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 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 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 malestrom, 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 tonight, 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, awakened 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 he 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, 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 the 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 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.
