position of danger, as the food, I
hear, is already running somewhat short. It is late in the season, and
the nights are beginning to reappear.
This morning I saw a star twinkling just over the fore-yard, the first
since the beginning of May. There is considerable discontent among the
crew, many of whom are anxious to get back home to be in time for the
herring season, when labour always commands a high price upon the Scotch
coast. As yet their displeasure is only signified by sullen countenances
and black looks, but I heard from the second mate this afternoon that
they contemplated sending a deputation to the Captain to explain their
grievance. I much doubt how he will receive it, as he is a man of fierce
temper, and very sensitive about anything approaching to an infringement
of his rights. I shall venture after dinner to say a few words to him
upon the subject. I have always found that he will tolerate from me what
he would resent from any other member of the crew. Amsterdam Island,
at the north-west corner of Spitzbergen, is visible upon our starboard
quarter--a rugged line of volcanic rocks, intersected by white seams,
which represent glaciers. It is curious to think that at the present
moment there is probably no human being nearer to us than the Danish
settlements in the south of Greenland--a good nine hundred miles as the
crow flies. A captain takes a great responsibility upon himself when he
risks his vessel under such circumstances. No whaler has ever remained
in these latitudes till so advanced a period of the year.
9 P.M,--I have spoken to Captain Craigie, and though the result has been
hardly satisfactory, I am bound to say that he listened to what I had to
say very quietly and even deferentially. When I had finished he put on
that air of iron determination which I have frequently observed upon his
face, and paced rapidly backwards and forwards across the narrow cabin
for some minutes. At first I feared that I had seriously offended him,
but he dispelled the idea by sitting down again, and putting his hand
upon my arm with a gesture which almost amounted to a caress. There
was a depth of tenderness too in his wild dark eyes which surprised
me considerably. “Look here, Doctor,” he said, “I’m sorry I ever took
you--I am indeed--and I would give fifty pounds this minute to see you
standing safe upon the Dundee quay. It’s hit or miss with me this time.
There are fish to the north of us. How dare you shake your head, sir,
when I tell you I saw them blowing from the masthead?”--this in a sudden
burst of fury, though I was not conscious of having shown any signs of
doubt. “Two-and-twenty fish in as many minutes as I am a living man,
and not one under ten foot.[1] Now, Doctor, do you think I can leave the
country when there is only one infernal strip of ice between me and my
fortune? If it came on to blow from the north to-morrow we could fill
the ship and be away before the frost could catch us. If it came on to
blow from the south--well, I suppose the men are paid for risking their
lives, and as for myself it matters but little to me, for I have more to
bind me to the other world than to this one. I confess that I am sorry
for you, though. I wish I had old Angus Tait who was with me last
voyage, for he was a man that would never be missed, and you--you said
once that you were engaged, did you not?”
[Footnote 1: A whale is measured among whalers not by the length of its
body, but by the length of its whalebone.]
“Yes,” I answered, snapping the spring of the locket which hung from my
watch-chain, and holding up the little vignette of Flora.
“Curse you!” he yelled, springing out of his seat, with his very beard
bristling with passion. “What is your happiness to me? What have I to do
with her that you must dangle her photograph before my eyes?” I almost
thought that he was about to strike me in the frenzy of his rage, but
with another imprecation he dashed open the door of the cabin and rushed
out upon deck, leaving me considerably astonished at his extraordinary
violence. It is the first time that he has ever shown me anything but
courtesy and kindness. I can hear him pacing excitedly up and down
overhead as I write these lines.
I should like to give a sketch of the character of this man, but it
seems presumptuous to attempt such a thing upon paper, when the idea in
my own mind is at best a vague and uncertain one. Several times I have
thought that I grasped the clue which might explain it, but only to be
disappointed by his presenting himself in some new light which would
upset all my conclusions. It may be that no human eye but my own shall
ever rest upon these lines, yet as a psychological study I shall attempt
to leave some record of Captain Nicholas Craigie.
A man’s outer case generally gives some indication of the soul within.
The Captain is tall and well-formed, with dark, handsome face, and a
curious way of twitching his limbs, which may arise from nervousness, or
be simply an outcome of his excessive energy. His jaw and whole cast
of countenance is manly and resolute, but the eyes are the distinctive
feature of his face. They are of the very darkest hazel, bright and
eager, with a singular mixture of recklessness in their expression, and
of something else which I have sometimes thought was more allied with
horror than any other emotion. Generally the former predominated, but on
occasions, and more particularly when he was thoughtfully inclined, the
look of fear would spread and deepen until it imparted a new character
to his whole countenance. It is at these times that he is most subject
to tempestuous fits of anger, and he seems to be aware of it, for I have
known him lock himself up so that no one might approach him until his
dark hour was passed. He sleeps badly, and I have heard him shouting
during the night, but his cabin is some little distance from mine, and I
could never distinguish the words which he said.
This is one phase of his character, and the most disagreeable one. It
is only through my close association with him, thrown together as we
are day after day, that I have observed it. Otherwise he is an agreeable
companion, well-read and entertaining, and as gallant a seaman as ever
trod a deck. I shall not easily forget the way in which he handled the
ship when we were caught by a gale among the loose ice at the beginning
of April. I have never seen him so cheerful, and even hilarious, as he
was that night, as he paced backwards and forwards upon the bridge amid
the flashing of the lightning and the howling of the wind. He has told
me several times that the thought of death was a pleasant one to him,
which is a sad thing for a young man to say; he cannot be much more than
thirty, though his hair and moustache are already slightly grizzled.
Some great sorrow must have overtaken him and blighted his whole life.
Perhaps I should be the same if I lost my Flora--God knows! I think if
it were not for her that I should care very little whether the wind blew
from the north or the south to-morrow.
There, I hear him come down the companion, and he has locked himself up
in his room, which shows that he is still in an unamiable mood. And so
to bed, as old Pepys would say, for the candle is burning down (we have
to use them now since the nights are closing in), and the steward has
turned in, so there are no hopes of another one.
September 12th.--Calm, clear day, and still lying in the same position.
What wind there is comes from the south-east, but it is very slight.
Captain is in a better humour, and apologised to me at breakfast for his
rudeness. He still looks somewhat distrait, however, and retains that
wild look in his eyes which in a Highlander would mean that he was
“fey”--at least so our chief engineer remarked to me, and he has some
reputation among the Celtic portion of our crew as a seer and expounder
of omens.
It is strange that superstition should have obtained such mastery over
this hard-headed and practical race. I could not have believed to what
an extent it is carried had I not observed it for myself. We have had a
perfect epidemic of it this voyage, until I have felt inclined to serve
out rations of sedatives and nerve-tonics with the Saturday allowance
of grog. The first symptom of it was that shortly after leaving Shetland
the men at the wheel used to complain that they heard plaintive cries
and screams in the wake of the ship, as if something were following it
and were unable to overtake it. This fiction has been kept up during the
whole voyage, and on dark nights at the beginning of the seal-fishing
it was only with great difficulty that men could be induced to do
their spell. No doubt what they heard was either the creaking of the
rudder-chains, or the cry of some passing sea-bird. I have been fetched
out of bed several times to listen to it, but I need hardly say that I
was never able to distinguish anything unnatural.
The men, however, are so absurdly positive upon the subject that it is
hopeless to argue with them. I mentioned the matter to the Captain once,
but to my surprise he took it very gravely, and indeed appeared to be
considerably disturbed by what I told him. I should have thought that he
at least would have been above such vulgar delusions.
All this disquisition upon superstition leads me up to the fact that Mr.
Manson, our second mate, saw a ghost last night--or, at least, says that
he did, which of course is the same thing. It is quite refreshing to
have some new topic of conversation after the eternal routine of bears
and whales which has served us for so many months. Manson swears the
ship is haunted, and that he would not stay in her a day if he had any
other place to go to. Indeed the fellow is honestly frightened, and I
had to give him some chloral and bromide of potassium this morning to
steady him down. He seemed quite indignant when I suggested that he had
been having an extra glass the night before, and I was obliged to pacify
him by keeping as grave a countenance as possible during his
story, which he certainly narrated in a very straight-forward and
matter-of-fact way.
“I was on the bridge,” he said, “about four bells in the middle watch,
just when the night was at its darkest. There was a bit of a moon, but
the clouds were blowing across it so that you couldn’t see far from the
ship. John M‘Leod, the harpooner, came aft from the foc’sle-head and
reported a strange noise on the starboard bow.
“I went forrard and we both heard it, sometimes like a bairn crying and
sometimes like a wench in pain. I’ve been seventeen years to the country
and I never heard seal, old or young, make a sound like that. As we
were standing there on the foc’sle-head the moon came out from behind
a cloud, and we both saw a sort of white figure moving across the ice
field in the same direction that we had heard the cries. We lost sight
of it for a while, but it came back on the port bow, and we could just
make it out like a shadow on the ice. I sent a hand aft for the rifles,
and M‘Leod and I went down on to the pack, thinking that maybe it might
be a bear. When we got on the ice I lost sight of M‘Leod, but I pushed
on in the direction where I could still hear the cries. I followed them
for a mile or maybe more, and then running round a hummock I came right
on to the top of it standing and waiting for me seemingly. I don’t
know what it was. It wasn’t a bear any way. It was tall and white and
straight, and if it wasn’t a man nor a woman, I’ll stake my davy it
was something worse. I made for the ship as hard as I could run, and
precious glad I was to find myself aboard. I signed articles to do my
duty by the ship, and on the ship I’ll stay, but you don’t catch me on
the ice again after sundown.”
That is his story, given as far as I can in his own words. I fancy what
he saw must, in spite of his denial, have been a young bear erect upon
its hind legs, an attitude which they often assume when alarmed. In
the uncertain light this would bear a resemblance to a human figure,
especially to a man whose nerves were already somewhat shaken. Whatever
it may have been, the occurrence is unfortunate, for it has produced a
most unpleasant effect upon the crew. Their looks are more sullen than
before, and their discontent more open. The double grievance of being
debarred from the herring fishing and of being detained in what they
choose to call a haunted vessel, may lead them to do something rash.
Even the harpooners, who are the oldest and steadiest among them, are
joining in the general agitation.
Apart from this absurd outbreak of superstition, things are looking
rather more cheerful. The pack which was forming to the south of us has
partly cleared away, and the water is so warm as to lead me to believe
that we are lying in one of those branches of the gulf-stream which run
up between Greenland and Spitzbergen. There are numerous small Medusae
and sealemons about the ship, with abundance of shrimps, so that there
is every possibility of “fish” being sighted. Indeed one was seen
blowing about dinner-time, but in such a position that it was impossible
for the boats to follow it.
September 13th.--Had an interesting conversation with the chief mate,
Mr. Milne, upon the bridge. It seems that our Captain is as great an
enigma to the seamen, and even to the owners of the vessel, as he has
been to me. Mr. Milne tells me that when the ship is paid off, upon
returning from a voyage, Captain Craigie disappears, and is not seen
again until the approach of another season, when he walks quietly
into the office of the company, and asks whether his services will be
required. He has no friend in Dundee, nor does any one pretend to be
acquainted with his early history. His position depends entirely upon
his skill as a seaman, and the name for courage and coolness which
he had earned in the capacity of mate, before being entrusted with a
separate command. The unanimous opinion seems to be that he is not a
Scotchman, and that his name is an assumed one. Mr. Milne thinks that he
has devoted himself to whaling simply for the reason that it is the most
dangerous occupation which he could select, and that he courts death in
every possible manner. He mentioned several instances of this, one of
which is rather curious, if true. It seems that on one occasion he
did not put in an appearance at the office, and a substitute had to
be selected in his place. That was at the time of the last Russian and
Turkish war. When he turned up again next spring he had a puckered wound
in the side of his neck which he used to endeavour to conceal with his
cravat. Whether the mate’s inference that he had been engaged in the war
is true or not I cannot say. It was certainly a strange coincidence.
The wind is veering round in an easterly direction, but is still very
slight. I think the ice is lying closer than it did yesterday. As far
as the eye can reach on every side there is one wide expanse of spotless
white, only broken by an occasional rift or the dark shadow of a
hummock. To the south there is the narrow lane of blue water which is
our sole means of escape, and which is closing up every day. The Captain
is taking a heavy responsibility upon himself. I hear that the tank of
potatoes has been finished, and even the biscuits are running short,
but he preserves the same impassible countenance, and spends the greater
part of the day at the crow’s nest, sweeping the horizon with his glass.
His manner is very variable, and he seems to avoid my society, but there
has been no repetition of the violence which he showed the other night.
7.30 P.M.--My deliberate opinion is that we are commanded by a madman.
Nothing else can account for the extraordinary vagaries of Captain
Craigie. It is fortunate that I have kept this journal of our voyage, as
it will serve to justify us in case we have to put him under any sort
of restraint, a step which I should only consent to as a last resource.
Curiously enough it was he himself who suggested lunacy and not mere
eccentricity as the secret of his strange conduct. He was standing upon
the bridge about an hour ago, peering as usual through his glass, while
I was walking up and down the quarterdeck. The majority of the men were
below at their tea, for the watches have not been regularly kept of
late. Tired of walking, I leaned against the bulwarks, and admired the
mellow glow cast by the sinking sun upon the great ice fields which
surround us. I was suddenly aroused from the reverie into which I had
fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow, and starting round I found that
the Captain had descended and was standing by my side. He was staring
out over the ice with an expression in which horror, surprise, and
something approaching to joy were contending for the mastery. In
spite of the cold, great drops of perspiration were coursing down his
forehead, and he was evidently fearfully excited.
His limbs twitched like those of a man upon the verge of an epileptic
fit, and the lines about his mouth were drawn and hard.
“Look!” he gasped, seizing me by the wrist, but still keeping his
eyes upon the distant ice, and moving his head slowly in a horizontal
direction, as if following some object which was moving across the field
of vision. “Look! There, man, there! Between the hummocks! Now coming
out from behind the far one! You see her--you MUST see her! There still!
Flying from me, by God, flying from me--and gone!”
He uttered the last two words in a whisper of concentrated agony which
shall never fade from my remembrance. Clinging to the ratlines he
endeavoured to climb up upon the top of the bulwarks as if in the hope
of obtaining a last glance at the departing object. His strength was not
equal to the attempt, however, and he staggered back against the saloon
skylights, where he leaned panting and exhausted. His face was so livid
that I expected him to become unconscious, so lost no time in leading
him down the companion, and stretching him upon one of the sofas in the
cabin. I then poured him out some brandy, which I held to his lips, and
which had a wonderful effect upon him, bringing the blood back into his
white face and steadying his poor shaking limbs. He raised himself up
upon his elbow, and looking round to see that we were alone, he beckoned
to me to come and sit beside him.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” he asked, still in the same subdued awesome
tone so foreign to the nature of the man.
“No, I saw nothing.”
His head sank back again upon the cushions. “No, he wouldn’t without the
glass,” he murmured. “He couldn’t. It was the glass that showed her to
me, and then the eyes of love--the eyes of love.
“I say, Doc, don’t let the steward in! He’ll think I’m mad. Just bolt the
door, will you!”