The end is approaching, and I, Rudolf Hammerpestle, of Bingen, third
owner and captain of the ill-starred _Gretchen B._, formerly known as
the _Dutch Avenger_, will shortly find a watery grave in sixty-eight
fathoms of the Atlantic, ninety miles west of the rock of Gibraltar.
The _Gretchen B._ is sinking, and the pirate ghost is at last a victor,
though I have given him a pretty fight these many days. Had it not been
for my own stupidity in employing a foreign crew, all might yet be well,
and I am impelled in my last moments, for we are sure to go to the
bottom within two hours, to write out this story merely in the hope that
it may some day reach my fellow-men, tell them of my horrible fate, and
possibly warn them against my errors. If I had stuck to my own
countrymen, if I had employed Hans Stickenfurst and good old Diedrich
Foutzenhickle and their like for my officers and crew, instead of the
idiot Pat Sullivan and his twin, Barney O'Brien, and others of that ilk,
I should now be nearing port that I shall never reach, instead of
sinking, slowly sinking, into the mysterious depths of the great ocean.
I have locked myself within my cabin so as to be free from interruption,
and it is highly probable that, having tightly closed my port and
calked up the door-cracks and key-hole, I shall be able to gain an extra
hour for the writing of this tale even after the _Gretchen B._ has
disappeared beneath the waves, to be hid forevermore from the eyes of
man. When the tale is finished I shall place it within my trusty
water-bottle, open the port, thrust it forth into the sea, and trust to
Heaven that it may rise to the surface and ultimately make some port
where it may be read and published, I devoutly hope, by some house of
standing.
And now, as every story should begin at the beginning, let me go back to
the time when I first took charge of the _Gretchen B._ It was five years
agone, on the 7th day of May, 1635, that the _Gretchen B._ was purchased
by her present owners, and I, Rudolf Hammerpestle, of Bingen, appointed
her commander. It was with a light heart, a full crew, and sixty barrels
of Schnitzelhammerstein claret that I set out from Bingen on the 27th
day of May, 1635, for London, where the claret was to be sold to the
public as medicinal port--its nutty flavor, its bouquet, and other
properties favoring the illusion. All went well with us until we
reached the sea, when one night, after our second day on the ocean,
feeling faint from the effects of the sun, for I had had a hard day of
it, I tapped one of the barrels of my cargo for a taste of the claret.
Understand, I was not in any sense taking away from the full measure
which was due to the purchaser in London, for I intended to replace what
I had taken with water--so slight in quantity, too, as not to affect the
flavor appreciably. Imagine my consternation to find the liquid turned
sour and thin--so thin that under no circumstances could it ever pass
muster as medicinal port. I was horrified. Ours had always been an
honorable firm. What was to be done? My employers' reputation was at
stake. If that claret had ever been delivered at London as port they
were ruined. I determined to run the _Gretchen B._ to Naples, and there
dispose of my cargo as Chianti, to which, with the infusion of a little
whale-oil for appearance' sake, it could be made to bear a remarkable
resemblance.
This done, I retired to my cabin to reflect. What could it have been
that had wrought such a change, for on leaving Bingen the wine was
sweet and good? I locked my door so as to be undisturbed, for I cannot
think when there are others about; but hardly had I seated myself at my
table when, upon the honor of a sea-captain, a ruffianly person,
noiseless as a cat, _walked through the massive oaken barrier I had but
just fastened to_!
"Who--what are you?" I cried, aghast, the spectral quality of the
apparition being at once manifest.
"Oh!" he retorted. "It seems to me it's more to the point for _me_ to
ask that question. You are the interloper."
"It is my cabin," I said, indignantly.
"Oh, is it?" he sneered. "Since when?"
"Since the seventh day of May," I replied. "I am the commander of this
craft."
"Pooh!" said he, harshly. "Do you know who I am?"
"I've asked you once," said I, trying hard to appear calm and sarcastic.
"Well, I almost hate to tell you," he said, throwing off his coat,
whereon I was filled with consternation to observe that his belt held
four wicked-looking blunderbusses and six cutlasses of razor edge.
"You're not a bad fellow, and your hair will turn white when I tell you;
but since you ask, so be it. Your hair be upon your own head. _I am the
ghost of Wouter von Rotterdaam!_"
"You?" I cried, clutching wildly at my locks, not to keep them from
turning white, of course, but to steady my nerves, for in the name I
recognized that of one of the most successful pirates, and the bloodiest
in his way.
"Ay, I!" he replied, impressively.
"But--who--what do you here on board the _Gretchen B._?" I cried.
"_Gretchen_ nothing," he said. "This is the _Dutch Avenger_, upon which,
after her capture, six months ago, I was hanged, and which, my dear
Hammerpestle, I shall haunt till she fills her destiny, which is
_there_!"
The word "there" was pronounced in sepulchral tones, and with Von
Rotterdaam's forefinger pointed downward. I shivered from top to toe,
but quickly recovered.
"If _I_ cannot have the _Dutch Avenger_, at least none other shall have
her," he added.
"You are mistaken, Mr. von Rotterdaam," I said, politely. "You have
taken the wrong boat, sir. This is not the _Dutch Avenger_, but the
_Gretchen B._, of Bingen."
"She has not always been the _Gretchen B._, of Bingen," he replied.
"I know that, my dear sir," I observed, "but her previous name was the
_Anneke van der Q_."
"_Anneke van der_ bosh!" he ejaculated, with a laugh. "That is what they
told you, and you swallowed the bait. They knew precious well your
people wouldn't buy her if they had ever guessed she'd once been the
terror of the seas as the _Dutch Avenger_ of everywhere, the ubiquitous
ranger of the deep, Captain Wouter von Rotterdaam, better known as the
Throat-Cutter of the Caribbees."
"Is that the truth?" I replied.
"As a pirate, I scorn lies," he answered. "We don't need 'em in our
business. Get your carpenter to plane off the name on her stern and
see!" and even as he spoke he disappeared, fading away through the
closed door.
I was nearly prostrated by the revelation, but, hoping for disproof, I
rushed up on deck, summoned the carpenter, and ordered the name
_Gretchen B._ planed off the stern. Alas! there beneath the innocent
letters lay the horrid proof of the truth of the spectre's story, the
words _Dutch Avenger_, flanked on either side by skull and cross-bones.
Again I sought my room, to recover, and to my added distress Von
Rotterdaam had returned, an ugly look on his face.
"You've changed your course!" he said, savagely.
"I know it," said I. "My cargo is spoiled for the original market. I am
taking it where it is salable."
He was very wroth.
"I was not aware that you were so clever a man," said he, after a
moment, calming down. "I perceive that my attempt to ruin you
interlopers at the outset is to be attended with some difficulty. You
have individual resources upon which I had not counted."
"Ah!" said I. "It was you who turned the claret sour?"
"It was," he replied--"as a part of my revenge. And, mark you, Captain
Hammerpestle, no cargo shall ever reach its destination unspoiled while
I have a bit of the old spook left in me. Where are we bound now?"
"To Naples," said I, incautiously, and I further foolishly unfolded my
plan to dispose of the cargo as Chianti.
"See here, captain," he said, pleadingly, "give up this honest seafaring
business and come out as a pirate, won't you? You're too clever a chap
to be honest. Keep the _Dutch Avenger_ going as a terror, and, by Jingo,
sir, I'll stand by you to the last."
My answer was the lighting of a sulphur candle in the hope of exorcising
him, and, going on deck, I ordered the name _Gretchen B._ restored,
merely to emphasize my determination to have no part in his foul schemes
of piracy.
I must now pause in my narrative for a moment, and see how far we have
settled in the water. It may be I shall have to write somewhat less in
detail so as to finish the tale before I am destroyed by the inrush of
the sea.
* * * * *
It is as I feared. The rippling surface of the ocean is already lapping
the lower edge of my circular port window, and one or two drops have
leaked within. It will not be long, I fear, before the water from below
will burst the decks and dash against my door, when, of course, we shall
sink the more rapidly, but if the walls of my cabin, and they are
unquestionably strong, Von Rotterdaam having had them made bullet-proof,
of wrought-iron--if these can withstand the pressure of the water for a
half-hour after we are submerged, I am quite confident I can finish the
story in time to bottle it up and launch it safely through the port.
* * * * *
After many days of difficulty we passed the Strait of Gibraltar, and on
the 18th of July were safely anchored in the Bay of Naples, where I sold
the claret, which Von Rotterdaam had changed into water, as the latest
mineral product of the Schnitzelhammerstein Spa.
But from the hour of my refusal to compromise with my honor and become
the successor and partner of Von Rotterdaam in the profession of piracy
we had trouble on board.
Letting my cargo alone, he introduced a system of haunting my crew, so
that at the end of several years not a German-speaking sailor was
anxious to ship with me, except at ruinously high wages. I found some,
but not many, and finally I was reduced to the followers of the two men
I have already mentioned--Hans Stickenfurst and Diedrich
Foutzenhickle--men who had never known fear, and who, when Von
Rotterdaam haunted them, merely laughed and blew the vile-smelling smoke
from their pipes into his face. But while the pirate ghost was powerless
to fill the men with fear, he did arouse a great interest in the stories
of his booty which he told. Night after night, lying in my cabin, I
could hear him in the forecastle telling them tales of his prowess, and
giving forth vague hints as to where vast treasure was hid which might
become theirs if only I would come around and become his successor. The
night we entered port I overheard a compact made between them, that on
the next outward voyage they would first reason with me and persuade me,
if possible, to accept his proposition, and, failing in that, to seize
the ship, put me in the long-boat, turn me adrift, and place themselves
subject to Von Rotterdaam's orders.
That was a year ago. Since then, until this ill-fated voyage
(by-the-way, as I look up the water is clear over the port window, and
is beginning to trickle in under the door, so I must again
hasten)--until this ill-fated voyage, I was not again on the sea, and
having in mind the threats of my crew, which they do not even now know
that I overheard, I secured for this voyage the crew of an Irish bark,
discharging all my previous men.
"I will at least have men who do not understand Dutch or German," I
thought, "and for this voyage shall be comparatively safe. To insure
against a possible turning adrift in the long-boat, I shall likewise
sail without it."
Alas for all my expectations! While neither Sullivan nor O'Brien, as I
had supposed, was acquainted with the native tongue of Von Rotterdaam,
that talented ghost could speak English with as fine a brogue as ever
gilded speech; and, worse than this, Sullivan, the carpenter, was a
fly-away fool. Genial, full of good stories, and an excellent carpenter
(the deck beneath my feet is bulging upward), he was absolutely without
foresight, and it is to him I owe my present plight.
It happened this afternoon. The day had been absolutely calm and still.
Not a ripple on the sea, not a breath of wind to stir even the frayed
hemp in the rigging, and yet down, down, down we are sinking, _for
Sullivan has sawed a hole in our bottom big enough to let a man
through_!
I didn't suppose he would do it, but he has; and because last night
while he and Rafferty, my second mate, were smoking in the forecastle,
Von Rotterdaam's spirit rose up before them, and, arousing their
cupidity, led them astray.
"For the love of the shaints!" cried Rafferty, as the ghost appeared,
"phwat are you?"
Rotterdaam replied, "A spherit of the poirate Von Rotterdaam; and here
where I stand, directly below me, in five fathoms of water, lies a
million in treasure."
"Go on!" cried Rafferty.
"'Tis true," retorted Von Rotterdaam. "And if at noon to-morrow you will
cut away enough of the ship's bottom to let yourselves through the
hole, with a rope tied about you so that you can be hauled back again,
it will be yours."
"Blame good pay for a shwim," said Sullivan. "A million phwat--pounds or
francs, sorr? They's some difference betune the two."
"Exactly," returned Von Rotterdaam. "And they're pounds sterling, ingots
of gold, and priceless jewels."
"Phwy don't yees tell the ould man?" asked Rafferty, referring to me.
"Because," replied Von Rotterdaam, "he would keep it all for himself.
You gentlemen, I am sure, will divide it justly among all."
"Thrue for youse," said Sullivan, with a laugh. "And phwere do you come
in?"
"I have no further use for dross," replied Von Rotterdaam; and I judge
that at that moment he faded from their sight, for almost immediately he
appeared in my cabin. I was tired and irritated, so I said nothing,
pretending to be asleep, never for an instant believing that Sullivan
would do so foolish a thing.
"He doesn't ever think of consequences; but he's not such an ass as to
cut a hole a yard square in the bottom of this ship," I said to myself;
and then, worn out, I really slept. How it happened I do not know;
possibly that infernal ghost in some manner drugged me; but it was not
until five minutes after midday, just three hours ago, that I awoke, and
my heart stood still as I heard the action of a saw deep down in the
hold.
"Heavens!" I cried, starting up. "The idiot's at it!"
A deep, baleful laugh greeted the remark. It was from Von Rotterdaam.
"He is! And I am revenged!" he said, in tones which seemed to come from
the centre of the earth, and then he vanished--I hope, forever.
I rushed madly out and called for Sullivan, but the only answer was the
grating of the saw's teeth. (Dear me! how dark it is getting! I must
really not linger with details.) My only answer was the grating of the
saw's teeth upon the bottom of my devoted vessel. Shrieking, I clambered
down into the hold, but too late. Just as I got there the yard square of
planking was burst in by the waters, and the vessel was doomed.
"Well, captain," I said to myself, a great calm coming over my soul,
"it's all up with you; now think of others. Those at home, not hearing
from you, will be worried. Go to your cabin, and, like a dutiful man,
make your report."
This I have done, and this narrative is my report. I hope it will reach
its destination in safety, and that the world may yet learn that in the
hour of peril, which has but one conclusion, I have been faithful and
calm.
It is now the 16th day of June, 1640. I shall never see the 17th, and
I am resigned to my fate. And now for the bottle ... now for the
cork.... Blithering cyclones! the door is cracking open ... and
now--one--two--three--to open the port ... wait. I must put in one
final P.S. In case this story ever reaches the land, will the finder
kindly be careful in correcting the proof and see that my name is
spelled correctly? There is just a moment in which to write it
plainly--RUDOLF--with an F, mark you, not a PH, and HAMMERPESTLE with
two M's. And so--the port....
* * * * *
There the story ends, and here it is for the world to see. What
followed Captain Hammerpestle's last word we can only surmise.
Pumpernickel and I have been faithful to the trust unwittingly
committed to our care by one who has been dead for a trifle over
two hundred and sixty years. We have only to add that those who do
not believe that the story is true can see the water-bottle at the home
of Herr Pumpernickel at Schnitzelhammerstein-on-the-Zugvitz at any time;
but as for the manuscript and the ghost of the pirate Von Rotterdaam, we
do not know where they are. The latter we have ourselves never seen, and
the former was, as usual, mislaid by the talented young person who
undertook to make a type-written copy of it for us a few days after our
discovery.