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HAT is it about that old house in Sherbourne?” said Aunt Nabby to Sam
Lawson, as he sat drooping over the coals of a great fire one October
evening.
Aunt Lois was gone to Boston on a visit; and, the smart spice of
her scepticism being absent, we felt the more freedom to start our
story-teller on one of his legends.
Aunt Nabby sat trotting her knitting-needles on a blue-mixed yarn
stocking. Grandmamma was knitting in unison at the other side of the
fire. Grandfather sat studying “The Boston Courier.” The wind outside
was sighing in fitful wails, creaking the pantry-doors, occasionally
puffing in a vicious gust down the broad throat of the chimney. It was
a drizzly, sleety evening; and the wet lilac-bushes now and then rattled
and splashed against the window as the wind moaned and whispered through
them.
We boys had made preparation for a comfortable evening. We had enticed
Sam to the chimney-corner, and drawn him a mug of cider. We had set down
a row of apples to roast on the hearth, which even now were giving faint
sighs and sputters as their plump sides burst in the genial heat. The
big oak back-log simmered and bubbled, and distilled large drops down
amid the ashes; and the great hickory forestick had just burned out into
solid bright coals, faintly skimmed over with white ashes. The whole
area of the big chimney was full of a sleepy warmth and brightness just
calculated to call forth fancies and visions. It only wanted somebody
now to set Sam off; and Aunt Nabby broached the ever-interesting subject
of haunted houses.
“Wal, now, Miss Badger,” said Sam, “I ben over there, and walked round
that are house consid'able; and I talked with Granny Hokum and Aunt
Polly, and they've putty much come to the conclusion that they 'll hev to
move out on't. Ye see these 'ere noises, they keep 'em awake nights; and
Aunt Polly, she gets 'stericky; and Hannah Jane, she says, ef they stay
in the house, _she_ can't live with 'em no longer. And what can them
lone women do without Hannah Jane? Why, Hannah Jane, she says these two
months past she's seen a woman, regular, walking up and down the front
hall between twelve and one o'clock at night; and it's jist the image
and body of old Ma'am Tillotson, Parson Hokum's mother, that everybody
know'd was a thunderin' kind o' woman, that kep' every thing in a muss
while she was alive. What the old crittur's up to now there ain't no
knowin'. Some folks seems to think it's a sign Granny Hokum's time's
comin'. But Lordy massy! says she to me, says she, 'Why, Sam, I don't
know nothin' what I've done, that Ma'am Tillotson should be set loose
on me.' Anyway they've all got so narvy, that Jed Hokum has ben up from
Needham, and is goin' to cart 'em all over to live with him. Jed,
he's for hushin' on't up, 'cause he says it brings a bad name on the
property.
“Wal, I talked with Jed about it; and says I to Jed, says I, 'Now,
ef you 'll take my advice, jist you give that are old house a regular
overhaulin', and paint it over with tew coats o' paint, and that are 'll
clear 'em out, if any thing will. Ghosts is like bedbugs,--they can't
stan' fresh paint,' says I. 'They allers clear out. I've seen it tried
on a ship that got haunted.'”
“Why, Sam, do ships get haunted?”
“To be sure they do!--haunted the wust kind. Why, I could tell ye a
story'd make your har rise on e'end, only I'm 'fraid of frightening boys
when they're jist going to bed.”
“Oh! you can't frighten Horace,” said my grandmother. “He will go and
sit out there in the graveyard till nine o'clock nights, spite of all I
tell him.”
“Do tell, Sam!” we urged. “What was it about the ship?”
Sam lifted his mug of cider, deliberately turned it round and round in
his hands, eyed it affectionately, took a long drink, and set it down in
front of him on the hearth, and began:--
“Ye 'member I telled you how I went to sea down East, when I was a boy,
'long with Tom Toothacre. Wal, Tom, he reeled off a yarn one night
that was 'bout the toughest I ever hed the pullin' on. And it come all
straight, too, from Tom. 'Twa'n't none o' yer hearsay: 'twas what he
seen with his own eyes. Now, there wa'n't no nonsense 'bout Tom, not a
bit on't; and he wa'n't afeard o' the divil himse'f; and he ginally saw
through things about as straight as things could be seen through.
This 'ere happened when Tom was mate o' 'The Albatross,' and they was
a-runnin' up to the Banks for a fare o' fish. 'The Albatross' was as
handsome a craft as ever ye see; and Cap'n Sim Witherspoon, he was
skipper--a rail nice likely man he was. I heard Tom tell this 'ere one
night to the boys on 'The Brilliant,' when they was all a-settin'
round the stove in the cabin one foggy night that we was to anchor in
Frenchman's Bay, and all kind o' lavin' off loose.
“Tom, he said they was having a famous run up to the Banks. There was a
spankin' southerly, that blew 'em along like all natur'; and they was
hevin' the best kind of a time, when this 'ere southerly brought a pesky
fog down on 'em, and it grew thicker than hasty-puddin'. Ye see,
that are's the pester o' these 'ere southerlies: they's the biggest
fog-breeders there is goin'. And so, putty soon, you couldn't see half
ship's length afore you.
“Wal, they all was down to supper, except Dan Sawyer at the wheel, when
there come sich a crash as if heaven and earth was a-splittin', and then
a scrapin' and thump bumpin' under the ship, and gin 'em sich a h'ist
that the pot o' beans went rollin', and brought up jam ag'in the
bulk-head; and the fellers was keeled over,--men and pork and beans
kinder permiscus.
“'The divil!' says Tom Toothacre, 'we've run down somebody. Look out, up
there!'
“Dan, he shoved the helm hard down, and put her up to the wind, and sung
out, 'Lordy massy! we've struck her right amidships!'
“'Struck what?' they all yelled, and tumbled up on deck.
“'Why, a little schooner,' says Dan. 'Didn't see her till we was right
on her. She's gone down tack and sheet. Look! there's part o' the wreck
a-floating off: don't ye see?'
“Wal, they didn't see, 'cause it was so thick you couldn't hardly see
your hand afore your face. But they put about, and sent out a boat, and
kind o' sarched round; but, Lordy massy! ye might as well looked for a
drop of water in the Atlantic Ocean. Whoever they was, it was all done
gone and over with 'em for this life, poor critturs!
“Tom says they felt confoundedly about it; but what could they do? Lordy
massy! what can any on us do? There's places where folks jest lets go
'cause they hes to. Things ain't as they want 'em, and they can't alter
'em. Sailors ain't so rough as they look: they'z feelin' critturs, come
to put things right to 'em. And there wasn't one on 'em who wouldn't 'a'
worked all night for a chance o' saving some o' them poor fellows. But
there 'twas, and 'twa'n't no use trying.
“Wal, so they sailed on; and by'm by the wind kind o' chopped round
no'theast, and then come round east, and sot in for one of them regular
east blows and drizzles that takes the starch out o' fellers more'n a
regular storm. So they concluded they might as well put into a little
bay there, and come to anchor.
“So they sot an anchor-watch, and all turned in.
“Wal, now comes the particular curus part o' Tom's story: and it more
curus 'cause Tom was one that wouldn't 'a' believed no other man that
had told it. Tom was one o' your sort of philosophers. He was fer
lookin' into things, and wa'n't in no hurry 'bout believin'; so that
this 'un was more 'markablfe on account of it's bein' Tom that seen it
than ef it had ben others.
“Tom says that night he hed a pesky toothache that sort o' kep'
grumblin' and jumpin' so he couldn't go to sleep; and he lay in his
bunk, a-turnin' this way and that, till long past twelve o clock.
“Tom had a'thwart-ship bunk where he could see into every bunk on board,
except Bob Coffin's; and Bob was on the anchor-watch. Wal, he lay there,
tryin' to go to sleep, hearin' the men snorin' like bull-frogs in a
swamp, and watchin' the lantern a-swingin' back and forward; and the
sou'westers and pea-jackets were kinder throwin' their long shadders
up and down as the vessel sort o' rolled and pitched,--for there was a
heavy swell on,--and then he'd hear Bob Coffin tramp, tramp, trampin'
overhead,--for Bob had a pretty heavy foot of his own,--and all sort
o' mixed up together with Tom's toothache, so he couldn't get to sleep.
Finally, Tom, he bit off a great chaw o' 'baccy, and got it well sot in
his cheek, and kind o' turned over to lie on't, and ease the pain. Wal,
he says he laid a spell, and dropped off in a sort o' doze, when he woke
in sich a chill his teeth chattered, and the pain come on like a 'knife,
and he bounced over, thinking the fire had gone out in the stove.
“Wal, sure enough, he see a man a-crouchin' over the stove, with
his back to him, a-stretchin' out his hands to warm 'em. He had on a
sou'wester and a pea-jacket, with a red tippet round his neck; and his
clothes was drippin' as if he'd just come in from a rain.
“'What the divil!' says Tom. And he riz right up, and rubbed his eyes.
'Bill Bridges,' says he, 'what shine be you up to now?' For Bill was a
master oneasy crittur, and allers a-gettin' up and walkin' nights; and
Tom, he thought it was Bill. But in a minute he looked over, and there,
sure enough, was Bill, fast asleep in his bunk, mouth wide open, snoring
like a Jericho ram's-horn. Tom looked round, and counted every man in
his bunk, and then says he, 'Who the devil is this? for there's Bob
Coffin on deck, and the rest is all here.'
“Wal, Tom wa'n't a man to be put under too easy. He hed his thoughts
about him allers; and the fust he thought in every pinch was what to do.
So he sot considerin' a minute, sort o' winkin' his eyes to be sure he
saw straight, when, sure enough, there come another man backin' down the
companion-way.
“'Wal, there's Bob Coffin, anyhow,' says Tom to himself. But no, the
other man, he turned: Tom see his face; and, sure as you live, it was
the face of a dead corpse. Its eyes was sot, and it jest came as still
across the cabin, and sot down by the stove, and kind o' shivered, and
put out its hands as if it was gettin' warm.
“Tom said that there was a cold air round in the cabin, as if an iceberg
was comin' near, and he felt cold chills running down his back; but he
jumped out of his bunk, and took a step forward. 'Speak!' says he. 'Who
be you? and what do you want?'
“They never spoke, nor looked up, but kept kind o' shivering and
crouching over the stove.
“'Wal,' says Tom, 'I 'll see who you be, anyhow.' And he walked right
up to the last man that come in, and reached out to catch hold of his
coat-collar; but his hand jest went through him like moonshine, and in
a minute he all faded away; and when he turned round the other one was
gone too. Tom stood there, looking this way and that; but there warn't
nothing but the old stove, and the lantern swingin', and the men all
snorin' round in their bunks. Tom, he sung out to Bob Coffin. 'Hullo,
up there!' says he. But Bob never answered, and Tom, he went up, and
found Bob down on his knees, his teeth a-chatterin' like a bag o' nails,
trying to say his prayers; and all he could think of was, 'Now I lay
me,' and he kep' going that over and over. Ye see, boys, Bob was a
drefful wicked, swearin' crittur, and hadn't said no prayers since he
was tew years old, and it didn't come natural to him. Tom give a grip on
his collar, and shook him. 'Hold yer yawp,' said he. 'What you howlin'
about? What's up?'
“'Oh, Lordy massy!' says Bob, 'we're sent for,--all on us,--there's been
two on 'em: both on 'em went right by me!'
“Wal, Tom, he hed his own thoughts; but he was bound to get to the
bottom of things, anyway. Ef 'twas the devil, well and good--he
wanted to know it. Tom jest wanted to hev the matter settled one way or
t'other: so he got Bob sort o' stroked down, and made him tell what he
saw.
“Bob, he stood to it that he was a-standin' right for'ard, a-leanin' on
the windlass, and kind o' hummin' a tune, when he looked down, and see
a sort o' queer light in the fog; and he went and took a look over the
bows, when up came a man's head in a sort of sou'wester, and then a pair
of hands, and catched at the bob-stay; and then the hull figger of a man
riz right out o' the water, and clim up on the martingale till he could
reach the jib-stay with his hands, and then he swung himself right up
onto the bowsprit, and stepped aboard, and went past Bob, right aft,
and down into the cabin. And he hadn't more'n got down, afore he turned
round, and there was another comin' in over the bowsprit, and he went
by him, and down below: so there was two on 'em, jest as Tom had seen in
the cabin.
“Tom he studied on it a spell, and finally says he, 'Bob, let you and me
keep this 'ere to ourselves, and see ef it 'll come again. Ef it don't,
well and good: ef it does--why, we 'll see about it.'
“But Tom he told Cap'n Witherspoon, and the Cap'n he agreed to keep an
eye out the next night. But there warn't nothing said to the rest o' the
men.
“Wal, the next night they put Bill Bridges on the watch. The fog had
lifted, and they had a fair wind, and was going on steady. The men all
turned in, and went fast asleep, except Cap'n Witherspoon, Tom, and Bob
Coffin. Wal, sure enough, 'twixt twelve and one o'clock, the same thing
came over, only there war four men 'stead o' two. They come in jes' so
over the bowsprit, and they looked neither to right nor left, but dim
down stairs, and sot down, and crouched and shivered over the stove
jist like the others. Wal, Bill Bridges, he came tearin' down like a
wild-cat, frightened half out o' his wits, screechin' 'Lord, have mercy!
we're all goin' to the devil!' And then they all vanished.
“'Now, Cap'n, what's to be done?' says Tom. 'Ef these 'ere fellows is to
take passage, we can't do nothin' with the boys: that's clear.'
“Wal, so it turned out; for, come next night, there was six on 'em come
in, and the story got round, and the boys was all on eend. There wa'n't
no doin' nothin' with 'em. Ye see, it's allers jest so. Not but what
dead folks is jest as 'spectable as they was afore they's dead. These
might 'a' been as good fellers as any aboard; but it's human natur'. The
minute a feller's dead, why, you sort o' don't know 'bout him; and it's
kind o' skeery hevin' on him round; and so 'twan't no wonder the boys
didn't feel as if they could go on with the vy'ge, ef these 'ere fellers
was all to take passage. Come to look, too, there war consid'able of a
leak stove in the vessel; and the boys, they all stood to it, ef they
went farther, that they'd all go to the bottom. For, ye see, once the
story got a-goin', every one on 'em saw a new thing every night. One
on 'em saw the bait-mill a-grindin', without no hands to grind it; and
another saw fellers up aloft, workin' in the sails. Wal, the fact war,
they jest had to put about,--run back to Castine.
“Wal, the owners, they hushed up things the best they could; and they
put the vessel on the stocks, and worked her over, and put a new coat o'
paint on her, and called her 'The Betsey Ann;' and she went a good vy'ge
to the Banks, and brought home the biggest fare o' fish that had been
for a long time; and she's made good vy'ges ever since; and that jest
proves what I've been a-saying,--that there's nothin' to drive out
ghosts like fresh paint.”