From a Correspondent. Whitby.
One 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 was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers
laid 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 trips up and down 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." Thecoastguard 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 of seemingly 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 aprolific 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 realize, the whole aspect of nature at once
became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each
overtopping 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 strongmen 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 realized 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 billows 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- hammer" came crashing down.
But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, animmense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by
the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on
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 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 acrowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as
your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of
a small group who saw the 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 coastguards cannot claim the
salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on aderelict. 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; crowds are scattering homeward, 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 thegoods 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
to its master's yard. It had been fighting, and manifestly had
had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away, and its
belly was 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 greatestinterest, 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
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 thedeck 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
would 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 Gibralter
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. Likethe 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 angry. 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 man of 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 men. 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, and 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,land 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 was
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 BlessedVirgin 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 here hold almost
universally 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.
No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is
much mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he
would, I believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the
funeral; and so will end this one more "mystery of the sea."
Mina Murray's Journal.
8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among
the chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff
came it seemed to be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy
did not wake; but she got up twice and dressed herself.
Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and managed to undress
her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It is a very
strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will isthwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine
of her life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the
harbour to see if anything had happened in the night. There
were very few people about, and though the sun was bright,
and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking
waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that
topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the
narrow mouth of the harbour— like a bullying man going
through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not
on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea?
Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about him.
If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!
10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was
most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there,
and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill
Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went
early to our old seat, whilst the cortège of boats went up the
river to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely
view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow
was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on it when
the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much
upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannotbut think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite
odd in one thing: she will not admit to me that there is any
cause for restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it
herself. There is an additional cause in that poor old Mr. Swales
was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being
broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the
seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and
horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor
dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes!
Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more
acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by
a little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself
very fond of animals. One of the men who came up here often
to look for the boats was followed by his dog. The dog is always
with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw the man
angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would
not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a
few yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it
gently, and then harshly, and then angrily; but it would neither
come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a sort of fury, with its
eyes savage, and all its hairs bristling out like a cat's tail when
puss is on the war-path. Finally the man, too, got angry, and
jumped down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff
of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on the
tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched
the stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble.
It did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering andcowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried,
though without effect, to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too,
but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an
agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too super-
sensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. She
will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The whole
agglomeration of things— the ship steered into port by a dead
man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a
crucifix and beads; the touching funeral; the dog, now furious
and now in terror—will all afford material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so
I shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay
and back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-
walking then.