The sudden gloom which had succeeded to the pale light had the effect
of rendering every object still more indistinct to the astonished crew
of the _Ter Schilling_. For a moment or more not a word was uttered by
a soul on board. Some remained with their eyes still strained towards
the point where the apparition had been seen, others turned away full
of gloomy and foreboding thoughts. Hillebrant was the first who spoke:
turning round to the eastern quarter, and observing a light on the
horizon, he started, and seizing Philip by the arm, cried out, "What's
that?"
"That is only the moon rising from the bank of clouds," replied
Philip, mournfully.
"Well!" observed Mynheer Kloots, wiping his forehead, which was damp
with perspiration, "I _have_ been told of this before, but I have
mocked at the narration."
Philip made no reply. Aware of the reality of the vision, and how
deeply it interested him, he felt as if he were a guilty person.
The moon had now risen above the clouds, and was pouring her mild pale
light over the slumbering ocean. With a simultaneous impulse, everyone
directed his eyes to the spot where the strange vision had last been
seen; and all was a dead, dead calm.
Since the apparition, the pilot, Schriften, had remained on the poop;
he now gradually approached Mynheer Kloots, and looking round, said--
"Mynheer Kloots, as pilot of this vessel, I tell you that you must
prepare for very bad weather."
"Bad weather!" said Kloots, rousing himself from a deep reverie.
"Yes, bad weather, Mynheer Kloots. There never was a vessel which
fell in with--what we have just seen, but met with disaster soon
afterwards. The very name of Vanderdecken is unlucky--He! he!"
Philip would have replied to the sarcasm, but he could not, his tongue
was tied.
"What has the name of Vanderdecken to do with it?" observed Kloots.
"Have you not heard, then? The captain of that vessel we have just
seen is a Mynheer Vanderdecken--he is the Flying Dutchman!"
"How know you that, pilot?" inquired Hillebrant.
"I know that, and much more, if I chose to tell," replied Schriften;
"but never mind, I have warned you of bad weather, as is my duty;"
and, with these words, Schriften went down the poop-ladder.
"God in heaven! I never was so puzzled and so frightened in my life,"
observed Kloots. "I don't know what to think or say.--What think you,
Philip? was it not supernatural?"
"Yes," replied Philip, mournfully. "I have no doubt of it."
"I thought the days of miracles had passed," said the captain, "and
that we were now left to our own exertions, and had no other warnings
but those the appearance of the heavens gave us."
"And they warn us now," observed Hillebrant. "See how that bank of
clouds has risen within these five minutes--the moon has escaped from
it, but it will soon catch her again--and see, there is a flash of
lightning in the north-west."
"Well, my sons, I can brave the elements as well as any man, and do my
best. I have cared little for gales or stress of weather; but I like
not such a warning as we have had to-night. My heart's as heavy as
lead, and that's the truth. Philip, send down for the bottle of
schnapps, if it is only to clear my brain a little."
Philip was glad of an opportunity to quit the poop; he wished to have
a few minutes to recover himself and collect his own thoughts. The
appearance of the Phantom Ship had been to him a dreadful shock--not
that he had not fully believed in its existence; but still, to have
beheld, to have been so near that vessel--that vessel in which his
father was fulfilling his awful doom--that vessel on board of which he
felt sure that his own destiny was to be worked out--had given a whirl
to his brain. When he had heard the sound of the boatswain's whistle
on board of her, eagerly had he stretched his hearing to catch the
order given--and given, he was convinced, in his father's voice. Nor
had his eyes been less called to aid in his attempt to discover the
features and dress of those moving on her decks. As soon, then, as he
had sent the boy up to Mynheer Kloots, Philip hastened to his
cabin and buried his face in the coverlet of his bed, and then he
prayed--prayed until he had recovered his usual energy and courage,
and had brought his mind to that state of composure which could enable
him to look forward calmly to danger and difficulty, and feel prepared
to meet it with the heroism of a martyr.
Philip remained below not more than half an hour. On his return to the
deck, what a change had taken place! He had left the vessel floating
motionless on the still waters, with her lofty sails hanging down
listlessly from the yards. The moon then soared aloft in her beauty,
reflecting the masts and sails of the ship in extended lines upon the
smooth sea. Now all was dark: the water rippled short and broke in
foam; the smaller and lofty sails had been taken in, and the vessel
was cleaving through the water; and the wind, in fitful gusts and
angry moanings, proclaimed too surely that it had been awakened up to
wrath, and was gathering its strength for destruction. The men
were still busy reducing the sails, but they worked gloomily and
discontentedly. What Schriften, the pilot, had said to them, Philip
knew not, but that they avoided him and appeared to look upon him with
feelings of ill-will, was evident. And each minute the gale increased.
"The wind is not steady," observed Hillebrant; "there is no saying
from which quarter the storm may blow: it has already veered round
five points. Philip, I don't much like the appearance of things, and I
may say with the captain that my heart is heavy."
"And, indeed, so is mine," replied Philip; "but we are in the hands of
a merciful Providence."
"Hard a-port! flatten in forward! brail up the trysail, my men!
Be smart!" cried Kloots, as from the wind's chopping round to the
northward and westward, the ship was taken aback, and careened low
before it. The rain now came down in torrents, and it was so dark that
it was with difficulty they could perceive each other on the deck.
"We must clew up the topsails, while the men can get upon the yards.
See to it forward, Mr Hillebrant."
The lightning now darted athwart the firmament, and the thunder
pealed.
"Quick! quick, my men, let's furl all!"
The sailors shook the water from their streaming clothes, some worked,
others took advantage of the night to hide themselves away, and
commune with their own fears.
All canvas was now taken off the ship, except the fore-staysail, and
she flew to the southward with the wind on her quarter. The sea had
now risen, and roared as it curled in foam, the rain fell in torrents,
the night was dark as Erebus, and the wet and frightened sailors
sheltered themselves under the bulwarks. Although many had deserted
from their duty, there was not one who ventured below that night. They
did not collect together as usual--every man preferred solitude and
his own thoughts. The Phantom Ship dwelt on their imaginations, and
oppressed their brains.
It was an interminably long and terrible night--they thought the day
would never come. At last the darkness gradually changed to a settled
sullen grey gloom--which was day. They looked at each other, but found
no comfort in meeting each other's eyes. There was no one countenance
in which a beam of hope could be found lurking. They were all
doomed--they remained crouched where they had sheltered themselves
during the night, and said nothing.
The sea had now risen mountains high, and more than once had struck
the ship abaft. Kloots was at the binnacle, Hillebrant and Philip at
the helm, when a wave curled high over the quarter, and poured itself
in resistless force upon the deck. The captain and his two mates were
swept away, and dashed almost senseless against the bulwarks--the
binnacle and compass were broken into fragments--no one ran to the
helm--the vessel broached to--the seas broke clear over her, and the
mainmast went by the board.
All was confusion. Captain Kloots was stunned, and it was with
difficulty that Philip could persuade two of the men to assist him
down below. Hillebrant had been more unfortunate--his right arm was
broken, and he was otherwise severely bruised; Philip assisted him to
his berth, and then went on deck again to try and restore order.
Philip Vanderdecken was not yet much of a seaman, but, at all events,
he exercised that moral influence over the men which is ever possessed
by resolution and courage. Obey willingly they did not, but they did
obey, and in half an hour the vessel was clear of the wreck. Eased by
the loss of her heavy mast, and steered by two of her best seamen, she
again flew before the gale.
Where was Mynheer Von Stroom during all this work of destruction? In
his bed-place, covered up with the clothes, trembling in every limb,
and vowing that if ever again he put his foot on shore, not all the
companies in the world should induce him to trust to salt-water again.
It certainly was the best plan for the poor man.
But although for a time the men obeyed the orders of Philip, they
were soon seen talking earnestly with the one-eyed pilot, and after a
consultation of a quarter of an hour, they all left the deck, with the
exception of the two at the helm. Their reasons for so doing were soon
apparent--several returned with cans full of liquor, which they had
obtained by forcing the hatches of the spirit-room. For about an
hour Philip remained on deck, persuading the men not to intoxicate
themselves, but in vain; the cans of grog offered to the men at the
wheel were not refused, and, in a short time, the yawing of the vessel
proved that the liquor had taken its effect. Philip then hastened down
below to ascertain if Mynheer Kloots was sufficiently recovered to
come on deck. He found him sunk into a deep sleep, and with difficulty
it was that he roused him, and made him acquainted with the
distressing intelligence. Mynheer Kloots followed Philip on deck, but
he still suffered from his fall: his head was confused, and he reeled
as he walked, as if he also had been making free with the liquor. When
he had been on deck a few minutes, he sank down on one of the guns in
a state of perfect helplessness; he had, in fact, received a severe
concussion of the brain. Hillebrant was too severely injured to
be able to move from his bed, and Philip was now aware of the
helplessness of their situation. Daylight gradually disappeared, and,
as darkness came upon them, so did the scene become more appalling.
The vessel still ran before the gale, but the men at the helm had
evidently changed her course, as the wind that was on the starboard
was now on the larboard quarter. But compass there was none on deck,
and, even if there had been, the men in their drunken state would have
refused to listen to Philip's orders or expostulations. "He," they
said, "was no sailor, and was not to teach them how to steer the ship"
The gale was now at its height. The rain had ceased, but the wind had
increased, and it roared as it urged on the vessel, which, steered so
wide by the drunken sailors, shipped seas over each gunnel; but the
men laughed and joined the chorus of their songs to the howling of the
gale.
Schriften, the pilot, appeared to be the leader of the ship's company.
With the can of liquor in his hand, he danced and sang, snapped his
fingers, and, like a demon, peered with his one eye upon Philip; and
then would he fall and roll with screams of laughter in the scuppers.
More liquor was handed up as fast as it was called for. Oaths,
shrieks, laughter, were mingled together; the men at the helm lashed
it amidships, and hastened to join their companions, and the _Ter
Schilling_ flew before the gale; the fore-staysail being the only
sail set, checking her as she yawed to starboard or to port. Philip
remained on deck by the poop-ladder. "Strange," thought he, "that I
should stand here, the only one left now capable of acting,--that
I should be fated to look by myself upon this scene of horror and
disgust--should here wait the severing of this vessel's timbers,--the
loss of life which must accompany it,--the only one calm and
collected, or aware of what must soon take place. God forgive me, but
I appear, useless and impotent as I am, to stand here like the master
of the storm,--separated as it were from my brother mortals by my
own peculiar destiny. It must be so. This wreck then must not be for
me,--I feel that it is not,--that I have a charmed life, or rather a
protracted one, to fulfil the oath I registered in heaven. But the
wind is not so loud, surely the water is not so rough: my forebodings
may be wrong, and all may yet be saved. Heaven grant it! For how
melancholy, how lamentable is it, to behold men created in God's own
image, leaving the world, disgraced below the brute creation!"
Philip was right in supposing that the wind was not so strong, nor
the sea so high. The vessel, after running to the southward till past
Table Bay, had, by the alteration made in her course, entered into
False Bay, where, to a certain degree, she was sheltered from the
violence of the winds and waves. But, although the water was smoother,
the waves were still more than sufficient to beat to pieces any vessel
that might be driven on shore at the bottom of the bay, to which point
the _Ter Schilling_ was now running. The bay so far offered a fair
chance of escape, as, instead of the rocky coast outside (against
which, had the vessel run, a few seconds would have insured her
destruction), there was a shelving beach of loose sand. But of this
Philip could, of course, have no knowledge, for the land at the
entrance of the Bay had been passed unperceived in the darkness of the
night. About twenty minutes more had elapsed, when Philip observed
that the whole sea around them was one continued foam. He had hardly
time for conjecture before the ship struck heavily on the sands, and
the remaining masts fell by the board.
The crash of the falling masts, the heavy beating of the ship on the
sands, which caused many of her timbers to part, with a whole sea
which swept clean over the fated vessel, checked the songs and drunken
revelry of the crew. Another minute, and the vessel was swung round on
her broadside to the sea, and lay on her beam ends. Philip, who was
to windward, clung to the bulwark, while the intoxicated seamen
floundered in the water to leeward, and attempted to gain the other
side of the ship. Much to Philip's horror, he perceived the body of
Mynheer Kloots sink down in the water (which now was several feet deep
on the lee side of the deck) without any apparent effort on the part
of the captain to save himself. He was then gone, and there were no
hopes for him. Philip thought of Hillebrant, and hastened down below;
he found him still in his bed-place, lying against the side. He lifted
him out, and with difficulty climbed with him on deck, and laid him in
the long-boat on the booms, as the best chance of saving his life. To
this boat, the only one which could be made available, the crew had
also repaired; but they repulsed Philip, who would have got into her;
and, as the sea made clean breakers over them, they cast loose the
lashings which confined her. With the assistance of another heavy sea
which lifted her from the chocks, she was borne clear of the booms
and dashed over the gunnel into the water, to leeward, which was
comparatively smooth--not, however, without being filled nearly up to
the thwarts. But this was little cared for by the intoxicated seamen,
who, as soon as they were afloat, again raised their shouts and songs
of revelry as they were borne away by the wind and sea towards the
beach. Philip, who held on by the stump of the mainmast, watched them
with an anxious eye, now perceiving them borne aloft on the foaming
surf, now disappearing in the trough. More and more distant were the
sounds of their mad voices, till, at last, he could hear them no
more,--he beheld the boat balanced on an enormous rolling sea, and
then he saw it not again.
Philip knew that now his only chance was to remain with the vessel,
and attempt to save himself upon some fragment of the wreck. That the
ship would long hold together he felt was impossible; already she had
parted her upper decks, and each shock of the waves divided her more
and more. At last, as he clung to the mast, he heard a noise abaft,
and he then recollected that Mynheer Von Stroom was still in his
cabin. Philip crawled aft, and found that the poop-ladder had been
thrown against the cabin door, so as to prevent its being opened. He
removed it and entered the cabin, where he found Mynheer Von Stroom
clinging to windward with the grasp of death,--but it was not death,
but the paralysis of fear. He spoke to him, but could obtain no reply;
he attempted to move him, but it was impossible to make him let go the
part of the bulk-head that he grasped. A loud noise and the rush of a
mass of water told Philip that the vessel had parted amidships, and he
unwillingly abandoned the poor supercargo to his fate, and went out
of the cabin door. At the after-hatchway he observed something
struggling,--it was Johannes the bear, who was swimming, but still
fastened by a cord which prevented his escape. Philip took out his
knife, and released the poor animal, and hardly had he done this act
of kindness when a heavy sea turned over the after part of the vessel,
which separated in many pieces, and Philip found himself struggling in
the waves. He seized upon a part of the deck which supported him, and
was borne away by the surf towards the beach. In a few minutes he was
near to the land, and shortly afterwards the piece of planking to
which he was clinging struck on the sand, and then, being turned over
by the force of the running wave, Philip lost his hold, and was left
to his own exertions. He struggled long, but, although so near to the
shore, could not gain a footing; the returning wave dragged him back,
and thus was he hurled to and fro until his strength was gone. He was
sinking under the wave to rise no more, when he felt something touch
his hand. He seized it with the grasp of death. It was the shaggy
hide of the bear Johannes, who was making for the shore, and who soon
dragged him clear of the surf, so that he could gain a footing. Philip
crawled up the beach above the reach of the waves, and, exhausted with
fatigue, sank down in a swoon.
When Philip was recalled from his state of lethargy, his first feeling
was intense pain in his still closed eyes, arising from having been
many hours exposed to the rays of an ardent sun. He opened them, but
was obliged to close them immediately, for the light entered into them
like the point of a knife. He turned over on his side, and covering
them with his hand, remained some time in that position, until, by
degrees, he found that his eyesight was restored. He then rose, and,
after a few seconds could distinguish the scene around him. The sea
was still rough, and tossed about in the surf fragments of the vessel;
the whole sand was strewed with her cargo and contents. Near him was
the body of Hillebrant, and the other bodies who were scattered on the
beach told him that those who had taken to the boat had all perished.
It was, by the height of the sun, about three o'clock in the
afternoon, as near as he could estimate; but Philip suffered such an
oppression of mind, he felt so wearied, and in such pain, that he took
but a slight survey. His brain was whirling, and all he demanded was
repose. He walked away from the scene of destruction, and having found
a sandhill, behind which he was defended from the burning rays of the
sun, he again lay down, and sank into a deep sleep, from which he did
not wake until the ensuing morning.
Philip was roused a second time by the sensation of something pricking
him on the chest. He started up, and beheld a figure standing over
him. His eyes were still feeble, and his vision indistinct; he rubbed
them for a time, for he first thought it was the bear Johannes, and
again that it was the supercargo Von Stroom who had appeared before
him; he looked again, and found that he was mistaken, although he had
warrant for supposing it to be either or both. A tall Hottentot, with
an assagai in his hand, stood by his side; over his shoulder he had
thrown the fresh-severed skin of the poor bear, and on his head,
with the curls descending to his waist, was one of the wigs of the
supercargo Von Stroom. Such was the gravity of the black's appearance
in this strange costume (for in every other respect he was naked),
that, at any other time, Philip would have been induced to laugh
heartily, but his feelings were now too acute. He rose upon his feet
and stood by the side of the Hottentot, who still continued immovable,
but certainly without the slightest appearance of hostile intentions.
A sensation of overpowering thirst now seized upon Philip, and he
made signs that he wished to drink. The Hottentot motioned to him
to follow, and led over the sand-hills to the beach, where Philip
discovered upwards of fifty men, who were busy selecting various
articles from the scattered stores of the vessel. It was evident by
the respect paid to Philip's conductor, that he was the chief of
the kraal. A few words, uttered with the greatest solemnity, were
sufficient to produce, though not exactly what Philip required, a
small quantity of dirty water from a calabash, which, however, was, to
him, delicious. His conductor then waved to him to take a seat on the
sand.
It was a novel and appalling, and nevertheless a ludicrous scene:
there was the white sand, rendered still more white by the strong
glare of the sun, strewed with the fragments of the vessel, with casks
and bales of merchandise; there was the running surge with its foam,
throwing about particles of the wreck; there were the bones of whales
which had been driven on shore in some former gale, and which now,
half-buried in the sand, showed portions of huge skeletons; there were
the mangled bodies of Philip's late companions, whose clothes, it
appeared, had been untouched by the savages, with the exception of
the buttons, which had been eagerly sought after; there were naked
Hottentots (for it was summer time, and they wore not their sheepskin
krosses) gravely stepping up and down the sand, picking up everything
that was of no value, and leaving all that civilised people most
coveted;--to crown all, there was the chief, sitting in the still
bloody skin of Johannes and the broad-bottomed wig of Mynheer Stroom,
with all the gravity of a vice-chancellor in his countenance, and
without the slightest idea that he was in any way ridiculous. The
whole presented, perhaps, one of the most strange and chaotic tableaux
that ever was witnessed.
Although, at that time, the Dutch had not very long formed their
settlement at the Cape, a considerable traffic had been, for many
years, carried on with the natives for skins and other African
productions. The Hottentots were therefore no strangers to vessels,
and, as hitherto they had been treated with kindness, were
well-disposed towards Europeans. After a time, the Hottentots began
to collect all the wood which appeared to have iron in it, made it up
into several piles, and set them on fire. The chief then made a
sign to Philip, to ask him if he was hungry; Philip replied in the
affirmative, when his new acquaintance put his hand into a bag made
of goat-skin, and pulled out a handful of very large beetles, and
presented them to him. Philip refused them with marks of disgust,
upon which the chief very sedately cracked and ate them; and having
finished the whole handful, rose, and made a sign to Philip to follow
him. As Philip rose, he perceived floating on the surf his own chest;
he hastened to it, and made signs that it was his, took the key out of
his pocket, and opened it, and then made up a bundle of articles
most useful, not forgetting a bag of guilders. His conductor made no
objection, but calling to one of the men near, pointed out the lock
and hinges to him, and then set off, followed by Philip, across the
sand-hills. In about an hour they arrived at the kraal, consisting of
low huts covered with skins, and were met by the women and children,
who appeared to be in high admiration at their chief's new attire:
they showed every kindness to Philip, bringing him milk, which he
drank eagerly. Philip surveyed these daughters of Eve, and, as he
turned from their offensive, greasy attire, their strange forms, and
hideous features, he sighed and thought of his charming Amine.
The sun was now setting, and Philip still felt fatigued. He made
signs that he wished to repose. They led him into a hut, and, though
surrounded as he was with filth, and his nose assailed by every
variety of bad smell, attacked moreover by insects, he laid his head
on his bundle, and uttering a short prayer of thanksgiving, was soon
in a sound sleep.
The next morning he was awakened by the chief of the kraal,
accompanied by another man who spoke a little Dutch. He stated his
wish to be taken to the settlement where the ships came and anchored,
and was fully understood; but the man said that there were no ships in
the bay at the time. Philip nevertheless requested he might be taken
there, as he felt that his best chance of getting on board of any
vessel would be by remaining at the settlement, and, at all events,
he would be in the company of Europeans until a vessel arrived. The
distance he discovered was but one day's march, or less. After some
little conversation with the chief, the man who spoke Dutch desired
Philip to follow him, and he would take him there. Philip drank
plentifully from a bowl of milk brought him by one of the women, and
again refusing a handful of beetles offered by the chief, he took up
his bundle, and followed his new acquaintance.
Towards evening they arrived at the hills, from which Philip had a
view of Table Bay, and the few houses erected by the Dutch. To his
delight, he perceived that there was a vessel under sail in the
offing. On his arrival at the beach, to which he hastened, he found
that she had sent a boat on shore for fresh provisions. He accosted
the people, told them who he was, told them also of the fatal wreck of
the _Ter Schilling_, and of his wish to embark.
The officer in charge of the boat willingly consented to take him on
board, and informed Philip that they were homeward bound. Philip's
heart leaped at the intelligence. Had she been outward bound, he would
have joined her; but now he had a prospect of again seeing his dear
Amine, before he re-embarked to follow out his peculiar destiny. He
felt that there was still some happiness in store for him, that his
life was to be chequered with alternate privation and repose, and that
his future prospect was not to be one continued chain of suffering
until death.
He was kindly received by the captain of the vessel, who freely gave
him a passage home; and in three months, without any events worth
narrating, Philip Vanderdecken found himself once more at anchor
before the town of Amsterdam.