FLIGHT
Vranic, having stabbed Uros, remained for a moment rooted to the spot
where he stood. When he saw the red blood gush out of the wound and
dye the white shirt, he stared at the young man bewildered; he could
hardly understand what he had done. A strange feeling came over him.
He almost fancied he was awaking from a horrid dream, and that he was
witnessing a deed done, not by himself, but by some person quite
unknown to him. When he saw Uros put his hand up to the wound, then
stagger, he was about to help him; but Milenko having appeared, he
shuddered, came to his senses and ran off.
Vranic had always been cursed with a morbidly discontented
disposition, as peevish and as fretful as a porcupine. Although he
was superstitiously religious, and strictly kept all feasts and
fasts, still, at the same time, he felt a grudge--almost a hatred
--against God, who had made him so unlike other men; who, far from
granting him the boon of health to which he felt he had a right, had
stamped him with an indelible sign so that all might keep aloof from
him. He envied all the men he knew, for they laughed and were merry,
when he himself was as gloomy as a lonely spider in its dusty old
web. Still, as he vented the little energy that was in him in secret
rancour, he would never have harmed anybody. He had, it was true, cut
down Bellacic's vines, but had done so instigated by his friends, or
rather, by Bellacic's enemies. If he had stabbed Uros, it was really
done in a moment of madness, driven almost to despair by many
sleepless nights, by the shame and pain caused by the loss of his
ear.
Having done that dreadful deed, he understood that the Convent of St.
George was no shelter for him. Besides, seeing Uros fall lifeless,
his first impulse was flight. It mattered little whither he went. It
was only after a short time when, breathless and faint, he stumbled
against a stone and fell, that the thought of finding some
hiding-place came into his head.
He lurked amongst the rocks the whole of that day, terrified at the
slightest noise he heard, trembling with fear if a bird flew beside
him, startled at his own shadow. At times he almost fancied the
stones had eyes and were looking at him, and that weird, uncouth
shapes moved in the bushes below.
He was not hungry, but his lips were parched, his mouth felt clammy
with thirst; still, there was not a drop of water to be had, nothing
but the hot sun from the sky above, and the glow of the scorching
stones from below.
Then he asked himself again and again what he was to do and where he
was to go.
Fear evoked a terrible bugbear in every imaginary path he took. If he
went back to Budua he would be murdered by his foes or arrested by
the Austrian police; Montenegro was out of the question.
He had, by chance, seen during the day an Italian vessel ready to
sail. The ship was still at anchor in the bay, for he could see it
from his hiding-place. If he could only manage to get on board he
might be safe there. Once out of Budua, he cared but little
whithersoever chance sent him.
The best thing he could do was to wait till nightfall, then to creep
stealthily into town. It was not likely that the murder was known to
everybody; if he could only get unseen to the _marina_ without
crossing the town, he then might get some boatman to row him to the
Italian ship.
The day seemed to be an endless one, and even when the sun had set,
the red light of the after-glow struggled to keep night away.
At last, when the shades of night fell upon the country, he began to
scramble down, avoiding the path and the high road, shuddering
whenever he caught the sound of a footstep, feeling sick if a
rustling leaf was blown down against him. At last he reached the
gates of the town, but instead of going in, he followed the walls,
and thus managed to get to the port.
It was now quite dark; some fishermen were setting out for the night,
others were coming back home, laden with their prey. He kept aloof
from them all.
After some time, he found a sailor lad sleeping in his boat. He shook
him and woke him, then he asked him to row him to the Italian ship
that was about to sail.
The boy at first demurred, but the sight of a small silver coin
overcame all his drowsiness as well as his objections. He consented
to ferry him across.
"Do you know what boat she is?" asked Vranic.
"Yes."
"Well?"
"If you are going to her, I suppose you know her name, too."
"Can't you answer a question?" said Vranic, snappishly.
"She's the _Diana_."
"From?"
"Genoa, I believe."
"And bound?"
"To Naples; but Italian ships don't take Slavs on board," said the
lad.
Vranic did not give him any answer.
"Are you a sailor?" asked the boy, after a while.
"No. I--I have some business in Italy."
As soon as they were alongside the ship, Vranic called for the
captain.
The master, who was having his supper on deck, asked him what he
wanted.
"Are you bound for Naples?"
"Yes."
"Can you take me on board?"
"As?"
"As sailor? I'll work my way."
"No. I have no need of sailors."
"Then as a passenger?"
"We are a cargo ship."
"Still, if I make it worth your while?"
"Our accommodation might not be such as would suit you."
The captain suspected this man, who came to him in the midst of the
darkness asking for a passage, of having perpetrated some crime. He
felt sure that Budua was too hot a place for him, and that he was
anxious to get away.
"I can put up with anything--a sack on deck."
"Climb up," replied the captain.
Vranic managed to catch the rope ladder, and, after much difficulty,
he climbed on board.
The captain, seeing him and not liking his looks, felt confirmed in
his suspicions; therefore he asked him a rather large sum, at least
three times what he would have asked from anybody else.
Vranic tried to haggle, but at last he paid the money down. The lad
with the boat disappeared; still, he only felt safe when--a few hours
afterwards--the anchor having been heaved, the sails spread, the ship
began to glide on the waters, and the dim lights of Budua disappeared
in the distance.
The sea was calm, the breeze fair; the crossing of the Adriatic
seemed likely to be a prosperous one.
A bed having been made up for him in the cabin, Vranic, weary and
worn out, lay down; and, notwithstanding all his torturing thoughts,
his mind, by degrees, became clouded and he went off to sleep. It is
true, he had hardly closed his eyes when he woke up again, thinking
of Uros as he had seen him when the blood was gushing out of his
wound; then a spectre even more dreadful to behold rose before his
eyes. It was the _voukoudlak_, from which he was escaping. Still,
bodily and mental fatigue overcame all remorse, and, feeling safe
from his enemies, he went off to sleep, and, notwithstanding a series
of dreadful dreams, he slept more soundly than he had done for many a
night.
When he awoke the next morning, all trace of land had disappeared;
nothing was seen but the glittering waters of the blue sea and the
glowing sun overhead. He was safe; remorse had vanished with fear; he
only felt, not simply hungry, but famished.
Everything went on well for two or three days. The smacking breeze
blew persistently. In a day more they hoped to reach Naples. The crew
had nothing to do but to mend old sails, to eat and sleep. They were
a merry set of men, as easily amused as children; besides, all of
them were wonderfully musical and possessed splendid voices. Gennaro,
the youngest, especially might have made a great fortune as a tenor.
In the evening they would sing all in a chorus, accompanying
themselves with a guitar, a mandoline and a triangle.
Vranic, amongst them, was like an owl in an aviary of singing-birds;
besides, he knew but few words of Italian and could hardly understand
their dialect. Although his sleep was no more molested by vampires,
and he tried not to think of the crime he had committed, and almost
succeeded in driving away the visions that haunted him at times,
still he was anything but happy. Was he not an exile from his native
country, for, even if the Austrian law could be defeated, would not
the terrible _karvarina_ be exercised against him whenever he met one
of Bellacic's numerous friends?
In this mood--wrapped in his gloomy thoughts--Vranic kept aloof from
every man on board. To the captain's questions he ever answered in
monosyllables; nor was he more talkative with the sailors. Once they
asked him to tell them a story of his country, and he complied.
"Shall I tell you the story of the youth who was going to seek his
fortune?"
"Yes; it must be a very interesting one."
"Well--a youth was going to seek his fortune."
"And then?"
"The night before he was about to leave his village a storm destroyed
the bridge over which he had to pass."
"Well--and then?"
"He waited till they built another bridge."
"But go on."
"There is no going on, for the young man is waiting still," said he,
with a sneer.
After two or three days, Vranic was looked upon by all on board as a
peevish, sullen fellow, and he was left to his own dreary
meditations.
One of the sailors, besides, got it into his head that Vranic had the
gift of the evil eye, and it did not take very long to convince every
man on board of the truth of this assertion. Whenever he looked at
them, they invariably shut their two middle fingers, and pointed the
index and little finger at him, so as to counteract the effect of the
_jettatura_. The only man on board who did not fear Vranic was the
mate, for he possessed a charm far more potent than a crooked nail, a
horse-shoe, a bit of horned coral, or even a little silver
hump-backed man--this was a horse-chestnut, which he was once
fortunate enough to catch as it was falling from the tree, and before
it had touched the ground. He cherished it as a treasure, and kept it
constantly in his pocket. It was infallible against the evil eye, and
was powerful in many other circumstances. He was a most lucky man,
and, in fact, he felt sure he owed his good fortune to this talisman
of his.
Although the weather was delightful, still the captain and the crew
could not help feeling a kind of premonition of evil to come; all
were afraid that, sooner or later, Vranic would bring them ill-luck.
At last the coasts of Italy were in sight, but with the far-off
coasts, a small cloud, a mere speck of vapour, was seen on the
horizon. It was but a tiny white flake, a soft, silvery spray, torn
from some shrub blossoming in an unknown Eden, and blown by the west
wind in the sky. It also looked like a patch worn by coquettish
Nature to enhance the diaphanous watchet-blue of the atmosphere.
Still, the sailors frowned at it, and called the feathery cloudlet
--scudding lazily about--a squall, and they were all glad to be in
sight of the land. The breeze freshened, the sea changed its colour,
the waves rolled heavily; their tops were crested with foam. Still,
the ship made gallantly for the neighbouring coast.
The little cloud kept increasing in size; first it lengthened itself
in a wonderful way, like a snake spreading itself out; it also grew
of a darker, duller tint. Then it rolled itself together, piled
itself up, augmenting in volume, till it almost covered the whole of
the horizon. Finally, it began to droop downwards, tapering ever
lower, and losing itself in a mist. The sea underneath began to be
agitated, to boil and to bubble, seething with white foam; then a
dense smoke arose from the sea and mounted upwards as if to meet the
descending column of mist from the cloud just above it; both the
cloud and the upheaving waves moved with the greatest rapidity, and
seemed to be attracted by the ship, which endeavoured to tack about
and steer away from them.
All at once, the water overhead met the ascending mist, and then a
sparkling, silvery cloud arose in the spout, just like quicksilver in
a glass tube.
All the men were on deck, attending to the captain's directions; all
eyes were attracted by the weird, beautiful, yet terrifying sight.
The master, at the helm, did his best to avoid it, by changing the
ship's direction; still, the column of water advanced threateningly
in their course. It came nearer and ever nearer; now it was at a
gun-shot from the ship; if they had had a cannon on board, they might
have fired against it and dissolved it, but they had no firearms. The
atmosphere around them was getting dark with mist, the waterspout was
coming against them, and if that mass of water burst down on the ship
it would founder at once.
What was to be done?
"Leave the ship, and take to the boats," said some of the crew, but
it was already too late; they could not help being involved in the
cataclysm.
Some of the men had sunk on their knees, and were asking the Virgin
or St. Nicholas of Bari to come to their help.
"There is a remedy," said Vranic to the captain; "an infallible
remedy."
"What is it?" asked the master, with the eagerness of a drowning man
clutching at a straw.
"If a sailor amongst the crew happens to be the eldest of seven sons
he can at once dissolve that cursed column of water, the joint work
of the evil spirits of the air and those of the sea."
"How so?" asked the captain.
"Draw, at once, a pentagon, or five-pointed star, or King Solomon's
seal, on a piece of white paper, and let such a sailor, if he be on
board, stab it through the centre."
The captain called all the men together, and asked if anyone amongst
them happened to be, by chance, the eldest of seven brothers.
"My father has seven sons, and I am the eldest," said Gennaro, that
curly-headed, bright-eyed Sicilian youth, for whom life seemed all
sunshine. "Why, what am I to do?"
The waterspout was advancing rapidly, the sea was lashed by the
mighty waves, and the ship, like a nutshell, was being tossed against
it.
Vranic, who had drawn the cabalistic sign, handed it to the captain.
"Stab that star in the centre, quickly."
The Slav took out a little black dagger, and gave it to the youth.
"Be quick! there is no time to be lost."
The murmuring and hissing sound the column of water had been making
had changed into the deafening roar of a waterfall. It seemed to be
whirling round with vertiginous rapidity, as it came upon them.
"Make haste!" added the captain.
"But why?"
"Do it! this is no time to ask questions!" replied the master.
"And then?" quoth the youth, turning to Vranic.
"The waterspout will melt into rain."
"And what will happen to me?"
"To you? Why, nothing."
"I am frightened."
A vivid flash of lightning appeared, and the rumbling of the thunder
now mingled itself with the roaring of the waters.
"Frightened of what?" said the captain.
"That man has the _jettatura_; I am sure he means mischief."
"What a coward you are! Do what I order you, or, by the Madonna----"
"What harm can befall you for stabbing a bit of paper?" said some of
the sailors.
"Quick! it is the only chance of saving us all!" added the boatswain.
"Only, if you don't make haste, it'll be too late."
The abyss of the waters seemed to open before the ship, ready to
engulf it; the waves were rolling over it.
Gennaro crossed himself devoutly, then he muttered a prayer; at last
he took up the dagger and stabbed the pentagon in the very middle,
just where Vranic had pointed to him with his finger; still, he grew
ghastly pale as he did so.
"Holy Mother," said the youth, "forgive me if I have done wrong!"
All the eyes anxiously turned from the bit of paper to the
waterspout, whirling round and coming ever nearer.
All at once the whirling seemed to stop; then, as the motion relaxed,
the column of water snapped somewhat above the middle; the lower
portion, or base, relapsed and gradually fell; it was absorbed by the
rising waves and the bubbling and foaming waters. The higher portion
began to curl upwards and to disappear amidst the huge mass of
lowering clouds overhead.
"There," said Vranic, "I told you the spout would melt away and
vanish."
"Wonderful!" said the captain.
"Yes, indeed!" said Gennaro, as he again crossed himself and handed
the dagger to its owner, evidently glad to get rid of it.
"Well, you see that you were not struck dead," said the boatswain to
the youth.
"Nor carried away by the devil," said another of the sailors.
"The year is not yet out, nor the day either," thought Vranic to
himself; "and even if you live, you may rue this day and the deed
you've done."
"You have saved all our lives, and we thank you, Gennaro," added the
captain. "I shall never forget you; and I hope that, as long as I
command a ship, we'll never part."
Thereupon, he clasped him in his arms and kissed him fondly.
"Thank you, captain; and may San Gennaro, my patron saint, and the
blessed Virgin, grant you your wish and mine."
"We thank you, too," said the captain to Vranic, feeling himself
bound to say something; "you are really a magician, and you know the
secret of the elements."
"Oh! it is a thing that every child knows in our country, just like
pouring oil in the sea to calm the waves."
The men said nothing, but they were all glad the coasts were near,
and that they would soon get rid of this uncanny and uncouth man.
In the meanwhile, the sun had gone down, and dark night spread itself
like a pall over the sea. The storm then increased with the darkness.
The waterspout had vanished, but in its stead a pouring rain came
down; the wind also began to blow in fitful blasts, and as it came in
a contrary direction they were obliged to tack about, and to take in
the sails. The storm, however, kept increasing at a fearful rate; the
wind was blowing a real hurricane; all sails, even the jib, had to be
reefed. The sea, lashed by the wind, became ever more boisterous; the
waves rose in succession, uplifting themselves the one on top of the
other, and dashing against the ship, which ever seemed ready to
founder. All hands were now at the pumps, and Vranic, along with the
others, worked away with all his strength.
Steering--as the ship had done--to avoid the waterspout, she had been
continually altering her course, so that the captain did not exactly
know whereabouts they were. In the midst of the darkness and with the
torrents of rain that came pouring down, all traces of land had long
disappeared.
All at once a mightier gust of wind came down upon the ship, the
beams groaned, then there was a tremendous crash and one of the masts
came down. There was a moment of panic and confusion; Vranic fell
upon his knees and began to pray for help.
Soon after that a light was seen at no very great distance.
"We are saved," said the captain; "there is Cape Campanella
lighthouse."
All eyes were fixed upon that beacon.
"It is rather too low to be Cape Campanella," added the boatswain.
"Yes; and, besides, it flashes every two minutes," replied the
captain.
They thereupon concluded that it was the lighthouse on Carena Point,
the south-western extremity of the island of Capri.
Thinking it to be Cape Campanella, they had steered towards the
light--the only dangerous part of the island, on account of the reef,
which stretches out a long way into the sea. When they found out
their mistake it was too late to avoid the danger that threatened
them; the ship was dashed against the rocks, which were heard grating
under the keel and ripping open the sides, like the teeth of some
famished monster of the deep. Fortunately, the brig had got tightly
wedged between two rocks and kept fast there, so nothing was to be
done but work hard at the pumps, trying to keep out as much water as
they possibly could.
The night seemed everlasting. Still, by degrees, the storm subsided,
and at dawn the wind had gone down and the sea had grown calm.
At daybreak help came from the shore.
"The ship is very much damaged," said the captain, "and so is the
cargo, doubtless; but, at least, there are no lives lost," added he,
looking round.
A few moments afterwards, the boatswain, wanting something, called
Gennaro, but no answer came. He called again and again, cursed his
canine breed, but with no better success.
"Where is Gennaro?" asked the captain.
The youth was sought down below, but he was nowhere to be found. All
the men of the crew looked at one another enquiringly, and at last
the questions that everyone was afraid to ask were uttered.
Had the youth been swept away by one of the huge breakers that washed
over the deck? Had he been killed by the falling mast, or blown into
the deep by a sudden and unexpected gust of wind? No one had seen him
disappear; all looked around, expecting to see the handsome face of
the youth they loved so well rising above the waves; but the green
waters kept their secret. After that, all eyes turned towards Vranic,
as if asking for an answer.
"The last time I saw the youth was when he was working at the pumps
by me, just before the mast came down."
They all muttered some oath, unintelligible to him, and then a prayer
for the youth. After that Vranic was only too glad to leave the ship,
for every man on board seemed to look upon him as the cause of
Gennaro's mysterious disappearance.
Having remained a week in Naples, seeing his money, the only thing he
loved, dwindle away, Vranic did his best to find some employment. He
for a few days got a living as a porter, helping to unload sacks from
an English ship. Still, that was but a very precarious living, and he
decided to follow a seafaring life, not because he was fond of it,
but only to keep clear from his enemies and the laws of his country,
and the vampire that had haunted him there every night.
He happened to find employment, as cook, on the very ship he had
helped to discharge. It was an English schooner, bound for Glasgow.
The captain, a crusty old bachelor, was a real hermit-crab; the men,
a most ruffianly set. Vranic, being hardly able to speak with anyone,
indulged in his morose way of living, and, except for being kicked
about every now and then, he was left very much to himself.
From Glasgow the schooner sailed for Genoa, where she arrived just as
the _Giustizia di Dio_ was about to set sail. The two ships came so
close together that Vranic, who kept a sharp look-out whenever he saw
an Austrian flag, recognised Milenko standing on the deck and
ordering some manoeuvres.
Although the young man could not perceive him, hidden as he was in the
darkness of the galley, and bending over the stove, still Vranic felt
a shock that for a few moments almost deprived him of his senses, and
made him feel quite sick.
That day the dinner was quite a failure. The roast was burnt; the
potatoes, instead, were raw; the cauliflower was uneatable, and salt
had been put in the pudding instead of sugar.
If there is anything trying to human patience, it is a spoilt dinner,
especially the first one gets in port. It is, therefore, not to be
wondered at that the captain, never very forbearing at the best of
times, got so angry that he kicked Vranic down the hatchway and
almost crippled him.
Although the Dalmatian ship sailed away, bound probably towards the
East, and he would perhaps never see her captain again, still the
shock he felt had quite unnerved him. From that day matters began to
go on from bad to worse. Sailing from Genoa, they first met with
contrary winds, and much time was lost cruising about; after that
came a spell of calm weather, and for long weeks they remained in
sight of the bold promontory and of the lighthouse of Cape Bearn, not
far from the port of Vendres. At last a fair wind arose, the sails
were made taut, and the schooner flew on the crested waves. A new
life seemed to have come over the crew, tired of their listless
inactivity; the captain cursed Vranic and kicked him a little less
than he had done on the previous days.
It was to be hoped that the wind would continue fair; otherwise their
provisions would begin falling short. Ill-luck, however, was awaiting
them in another direction.
Opening a keg of salted meat a few days later, the stench was so
loathsome, that it reminded Vranic of that awful night when he had
stabbed the vampire; besides, big worms were crawling and wriggling
at the top. Vranic at once called the mate and showed him the rotten
meat, and the mate reported the fact to the captain. He only answered
with a few oaths, then shrugged his shoulders, and said that dogs
would lick their chops at such dainty morsels, and were his men any
better than dogs?
"Wash it well, clean it, and put some vinegar with it," said the
mate, who was the best man on board. "There is no other meat, and
that is better than starving."
Vranic did as he was bid; he put more pepper than usual. Still, he
himself did not taste it, but lived on biscuit, for even the potatoes
had been all eaten up.
A few days afterwards, taking out another piece from the cask, he
drew out a sinewy human arm, hacked in several places, and with the
fingers chopped off. Shuddering, and seized with a feeling of
loathsomeness, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then he almost
fancied he had touched something hairy in the cask, and looking in,
he saw a disfigured and bearded man's head. Sickening at the gruesome
sight, he dropped the arm into the cask and hastened to the mate,
trying to explain to him what the barrel contained.
The mate could hardly understand and would not believe him, but soon
he had to yield to the evidence of his own senses. The mate, in his
turn, reported the horrible fact to the captain, who asked both men
not to divulge the secret to the crew. When night came on, the cask
and its contents were thrown overboard. The captain was not to blame
for what the cask contained, nor were the ship-chandlers, who had
supplied him at other times upon leaving Scotland. The cask bore the
trade-mark of a well-known foreign house trading in preserved meat.
The provisions, which had been scarce, now began to fall short; but
in a day or two they would have reached their destination. The wind,
however, was contrary, and some delay ensued. Hunger was now
beginning to be felt. The crew, overworked and badly fed, first grew
sullen; the foremost of them, with scowling looks, began to utter
threatening words. Orders given were badly obeyed, or not obeyed at
all. Long pent-up anger seemed every moment ready to break out--first
against the captain, then against the mate, finally against Vranic,
who, they said, was leagued against them.
The boatswain especially hated him.
"Since that cursed foreigner has come on board," said he, "everything
has been going from bad to worse. Even the provisions seem to dwindle
and waste away."
"I'd not be surprised," added one of the sailors, "that he is leagued
with the captain to poison the whole lot of us, for, in fact, the
meat tasted like carrion, and I don't know what's up with me."
"Nonsense! Why poison us? Starving is much better," quoth another.
A trifle soon brought on a quarrel, which ended in a tussle. Vranic
got cuffed and kicked about; he had been born in an unlucky moment,
and everyone hated him without really understanding why or wherefore.
Why do most people dislike toads or blind-worms?
The mate, seeing the poor cook unfairly used, interfered on his
behalf, and tried to put an end to the fight. This only made matters
worse. The captain, hearing the noise, appeared on deck, and a mutiny
at once broke out.
The boatswain, who was at the head of the revolted crew, snatching up
a hatchet which happened to be there within his reach, advanced and
demanded a distribution of provisions.
The captain, for all answer, knocked him down with a crow-bar; at the
same time he showed the crew the coast of England, which was faintly
visible at a distance, as well as a man-of-war coming full sail
towards them.
A day after this incident, the ship had landed her rebellious crew at
Cardiff. The boatswain was sent to jail, where, if he had been a man
of a philosophical turn of mind, he might have meditated on the
difference between right and might.
As for Vranic, he was but too glad to quit a ship where he was hated
by everybody, even by the captain, who had treated him more like a
galley slave than a fellow-creature.
After having earned a pittance as a porter for a short time, he again
embarked on board the _Ave Maria_, an Austrian ship bound for
Marseilles. This ship had had a remarkably prosperous voyage from the
Levant. The captain had received a handsome gratuity, and now a cargo
had been taken at a very high freight; therefore, from the captain to
the cabin-boy, every man on board was merry and worked with a good
will.
Although the weather was bleak, rainy and foggy, still the wind blew
steadily; moreover, the _Ave Maria_ was a good ship, and a fast
sailer, withal she laboured under a great disadvantage, that of being
overladen, and was, consequently, always shipping heavy seas.
On leaving Cardiff, the captain found that two of the sailors, who
had been indulging in excesses of every kind whilst on shore, were in
a bad state of health. A third sickened a few days afterwards, and
for a long time all three were quite unfit for work. Still, the ship
managed to reach Marseilles without any mishap.
The cargo was unloaded, a fresh one was taken on board; the men
received medical assistance, and seemed to be recovering. On leaving
Marseilles, matters went from bad to worse; the captain, his mate,
and two other sailors fell ill.
"It seems," said the captain, "as if someone has the gift of the evil
eye, for, since we left England, ill-luck follows in our wake."
The crew was, therefore, greatly diminished, for the three men, who
had been recovering, were now, on account of improper food and
overwork, quite ill again.
On leaving Marseilles they met with heavy gales and baffling squalls
of wind; the ship began to pitch heavily, then to labour and strain
in such a way that, overladen as she was, the pestilence-stricken
crew could hardly manage her. For three days the wind blew with such
violence that two men had to be constantly kept at the helm.
Moreover, she shipped so many seas that hands had to be always at the
pumps. The very first day the waves had washed away the coops; then,
at last, the jib-boom and the bowsprit shrouds had been broken loose
and torn away by the grasp of the storm.
At last the storm subsided, and then the captain ascertained that the
ship had sustained such damage as to render her unsafe. In such a
predicament, with the crew all ailing, the captain deemed it
necessary to go back to Marseilles for repairs.
After a short stay there, the _Ave Maria_ set sail again for Palermo,
where she arrived without further mishap; only the sick sailors,
having had to work hard during the storm, were rather worse than
better. On leaving Palermo two other men of the crew had to be put on
the sick-list, so that by the time they reached the Adriatic the ship
was not much better than a pestiferous floating hospital. In fact,
the only ones who had escaped the loathsome contagion were Vranic and
the two boys, and they had to do the work of the whole crew.
It was fortunate that, notwithstanding the stormy season of the year,
the weather kept steadily fair, for, in case of a hurricane, the crew
would have been almost helpless. At last land was within sight; the
hills of Istria were seen, towards evening, as a faint greyish line
on the dark grey sky. The captain and the men heaved a sigh of
relief; that very night they would cast anchor in the port of
Trieste. There some had their homes; all, at least, had relations or
friends. Vranic alone hoped to meet no one he knew.
That evening they made a hearty meal, for, as their provisions had
slightly begun to fall short, they had scarcely satisfied their
hunger for several days; but now--almost within sight of the
welcoming, flashing rays of the Trieste lighthouse--they could,
indeed, be somewhat prodigal.
The sirocco, which had accompanied them all the way from Palermo, now
fell all at once, just as they had reached the neighbourhood of Cape
Salvore. That sudden quietness boded nothing good. Soon, the captain
perceived that the wind was shifting in the Gulf of Trieste. By
certain well-known signs, he argued that the north-easterly wind was
rising; and soon afterwards, a fierce _bora_, the scourge of all the
neighbourhood, began to blow.
Orders were at once given to reef the topsails; then they began to
tack about, so as to come to an anchorage in the roads of Trieste as
soon as possible.
With the want of hands, the work proceeded very slowly and clumsily.
Night came on--dark, dismal night--amidst a howling wind and raging
billows dashing furiously against the little ship. It was a comfort
on the next morning to see the white houses and the naked hills of
Trieste; for they were not far from the port. Every means was tried
to get near the land without being dashed against it and stranded, or
split against the rocks; but the fierce wind baffled all their
efforts. And the whole of the day was passed in uselessly tacking
about and ever being driven farther off in the offing. Still, late in
the afternoon, they managed to get nearer the port, and at sunset
both anchors were dropped, not far from the jetty; still, the violence
of the wind was such that all communication with the land was
rendered impossible. That evening the last provisions were eaten, for
they had spent the whole day fasting. The strength of the gale
increased with the night. More chain was then added; but still the
anchors began to come home. By degrees, all the chains were paid out;
and, nevertheless, the ship was drifting. In so doing, she struck her
helm against a buoy. The shock caused one of the chains, which was
old and rusty, to snap. After that, the _Ave Maria_ was driven back
bodily towards the coasts of Istria, till finding, at last, a better
bottom, the anchor held and the ship was stopped at about a mile from
Punta Grossa, not far from Capo d'Istria. There was no moon; the sky
was overcast; the darkness all around was oppressive. The huge
surges, dashing against the bows and the forecastle, washed away
everything on deck. The boats themselves were rendered unserviceable.
The thermometer had fallen eighteen degrees in two days, and the
keen, sharp wind blowing rendered the cold most intense. A fringe of
icicles was hanging down from the sides of the ship, the spray froze
on the tackle, and rendered the ropes as hard as iron cables.
Then the ship sprung a leak, and the pumps had to be worked to
prevent her from sinking. To keep the men alive, the captain opened a
pipe of Marsala which had been destined for the shippers. That night,
which seemed everlasting, finally wore away, dawn came, and the
signal of distress was hoisted; a ship passed at no great distance,
but took no notice of them. Anyhow, help could be expected from
Trieste; the coastguards must have seen them struggling against the
storm. That day the wind increased; not a ship, not a sailing-boat
was to be seen in the offing; what a long, dreary day of baffled hope
that was. When evening came on, the fasting crew, now completely
fagged out, began to lose courage, and yet they were but a few miles
from the coast. That night Vranic had a dreadful vision. When he took
his place at the pump, opposite him, at the other handle, stood the
vampire grinning at him, with the horrible gash in his cheek. That
gruesome sight was too dreadful to be borne; he felt his arms getting
stiff, and he fell fainting on the deck. He only recovered his senses
when a huge wave came breaking against the deck and almost washed him
overboard.
In the morning the wind began to abate; but now all the sailors were
not only thoroughly exhausted, but all more or less in a state of
intoxication. The pumps could hardly be worked any more; even Vranic,
the boys and the captain, who had worked to the last, hoping to save
their lives, were obliged to leave the vessel to sink.
The _Ave Maria_ was going down rapidly, and now, even if the men
could have worked, it was impossible to think of saving her; she was
to be the prey of the waves. As for help from Trieste, it was useless
looking out for it. Still, the titled gentlemen, in their warm and
cosy offices of the _See-Behoerde_, which fronted the harbour, had
seen the ship fighting against the wind and the waves. They knew, or,
at least, ought to have known, of her distress; but it was carnival
time, and their thoughts were surely not with the ships at sea.
At last, at eight o'clock, a ship was seen, and signals of distress
were made. The ship answered, and began tacking about and trying to
come near the sinking craft. When within reach of hearing, the whole
crew of the _Ave Maria_ summoned up all their strength and shouted
that they were starving.