No More Learning

_11 a. m. _--The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has
been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My belief is,
doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took
and ate them raw! "

_11 p. m. _--I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night; enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The
thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and
the theory proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall
have to invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous
(life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he
can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He
gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then
wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later
steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why not advance science
in its most difficult and vital aspect--the knowledge of the brain? Had
I even the secret of one such mind--did I hold the key to the fancy of
even one lunatic--I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch
compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's brain
knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I
must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good cause might
turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain,
congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope.
I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has
closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How
many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope,
and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great
Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to
profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be
angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! work!

If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a
good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.


/Mina Murray's Journal. /

_26 July. _--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here;
it is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time.
And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it
different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I
had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but
yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter
from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the
enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle
Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like
Jonathan; I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too,
Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of
walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we
have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs.
Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of
houses and along the edges of cliffs, and then get suddenly awakened
and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place.
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that
her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit; that he would get up in
the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy
is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out her
dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for
I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple
way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood--he is
the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming--is coming up here
very shortly--as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very
well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes. She
wants to take him up to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him
the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her;
she will be all right when he arrives.

_27 July. _--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about
him, though why I should I do not know; but I _do_ wish that he would
write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and
each night I am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the
weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and
the perpetually being awakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am
getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up.
Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has
been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him,
but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks
are a lovely rose pink. She has lost that anaemic look which she had. I
pray it will all last.

_3 August. _--Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even
to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill.
He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it
is his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much
in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her
which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching
me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room
searching for the key.

_6 August. _--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and
learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is
hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey--except
the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock;
grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The
sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey
mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and
there is a "brool" over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom.
Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded
in the mist, and seem "men like trees walking. " The fishing-boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into
the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is
making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that
he wants to talk. . . .

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:--

"I want to say something to you, miss. " I could see he was not at ease,
so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak
fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:--

"I'm afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked
things I've been sayin' about the dead, and such-like, for weeks past;
but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I've gone.
We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal,
don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel scart of
it; an' that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up
my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin',
not a bit; only I don't want to die if I can help it. My time must be
nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any
man to expect; and I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin'
his scythe. Ye see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it
all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the
Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an'
greet, my deary! "--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this
very night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all,
only a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin'; and death be
all that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to
me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin'
and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's bringin'
with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look! "
he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and in the hoast
beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It's
in the air; I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call
comes! " He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth
moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes' silence, he got
up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled
off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.

"I can't make her out," he said; "she's a Russian, by the look of her;
but she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know her mind
a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to
run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel;
changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more of her before
this time to-morrow. "




CHAPTER VII.

/Cutting from "The Dailygraph," 8 August. /

(_Pasted in Mina Murray's Journal. _)

From a Correspondent.


_Whitby. _

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had
been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of
August. Saturday evening was as fine as ever was known, and the great
body of holiday-makers set out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,
Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips
in the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers _Emma_ and _Scarborough_
made excursions along the coast, and there was an unusual amount of
"tripping" both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till
the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of
sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show
of "mares'-tails" high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked "No. 2: light breeze. " The coastguard on duty at once
made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century
has kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an
emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was
so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds,
that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the
old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the
black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour--flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here
and there masses not large, but seemingly of absolute blackness, in
all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The
experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the
sketches of the "Prelude to the Great Storm" will grace the R. A. and
R. I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then
and there that his "cobble" or his "mule," as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There
were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually "hug" the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but
few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign
schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The
foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for
comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal
her to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she
was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea,

"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. "

Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep
inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and
the band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord
in the great harmony of nature's silence. A little after midnight came
a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to
carry a strange, faint hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realise,
the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in
growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.
White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the
shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume
swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of
either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew
with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept
their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was
found necessary to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers,
or else the fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold.
To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog
came drifting inland--white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly
fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort
of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and
many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times
the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the
glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such
sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling
under the shock of the footsteps of the storm. Some of the scenes thus
revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of absorbing interest--the
sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty
masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl
away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with a rag of sail,
running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again the white
wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East Cliff the
new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried.
The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the
pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once
or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with
gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of
the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers.
As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy
from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to
cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush. Before long the
searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner with all sails
set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in the
evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realised the terrible
danger in which she now was. Between her and the port lay the great
flat reef on which so many good ships have from time to time suffered,
and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite
impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. It was
now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in
their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the
schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the
words of one old salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in
hell. " Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto--a
mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey
pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing, for the roar
of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the booming of the
mighty bellows came through the damp oblivion even louder than before.
The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across
the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the
sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, _mirabile dictu_, between the
piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept
the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained
the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder
ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with
drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the
ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great awe came on
all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the
harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However, all took
place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner
paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that
accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms
into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East Cliff,
known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up
on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of
the "top-hamper" came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very
instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from
below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from
the bow on to the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the
churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some
of the flat tombstones--"thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as they
call them in the Whitby vernacular--actually project over where the
sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which
seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier,
as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed
or were out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the
eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier,
was the first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after
scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then
turned the light on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran
aft, and when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it and
recoiled at once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to
pique the general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate
Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well
ahead of the crowd. When I arrived, however, I found already assembled
on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boat-man, I was, as your
correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group
who saw that dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for
not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened
by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between
the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which
it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast
by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one
time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through
the rudder of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords
with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was
made of the state of things, and a doctor--Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of
33, East Elliot Place--who came immediately after me, declared, after
making examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two
days. In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a
little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The
coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the
knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board
may save some complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for the
coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first
civilian entering on a derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are
wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights
of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held
in contravention of the statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as
emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a _dead
hand_.
It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently
removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till
death--a steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca--and
placed in the mortuary to await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating; the
crowds are scattering homewards, and the sky is beginning to redden over
the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further
details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into
harbour in the storm.

_Whitby. _

_9 August. _--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the
storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It
turns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called
the _Demeter_. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with
only a small amount of cargo--a number of great wooden boxes filled
with mould. This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.
F. Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and
formally took possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian
consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of
the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here
to-day except the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of
Trade have been most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been
made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a "nine days'
wonder," they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of
after complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog
which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members
of the S. P. C. A. , which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend
the animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be
found; it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be
that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is
still hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a
possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred
mastiff, belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found
dead in the roadway opposite its master's yard. It had been fighting,
and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly slit open as if with a savage claw.

_Later. _--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the log-book of the _Demeter_, which was in order
up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest
except as to facts of missing men. The greater interest, however, is
with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced
at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them
unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive
for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send
you a rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and
supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this
had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement
must be taken _cum grano_, since I am writing from the dictation of a
clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being
short.


/Log of the "Demeter. "/

_Varna to Whitby. _

_Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep
accurate note henceforth till we land. _

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth.
At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands, . . . two mates,
cook, and myself (captain).

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs
officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but
quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only
told him there was _something_, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper
with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but
all was quiet.

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky,
was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells
last night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but
would not say more than that there was _something_ aboard. Mate getting
very impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in
an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man
aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind
the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man,
who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way, and go
along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when
he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was
in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread.
To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from stem to
stern.

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we should search from
stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such
foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while
the rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns;
we left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes,
there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when
search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but
said nothing.

_22 July. _--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with
sails--no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread.
Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad
weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.

_24 July. _--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,
and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last
night another man lost--disappeared. Like the first, he came off his
watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate
violent. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will
do some violence.

_28 July. _--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom,
and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out.
Hardly know how to set a watch since no one fit to go on. Second mate
volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours' sleep.
Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is
steadier.

_29 July. _--Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too
tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one
except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search,
but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate
and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

_30 July. _--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine,
all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling
me that both men on watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and
two hands left to work ship.

_1 August. _--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in
the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere.
Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower,
as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible
doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of them. His stronger
nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond
fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They
are Russian, he Roumanian.

_2 August, midnight. _--Woke up from few minutes' sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck,
and ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits
of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as
he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and
only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God
seems to have deserted us.

_3 August. _--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, but
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran
before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for
the mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given
way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my
ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: "_It_ is here; I know
it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,
and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the
air. " And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: "But It is here, and I'll find it. It is in the
hold, perhaps, in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and
see. You work the helm. " And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest
and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,
raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those
big boxes: they are invoiced as "clay," and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and
write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.
Then, if I can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails and lie by, and signal for help. . . .

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer--for I heard him knocking away at something in the
hold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and
his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! save me! " he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and
in a steady voice he said: "You had better come too, captain, before it
is too late. _He_ is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me
from Him, and it is all that is left! " Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It
was this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these
horrors when I get to port? _When_ I get to port! Will that ever be?

_4 August. _--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there
is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go
below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in
the dimness of the night I saw It--Him! God forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It is better to die like a man; to die like a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not
leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall
tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along
with them I shall tie that which He--It! --dare not touch; and then, come
good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I
am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face again, I may not have time to act. . . . If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,
. . . well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying
to do his duty. . . .

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;
and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now
none to say. The folk hold almost universally here that the captain
is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it
is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the
Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the
Abbey steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The
owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.