(ANONYMOUS)
Our ship, after touching at the Cape, went out again, and, soon losing
sight of the Table Mountain, began to be assailed by the impetuous
attacks of the sea, which is well known to be more formidable there
than in most parts of the known ocean. The day had grown dull and
hazy, and the breeze, which had formerly blown fresh, now sometimes
subsided almost entirely, and then, recovering its strength for
a short time, and changing its direction, blew with temporary
violence, and died away again, as if exercising a melancholy caprice.
A heavy swell began to come from the southeast. Our sails flapped
against the masts, and the ship rolled from side to side as heavily
as if she had been water-logged. There was so little wind that she
would not steer.
At 2 P.M. we had a squall, accompanied by thunder and rain. The
seamen, growing restless, looked anxiously ahead. They said we would
have a dirty night of it, and that it would not be worth while to
turn into their hammocks. As the second mate was describing a gale
he had encountered off Cape Race, Newfoundland, we were suddenly
taken all aback, and the blast came upon us furiously. We continued
to scud under a double-reefed mainsail and foretopsail till dusk;
but, as the sea ran high, the captain thought it safest to bring
her to. The watch on deck consisted of four men, one of whom was
appointed to keep a lookout ahead, for the weather was so hazy
that we could not see two cables' length from the bows. This man,
whose name was Tom Willis, went frequently to the bows as if to
observe something; and when the others called to him, inquiring
what he was looking at, he would give no definite answer. They
therefore went also to the bows, and appeared startled, and at
first said nothing. But presently one of them cried, "William, go
call the watch."
The seamen, having been asleep in their hammocks, murmured at this
unseasonable summons, and called to know how it looked upon deck.
To which Tom Willis replied, "Come up and see. What we are minding
is not on deck, but ahead."
On hearing this they ran up without putting on their jackets, and
when they came to the bows there was a whispering.
One of them asked, "Where is she? I do not see her." To which another
replied, "The last flash of lightning showed there was not a reef
in one of her sails; but we, who know her history, know that all
her canvas will never carry her into port."
By this time the talking of the seamen had brought some of the
passengers on deck. They could see nothing, however, for the ship
was surrounded by thick darkness and by the noise of the dashing
waters, and the seamen evaded the questions that were put to them.
At this juncture the chaplain came on deck. He was a man of grave
and modest demeanor, and was much liked among the seamen, who called
him Gentle George. He overheard one of the men asking another if
he had ever seen the Flying Dutchman before, and if he knew the
story about her. To which the other replied, "I have heard of her
beating about in these seas. What is the reason she never reaches
port?"
The first speaker replied, "They give different reasons for it,
but my story is this: She was an Amsterdam vessel, and sailed from
that port seventy years ago. Her master's name was Vanderdecken.
He was a staunch seaman, and would have his own way in spite of
the devil. For all that, never a sailor under him had reason to
complain, though how it is on board with them now nobody knows.
The story is this, that, in doubling the Cape, they were a long
day trying to weather the Table Bay, which we saw this morning.
However, the wind headed them, and went against then more and more,
and Vanderdecken walked the deck, swearing at the wind. Just after
sunset a vessel spoke him, asking if he did not mean to go into the
bay that night. Vanderdecken replied, 'May I be eternally d--d if
I do, though I should beat about here till the day of judgment!'
And, to be sure, Vanderdecken never did go into that bay; for it
is believed that he continues to beat about in these seas still,
and will do so long enough. This vessel is never seen but with
foul weather along with her."
To which another replied, "We must keep clear of her. They say that
her captain mans his jolly-boat when a vessel comes in sight, and
tries hard to get alongside, to put letters on board, but no good
comes to them who have communication with him."
Tom Willis said, "There is such a sea between us at present as
should keep us safe from such visits."
To which the other answered, "We cannot trust to that, if Vanderdecken
sends out his men."
Some of this conversation having been overheard by the passengers,
there was a commotion among them. In the meantime the noise of the
waves against the vessel could scarcely be distinguished from the
sounds of the distant thunder. The wind had extinguished the light
in the binnacle, where the compass was, and no one could tell
which way the ship's head lay. The passengers were afraid to ask
questions, lest they should augment the secret sensation of fear
which chilled every heart, or learn any more than they already knew.
For while they attributed their agitation of mind to the state of
the weather, it was sufficiently perceptible that their alarms also
arose from a cause which they did not acknowledge.
The lamp at the binnacle being relighted, they perceived that the
ship lay closer to the wind than she had hitherto done, and the
spirits of the passengers were somewhat revived.
Nevertheless, neither the tempestuous state of the atmosphere nor
the thunder had ceased, and soon a vivid flash of lightning showed
the waves tumbling around us, and, in the distance, the Flying
Dutchman scudding furiously before the wind under a press of canvas.
The sight was but momentary, but it was sufficient to remove all
doubt from the minds of the passengers. One of the men cried aloud,
"There she goes, topgallants and all."
The chaplain had brought up his prayer-book, in order that he might
draw from thence something to fortify and tranquillise the minds
of the rest. Therefore, taking his seat near the binnacle, so that
the light shone upon the white leaves of the book, he, in a solemn
tone, read out the service for those distressed at sea. The sailors
stood round with folded arms, and looked as if they thought it
would be of little use. But this served to occupy the attention of
those on deck for a while.
In the meantime the flashes of lightning, becoming less vivid,
showed nothing else, far or near, but the billows weltering round
the vessel. The sailors seemed to think that they had not yet seen
the worst, but confined their remarks and prognostications to
their own circle.
At this time the captain, who had hitherto remained in his berth,
came on deck, and, with a gay and unconcerned air, inquired what
was the cause of the general dread. He said he thought they had
already seen the worst of the weather, and wondered that his men
had raised such a hubbub about a capful of wind. Mention being
made of the Flying Dutchman, the captain laughed. He said he "would
like very much to see any vessel carrying topgallantsails in such
a night, for it would be a sight worth looking at." The chaplain,
taking him by one of the buttons of his coat, drew him aside, and
appeared to enter into serious conversation with him.
While they were talking together, the captain was heard to say,
"Let us look to our own ship, and not mind such things;" and,
accordingly, he sent a man aloft to see if all was right about the
foretopsail-yard, which was chafing the mast with a loud noise.
It was Tom Willis who went up; and when he came down he said that
all was tight, and that he hoped it would soon get clearer; and
that they would see no more of what they were most afraid of.
The captain and first mate were heard laughing loudly together,
while the chaplain observed that it would be better to repress such
unseasonable gaiety. The second mate, a native of Scotland, each
other without offering to do anything. The boat had come very near
the chains, when Tom Willis called out, "What do you want? or what
devil has blown you here in such weather?" A piercing voice from
the boat replied, in English, "We want to speak with your captain."
The captain took no notice of this, and, Vanderdecken's boat having
come close alongside, one of the men came upon deck, and appeared
like a fatigued and weather-beaten seaman holding some letters in
his hand.
Our sailors all drew back. The chaplain, however, looking steadfastly
upon him, went forward a few steps, and asked, "What is the purpose
of this visit?"
The stranger replied, "We have long been kept here by foul weather,
and Vanderdecken wishes to send these letters to his friends in
Europe."
Our captain now came forward, and said, as firmly as he could, "I
wish Vanderdecken would put his letters on board of any other vessel
rather than mine."
The stranger replied, "We have tried many a ship, but most of them
refuse our letters."
Upon which Tom Willis muttered, "It will be best for us if we do
the same, for they say there is sometimes a sinking weight in your
paper."
The stranger took no notice of this, but asked where we were from.
On being told that we were from Portsmouth, he said, as if with
strong feeling, "Would that you had rather been from Amsterdam!
Oh, that we saw it again! We must see our friends again." When he
uttered these words, the men who were in the boat below wrung their
hands, and cried, in a piercing tone, in Dutch, "Oh, that we saw
it again! We have been long here beating about; but we must see
our friends again."