THE MYSTERY OF A DERELICT
In describing the events which, in the course of only a few months,
have transformed me from a care-free and prosperous young man of the
world into a miserable creature whose very soul is pursued by the
hounds of fear, I am now, for the first time, taking others into my
confidence. Nor would I, even now, reveal the nature of my terrible
adventures were it not for the feeble hope that among persons to whom
my recital will be addressed there may be one who will aid me in my
efforts to put to flight the spectres which, having mocked all my
reasoning faculties, have confronted me with one of the most terrifying
aspects of Fatality.
All men are more or less prone to superstition, and, being only an
average man, I never have been entirely free from superstitious
fancies. While I never refused to sit down to a table that was laid
for thirteen guests, I never did so without misgivings and secretly
reproaching my host for his lack of thoughtfulness. Like Dickens,
I always felt more comfortable when I saw a new moon over my right
shoulder than I would have been had it appeared over my left.
Instinctively I avoided walking under a ladder, and I was loath to
embark on a new business venture on a Friday. But I may say truthfully
that such fancies were only half-defined and I was inclined to mock
them.
I mention this fact because I want to make it clear that, despite the
earlier impressions made upon my mind by my misadventures, I have
attempted conscientiously to convince myself that my experiences were
the results of natural, rather than supernatural, causes. In the end I
have succeeded, but this conviction, so far from affording me relief,
has rendered me more miserable than I would be were I satisfied that
the causes were of a supernatural character.
My inclination to take a superstitious view of the incidents I am about
to describe was due, I think, to the fact that they had to do with the
sea. However strong may be a landsman’s powers of analysis, awe clouds
his faculties when he is called upon to fathom the mysteries of the
ocean. He may see, but he cannot understand. He may recount, but it is
beyond his power to explain. Natural phenomena which he contemplates on
land may result in transient sensations of wonder or alarm, but when he
encounters them upon the surging billows above the wreck-strewn floor
of the sea his fears rise to the call of abnormal fancies. Bewildered
by marvelous effects, he is prone to regard them as supernatural,
rather than as the simple working of atmospheric and submarine forces.
The son of a man of moderate wealth, I am a native of Philadelphia,
and am now thirty years of age. My father died shortly before I took
my degree at Harvard, and thus, when I was twenty-two years old, I
found myself with an excellent education and a fortune that amounted
to several hundred thousand dollars. Business interests, as well as
social inclinations, eventually caused me to become a resident of New
York City. There I joined several clubs and soon numbered among my
acquaintances many well-known members of society. I remained unmarried,
however, and most of my leisure was spent in the company of men who,
like myself, were free from domestic ties.
Among my friends there was none with whom I enjoyed closer relations
than those which characterized my friendship with Arthur Tallier, a
prosperous broker and an enthusiastic yachtsman, who had been one of
my classmates at Harvard. When, therefore, he proposed a cruise to the
Mediterranean and asked me to be one of the party I gladly accepted
his invitation and so arranged my business affairs that I might spend
several months abroad.
Arrangements for the cruise soon were completed, and one sultry August
morning Tallier’s steam yacht, the _Powhatan_, with a congenial company
aboard, put to sea.
For two days all went well, but on the morning of the third the
_Powhatan_ ran into a dense fog. This lifted a bit in the afternoon,
but as evening approached it became almost impenetrable and a light
rain began to fall. Soon after dinner most of the members of the party
went to the smoking-room to play bridge. Having spent most of the day
inside, however, and believing a little exercise would be conducive to
a restful night, I donned my raincoat, and, accompanied by a physician
who was one of Tallier’s guests, went for a stroll on deck.
The sea was calm and a light rain was falling. Inasmuch as we were
in one of the steamship lanes, the yacht, proceeding blindly through
darkness and fog, sounded her siren every few minutes. These blasts
elicited no response. Apparently no other vessel was within the compass
of their warning notes.
After a brisk walk on the wet deck for about fifteen minutes, my
companion and I, having had enough of the drizzly atmosphere,
stepped into the wheelhouse. The captain was at the wheel, but was
so strangely sullen that we soon abandoned our attempts to draw him
into conversation. At length the doctor suggested that we join our
fellow-voyagers in the smoking-room. I assented, and we bade our
inhospitable captain good-night.
I had just opened the door of the wheelhouse, preparatory to stepping
down to the deck, when a terrific, crashing shock brought the yacht
to a standstill so suddenly that I lost my footing at the top of the
wheelhouse steps. Falling, I grabbed a brass rail, but some unseen
power seemed to wrench me loose and fling me to the deck.
I tried to rise, but the effort was vain. As, succumbing to a great
numbness, I sank back weakly, I seemed to be lying on a white-padded
floor, with a cluster of arc lights dazzling my eyes with their glare.
Hoarse shouts of men and shrill cries of women filled the air as
over me bent a shirt-sleeved man, calling off seconds, as I had seen
referees do over men who had been knocked down in boxing contests.
Then a great chill came over me, and, with it, a sense of
strangulation. As I choked, a roaring filled my ears, but the sound
no longer was that made by the voices of men and women. There
now flashed into my mind a realization of the fact that I was in
water--sinking--that I must struggle for my life. At last my head
reached air. I freed my nose and mouth of water, and breathed again.
With breath came thought--and horror.
In the darkest night I ever had seen I was swimming alone--in the open
sea!
Dazed by the inexplicable nature of the accident that had befallen
me, I thought slowly. My first impression was that I was the victim
of a nightmare, but this passed quickly. Then it occurred to me that,
despite the calmness of the sea before and after the occurrence that
was responsible for my plight, the _Powhatan_ had been overwhelmed by
a tidal wave, and, still afloat, perhaps, was within range of my voice.
Scarcely had this hope flashed into my mind when I began to call for
aid.
The great conglomerate of fog and darkness and pattering rain smothered
my hollow shouts. As I listened vainly for a response, despair gripped
my heart and throat until they swelled with pain. But, mechanically and
aimlessly, I swam on.
Stricken with some malady or with a mortal wound, nearly every man,
whether strong or weak, meets death with fortitude. Physically and
mentally sound, he may advance intrepidly toward a flashing battle
line, walk with firm steps to the place of his military or civil
execution, or, weary of earth, end his life with his own hand. In such
situations death comes with the fulfilment of a purpose--surcease
of suffering, the expression of loyalty or self-invited capital
punishment. But when a strong man, free from mental and physical
infirmity, is brought face to face with death in a situation such as
the one which confronted me the most terrible degree of mental torture
is likely to precede the flight of his soul.
Though I may say truthfully that I had no fear of death itself, it
still is true that the association of my physical strength and utter
helplessness produced in my mind an anguish that is indescribable. I
felt as if I were to be my own executioner--that, in order to sink to
asphyxiation and death, it first would be necessary for me to exhaust
deliberately the physical vigor with which nature and my inclination
toward athletic exercises had endowed me.
So broad and unruffled were the great, gently heaving sea-swells that
I was scarcely sensible of their rise and fall. The water which had
chilled me a bit when I was first immersed, now seemed of Gulf Stream
warmth. When I had entered the _Powhatan’s_ wheelhouse I was perspiring
as a result of the briskness of my walk on the deck. Accordingly I
removed the raincoat I had been wearing. Leaving the wheelhouse, I
had thrown the coat loosely over my shoulders, and when I fell it had
slipped from me. So light and loose-fitting were the coat and trousers
I wore that they hampered my movements as little as did the tennis
shoes on my feet.
Swimming as easily as I often had done at Newport and Palm Beach, I
tried to meet with resignation the fate that seemed inevitable. But the
effort was vain. Every impulse that came to me, every fibre of my being
was in revolt against that God who had condemned me to such a death.
How long I endured this mental torment I do not know, but its end came
suddenly. In a moment all my senses were alert, and I was listening
for a repetition of a sound that was of neither rain nor sea. It soon
came to me again--a faint, creaking and grinding sound that bore some
resemblance to those made by a big vessel, which, heaved by large
swells, strains at its hawsers and grates against its pier. Scarcely
had I begun to speculate on the nature of this sound when I became
aware that the air was permeated by something stronger than brine. It
was the acrid odor of burnt wood.
Again the blood was throbbing in my temples, and the abrupt reaction
from despair to hope produced a feeling of suffocation. So great was
my agitation that my hearing was dulled, and for several moments I
listened vainly for the sounds that had so affected me. When I heard
them again I began to think more calmly, then realized how necessary
it was that I should proceed with the greatest caution. A continuance
of my ability to hear the sounds might mean life to me. Should they
cease, death was inevitable. By swimming only a few strokes in the
wrong direction I might be unable to hear them again.
So impressed was I by the fear that I might lose my sense of direction
that I restrained the impulse to shout for aid. Careful to keep my ears
free from water, I now, for the first time, began to put power into my
strokes. Soon the creaking and grinding and clanking grew louder. That
the sounds emanated from some vessel was obvious. Fearful lest it might
run me down or pass me, I ceased to press on and shouted with all the
power of which my lungs were capable, but there came no answering hail.
Once more I swam on. But now, as I proceeded, I exercised the greatest
caution. Certain minor sounds, mingling with those I heard first,
plainly indicated that I was within a few yards of my objective. That
its motive power was idle was plain. So close was I to the vessel now
that, had there been lights aboard, I scarcely could have failed to
see something of their glow. The thought came to me that maybe, after
all, this was the _Powhatan_, so crippled by the shock it had sustained
that its light-generating apparatus had been made useless. Again I
shouted--now calling the names of some of my late companions. But there
came no answer.
The last of my cries ended abruptly. My right hand, extended in
a swimming movement, came in contact with something of rock-like
solidity. Half-fearfully, I drew back, and the blood leaped in my
veins; then, breathlessly, I struck out to find the rock-like thing
again. The effort was successful. In a few moments I was passing one of
my hands over a row of rivet heads, set in the steel side of a vessel.
But the thrill of exultation that followed my discovery scarcely was
gone before the old feeling of helplessness again settled upon me. My
failure to obtain an answer to my shouts, the absence of lights, the
motionless screw and the heavy, oppressive odor of burnt wood made the
situation clear.
I was swimming beside the fire-scarred hulk of a derelict, and into my
mind flashed the suspicion that it was with this the _Powhatan_ had
been in collision--that this great worthless steel mass had survived
the shock that sent the more lightly built steam yacht to the sea’s
bottom.
Perhaps, even now, the derelict, itself, was sinking, and in a few
minutes I might be drawn down by the suction of the waters as they
closed over her. But this reflection did not inspire me with fear. It
occurred to me that should the vessel go down, I, escaping the suction,
might be able to find lodgment on some piece of charred wreckage left
on the surface of the sea.
Gradually this series of speculations ceased to engage my mind, which
became dominated by the hope that I might find some means of getting
aboard the vessel. This, at least, being in a steamship lane, might be
observed in a few hours by some liner. If I could find some means of
keeping afloat until after daybreak my rescue still was possible.
And now a new inspiration came to me. I reflected that, lightened by
the burning of woodwork and cargo, the derelict probably was drawing
much less water than she had done before and that, as a result of
the lowering of her waterline, her rudder or screw might afford me a
temporary resting place. Accordingly I struck out in a direction which,
I thought, might take me to the stern.
Swimming slowly along the hull, I had progressed only ten or twelve
yards when my head and one of my shoulders came into contact with
something that produced upon me the effect of an unseen, reaching hand.
Though startled, I clutched at it wildly. I missed it, at first, but in
another moment it was in my grasp--a rope which depended from something
above me.
Hope flashed like lightning, but my senses were benumbed by the
rumbling of the thunder of despair. Cowardice set me trembling. I dared
not test the strength of the rope that seemed to have been lowered to
me from the skies. Was the upper end made fast, or was it lying loose?
How was it possible that hempen strands could survive the heat of the
fire that had swept the vessel?
In a few moments, however, I nerved myself for the ordeal. Reaching
well up, I grasped the rope firmly and threw my weight upon it. It met
the test.
In my boyhood I had climbed ropes in this fashion, and I soon found
I had not lost the knack. With less physical strain than I had
anticipated, I moved up evenly, hand over hand, until the rope ended in
the blockless iron ring of a davit. I was beginning to breathe heavily,
however, as I swung myself astride of the davit, and slipped cautiously
to the vessel’s side.
Clinging to the davit and the metalwork to which it was affixed, I
tried to estimate the character of the footing immediately around it.
I found all wood had been burned away and that I stood on the verge of
what appeared to be a great void. Below I heard the swish of shifting
waters and the creaking of iron as the vessel rolled from side to side
on the swells.
The metalwork around the foot of the davit was of a nature that
afforded me a safe, if not comfortable, perch for the night, and so,
after removing my dripping coat and my soaked shoes, I seated myself
and proceeded to await the coming of dawn.
When day broke, a dismal prospect met my view. With the exception of
part of the deck in the stern and a small stern deckhouse, the interior
of the vessel had been so ravaged by fire that the structure now was
scarcely more than an immense floating iron tank. The cross-beams,
reddish and gray, remained in position. Between them, piled upon them
or swinging beneath them were great tangled masses of grotesquely
twisted steel and fragments of blackened wood. These, grating together
as the big hulk lolled on the swells, produced the sounds that first
had attracted my attention.
The position in which I now found myself was on the starboard side,
well aft, but still about thirty feet from that part of the stern deck
that was only partly destroyed. Working my way carefully along the side
of the hulk, I had comparatively little difficulty in getting to the
stern deck. This, despite its blackened appearance, I found capable of
sustaining my weight, and over it I made my way to the deckhouse.
By what freakish combination of circumstances the complete destruction
of this deckhouse had been arrested it would be difficult to explain.
Though charred inside and out, the walls and roof still remained in
position, and within were a table and four chairs, all partly burned.
Subsequent speculations on the subject inclined me to the belief
that it was here the fire had its origin, and that while the crew
was fighting it at this point it had swept forward where it raged
unchecked. The drenching to which the deckhouse had been subjected,
before the crew fled from the vessel, doubtless had been sufficient to
enable this part of the structure to withstand the heat to which it
afterward was exposed.
A warm sun contributed in no small degree to my comfort during the
day and enabled me to dry my wet garments, but by noon an intolerable
thirst began to assert itself. It then occurred to me that, as it had
rained the night before, I might obtain fresh water from depressions
in the steel structural work. I found a dilapidated pan, and, after
considerable labor, I collected enough water to last me for at least
forty-eight hours.
There was something so miraculous in the manner I had been able to
board the derelict that, for several hours, I did not doubt that
eventually I would be taken off by a passing vessel. Firm in my faith,
I was depressed only by the magnitude of the disaster that had come to
my friends on the _Powhatan_, for that the yacht had gone down I did
not doubt. But, as hour after hour passed, my failure to see even the
smoke of a passing vessel again unnerved me. Had I escaped death from
the waves only to perish of hunger and thirst on a charred derelict?
By nightfall my head was aching as a result of hunger, the glare of the
sun on the sea and the overpowering odor of burned timbers. For several
hours longer I looked over the star-reflecting waters for the lights of
some passing liner, which, though it could not see my signals, still
would give me assurance that the derelict was in a steamship lane. But
I saw none, and, worn with fatigue and despondency, I stretched myself
on the charred floor of the deckhouse and slept.
I was awake at sunrise, and resumed my vigil. And now the monotony of
it all began to have a strange effect on my mind. It was difficult for
me to keep my thoughts out of ruts. The dominant subject in my mind was
the rope by means of which I had boarded the derelict. Why had it not
been destroyed by the fire which swept the vessel? Why was it tied in
that fashion to the davit ring, instead of passing through a block?
So engrossed did I become in such speculation that once I worked my way
back to the davit and there proceeded to subject the rope to a careful
examination. It was plain that it had not even been singed. The thought
then came to me that, following the fire, the derelict had been boarded
by members of the crew of some passing ship. I realized it would be
possible for sailors in a small boat to get a light line over some
projection above them, draw up a rope and board the hulk. In such a
case, it was possible that, making a descent by means of the davit, the
last one down had left the line in the position in which I had found it.
But even the partial acceptance of this theory did not enable me to get
my thoughts out of the rut for which the rope was responsible. Try as I
might, I could think of nothing but the rope.
Brain-weary and suffering from the pangs of hunger, I was watching
the sun go down at the close of my second day on the derelict when
my attention was suddenly attracted by something which darted by
me--something that seemed to be a black bird, a little smaller than a
robin. But, as it wheeled and circled above me, I finally identified it.
It was a bat.
As I watched the thing, it darted toward the forward part of the
derelict and disappeared.
So little impression did the incident make upon me, at first, that, for
the next two hours, it had no place in my thoughts. It was not until,
with my folded coat for a pillow, I had stretched myself again on the
floor of the deckhouse that the ill-omened creature fluttered into my
mind in a manner that was productive of a sudden mental shock.
For hours my disordered fancy had been occupied with an attempt to
solve the mystery of the unsinged rope. But here was a mystery that was
still more baffling. Assuming that the loathsome thing had been on the
vessel prior to the fire, how had it contrived to survive the period in
which the burning hulk was enveloped in flames and smoke? It had been
my understanding that the flights of bats were of comparatively brief
duration. Where had this found lodgment while the fire was raging?
Had it clung to some piece of wreckage it found floating on the sea?
Or had it hung or lain in the charred deckhouse while the flames were
consuming the forward part of the vessel?
It was in vain that I tried to expel it from my mind. It remained as
firmly fixed as one which, in my boyhood, I had seen entangled in a
woman’s hair. A thrill of horror passed through me as I reflected that
bats were believed to possess the attributes of vampires. I had seen
this one sally forth in quest of prey. But what was there in or about
this fire-scarred mass of eternally crunching, creaking, wailing steel
that could minister to its appetite?
Half rising, I looked fearfully toward the doorless doorway and
shattered windows.
And so it came to pass that I dared not sleep. Sitting cross-legged on
the deckhouse floor, my gaze wandered from window to window and to the
open doorway with dread expectancy.
“It will come back,” I kept repeating.
While I waited, a new thought came to me. I rose, stepped outside
and picked up a stick which had been lying on the deck. With this I
reentered the deckhouse. Dread gave place to sleepless patience as I
resumed my vigil. But the thing for which I waited did not come.
When darkness melted into the changing hues of dawn I left the
deckhouse. With my night vigil ended and my day vigil begun, my weary
gaze passed around the great circle of the horizon. No ship or blur
of smoke met my view. The craving for food, which had caused much
discomfort during the night, had left me now, but the indications of a
clear, warm day brought to me new reason for anxiety. Of my carefully
hoarded water only two swallows remained.
And yet in the freshness of the morning air there was something that
seemed to bring new life to me. My jaded spirit rose with the sun, and
I reproached myself for the fears that had been responsible for my
sleepless nights--fears which, I knew now, merely had been products of
a fancy disordered by hunger, unearthly isolation, the loss of friends,
exposure, lack of tobacco and the ceaseless creaking and wailing of the
mass of wreckage in the hold.
But how was I to guard against a recurrence of such fears and such a
night as the one I just had passed? Then I remembered I had heard it
said that the most effective way to free the mind of an unwelcome fancy
is to write something concerning it and lay it away. I was inclined to
ridicule the idea at first, but it soon made another sort of appeal to
me, for it offered a new means of relieving the monotony of my position.
Attached to the chain of the watch which went with me aboard the
derelict was a little gold pencil, and in one of the pockets of my coat
were several letters. Reasoning that these might serve as a means of
identifying my body if it should be found on the derelict, I had dried
them and returned them to my pocket. On the back of one of the letters
I now proceeded to write eight rhymed lines suggested by the fears that
had come to me the night before. When I was done, I folded the sheet
and slipped it back in the pocket from which I had taken it.
The morning was only about half spent when a plainly discernible smudge
of smoke on the western horizon indicated the position of a steamship.
For more than half an hour, tortured by nerve-racking anxiety, I
watched it. It disappeared, however, and with disappointment came
mental and physical collapse.
Whether I fainted, or whether, yielding to exhaustion resulting from my
wakeful night, I sank into a heavy sleep, I do not know. It was almost
sundown, however, when I regained my senses. When I had lapsed into
unconsciousness I had been on the deck. Now I was on the floor of the
deckhouse. I was coughing, and my blackened skin was hot with fever.
Rising weakly, I went to the pan that had held my supply of water. It
was empty. Seating myself on the floor beside the pan, I hid my face in
my hands. As my lids closed over my smarting eyes, it seemed to me I
was standing on the deck of the _Powhatan_, defending myself against a
giant seagull that had attacked me.
I was sinking into a doze when something startled me. As I raised my
head all my nerves were quivering. No longer conscious of physical
weakness, I rose with trembling haste and crossed to the doorway of
the deckhouse. Looking out, I saw that a strange, twilight haze had
enveloped the derelict, shutting out even a view of the sea. Then--far,
far in the distance--I heard the sullen booming of a steamer’s siren.
There was a long interval of silence, then the blasts were repeated,
but I was unable to determine whether the sounds indicated that the
unseen vessel was drawing nearer. Four blasts were followed by another
long period of silence.
Through long minutes I waited breathlessly. Then the siren boomed
again. A fierce exultation possessed me as I realized that, through the
haze, the steamer was heading toward the derelict.
Scarcely had the notes of the blast died away, however, when a great
chill smote me. From the creaking, mist-enshrouded wreckage in the
derelict’s hold suddenly issued a long peal of shrill, feminine
laughter. Then there rose a series of weird notes, which, at first, I
was unable to identify. Finally I recognized them. They were the notes
of a concertina.
And soon, mingling with the concertina’s strains, I heard the voice of
a woman, who, in a dreary monotone, sang the lines I had written on the
back of a letter several hours before:--
“You who would fresh water taste,
’Mid this wreckage, warped and torn,
Shall yield to me, before they waste,
A hundred blood-drops in the morn.
When I have had my full desire,
I will supply your every need.
Sweet water then shall quench your fire
And savoury food reward the deed.”
The singer ceased. Trembling and weak again, I leaned against the
charred deckhouse. Once more I heard the siren’s blasts. Fainter now,
they were coming from a greater distance. The steamer, unseeing and
unseen, had altered her course.
Tottering and groping like a drunkard, I went into the deckhouse and
sank to the floor. In my brain Reason and Unreason were in conflict.
Reason told me the concertina and the woman I had heard were mere
products of a disordered fancy. But Unreason assured me that they were
real and that I must prepare to meet the woman. Mumbling blasphemies,
addressed to each, I closed my eyes, and slept.
I awoke with a cry of alarm. Something had struck me lightly on the
face, and, as I listened, I heard a faint, fluttering sound. Looking
around me, I saw a singular change had come to the interior of the
deckhouse, which now seemed rather larger than before. A dimly burning
lamp lighted the room, and above a rusty stove bent an aged crone,
warming her hands and muttering incoherently. Under one arm she carried
a stout staff with which, from time to time, she struck at something in
the air. In a moment I marked the cause of the fluttering I had heard.
In the room were at least a score of bats.
“Begone, ye pests!” exclaimed the old hag, with vindictive eyes. “D’ye
not know Laquella will soon be here? Back--back to your holes, ye
evil-eyed devils! D’ye not hear Laquella at the door?”
The words were scarcely spoken when a young woman entered the doorway.
As I gazed upon the newcomer I was overcome by mingled sensations
of admiration and fear. She was of extraordinary beauty. Her dark
hair fell in unkempt masses about her shoulders. She wore only two
garments--a white chemise and a red petticoat which extended to her
ankles. Her skin was dark and her teeth faultless. There was something
in her expression, however--the lines of her mouth, the unnatural,
velvety lustre of her eyes, the abnormal redness of her lips and the
cat-like grace of her body--that at once fascinated and repelled me.
As she advanced with languid steps into the deckhouse, water ran in
streams from the folds of her rain-soaked garments, and she shivered.
“It’s bitterly cold to-night, mother,” she began, in soft, plaintive
accents, as she folded her bare arms across her bosom and drew nearer
the stove.
There was a sudden fluttering among the bats that had found lodgment
among the timbers at the top of the room.
“Silence!” shrieked the old woman. “Ye black-winged leeches, d’ye not
see Laquella is here?” Leering, she turned toward the newcomer and
added: “Somebody’s waiting, my dear. Ah, it’s many a long moon since
you have had a lover so strong--eh, Laquella?” And the crone cackled
mischievously.
Laquella, giving a little start, faced me suddenly. At first a smile,
as of joyous surprise, played about her lips, but, as she gazed, this
was succeeded by an expression of fierce, passionate yearning, which,
kindling in her wide, lustrous eyes, rapidly lightened her features.
Her red lips parted and her bosom heaved as she extended her arms and
approached me. Three or four quick strides brought her to where I lay,
then, with a little sigh, she sank down beside me.
“See, I shudder with the cold,” she whispered, as she caressed my head.
“Breathe--breathe on me, dear. Your breath is life--life to me. Oh,
God! How chill and lonely it is out here on the sea, which moans all
day and night, and talks of death. Draw me closer--closer, love, and
warm me in your arms.”
Obedient to her will, I drew her to me. For several moments she hid her
face on my breast, and I felt her body shake with convulsive sobs. At
length she raised her head, and I shrank in terror from the passionate
eyes that fixed their gaze on mine.
“I live--I live again!” she murmured. “Already Death’s dreadful fingers
are beginning to relax their hold. You are breathing me back to life
again--to live--to live for you.”
Clasping me tighter in her arms, she pressed her lips to my forehead.
A chill pervaded my body, and I trembled violently. Drawing back a
little, she placed her frigid palms to my cheeks, and then went on:
“But your hot flesh burns my hands. Your feverish blood----”
She paused abruptly and, with a little gasp, she turned away. Her hands
moved quickly to the upper part of my right arm, and I felt her toying
with the sleeve of my shirt. Suddenly a twinge of pain darted through
me, and as, with exclamations of horror and distress, I tried to rise,
I heard a ripping sound made by the tearing of the sleeve. A wild light
was shining in her eyes, and, as she forced me back again, I knew the
blood I saw on one of her hands was my own.
Panting, and with eager haste, she pressed her cold lips to the
bleeding wound. It was in vain that I struggled frantically and bade
her desist. My privations had exhausted me, and she was the stronger
of the two. I felt my remaining strength slipping away from me. Then I
lost consciousness.
Slowly my senses came back to me again. A spoon was being thrust
between my teeth, and the odor of broth was in my nostrils. I made a
weak attempt to turn the spoon aside, for was not this food the price
of blood?
“Take it--take it, lad! Were the hampers of the _Hannibal_ so well
filled that you have no need of the bounty of the _Highland Lady_!”
The voice was that of a man, and, half-fearfully, I opened my eyes. I
saw that I now lay in the berth of a well appointed stateroom, and that
two men were standing beside me. One, clad in a blue uniform, held a
spoon and cup. The other, somewhat younger, was dressed as a ship’s
steward.
“Is he coming round, Doctor?” asked a quiet, kindly voice near the door.
“Oh, yes, yes--he’ll do well enough now,” replied the man in the blue
uniform, then, again addressing me, he said: “Come, come, man, take
this broth and then----”
But I heard no more. The physician who had found it necessary to use
force to get the spoonfuls of broth between my lips now was compelled
forcibly to restrain me from seizing the cup that held the precious
liquid. The doles came too slowly, and I gulped them down like a
famished beast of prey. And, as I ate and felt the warmth of brandy and
broth stealing through my veins, I realized that the vampire had indeed
kept her word and I was saved.
When the cup of broth was empty, I besought the physician for water and
more food, but all my prayers to him were vain.
“In another half hour, perhaps, but not now,” he answered kindly. “Your
stomach is so weak that we must wait a while.”
In a frenzy of despair I rose to a sitting posture, and accused the
physician of attempting to starve me. Laying a hand on my shoulder, he
tried to force me to lie down again. As I raised my right arm to thrust
his hand away a violent pain racked my arm and shoulder.
“Be careful, my man!” exclaimed the physician, sharply, and an
expression of anxiety came into his eyes. “In trying to fill your
stomach, see to it that you don’t empty your sleeve.”
Half-swooning with pain, I glanced at my arm. Then I saw that it was
swollen to nearly twice its natural size and was bandaged just below
the shoulder.
Once more the horror of my terrible adventure on the derelict
overwhelmed me, and I lost consciousness.
How often I regained my senses and lost them again in the course of the
next few days I do not know. Everything around me was blurred. Again
and again I heard the fluttering of the bats, but strange voices kept
assuring me that the sounds were those of waves and rain. Twice or
thrice I shrieked in fear as I saw the face of Laquella at my stateroom
door, and often, weeping like a child, I told myself that I was mad.
But there came a day, at last, when the hateful fluttering ceased and
the features of Laquella haunted me no more. The faces and words of
those who attended me grew more and more distinct. Before, sunlight,
moonlight and lamplight had been as one to me, but now I was able to
distinguish the difference between day and night. When the change in
my condition was brought about, I was lying on a cot in a Liverpool
hospital, and I was informed that I had been in the institution for
more than a week.
I was told, too, that not once since I had been taken from the derelict
_Hannibal_, in mid-ocean, had I been able to speak coherently. My name
was unknown, and the captain of the steamship _Highland Lady_ had
failed to learn from me how it had come to pass that I had “survived
the fire that had destroyed the tramp steamer.”
I asked the day of the month, and, when I learned this, I realized
that two weeks had passed since that fateful night when I stood on the
bridge on the _Powhatan_.
In response to the eager questions of my attendants, I described the
yacht’s collision with the derelict, but I was unable to tell whether
or not the _Powhatan_ went down. I told them, too, of the manner I had
climbed aboard the derelict, but of my experience with Laquella I did
not speak, for I felt now that that incident was nothing more than the
product of an imagination distorted by the physical suffering to which
I had been subjected.
“But how did you come by that wound in your arm?” asked one of the
physicians, when I had finished my story.
“The wound!” I exclaimed wonderingly.
“In your right arm--yes. Did you not know it was there?”
I felt beads of perspiration gathering on my brow, and my limbs began
to tremble.
“No,” I answered, weakly.
“You were scratched by a piece of rusty metal, perhaps,” my questioner
said, thoughtfully. “But, whatever the cause may have been, you have
had an attack of gangrene that almost made it necessary for us to
amputate your arm. In delaying the operation we took a long chance, but
the danger is over now, and another fortnight will find you little the
worse physically as a result of your unfortunate adventure.”
Stricken aghast by the significance of the wound in my arm, I still
struggled to assure myself that the injury was, as the doctor had
suggested, nothing more than infection resulting from some trifling
and unnoticed scratch that I had received while I was on the derelict.
But, strive as I would to combat it, the impression made on my mind by
the notes of the concertina, by the voice and words of the singer and
by the visit of the mysterious young woman to the wrecked deckhouse,
continued so strong that I was no longer able to regard these incidents
as anything less than realities.
At length, completely cured of the malady that had threatened me
with the loss of my arm, as well as the loss of my life, I left the
hospital. From England I went to the Continent to recuperate, and it
was not until the following Spring that I returned to New York.
The Summer and Autumn that followed my return to the United States
were uneventful. With my health completely restored, I again addressed
myself to my business interests, and in the commonplace atmosphere in
which I moved romance and superstition had so little place that at last
I came to regard my adventure on the _Hannibal_ as one recalls the
half-forgotten scenes of a nightmare.
About this time a change came over me, and club life began to lose many
of its former charms. I spent more time at the homes of my friends, and
was frequently a member of week-end parties at country houses, but,
though I was finding more pleasure in the society of women than I had
found before, no member of the sex had made any serious impression upon
me.
Thus it came to pass that I was again pursuing the even tenor of my
way, with pleasing prospects and with no past misfortunes to mourn
other than the deaths of my parents and the tragical end of Tallier and
my other shipmates on the _Powhatan_, when one night in early December,
I attended a performance of “_L’Africaine_,” in the Metropolitan Opera
House. Accompanied by George Kane, one of my friends, I left the box
which we had been occupying with his mother and sister, and strolled
out to the foyer. We were about to return to the box when my companion
nodded slightly to one of the promenaders. Involuntarily I glanced
toward the person who had attracted the attention of my friend. This
was a dark-haired, clean-shaven young man of about my own age. His face
was long and well-moulded, and his tall, faultlessly clad figure was
that of an athlete.
But for only a moment did my gaze rest on this stranger. Beside him
was a young woman--a young woman whose face and figure were, I think,
the most beautiful I had ever seen. She was rather above the medium
height of women, and her dark hair, coiled in great masses behind her
shapely head and neck, seemed by the contrast it offered to enhance the
exquisite coloring of her features. Her eyes were dark and singularly
lustrous. She was laughing when I saw her first, and her red lips,
faultless teeth and vivacious expression would have been sufficient to
fascinate an ordinary observer, even had her other perfections been
less striking. She was gowned in black and her splendid shoulders and
arms were bare. Unlike other fashionably dressed women, she wore no
necklace or bracelets.
As the young woman turned her head carelessly, her gaze met mine, but
it was only for a moment. She nodded slightly to my companion, and then
passed on with her escort.
“Who are they, Kane?” I asked abruptly, turning to my friend.
“Tom Trevison and his sister,” he answered, shortly.
“Trevison!” I muttered. “I have no recollection of having heard of them
before.”
“They’re not in society. Old Trevison, several years ago, came from
somewhere out West, where he owned some mining property. About a year
ago he died. No one ever saw Tom before that, and what he does for a
living no man knows. He and his sister live together at an apartment
hotel away uptown. They are great music lovers, and it’s only at
the opera and at musicales one ever sees them. The girl’s a stunner,
though. It’s a pity she doesn’t let herself out.”
The curtain was about to go up, so we hurried back to our box.
From that night I became known as one of the most assiduous patrons of
opera and piano recitals in the metropolis. I soon learned that Kane
had spoken truly. Music was Miss Trevison’s hobby. I repeatedly saw
her with her brother at the Metropolitan Opera House at night, and I
was quick to observe that they nearly always occupied the same seats
about the middle of the orchestra. In the afternoons I frequently saw
Miss Trevison at piano or violin recitals, on which occasions she was
accompanied by one or two women friends.
At length, with a fluttering heart, I became conscious of the fact
that the young woman had begun to notice my presence at the various
entertainments which attracted her. On several occasions I saw her
gaze rest upon me for a moment as she glanced over the audience in the
course of her search for familiar faces.
Once, while she was conversing with a man whom I knew to be a musical
critic for one of the newspapers, I saw the man glance toward me
quickly. He looked at me searchingly for several moments, then, turning
to her again, he shook his head.
I inferred that, answering a question, he had told her I was not a
member of his guild.
Two weeks after the evening on which I first had seen Miss Trevison at
the Opera House, I contrived to secure an introduction to her brother.
A week later the brother introduced me to his sister, and on the
following afternoon I met and conversed with her at a recital given by
a celebrated Russian pianist.
I doubt whether, in such a brief period, any man was so quickly
subjugated by a woman’s charms. At last I had permission to visit
her, and the privilege of escorting her to musical entertainments was
accorded to me. I became more and more desperately in love.
But, by degrees, there came to be mingled with this love an almost
indefinable sense of fear. Strong as I am physically, there were times
when the very thought of Paula Trevison set me trembling. What had
inspired this fear I did not know. Often I would try to analyze the
feeling. Sometimes I fancied it was caused by doubts of my ability to
win her, but as, day by day, we became better comrades, I grew more
sanguine, and yet the haunting sense of fear became more and more
perceptible, taking the form of one of those premonitions of evil which
all men have felt at some period of their lives.
One afternoon, in February, Paula and I, seated together in a concert
room, were listening to a famous pianist’s exquisite rendition of
one of Chopin’s nocturnes. While under the spell of the music I
involuntarily laid my hand on hers. As our eyes met, something in those
of my companion caused me to grow hot and cold in turn. In that glance
I read the confession of a love so masterful and passionate that I
believed it was more than human, and yet I felt that it was no more
strong than mine.
That night I asked Paula to be my wife, and, as she gave me the answer
that I craved, I took her in my arms. Our lips met, and then--ah, all
that followed seemed to be as unreal as the incidents of a dream. I
kissed her lips, her brow, her hair, her hands. I saw the half-grave,
half-smiling face of her brother as we told him all. But, when he took
my hands, I, who was physically as strong as he, was trembling like a
frightened child.
When I returned to my apartments that night I tottered like a drunkard,
and as I saw my reflection in a mirror I shrank aghast from the ashen
features and bloodshot eyes that confronted me.
I asked myself whether I was mad. If not, why should I have walked
the floor nearly all that night, striving to banish from my mind the
love-illumined face of Paula Trevison? Why were my heart and mind in
conflict? Why was I tortured by sensations such as might come to a man
who, having sold his soul to the devil for five years of Paradise,
hesitates to enter into his reward?
During the three months that followed Paula’s consent to become my
wife, my fear that I was losing my reason became so great that at
length it virtually amounted to a conviction. In her presence I was
always a passionate and devoted admirer, but no sooner did I leave her
than I reproached myself because of my inability to keep away from
her--to thrust her out of my life.
It was arranged that we should be married in June, and that after the
ceremony we should embark for Europe where our honeymoon would be
spent. In accordance with this plan, a little party of our friends
assembled in a Harlem church one morning and in their presence Paula
Trevison became my wife. An hour later we entered a limousine and in
this we set off for the pier to which our luggage had been taken the
day before.
For several moments after entering the vehicle we sat in silence, with
Paula’s hand clasped in mine. Then I observed that my wife was looking
at me curiously. At length, laughing a little uneasily, she spoke.
“It seems so strange, dear, that you should be more nervous than I this
morning,” she said. “Are you not well?”
There was a note of reproach in her voice, and, as she attempted to
withdraw the hand I held, I grasped it more tightly.
“I am well enough,” I answered, “but I thought the ceremony would never
end, and, after it was over, every one, in offering congratulations,
seemed to say something to which I had replied before. I am afraid
that the difficulty I found in giving variety to my replies made me
irritable.”
“Well, you looked positively haggard,” said Paula laughingly, “and,
when I saw you so, I began to see in your face something that gave me
the impression that we had met somewhere before--a long time before you
first saw me on that night in the Opera House.”
“That we had met before!” I muttered. “Had we met before I think I
surely would have remembered it.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“It is no more than a mere fancy of mine, I suppose,” she said.
We rode on in silence, but there had been something in her words that
changed the current of my thoughts, and I asked myself whether, after
all, it was not possible that we had, indeed, met before.
We arrived at the pier at last, and, alighting from the limousine, we
quickly crossed the gangplank and made our way to the stateroom I had
engaged. This was on the promenade deck, and immediately after entering
I proceeded to open the window in order to admit the air.
Thinking that some of our friends might have decided to come to the
pier to see us off, I left Paula in the stateroom, and strolled out on
the deck. As I looked over the rail I saw a large crowd of Italians
who, apparently, had assembled to bid farewell to some of their
fellow-countrymen in the steerage.
At length I saw a couple of waving arms and I recognized Paula’s
brother and one of his friends. They quickly shouldered their way
through the crowd, but just as they reached the foot of the gangplank
an officer motioned them back. A moment later cries of “All off for
the shore” were echoing through the vessel, and the men who had been
standing beside the great posts over which the hawser loops were thrown
began to manifest signs of activity. The time for sailing was at hand.
Waving my hands toward my friends on the shore, I hurried back to the
stateroom for Paula. As I paused at the door, I saw she had removed the
hat she had worn on the way to the pier and that she was now putting on
a Tam-o’-Shanter.
I was about to speak when the sounds of Italian voices crying
“_addios_” came to my ears through the open window. The cries ceased as
suddenly as they had risen, and then I heard a sound that caused me to
start violently. As I listened, Paula turned toward me.
The sound I heard was that of a concertina!
What Paula saw in my face just then I do not know, but, pallid and
trembling, she retreated a step or two and gazed at me with wide,
wondering eyes.
The thrill of horror that passed though my body caused me to shiver.
There was a strange, tickling sensation on my scalp and my hair felt as
if it was rising.
The notes of the concertina had broken the spell that had kept my
memory dormant. All was clear to me now. I knew how it had come to pass
that I had been led to fear the woman I had made my wife. The woman to
whom I had given my love and name was Laquella--Laquella, the vampire
of the derelict!
In a voice that was so hoarse with emotion that it did not seem to be
my own I said:
“Your suspicion was well-founded, madame. The meeting in the Opera
House was not our first.”
Shrinking further from me, she murmured, with trembling lips:
“Yes--yes. I remember now. You are----”
With a groan of horror and anguish, I turned from the room and closed
the door behind me. From the decks and the depths of the great vessel
there still came the mournful cry of the stewards:
“All off for the shore.”
Moved by a sudden impulse, I dashed down the companionway that led
to the deck below. There I found that several seamen already were
beginning to run the gangplank from the vessel. I called to them to
pause, and then shouldered my way past them. A few moments later I was
on the pier.
As I hastened toward the street, I heard a man’s voice call my name.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw the white face and wonder-stricken
eyes of Paula’s brother. I quickened my steps and before he caught
up with me I was in a taxicab. In accordance with my quickly spoken
instructions, the chauffeur started in the direction of an uptown
hotel. Within five minutes I was satisfied that I had shaken off my
pursuer.
As soon as I was assured of my success in eluding Paula’s brother, I
hastened to the office of my lawyer. Though I had given no thought to
the matter at the time of my mad flight from the ship, I afterward
recollected that my wife was provided with sufficient funds to enable
her to return to the United States. I directed my lawyer, however, to
cable to one of his English correspondents to meet the vessel on its
arrival at Liverpool and to render my wife whatever assistance she
might require. In addition to this, I placed a large sum to Paula’s
credit in a New York bank, and caused her brother to be informed of my
action.
More than four months have passed since then, and, during this period
my wife and I have not met, nor have we, either directly or indirectly,
been in communication. The first two months I spent in the West, and,
with the single exception of my lawyer, none of my friends knew my
address. Returning then to the East, I took passage for Europe. There I
remained until two weeks ago.
I have learned that my wife embarked for New York immediately after
her arrival in Liverpool, but neither she nor her brother has made an
attempt to find me. The money which I placed to Paula’s credit in the
bank has remained untouched.
In conclusion, I will say that, since my flight from my wife, there
has been scarcely an hour of the day or night, except when sleep has
given me a respite, that my mind has not been occupied with attempts
to find some comforting solution to the mystery which partly cloaks
the incidents that have wrecked my life. For several weeks I could not
free myself from the impression that I was the victim of supernatural
agencies. Now, however, I am satisfied that Paula Trevison, perhaps
half-crazed by privations similar to mine, was on the derelict at the
time that I found refuge there, and that she had as a companion the old
crone whom I heard address her as Laquella. How they came there, only
Heaven knows, but you will recollect that I have told you that I got
aboard the _Hannibal_ by means of a rope that hung over the side. That
rope was of hemp, and it is obvious that it must have been fastened
to the davit after the fire had swept the vessel. This fact indicates
that, subsequent to the fire on the _Hannibal_, and prior to the
sinking of the _Powhatan_, the derelict was boarded, either by persons
who had put off in boats at the time of the fire or by others. It was,
of course, impossible for a woman to get aboard as I did by means of
this rope, but it is natural to infer that the rope was used for the
ascent and descent of a seaman who may have belonged to a party that
had a rope ladder. In that case the ladder doubtless was taken away in
the boat that had brought it, and the rope was left hanging from the
davit.
Convinced, then, that the woman I have wed is none other than that
Laquella, who whether mad or sane, inspired me with horror on the
derelict _Hannibal_, I am resolved to avoid as much as possible every
town in which I believe her to be. I do this because I fear that, if
we were to meet again, the love with which she once inspired me would
triumph over every principle that is allied with my self-respect, for
in her presence I would have to combat one of the most potent spells
which the beauty of woman ever cast over the heart of man.
* * * * *
As the Fugitive Bridegroom finished his story, the Nervous Physician
leaned forward.
“Are we to understand that, since your recovery from the effects of
your privations, you have had no communication with the captain or
other officers of the _Highland Lady_?” he asked.
“I have not seen or communicated with any of them.”
“But you have some reason to know that you were the only person taken
off the derelict?”
“Yes. The newspapers published the captain’s story before my identity
was known. I was the only person rescued from the _Hannibal_.”
The Homicidal Professor was the next to speak.
“And you are quite certain that, prior to the loss of the _Powhatan_,
you had not seen the young woman who is now your wife?” he asked.
“Of that I am certain,” the Fugitive Bridegroom replied in a tone of
conviction.
The Homicidal Professor nodded and settled back in his chair.
Westfall rose.
“As I have told you, my friends, the story of the Fugitive Bridegroom
was the first link I found to this mysterious chain, and it was for
this reason that I placed his adventure first. In due time, and in the
proper place, more light will be thrown on the incidents which you
have just heard described. We cannot look for this, however, in the
narrative which we are about to have from the Whispering Gentleman--a
narrative which properly may be said to introduce the principals of
this extraordinary affair.”
He nodded toward the Whispering Gentleman, who forthwith proceeded in a
loud, hoarse whisper, to describe the incidents which had resulted in
his appearance on the Barge of Haunted Lives.