A MYSTERY OF THE SEA.
The door of the deck house was closed. But the ensign opened it without
difficulty, and with the boys pressing close on his heels he entered the
place.
Hardly had he done so before he fell back with a sharp exclamation. The
next instant the boys echoed his interjection with a tone in which
horror mingled with surprise. Seated at a table in the cabin was what at
first appeared to be a man. But a second glance showed that, in reality,
the figure was a grim skeleton upheld by its posture and still bearing
mildewed and mouldy sea clothes.
"What a dreadful sight!" cried Rob, shivering, although the day was
hot.
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the naval officer. "He must have perished just
as he sat. See, there is a paper under his hand, and there lies the pen
with which he had been writing."
He stepped forward to make a further examination, and the boys,
mastering their instinctive dread of the uncanny scene, also approached
the table.
The writing beneath the dead man's hand was on a fragment of paper,
yellowed with age and covered with scrawlings grown brown from the same
cause. Mastering his repugnance, the ensign took the paper from under
the skeleton's fingers that still rested upon it.
"What is it?" demanded Rob.
"Look at it for yourself," returned the officer after scrutinizing the
document.
Thus addressed, Rob took the mouldy screed while his chums looked over
his shoulder curiously.
"Why, it's nothing but a mass of figures," he exclaimed.
"That is certainly so. Some sort of cipher, I suppose," struck in
Merritt.
"That's what it is, I imagine," agreed the ensign; "but see this cross
marked in red ink in the midst of the figures! What can that be intended
for?"
"If you don't mind, I'll try to figure this out sometime," said Rob.
"I'm rather fond of working cryptograms and such things. It will serve
to pass the time, too, when we reach the Island."
"That is perfectly agreeable to me," returned the officer. "If you can
make anything of it, it may serve to solve the mystery of this ship. For
that a mystery there is about the whole thing, I feel certain."
"It does seem uncanny, somehow," agreed Rob; "the posture of this man,
this strange writing! I wonder how he died?"
"Impossible to say," rejoined the officer; "but let us investigate
further. We may make some more discoveries."
"I hope we don't make any more finds of this character," rejoined Rob
with deep feeling.
Reverently and quietly they made their way out of the presence of the
dead mariner.
Their next objective point was the poop of the vessel, where a high,
old-fashioned quarter-deck upreared itself above the main deck. Port
holes looked out from this, and the party of explorers rightly judged
that here had been the living-quarters of the ship's officers. A door of
heavily carved mahogany gave access to the space below the lofty
poop-deck. Pressing through this, they found themselves in a dark,
dingy-looking cuddy. The cushions of the lockers, which ranged along
each side, were green with mould and in the air hung the odor of decay.
A skylight above gave light to this chamber, and at its sides four
doors, two to a side, opened off.
"Those doors must lead to the staterooms of the former officers,"
declared the ensign, and a tour of inspection of the rooms was begun at
once. In the first three, after a thorough ransacking nothing more
interesting was to be found than some old sea chests, containing
garments and nautical instruments of antique pattern. In the last,
however, which bore traces of having been better furnished than the
others, there hung a crudely painted picture of a grizzled-looking
seaman, on whose breast hung conspicuously a gold image of a whale.
Apparently this was some sort of an emblem. But to Rob the portrait
presented a clew.
"Why, that same emblem hung on the uniform of the dead man in the
deckhouse!" he exclaimed.
"So it did," cried the ensign. "Boys, from the looks of it, this was the
cabin of the master of the ship, and yonder body, it is my firm belief,
is his."
But Merritt had stumbled upon another discovery. This was nothing more
than a large book, bound in leather. But to the ensign it seemed to be
apparently a highly important find.
"It's the ship's log-book," he exclaimed, pointing to the embossed words
on the cover. "Now perhaps we may light on a partial solution of this
mystery."
He opened the book at the first page, and learned from the crabbed
writing with which it was covered, that the _Good Hope_, Ezekial T.
Daniels, master, had set sail from New Bedford for the South Pacific
whaling ground in April, 1879.
"Gracious, that was about thirty-three years ago," stammered Merritt.
"I have heard of derelicts that drifted longer than that," said the
naval officer calmly.
He began turning over the leaves of the log book. It was an epic of the
sea. Every incident that had befallen the _Good Hope_ on her long voyage
was faithfully set down. He skimmed through the records, reading the
most interesting bits of information out aloud for the benefit of his
youthful companions.
From the log book it was learned that the _Good Hope_ had met with
indifferent luck on her long three years' cruise, but had suddenly run
into a most extraordinary bit of good fortune.
"Listen to this, boys," exclaimed the ensign with what, for one of his
self-contained nature, was strong excitement, "it reads like a bit of
wild romance."
Without further preface he began reading:
"'May, 1883--This day encountered the strangest thing in all my
experience. As set down, we have drifted into the Antarctic ice pack.
This day sighted a berg within which was a dark, shadowy object. On
going in the ship boats to investigate we saw to our amazement that the
said object was a ship. The ice surrounding it was thin, mostly having
melted.
"'From what I knew of such craft I decided, incredible as the idea
might seem, that the craft within the berg was a long frozen up Viking
ship. Not knowing just what her recovery might mean, I undertook to
blast her free of her prison. We had plenty of dynamite on board for the
very purpose of ice-blasting. By three of this p. m. we had the ship
blasted open. I and my officers at once entered the hole the explosive
had made in the craft's side. We expected to find strange things, but
none of us was prepared for what followed. The hold of the imprisoned
ship was full of ivory.
"'My first officer, William Clydesdale, an Englishman, and a college man
before strong drink ruined him, pronounced the ivory to be that of the
tusks of the extinct mammoths which scientists say formerly inhabited
these regions.'"
"Phew! This is romance with a vengeance!" exclaimed Rob.
"Did they get the ivory?" asked the practical Paul Perkins.
"Yes," rejoined the officer, rapidly skimming over the further pages of
the log, "and they estimated the stuff roughly at about five hundred
thousand dollars' worth of exceptional quality."
"How did the ship get frozen in the ice?" asked Hiram. "The Viking ship,
I mean."
"Who can tell," returned the ensign. "I have heard of such things at the
North Pole. Several explorers have even brought back fragments of the
Norseman's lost craft; but I never heard of such an occurrence
transpiring in the Antarctic regions. But let's read on."
The log continued to tell of hardships encountered in beating back
around the Horn with the valuable cargo; of discontent of the crew; of
their constant demand to have the hoard divided equally among the
officers and men, and of the captain's refusal to accede to their
requests. Finally the entries began to grow short and disconnected, as
if whoever was writing up the log was on constant watch and had little
time to spare. Indeed, one entry read:
"Mutiny threatens constantly. The men mean to seize the ivory and take
to the boats."
Following that no entries were made for several days. Then came a
startling announcement, both in its brevity and suggestiveness of
tragedy.