Years have passed away since we related Amine's sufferings and cruel
death; and now once more we bring Philip Vanderdecken on the scene. And
during this time, where has he been? A lunatic--at one time frantic,
chained, coerced with blows; at others, mild and peaceable. Reason
occasionally appeared to burst out again, as the sun on a cloudy day,
and then it was again obscured. For many years there was one who
watched him carefully, and lived in hope to witness his return to a sane
mind; he watched in sorrow and remorse--he died without his desires
being gratified. This was Father Mathias!
The cottage at Terneuse had long fallen into ruin; for many years it
waited the return of its owners, and at last the heirs-at-law claimed
and recovered the substance of Philip Vanderdecken. Even the fate of
Amine had passed from the recollection of most people; although her
portrait over burning coals, with her crime announced beneath it, still
hangs--as is the custom in the church of the Inquisition--attracting
from its expressive beauty, the attention of the most careless
passers-by.
But many, many years have rolled away--Philip's hair is white--his once
powerful frame is broken down--and he appears much older than he really
is. He is now sane; but his vigour is gone. Weary of life, all he
wishes for is to execute his mission--and then to welcome death.
The relic has never been taken from him: he has been discharged from the
lunatic-asylum, and has been provided with the means of returning to his
country. Alas! he has now no country--no home--nothing in the world to
induce him to remain in it. All he asks is--to do his duty and to die.
The ship was ready to sail for Europe; and Philip Vanderdecken went on
board--hardly caring whither he went. To return to Terneuse was not his
object; he could not bear the idea of revisiting the scene of so much
happiness and so much misery. Amine's form was engraven on his heart,
and he looked forward with impatience to the time when he should be
summoned to join her in the land of spirits.
He had awakened as from a dream, after so many years of aberration of
intellect. He was no longer the sincere Catholic that he had been; for
he never thought of religion without his Amine's cruel fate being
brought to his recollection. Still he clung on to the relic--he
believed in that--and that only. It was his god--his creed--his
everything--the passport for himself and for his father into the next
world--the means whereby he should join his Amine--and for hours would
he remain holding in his hand that object so valued--gazing upon it--
recalling every important event in his life, from the death of his poor
mother, and his first sight of Amine, to the last dreadful scene. It
was to him a journal of his existence, and on it were fixed all his
hopes for the future.
"When! oh when is it to be accomplished?" was the constant subject of
his reveries. "Blessed indeed will be the day when I leave this world
of hate, and seek that other in which the weary are at rest."
The vessel on board of which Philip was embarked as a passenger was the
Nostra Senora da Monte, a brig of three hundred tons, bound for Lisbon.
The captain was an old Portuguese, full of superstition, and fond of
arrack--a fondness rather unusual with the people of his nation. They
sailed from Goa, and Philip was standing abaft, and sadly contemplating
the spire of the cathedral, in which he had last parted with his wife,
when his elbow was touched, and he turned round.
"Fellow-passenger, again!" said a well-known voice--it was that of the
pilot Schriften.
There was no alteration in the man's appearance; he showed no marks of
declining years; his one eye glared as keenly as ever.
Philip started, not only at the sight of the man, but at the
reminiscences which his unexpected appearance brought to his mind. It
was but for a second, and he was again calm and pensive.
"You here again, Schriften?" observed Philip. "I trust your appearance
forebodes the accomplishment of my task."
"Perhaps it does," replied the pilot; "we both are weary."
Philip made no reply; he did not even ask Schriften in what manner he
had escaped from the fort; he was indifferent about it; for he felt that
the man had a charmed life.
"Many are the vessels that have been wrecked, Philip Vanderdecken, and
many the souls summoned to their account by meeting with your father's
ship, while you have been so long shut up," observed the pilot.
"May our next meeting with him be more fortunate--may it be the last!"
replied Philip.
"No, no! rather may he fulfil his doom, and sail till the day of
judgment!" replied the pilot, with emphasis.
"Vile caitiff! I have a foreboding that you will not have your
detestable wish. Away!--leave me! or you shall find, that although this
head is blanched by misery, this arm has still some power."
Schriften scowled as he walked away; he appeared to have some fear of
Philip, although it was not equal to his hate. He now resumed his
former attempts of stirring up the ship's company against Philip,
declaring that he was a Jonah, who would occasion the loss of the ship,
and that he was connected with the Flying Dutchman. Philip very soon
observed that he was avoided; and he resorted to counter-statements,
equally injurious to Schriften, whom he declared to be a demon. The
appearance of Schriften was so much against him, while that of Philip,
on the contrary, was so prepossessing, that the people on board hardly
knew what to think. They were divided: some were on the side of
Philip--some on that of Schriften; the captain and many others looking
with equal horror upon both, and longing for the time when they could be
sent out of the vessel.
The captain, as we have before observed, was very superstitious, and
very fond of his bottle. In the morning he would be sober and pray; in
the afternoon he would be drunk and swear at the very saints whose
protection he had invoked but a few hours before.
"May holy Saint Antonio preserve us, and keep us from temptation," said
he, on the morning after a conversation with the passengers about the
Phantom Ship. "All the saints protect us from harm," continued he,
taking off his hat reverentially and crossing himself. "Let me but rid
myself of these two dangerous men without accident, and I will offer up
a hundred wax candles, of three ounces each, to the shrine of the
Virgin, upon my safe anchoring off the tower of Belem." In the evening
he changed his language.
"Now, if that Maldetto Saint Antonio don't help us, may he feel the
coals of hell yet! damn him, and his pigs too; if he has the courage to
do his duty, all will be well; but he is a cowardly wretch, he cares for
nobody, and will not help those who call upon him in trouble. Carambo,
that for you!" exclaimed the captain, looking at the small shrine of the
saint at the bittacle, and snapping his fingers at the image; "that for
you, you useless wretch, who never help us in our trouble. The pope
must canonise some better saints for us, for all we have now are worn
out. They could do something formerly, but now I would not give two
ounces of gold for the whole calendar; as for you, you lazy old
scoundrel--" continued the captain, shaking his fist at poor Saint
Antonio.
The ship had now gained off the southern coast of Africa, and was about
one hundred miles from the Lagullas coast; the morning was beautiful, a
slight ripple only turned over the waves, the breeze was light and
steady, and the vessel was standing on a wind at the rate of about four
miles an hour.
"Blessed be the holy saints," said the captain, who had just gained the
deck; "another little slant in our favour, and we shall lay our course.
Again, I say, blessed be the holy saints, and particularly our worthy
patron, Saint Antonio, who has taken under his peculiar protection the
Nostra Senora da Monte. We have a prospect of fine weather; come,
signors, let us down to breakfast, and after breakfast, we enjoy our
cigarros upon the deck."
But the scene was soon changed; a bank of clouds rose up from the
eastward with a rapidity that to the seamen's eyes was unnatural, and it
soon covered the whole firmament; the sun was obscured, and all was one
deep and unnatural gloom; the wind subsided, and the ocean was hushed.
It was not exactly dark, but the heavens were covered with one red haze,
which gave an appearance as if the world was in a state of
conflagration.
In the cabin the increased darkness was first observed by Philip, who
went on deck; he was followed by the captain and passengers, who were in
a state of amazement. It was unnatural and incomprehensible. "Now,
holy Virgin, protect us!--what can this be?" exclaimed the captain in a
fright "Holy Saint Antonio, protect us!--but this is awful."
"There--there!" shouted the sailors, pointing to the beam of the vessel.
Every eye looked over the gunnel to witness what had occasioned such
exclamations. Philip, Schriften, and the captain, were side by side.
On the beam of the ship, not more than two cables' length distant, they
beheld slowly rising out of the water the tapering masthead and spars of
another vessel. She rose, and rose, gradually; her topmasts and topsail
yards, with the sails set, next made their appearance; higher and higher
she rose up from the element. Her lower masts and rigging, and, lastly,
her hull showed itself above the surface. Still she rose up, till her
ports, with her guns, and at last the whole of her floatage was above
water and there she remained close to them, with her main yard squared,
and hove-to.
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the captain, breathless; "I have known ships to
_go down_, but never to _come up_ before. Now will I give one thousand
candles, of ten ounces each, to the shrine of the Virgin, to save us in
this trouble. One thousand wax candles! Hear me, blessed lady, ten
ounces each! Gentlemen," cried the captain to the passengers, who stood
aghast; "why don't you promise?--promise, I say; _promise_, at all
events."
"The Phantom Ship--the Flying Dutchman," shrieked Schriften; "I told you
so, Philip Vanderdecken; there is your father--he, he!"
Philip's eyes had remained fixed on the vessel; he perceived that they
were lowering down a boat from her quarter. "It is possible," thought
he, "I shall now be permitted!" and Philip put his hand into his bosom
and grasped the relic.
The gloom now increased, so that the strange vessel's hull could but
just be discovered through the murky atmosphere. The seamen and
passengers threw themselves down on their knees, and invoked their
saints. The captain ran down for a candle, to light before the image of
St. Antonio, which he took out of its shrine and kissed with much
apparent affection and devotion, and then replaced.
Shortly afterwards the splash of oars was heard alongside, and a voice
calling out, "I say, my good people, give us a rope from forward."
No one answered, or complied with the request. Schriften only went up
to the captain, and told him that if they offered to send letters they
must not be received, or the vessel would be doomed, and all would
perish.
A man now made his appearance from over the gunnel, at the gangway.
"You might as well have let me had a side-rope, my hearties," said he,
as he stepped on deck; "where is the captain?"
"Here," replied the captain, trembling from head to foot. The man who
accosted him appeared a weather-beaten seaman, dressed in a fur cap and
canvas petticoats; he held some letters in his hand.
"What do you want?" at last screamed the captain.
"Yes--what do you want?" continued Schriften, "He! he!"
"What, you here, pilot?" observed the man--"well--I thought you had gone
to Davy's locker, long enough ago."
"He! he!" replied Schriften, turning away.
"Why, the fact is, captain, we have had very foul weather and we wish to
send letters home; I do believe that we shall never get round this
cape."
"I can't take them," cried the captain.
"Can't take them! well, it's very odd; but every ship refuses to take
our letters. It's very unkind; seamen should have a feeling for brother
seamen, especially in distress. God knows, we wish to see our wives and
families again; and it would be a matter of comfort to them if they only
could hear from us."
"I cannot take your letters--the saints preserve us!" replied the
captain.
"We have been a long while out," said the seaman, shaking his head.
"How long?" inquired the captain, not knowing what to say.
"We can't tell; our almanack was blown overboard, and we have lost our
reckoning. We never have our latitude exact now, for we cannot tell the
sun's declination for the right day."
"Let _me_ see your letters," said Philip, advancing and taking them out
of the seaman's hands.
"They must not be touched!" screamed Schriften.
"Out, monster!" replied Philip; "who dares interfere with me?"
"Doomed--doomed--doomed!" shrieked Schriften, running up and down the
deck, and then breaking into a wild fit of laughter.
"Touch not the letters," said the captain, trembling as if in an ague
fit.
Philip made no reply, but held his hand out for the letters.
"Here is one from our second mate to his wife at Amsterdam who lives on
Waser Quay."
"Waser Quay has long been gone, my good friend; there is now a large
dock for ships where it once was," replied Philip.
"Impossible!" replied the man; "here is another from the boatswain to
his father, who lives in the old market-place."
"The old market-place has long been pulled down, and there now stands a
church upon the spot."
"Impossible!" replied the seaman; "here is another from myself to my
sweetheart, Vrow Ketser--with money to buy her a new brooch."
Philip shook his head. "I remember seeing an old lady of that name
buried some thirty years ago."
"Impossible! I left her young and blooming. Here's one for the house
of Slutz and Company, to whom the ship belongs."
"There's no such house now," replied Philip; "but I have heard that,
many years ago, there was a firm of that name."
"Impossible! you must be laughing at me. Here is a letter from our
captain to his son--"
"Give it me," cried Philip, seizing the letter. He was about to break
the seal, when Schriften snatched it out of his hand and threw it over
the lee gunnel.
"That's a scurvy trick for an old shipmate," observed the seaman.
Schriften made no reply, but catching up the other letters which Philip
had laid down on the capstan, he hurled them after the first.
The strange seaman shed tears, and walked again to the side. "It is
very hard--very unkind," observed he, as he descended; "the time may
come when you may wish that your family should know your situation." So
saying, he disappeared. In a few seconds was heard the sound of the
oars retreating from the ship.
"Holy St. Antonio!" exclaimed the captain. "I am lost in wonder and
fright. Steward, bring me up the arrack."
The steward ran down for the bottle; being as much alarmed as his
captain, he helped himself before he brought it up to his commander.
"Now," said the captain, after keeping his mouth for two minutes to the
bottle, and draining it to the bottom, "what is to be done next?"
"I'll tell you," said Schriften, going up to him: "that man there has a
charm hung round his neck; take it from him and throw it overboard, and
your ship will be saved; if not, it will be lost, with every soul on
board."
"Yes yes, it's all right, depend upon it," cried the sailors.
"Fools," replied Philip, "do you believe that wretch? Did you not hear
the man who came on board recognise him, and call him shipmate? He is
the party whose presence on board will prove so unfortunate."
"Yes, yes," cried the sailors, "it's all right; the man did call him
shipmate."
"I tell you it's all wrong," cried Schriften; "that is the man: let him
give up the charm."
"Yes, yes; let him give up the charm," cried the sailors; and they
rushed upon Philip.
Philip started back to where the captain stood. "Madmen, know ye what
ye are about? It is the holy cross that I wear round my neck. Throw it
overboard if you dare, and your souls are lost for ever;" and Philip
took the relic from his bosom and showed it to the captain.
"No, no, men;" exclaimed the captain, who was now more settled in his
nerves; "that won't do--the saints protect us."
The seamen, however, became clamorous; one portion were for throwing
Schriften overboard, the other for throwing Philip; at last, the point
was decided by the captain, who directed the small skiff hanging astern
to be lowered down, and ordered both Philip and Schriften to get into
it. The seamen approved of this arrangement, as it satisfied both
parties. Philip made no objection; Schriften screamed and fought, but
he was tossed into the boat. There he remained trembling in the
stern-sheets, while Philip, who had seized the sculls, pulled away from
the vessel in the direction of the Phantom Ship.