THE LEGEND OF FOUL-WEATHER DON.
Stout Jem told it thus:—
‘My story, mates, is a strange one, and I say not whether it be true
or false. I heard it in the middle watch, one fine night, slipping
down the coast of Porto Rico, and the seaman who told it to us, said,
that when he was a boy he sailed with the man to whom the thing
happened, in a big ship which hailed from Bristol. That the spirits
of the dead walk the world—ay, and sail the seas—is a thing I cannot
say nay to. I cannot tell you that I ever saw anything of the sort
myself, but credible mariners and grave and sober men have assured
me of things which have made my marrow creep, and the hair stand up,
all bristling out of my flesh. Well, then, about this story. The man
to whom the adventure happened, was by name Ned Purvis, a mariner.
It must be nigh sixty years ago since he sailed out of the port of
London, on a trading voyage to the coast of Guinea. Purvis was then a
younker, there being little better than a year since he had followed
the sea, and this was his first voyage abroad; he having undertaken
it in the ship of his uncle, a good old man, of a mild disposition,
and well loved of the crew. As for Ned Purvis, he was a reckless,
ruffling blade, that cared neither for man nor devil, when his blood
was up, and who thought but little of the glimmer of a drawn cutlass,
or the flash of a pistol, in a quarrel. But as I told you, mates, the
old man, the captain, was mild of speech and of heart, and greatly
loved his nephew, and thought much of the lad’s spunk and wild
spirit. So they sailed southerly, as became navigators, bound as they
were to traffic for spices and rich oils and gold with the blacks of
Africa.
‘Having lost sight of England, they had prosperous winds and pleasant
weather, and nought occurred until the seventh day from that in which
they saw the last of the white cliffs. Then they were just moving
through the water and no more, for the breeze was but a puff, and
the sun going down, when all of a sudden they saw a boat with a man
in it, so close aboard that you might toss a biscuit into her. It
was curious, mates, that almost all the men on deck saw her at once,
when she was, as it might be, alongside; and yet no one had seen her
approaching. But strange as that was, comrades, it was not so strange
as the cut of the boat, and, for that matter, the cut of the man in
her. The stem and stern of the craft were very high, and ended in
curled bits of carved wood. Her gunwale, too, was all carved and
sculptured, in such a way as you may have seen the pulpits and choirs
of cathedrals and abbeys, and such buildings in England and France,
and the Low Countries, being very artificial work done with gravers
and chisels.
‘Ned Purvis remembered afterwards, when he saw a great Spanish
painting of Christopher Columbus, landing on his second voyage upon
the island of Hispaniola, that the admiral sailed in a barge, carved
and ornamented after the fashion of that of which I am now telling
you. And the man, mates, looked as old as his boat. He had on a high,
conical hat, with a feather in it, and he wore a grave coloured
doublet, of an old fashion, with slashes in the arms, and brocaded
flowers embroidered thereon. Round his neck was a stiff ruff. He had
red stockings, and great bunches of ribbon in his shoes. The face of
this strange person was severe and grave. He had no moustachoes, but
a thin peaked beard which fell over his frill. Every now and then he
smiled with a strange, wild expression, which was that of a bitter
sneer; and his eyes shot a sparkling light, which was stony and
cold, and from which men turned their heads, as if by instinct. Well,
then, the captain, when he saw this queer cruizer, seemed fascinated,
and gazed upon him, as you may have seen small birds on the boughs
gaze at snakes, whose eyes glitter out of the grass beneath, and
presently the man in the boat waved his arm, as a signal to those on
board to take him in. Well, no one stirred but Ned Purvis, and before
the old captain could prevent him, Ned flung a rope to the stranger,
who straightway caught hold of it and mounted on deck.
‘“Where is your captain?” says he, in a hollow harsh voice.
‘The old man comes forward, as pale as a corpse, and, quoth he—
‘“In the name of God, what want ye on board my ship?”
‘Now, at the name of God, Ned Purvis thought that the strange man
started and shook: but he replied not, only taking the old captain by
the hand, pointed to his boat, which was towing astern.
‘“Men,” said the old mariner, faintly, “he will not be denied; get
his boat aboard.”
‘But the crew slunk together in a body, and murmured to each other,
but put not a hand to rope or tackle. Then Ned Purvis stood forward.
‘“Who are you?” said he, “and why should we take you or your boat
aboard?”
‘“You yourself asked me,” quoth the strange man; “you flung the rope;
but for that I should have floated past you. I never come, but where
some one welcomes me.”
‘Now, at this, Ned Purvis confessed that he felt like a great sinner,
and all the men turned round and looked first at him and then at the
stranger. But Ned plucked up courage, and determined to give them all
bold words. So he walked up to the stranger, and said—
‘“Well, I did heave you a rope; no true-hearted mariner would see
a man adrift upon the ocean, and not offer him rescue. I care
little what you be. If you are our fellow-creature, we have done
but our duty in saving you; if you be not, why, we are honest men
here, having no crime upon our consciences, and we defy the devil
and all his works. Come, shipmates, lend a hand, and heave the old
gentleman’s barge aboard. It’s the captain’s orders, and orders must
be obeyed.”
‘And so, after a little grumbling and murmuring, the boat was hove
aboard and placed between the masts. There was neither food nor water
in her, and her bottom was as foul with barnacles and sea-weed as if
she had drifted ten times round the world. Meantime, the stranger
and the captain went below, and the men stood in a group round the
cabin, but they could hear nought of what took place there, and
presently they retired to their usual posts. Well, Ned Purvis was in
the first watch, and when it got dark he was standing leaning against
the main-chains, wondering at the strange event of the day, when the
captain touched him on the shoulder.
‘“Nevvy!” says the old man, “know you whom you have brought aboard
into this ship?”
‘“Why, uncle,” answered Ned, somewhat taken aback at this address,
“ought we not to take aboard any man we find starving in a boat upon
the ocean, more than a week’s sail from land?”
‘“Ay, Nevvy,” quoth the old captain, “any man, but not any phantom;
it is more than a hundred years since the passenger you brought on
board this unhappy ship was a man!”
‘“Do you know him, then, uncle?” says Ned; “have you ever seen him
before?”
‘“Ay, boy,” replied the old mariner; “once, when I was a youth, he
boarded a ship in which I sailed, as he did ours to-day.”
‘“And what did he?” asked the young sailor, his heart fluttering
within him.
‘“Raised storms,” said the elder Purvis, solemnly; “raised a tempest
such as I never saw before, and had hoped, until now, never to see
again.”
‘“Then, in the name of God,” says Ned, clenching his fists, “as I
brought him on board, I’ll pitch him overboard, and I’ll begin with
his boat first.” And so saying, he began to make fast a tackle to the
curled prow.
‘“Hold, hold!” said Captain Purvis; “he must go by his own free will,
or he will not go at all.”
‘“But who—who, in the devil’s name, is he, uncle?” shouted Ned.
‘“He is a restless phantom—a wandering, unquiet spirit,” says the old
seaman, with his voice trembling, and his grey hair all dank with the
cold sweat. “He was a cruel captain of Spain, who, holding a high
command in Hispaniola, wrought great cruelties to the natives, and
even to his fellow-countrymen, amassing thus a great treasure, which
he buried in one of the small keys or desert islands of the Western
Indies, to wait an opportunity of conveying it to Spain: at length
this seemed to have arrived, and in a stout vessel he set sail for
the treasure island; but on the voyage a terrible fever fixed upon
him, and having partially recovered, he found his memory so gone that
he could not recal to his mind any signs by which he knew either the
island, or the part of it where the treasure lay. Notwithstanding,
however, he would continue to cruize for weeks and weeks among the
cluster called the Virgin Isles, to the east of Porto Rico,—never
sleeping, so they said who sailed with him, but always standing on
the highest yard, gazing wistfully for his treasure he had buried.
At length his crew lost patience, and insisted upon returning to
Hispaniola; at this he fell into furious fits of rage, but at last,
they being obstinate, he swore a solemn oath that, dead or alive, he
would sail the sea until his treasure was either found and spent,
or placed for ever beyond the reach of men. And then, ordering them
to put out a boat, stepped on board, and they left him floating, an
hundred years ago, just as we found him this afternoon.”
‘“But he has been seen since,” quoth Ned, after a pause, for he did
not know what to think of this story.
‘“Twice that I know of,” said his uncle, “and once, I tell you, I saw
him, and he came on board and brought tempest with him; they called
him ‘Foul-Weather Don’ and learned men say he must keep his oath, in
the spirit, if not in the body, and that he will have no rest till
the terms of it be fulfilled.”
‘“So he brought bad weather, did he?” said Ned, musing.
‘“For the three weeks he was on board,” says the old man, “the blast
never lulled, and the sea ran higher than the mainyard.”
‘“And what did he do all that time?” cries Ned, again.
‘“He sat in the great cabin,” replied the uncle, “with his back
against the rudder-case, and never spoke word nor broke bread.”
‘“How did he leave you?” was Ned’s next question.
‘“He rose one evening, just in the twilight, and ordered the captain
to put his boat into the water, though none of us thought a boat
would live in such a sea, and none built by man’s hand could. But
that one”—and the old sailor pointed to the sea-worn craft, with her
bottom one bed of weed and barnacles—“but that one floated like a
duck upon the great breaking seas; and presently, with grave courtesy
and farewell gesture, Foul-Weather Don stepped to the gangway, and
from thence on board his skiff. We saw him once or twice rising on
the tops of the great seas, and standing up in the boat with his
hands clasped, as one praying; then boat and all disappeared, and we
saw him no more. The next hour the gale broke, the sea went down, and
we were again enabled to lay our proper course.”
‘“And what is Foul-Weather Don doing in the cabin just now?” says Ned.
‘“Sitting with his back against the rudder-case,” answered Captain
Purvis; “and see—look there!” the old man added, and he pointed to
the east, “look at that bank of clouds rising from the ocean—there’s
the gale coming. Before midnight Foul-Weather Don will have all his
winds blowing about him.”
‘With this, mates, Ned Purvis walked away forward, and pondered long
and deeply. The rest of the crew were whispering in groups upon the
forecastle, and the poor old captain was standing wringing his hands
beside the magic boat. So presently Ned spoke to two or three of the
men, and they shook hands with him and promised to stand by him. Then
he went down to his berth and took out a great pistol, and carefully
examined the lock and cleaned it; afterwards he opened his chest,
and produced from it a bright Spanish dollar; this he hammered into
a round ball, and with it, instead of a leaden bullet, he loaded the
pistol. So presently, armed in this fashion, he came on deck, the men
following him by ones and twos, and marched right to the door of the
great cabin. His uncle met him at the door. “What do you want here?”
quoth the old man; “take my advice, and let him alone.”
‘“No,” says Ned, “I brought him here, and I’ll make you rid of him;”
and so saying, he put the old man aside, and entered the cabin. It
was almost dark, but the light from the binnacle came down through
the sky-light, and showed the strange passenger sitting there, as the
captain had described, with his back to the rudder-case.
‘Ned Purvis marched heavily in, and the phantom, or whatever it was,
looked up at him, and so they remained for more than a minute staring
into each other’s eyes. The men were watching them over each other’s
shoulders at the door.
‘“Foul-Weather Don,” says Ned at last, as bold as steel, “you’re more
free than welcome.”
The spectre took no notice.
‘“I hove the rope to you,” says Ned, “and I thought I was doing an
act of duty by my fellow-creature. But now, I hear, that there’s no
living blood in your veins, and that you roam the ocean, bringing bad
weather on the mariners you fall in with. That may be true, or it may
not. If not, say so, and say who you are. If you be a shipwrecked
man, you are welcome here; but if not, men have told me that a silver
bullet can wound even a ghost, and if you do not speak in time, by
God, there is a rare chance now of testing the truth of the saying.
Answer!”
‘And Ned cocked the great pistol and levelled at the strange
passenger. The figure never moved a muscle of its wan stern face.
‘“Take the dollar and my blessing with it, then,” shouted Ned, and he
drew the trigger.
‘The pistol exploded, and for a moment the cabin was so full of
smoke, that they could not see what execution had been done. When the
vapour cleared a little off, Foul-Weather Don was standing up, his
stony eyes giving out their cold sparkle, more horribly than ever.
‘“You gave me your benison,” he screeched out, “I give you my
malison; and the executors and the tokens of it will follow you night
and day, until either my fate or yours be accomplished. If you do not
believe me, go on deck, look over either quarter, and see if I do not
speak sooth.”
‘These, mates, were the very words of Foul-Weather Don; for I have
got all the conversations which relate to the matter by heart, as
they were told to me. And so Ned and the rest of them being terribly
startled, tumbled up on deck, one tripping up the other in their
hurry; and the first thing they did was to stare into the sea, where
the phantom had told them to look, when sure enough they saw the
fins of two great blue sharks, awful monsters in size, keeping way
steadily with the ship; and just as Ned came on deck, they gave a
sort of frisky plunge in the water, as much as to say, “There _you_
are—very good; and here _we_ are.”
‘To make a long story short, mates, before midnight, such a gale was
blowing from the eastward, that there was nothing for it but to put
the ship before the wind; and not only that day, but that week, and
for three weeks after that, did the hurricane, for it was little
else, continue, blowing the ship entirely out of her course, until
at length, the captain and crew knew that they had sailed from near
the coast of Africa to the coast of America, and that if the wind
did not soon take off, they would be run plump ashore, either on
the continent or one of the islands. Meanwhile Foul-Weather Don,
as before, never rose from the cabin, nor broke bread nor spoke
word. Indeed, if he were talkative, he had no one but himself to
hold converse with; for captain, quartermaster, mates, and all,
lived forward, and gave up the cabin to the phantom passenger. But
Foul-Weather Don was not the only thing which stuck to the ship. The
sharks kept way with her as steadily in the thundering gale as in
the light breeze. The crew could see them occasionally, ploughing
along in the troughs of the sea, one on each quarter, and keeping
their places as exactly as if they were towing after the ship. Well,
all hands got low and mopish. The old captain was fairly unmanned;
and even Ned Purvis, dare-devil as he was, began to quail. At last,
they knew by their reckoning, and by the look of the sky towards
sundown, that they were approaching the land, and that one way or
the other their fate would soon be settled. So one evening, the men
were gathered in groups, watching the signs of the sky, and pointing
out to each other right ahead the warm coloured clouds which sailors
know hang over the land. The weather looked as wild as ever; the scud
above flew even faster than the waves below; and you should have seen
the battered look of the craft as she went staggering along, under
a rag of canvas, which was becalmed every moment in the troughs of
the sea. Indeed the ship looked almost a wreck. Her bulwarks had
been washed away long ago, the hatchways were all battened down. Out
of three boats she had carried, only one was left, being strongly
lashed to the deck, while the sea-battered skiff of Foul-Weather
Don, although there was not so much as a rope yarn to make it fast,
had never budged for all the great seas, which had been for weeks
rolling over and over the decks, so that the men were obliged to lash
themselves to ringbolts, and to the masts, and never could light a
fire, or wear a stitch of dry clothing.
‘Well, as I was saying, the poor fellows were holding on as well as
they could, and wondering where the ship and they themselves would be
to-morrow by that time, when the two seamen, who were taking their
turn at the helm ropes, gave a loud shout, and the rest turning
about, saw Foul-Weather Don standing upon the deck.
‘“He’s going—he’s going,” whispered old Captain Purvis. “The Lord
hath preserved us in his great goodness.”
‘Well, Foul-Weather Don looked eagerly about as if he expected to
find his treasure island, and then he mounted the rigging—all the
crew holding their breath and watching him—and gazed from the maintop
long and sadly. At length, he made a sort of motion of despair, and
came down to the deck, where he stood wringing his hands. All at
once he turned to Captain Purvis, and motioned for his boat to be
hoisted into the sea. In a minute, mates, the tackles were manned,
and they let the skiff go smash into the water, with a surge that
would have burst another boat into staves. But only the devil, mates,
could swamp a craft like that; she floated alongside as light as a
well-corked bottle.
‘“Haul your wind, when the elements will allow you,” says the Don,
quite solemnly.
‘“Thank you for nothing,” quoth Ned Purvis. “I should think we would,
when you have brought us across the ocean against our will.”
‘But the spectre replied not a word, and seemed to glide rather
than to clamber over the ship’s side into the boat. When he was
fairly aboard, Ned Purvis bellowed out, “Take your sharks with
you, Foul-Weather Don, they are fitter companions for you than for
Christians.”
‘But there was no reply, and in a minute the phantom and his boat
glanced away from the ship’s side, and the last the crew saw of
her was a black speck with a figure in it, in the very crest of a
breaking wave. Just as this happened, and they were beginning to
breathe freely, one of the men shouted “Land!” and sure enough the
next time they rose upon a sea, they saw right in the glare of the
setting sun the dusky coast line of an island. In an hour after,
the gale broke, lulling fast, so that before midnight they had
courses and stay-sails on the ship, she lying-to with her head to the
eastward. You know, mates, that in hot countries it is up wind, up
sea, down wind, down sea, so that by sunrise the next day there was
nothing but a great smooth swell to show that a gale had just swept
across the wide Atlantic. The first thing Ned Purvis did when he came
on deck to take the morning watch, was to look over the quarter, and
he confessed afterwards that his heart felt sick when he saw the two
blue sharks still alongside swimming close to the surface. The other
seamen saw the creatures too, and they looked at Ned, and whispered
among themselves.
‘Well, you may be sure that, after such a run as the ship had had
across the Atlantic, she wanted refitting, and the crew wanted
vegetable food, and rest; so that when the usual trade wind came to
blow, and they found from one or two fishing canoes that they were
amongst the most northern of the Windward islands, they cruised
about, looking for a convenient beach to land at, and to refresh
themselves. All this time, mates, the sharks kept their places as
steadily as the very masts. Ned fished for them in vain. He even
baited the hook with the choicest pieces of pork and beef aboard, but
they would not as much as push the morsel with their snouts. “No,
no,” said the men, when they saw this; “the creatures have their
orders, and they obey them.” Then Ned tried the harpoon, but though
he had often speared porpoises and dolphins, he could not make a hit
at the sharks; either the ship lifted or lurched, or the ravenous
animals glided aside, or the water made the spear glance; but,
however it was, Ned confessed that he could not even scratch their
dingy backs.
‘Upon this, there was little but black looks and murmuring words in
the ship. Poor old Captain Purvis was at his wit’s end, and the crew,
although they used to love poor Ned, now began to look at him as
though he were a Jonas, and Ned knew it.
‘“The curse,” said the men, “is following us in a visible shape.
There can be no good luck for ship, or crew, or cargo, with such a
couple of attendants swimming astern.”
‘Well, Ned tried hard to laugh it off, but he could not succeed, and
his arguments were of as little avail. “Why,” he would say, “they
can’t jump aboard, messmates; the ocean is theirs as well as ours,
and if a cat may look at a king, I don’t see why a shark may not look
at a ship.”
‘But though he spoke in this tone, I can tell you that Ned was but
ill at ease himself. Well, this lasted three days, and all that time
they were cruising about among the islands, looking for a place which
would be snug to anchor in, and out of the way of Spanish ships. On
the third day, when the ship was about a league from a small sandy
isle or key, the men noticed that the sharks came closer to her than
ever, as if they were getting more and more watchful of their prey.
This made the pot boil over, and the boatswain and three-fourths of
the crew went to the captain in a body, and said that Ned must leave
the ship that hour, for that he was a doomed man, and that a doomed
man made a doomed ship. There was land close to, they said. Mr.
Purvis would get plenty of water and provisions, and he might soon
get his passage off in another ship, but whether he did or not, he
must go ashore now. Old Purvis tried to argue the thing, but the men
would not hear his words, and in the middle of the hubbub, Ned comes
forward, frankly, and says—
‘“Messmates, I have brought misfortune on the ship, and spoiled the
voyage; I am willing to land.”
‘On hearing this, Captain Purvis wished to follow his nephew, but
they would not let him because he was the only good navigator they
would have, after Ned went away, in the ship. So, presently, the
remaining boat was launched, and beef, and biscuit, and water,
sufficient for two months at least, were put in her, with a musket,
and ammunition, and a shovel, that Ned might have the means of
digging for water. When the boat shoved off, the sharks followed,
on which Ned, pointing to them, shouted to his uncle to be of good
cheer, for they would meet again, and that the ship was now free
of bad omens. The boat landed in a little cove, and Ned stepped on
shore with his gun in his hand. The men placed his provisions and
the shovel upon the beach, and shook hands with him; and as they
rowed back to the ship, they gave him a cheer for his stout heart.
Well, when they were gone, Ned began to look around him, and truly
he was alone in a desolate place. Most of the island appeared to be
sand, upon which, in some places, there were great banks of Bahama
grass growing, and about a rood from him there was a little hill,
with bushes in it, and one very old tree at the top. What rejoiced
Ned, however, was to see plenty of turtles sleeping on the sand, and
numerous birds. Well, he lived here nigh a fortnight, sleeping under
a rock in a sort of cave, which was cool and pleasant, and looking
out in vain for a ship. All this time the sharks kept cruising along
the shore, and Ned used to amuse himself by flinging great stones on
them from the top of rocks rising out of the sea. One day, however,
having climbed the little hill, and sat down under the tree, he
observed a curious thing. The tree, which must have been dead near a
century, and which was all covered with moss, had several withered
branches, to which cross pieces of wood had been rudely fastened,
but in such a way that, unless you looked very closely, you would
have thought that such was the natural growth of the tree. But at two
hours, or thereby, after noon every day, these branches cast shadows
as of six crosses, all in a circle on the sand. It was after Ned
observed this that he climbed the tree, and found that the crosses
were artificial. Then all at once it struck him that they were meant
for marks, and then he thought that something might be buried there.
Well, mates, off he goes for his shovel, and sets to work at once.
It was hot work digging in that climate, but he very soon scraped
the lid of a great chest made of ironwood, and bound with hasps and
clasps of metal.
‘“By all the stars,” quoth Ned, “who knows but this is Foul-Weather
Don’s treasure-chest.”
‘Mates, I believe it was. Ned soon wrenched the lid off, and there
he saw great ingots and rough lumps of gold, and precious stones,
just as they were dug up from the mines in Cuba and Hispaniola by the
Indians for the Spaniards. There they had lain for a hundred years,
and no man the wiser or the better.
‘“Aha,” says Ned, “I would fain have you in England, but what am I to
do with you here?”
‘However, he made shift to carry the wealth, lump by lump, down to
his cave near the sea; then he brought the box, and stowed the gold
as before, covering all over with loose sand. The very next morning,
mates, Ned, on awaking, saw a small bark—he did not know what she
was—becalmed, not a mile from the shore, waiting for the sea-breeze.
So he mounted a rock, fired his gun, waved a handkerchief, and
shouted. Presently, a boat pulled off from the bark, and Ned went
down to the cove to meet her. There were a couple of men in the boat,
of what nation I know not, but the vessel to which they belonged
was a turtler, from one of the large windward islands—Martinico, I
believe. So Ned told them that he had been marooned for striking
the quartermaster of the ship in which he sailed, and asked them if
they would give him a passage to any port where he could ship for
England. So the turtlers consulted together, and asked him if he had
wherewithal to pay his passage. Upon which Ned, who cared nothing
at all for money, took them into his cave, and showed them the
treasure-chest. At the sight of it the turtlers stared, as well they
might, and most readily agreed to take off Ned and his gold at once.
The three set to work, and presently the boat was loaded almost to
the water’s edge with riches. The turtlers went about like men in a
dream, and they were only roused from a sort of stupid bewilderment
when they had rowed the boat out of the cove and found her so heavy
that they feared she should be swamped by the heave of the sea.
‘“Lord!” says one of them, “see there; if the boat were to fill and
go down. Did you ever see more fearful monsters?”
‘And sure enough there were Ned’s old friends swimming on each side
of the boat, as though they were appointed the guardians of the
treasure. However, no accident happened, and as they neared the
turtling ship, the sailors cried out that they were coming on board
with treasure enough to buy a kingdom.
‘You may think for yourselves, mates, how the entire crew of the
bark, which carried about half-a-dozen men, received their freight.
Ned told the simple truth as to how he had got it, and the turtler,
immediately that the sea-breeze came, stood away for Martinico, the
two sharks following as usual. Gold, mates, is a thing that makes
demons out of men. The big chest stood upon the deck, and the crew
hung round it, and would hardly work the ship. Presently they began
to handle and weigh the lumps, and dispute about their value. Ned
saw that a storm was brewing, and fearing that he would be stabbed
or flung overboard to the sharks astern, so as to be no bar to a
distribution of the wealth, stood forward and said that they were
as much entitled to the gold as he, for if he had found it, they
had given him the means of turning it to use. Well, at this speech
they professed great satisfaction, and swore that Ned was an honest
man and a good comrade, and that as he said, so it would be done.
But it was clear that they all distrusted each other. Ned saw them
whispering and caballing, and once or twice he observed a man
concealing a knife in his garment, so that the haft came handy to his
grasp. All this time the sharks were following steadily in the wake,
and Ned did not like the look of the weather, for great black clouds
were gathering in the sky. Still the men were looking sourer and
sourer at each other, and gradually drawing off into two parties, one
on each side of the chest, the twain watching each other warily. Ned
tried to remonstrate with them, and told them that they ought to take
in sail, for the weather looked threatening. But they ordered him
to mind his own business, and said, they had not taken him on board
to be captain over them. So Ned sat on the weather-bulwark, looking
very uneasily to windward. Mates, you have all seen a squall in these
seas, and you know how it comes. The weather getting very thick, the
men forming each group began to whisper, and then, all at once, as if
they had made up their minds, they gave a loud shout, and made a rush
at the box; as they did so, they drew knives and snicker-snees, and
cut and chopped at each other, struggling and cursing over the chest.
Ned saw the blood splash down on the gold, and he rushed forward to
separate them, crying out, “Madmen that you are—look out for the
squall first and fight afterwards.”
‘But it was too late, mates. The sky got black, and with a loud
roar the squall came, tearing up the sea before it, and in the very
centre of the flying foam Ned swore he saw Foul-Weather Don, with
his arms stretched forth, as if in triumph. In an instant the blast
struck the sails, heaving the turtler bodily on her broadside, and as
she lurched over, the heavy box of gold fetched away with a mighty
surge, and went crashing through and through the frail bulwark, and
then with a great plunge down to the bottom of the ocean, there to
lie, mates, even until the day when the sea shall give up its dead!
All this passed in a moment, and the next instant the ship, as
though relieved by having cast forth the guilty gold, righted with
a heavy roll, which sent the seamen sprawling across the deck, with
their knives in their hands, and bloody gashes in their faces and
limbs. The squall was over, and the sun burst out; Ned rushed to
the lee-beam, and saw, just where the gold had fallen into the sea,
the bottom of a boat all covered with barnacles and sea-weed, which
he knew well. She seemed now saturated and rotten with water, for
the charm was off her, mates; and while Ned gazed at her, she went
gradually down into the great depths of the sea, and the sharks sunk
out of sight with her. As they disappeared, Ned felt a heavy load
leave his heart, and he thought that he had got cheaply rid of it,
even at the expense of the gold. The curse was taken off him, and he
rather surprised the turtlers, who were standing looking very like
fools, by cutting a set of capers on the deck. The first thing they
did was to try for soundings, but the line ran out every fathom, and
the lead touched no bottom. So they lengthened the cord with every
piece of loose rope in the ship, but the sea appeared unfathomable.
The gold was sunk in a gulf from which no power of man could raise
it; and so at length, mutually cursing and blaming each other, they
wore the ship round, and stood back to pursue their turtling cruise.
From that time to this, mates, no mariner has ever seen Foul-Weather
Don. Ned Purvis got safely back to England, and, as I informed you
already, he told this tale, aboard the Bristol ship, to him who made
it known to me. Regarding its truth, I leave every man to judge for
himself.’