I
A storm on the ocean is a fearful thing to see. It roars, it flashes, it
races huge waves mountain-high one after the other, it dashes them
furiously against the sharp rocks, it howls, it blows, and it tosses
great ships about as though they were tiny toys.
Once, long, long ago there was just such a storm as this off the Cape of
Good Hope, that most southern point of Africa. For the Evil Spirit who
ruled the seas in those days, and who had many servants to do his
bidding, had ordered one of them, the Wind Storm, to sweep over the
waters far and wide. Perhaps the Evil Spirit wanted to add to the
treasures that he had gathered from all the ships he had
wrecked--treasures that he kept far beneath the water.
At any rate, the Wind Storm did as he was told. He lashed the mighty
waves into anger so that they crashed against the jagged rocks of the
Cape, and all the ships that were abroad scudded swiftly along before
him in fear.
"Go home," whistled the Wind Storm through the sails. "Go back to your
safe harbors. There is no room for you on this sea. I need it
all--all--all."
And the ships scurried into their harbors--all but one. The captain of
that ship was not afraid of the Wind Storm nor of the Evil Spirit,
either, for that matter. His ship was strong, and so was his will. He
was determined to go around the Cape. He stood at the prow while the
ship rocked violently to and fro. The salt spray dashed over him, but
still he defied the Wind Storm.
"I will not go back," he cried, and he swore a mighty oath. "I'll sail
on and round that Cape if I sail forever."
Now the Evil Spirit happened to be lurking beneath the angry waters,
and he heard the oath.
"Very well," cried he. "Sail on forever and ever, then! Sail on until
you find a maiden fair who will be willing to die for love of you!"
And so it came to pass. Through all the long years that followed, the
ship sailed on and on. In fair or foul weather, over smooth or stormy
seas, under blue or gray skies, the strange voyage continued year after
year.
Sometimes the captain in his despair would steer straight for the craggy
rocks, hoping to be dashed to pieces, but the rocks would not harm his
ship. He steered in the path of terrible pirates, but when the pirates
saw the ship, they crossed themselves and hurried away. The blustering
tempest would not harm it, nor the eddying whirlpool. It just sailed on
and on.
The sailors, who had been young and lively, grew old and silent. Their
hearts were as gray as their heads, for though the days grew into
weeks, the weeks into years, the years into centuries, still there was
no rest for them. Their faces became as white as ghosts, and some say
that the blood left their bodies and crept into the sails. At any rate,
the strong, white ship turned black and weather-beaten, and the strong,
white sails, red, red as blood.
Only the captain remained forever young and handsome, and each seven
years as the ship sailed into some harbor, he was allowed to go on shore
to seek the maiden fair who would deliver him and his crew from their
fate and set them at rest. But alas! no such maiden had he ever found.
Many maidens had he met and loved, and many had loved him, too, but to
be true to him forever and to die for him,--that was quite another
matter.
And so each time "The Flying Dutchman" had gone on again, until once at
the end of a seven years' period he came to the coast of Norway.