Chapter 1

The Phantom Ship, by Captain Marryat.

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Captain Frederick Marryat was born July 10 1792, and died August 8 1848.
He retired from the British navy in 1828 in order to devote himself to
writing. In the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which are
among the very best of English literature, and some of which are still
in print.

Marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in his
stories. He says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, he
never knew what he was going to write. He certainly was a literary
genius.

"The Phantom Ship" was published in 1839, the thirteenth book to flow
from Marryat's pen. It is one of his very best books.

This e-text was transcribed in 1998 by Nick Hodson, and was reformatted
in 2003, and again in 2005.

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THE PHANTOM SHIP, BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT.

CHAPTER ONE.

About the middle of the seventeenth century, in the outskirts of the
small but fortified town of Terneuse, situated on the right bank of the
Scheldt, and nearly opposite to the island of Walcheren, there was to be
seen in advance of a few other even more humble tenements, a small but
neat cottage, built according to the prevailing taste of the time. The
outside front had, some years back, been painted of a deep orange, the
windows and shutters of a vivid green. To about three feet above the
surface of the earth, it was faced alternately with blue and white
tiles. A small garden, of about two rods of our measure of land,
surrounded the edifice; and this little plot was flanked by a low hedge
of privet, and encircled by a moat full of water, too wide to be leaped
with ease. Over that part of the moat which was in front of the
cottage-door was a small and narrow bridge, with ornamented iron
handrails, for the security of the passenger. But the colours,
originally so bright, with which the cottage had been decorated, had now
faded; symptoms of rapid decay were evident in the window-sills, the
door-jambs, and other wooden parts of the tenement and many of the white
and blue tiles had fallen down and had not been replaced. That much
care had once been bestowed upon this little tenement, was as evident as
that latterly it had been equally neglected.

The inside of the cottage, both on the basement and the floor above, was
divided into two larger rooms in front, and two smaller behind; the
rooms in front could only be called large in comparison with the other
two, as they were little more than twelve feet square, with but one
window to each. The upper floor was, as usual, appropriated to the
bedrooms; on the lower, the two smaller rooms were now used only as a
wash-house and a lumber-room; while one of the larger was fitted up as a
kitchen, and furnished with dressers, on which the metal utensils for
cookery shone clean and polished as silver. The room itself was
scrupulously neat; but the furniture as well as the utensils, were
scanty. The boards of the floor were of a pure white, and so clean that
you might have laid anything down without fear of soiling it. A strong
deal table, two wooden-seated chairs, and a small easy couch, which had
been removed from one of the bedrooms upstairs, were all the moveables
which this room contained. The other front room had been fitted up as a
parlour; but what might be the style of its furniture was now unknown,
for no eye had beheld the contents of that room for nearly seventeen
years, during which it had been hermetically sealed, even to the inmates
of the cottage.

The kitchen, which we have described, was occupied by two persons. One
was a woman, apparently about forty years of age, but worn down by pain
and suffering. She had evidently once possessed much beauty: there were
still the regular outlines, the noble forehead, and the large dark eye;
but there was a tenuity in her features, a wasted appearance, such as to
render the flesh transparent; her brow, when she mused, would sink into
deep wrinkles, premature though they were; and the occasional flashing
of her eyes strongly impressed you with the idea of insanity. There
appeared to be some deep-seated, irremoveable, hopeless cause of
anguish, never for one moment permitted to be absent from her memory: a
chronic oppression, fixed and graven there, only to be removed by death.
She was dressed in the widow's coif of the time; but although clean and
neat, her garments were faded from long wear. She was seated upon the
small couch which we have mentioned, evidently brought down as a relief
to her, in her declining state.

On the deal table in the centre of the room sat the other person, a
stout, fair-haired, florid youth of nineteen or twenty years old. His
features were handsome and bold, and his frame powerful to excess; his
eye denoted courage and determination, and as he carelessly swung his
legs, and whistled an air in an emphatic manner, it was impossible not
to form the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and reckless
character.

"Do not go to sea, Philip; oh, promise me _that_, my dear child," said
the female, clasping her hands.

"And why not go to sea, mother?" replied Philip; "what's the use of my
staying here to starve?--for, by Heaven! it's little better, I must do
something for myself and for you. And what else can I do? My uncle Van
Brennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages.
Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficient
for your support at home."

"Philip--Philip, hear me. I shall die if you leave me. Whom have I in
the world but you? O my child, as you love me, and I know you _do_ love
me, Philip, don't leave me; but if you will, at all events do not go to
sea."

Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while his
mother wept.

"Is it," said he at last, "because my father was drowned at sea that you
beg so hard, mother?"

"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed the sobbing woman. "Would to God--"

"Would to God what, mother?"

"Nothing--nothing. Be merciful--be merciful, O God!" replied the
mother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side of
it, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer. At
last she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of more
composure.

Philip, who during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, again
addressed his mother.

"Look ye, mother. You ask me to stay on shore with you, and starve,--
rather hard conditions:--now hear what I have to say. That room
opposite has been shut up ever since I can remember--why, you will never
tell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without bread and with
no prospect of my uncle's return--you were then half frantic, mother, as
you know you sometimes are--"

"Well, Philip, what did you hear me say?" inquired his mother, with
tremulous anxiety.

"You said, mother, that there was money in that room which would save
us; and then you screamed and raved, and said that you preferred death.
Now, mother, what is there in that chamber, and why has it been so long
shut up? Either I know that, or I go to sea."

At the commencement of this address of Philip, his mother appeared to be
transfixed, and motionless as a statue; gradually her lips separated,
and her eyes glared; she seemed to have lost the power of reply; she put
her hand to her right side, as if to compress it, then both her hands,
as if to relieve herself from excruciating torture: at last she sank,
with her head forward, and the blood poured out of her mouth.

Philip sprang from the table to her assistance, and prevented her from
falling on the floor. He laid her on the couch, watching with alarm the
continued effusion.

"Oh! mother--mother, what is this?" cried he, at last, in great
distress.

For some time his mother could make him no reply; she turned further on
her side, that she might not be suffocated by the discharge from the
ruptured vessel, and the snow-white planks of the floor were soon
crimsoned with her blood.

"Speak, dearest mother, if you can," repeated Philip in agony; "What
shall I do?--what shall I give you? God Almighty! what is this?"

"Death, my child, death!" at length replied the poor woman, sinking into
a state of unconsciousness.

Philip, now much alarmed, flew out of the cottage, and called the
neighbours to his mother's assistance. Two or three hastened to the
call; and as soon as Philip saw them occupied in restoring his mother,
he ran as fast as he could to the house of a medical man, who lived
about a mile off;--one Mynheer Poots, a little, miserable, avaricious
wretch but known to be very skilful in his profession. Philip found
Poots at home, and insisted upon his immediate attendance.

"I will come--yes, most certainly," replied Poots, who spoke the
language but imperfectly; "but, Mynheer Vanderdecken, who will pay me?"

"Pay you! my uncle will, directly that he comes home."

"Your uncle, de Skipper Vanbrennen: no, he owe me four guilders, and he
has owed me for a long time. Besides his ship may sink."

"He shall pay you the four guilders, and for this attendance also,"
replied Philip in a rage; "come directly,--while you are disputing, my
mother may be dead."

"But, Mr Philip, I cannot come, now I recollect. I have to see the
child of the Burgomaster at Terneuse," replied Mynheer Poots.

"Look you, Mynheer Poots," exclaimed Philip, red with passion; "you have
but to choose,--will you go quietly, or must I take you there? You'll
not trifle with me."

Here Mynheer Poots was under considerable alarm, for the character of
Philip Vanderdecken was well known.

"I will come by-and-by, Mynheer Philip, if I can."

"You'll come now, you wretched old miser," exclaimed Philip, seizing
hold of the little man by the collar, and pulling him out of his door.

"Murder! murder!" cried Poots, as he lost his legs, and was dragged
along by the impetuous young man.

Philip stopped, for he perceived that Poots was black in the face.

"Must I then choke you, to make you go quietly? for, hear me, go you
shall, alive or dead."

"Well, then," replied Poots, recovering himself, "I will go, but I'll
have you in prison to-night: and, as for your mother, I'll not--no, that
I will not--Mynheer Philip, depend upon it."

"Mark me, Mynheer Poots," replied Philip, "as sure as there is a God in
heaven, if you do not come with me, I'll choke you now; and when you
arrive, if you do not your best for my poor mother, I'll murder you
there. You know that I always do what I say, so now take my advice,
come along quietly, and you shall certainly be paid, and well paid--if I
sell my coat."

This last observation of Philip, perhaps, had more effect than even his
threats. Poots was a miserable little atom, and like a child in the
powerful grasp of the young man. The doctor's tenement was isolated,
and he could obtain no assistance until within a hundred yards of
Vanderdecken's cottage; so Mynheer Poots decided that he would go--
first, because Philip had promised to pay him, and secondly, because he
could not help it.

This point being settled, Philip and Mynheer Poots made all haste to the
cottage; and on their arrival, they found his mother still in the arms
of two of her female neighbours, who were bathing her temples with
vinegar. She was in a state of consciousness, but she could not speak;
Poots ordered her to be carried up stairs and put to bed, and pouring
some acids down her throat, hastened away with Philip to procure the
necessary remedies.

"You will give your mother that directly, Mynheer Philip," said Poots,
putting a phial into his hand; "I will now go to the child of the
Burgomaster, and will afterwards come back to your cottage."

"Don't deceive me," said Philip, with a threatening look.

"No, no, Mynheer Philip, I would not trust to your uncle Vanbrennen for
payment, but you have promised, and I know that you always keep your
word. In one hour I will be with your mother; but you yourself must now
be quick."

Philip hastened home. After the potion had been administered, the
bleeding was wholly stopped; and in half an hour, his mother could
express her wishes in a whisper. When the little doctor arrived, he
carefully examined his patient, and then went down stairs with her son
into the kitchen.

"Mynheer Philip," said Poots, "by Allah! I have done my best, but I
must tell you that I have little hopes of your mother rising from her
bed again. She may live one day or two days, but not more. It is not
my fault, Mynheer Philip," continued Poots, in a deprecating tone.

"No, no; it is the will of Heaven," replied Philip, mournfully.

"And you will pay me, Mynheer Vanderdecken?" continued the doctor after
a short pause.

"Yes," replied Philip in a voice of thunder, and starting from a
reverie. After a moment's silence, the doctor recommenced:

"Shall I come to-morrow, Mynheer Philip? You know that will be a charge
of another guilder: it is of no use to throw away money or time either."

"Come to-morrow, come every hour, charge what you please; you shall
certainly be paid," replied Philip, curling his lip with contempt.

"Well, it is as you please. As soon as she is dead the cottage and the
furniture will be yours, and you will sell them of course. Yes, I will
come. You will have plenty of money. Mynheer Philip, I would like the
first offer of the cottage, if it is to let."

Philip raised his arm in the air as if to crush Mynheer Poots, who
retreated to the corner.

"I did not mean until your mother was buried," said Poots, in a coaxing
tone.

"Go, wretch, go!" said Philip, covering his face with his hands, as he
sank down upon the blood-stained couch.

After a short interval, Philip Vanderdecken returned to the bedside of
his mother, whom he found much better; and the neighbours, having their
own affairs to attend to, left them alone. Exhausted with the loss of
blood, the poor woman slumbered for many hours, during which she never
let go the hand of Philip, who watched her breathing in mournful
meditation.

It was about one o'clock in the morning when the widow awoke. She had
in a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her son:--

"My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner so
long?"

"My own inclination detained me, mother. I leave you not to others
until you are up and well again."

"That, Philip, I shall never be. I feel that death claims me; and O my
son, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing! I
have long been dying, Philip,--and long, long have I prayed for death."

"And why so, mother?" replied Philip, bluntly; "I've done my best."

"You have, my child, you have: and may God bless you for it. Often have
I seen you curb your fiery temper--restrain yourself when justified in
wrath--to spare a mother's feelings. 'Tis now some days that even
hunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother. And, Philip, you
must have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and yet to give
no reason. I'll speak--again--directly."

The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for some
minutes; then, as if revived, she resumed:

"I believe I have been mad at times--have I not, Philip? And God knows
I have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy. It
has oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, and
now, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame: the blow
is struck, Philip--I'm sure it is. I wait but to tell you all,--and yet
I would not,--'twill turn your brain as it has turned mine, Philip."

"Mother," replied Philip, earnestly, "I conjure you, let me hear this
killing secret. Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not. Heaven
will not hurt me and Satan I defy."

"I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip,--thy strength of mind. If any
one could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst. My
brain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell it
to thee."

The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had to
confide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks; she
then appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regained
strength.

"Philip, it is of your father I would speak. It is supposed--that he
was--drowned at sea."

"And was he not, mother?" replied Philip, with surprise.

"O no!"

"But he has long been dead, mother?"

"No,--yes,--and yet--no," said the widow, covering her eyes. Her brain
wanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again:

"Then where is he, mother?"

The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her whole
frame, as she replied--

"In LIVING JUDGMENT."

The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered her
head with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her own
memory. Philip was so much perplexed and astounded, that he could make
no reply. A silence of some minutes ensued when, no longer able to bear
the agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered--

"The secret, mother, the secret; quick, let me hear it."

"I can now tell all, Philip," replied his mother, in a solemn tone of
voice. "Hear me, my son. Your father's disposition was but too like
your own;--O may his cruel fate be a lesson to you, my dear, dear child!
He was a bold, a daring, and, they say, a first-rate seaman. He was
not born here, but in Amsterdam; but he would not live there, because he
still adhered to the Catholic religion. The Dutch, you know, Philip,
are heretics, according to our creed. It is now seventeen years or more
that he sailed for India, in his fine ship the Amsterdammer, with a
valuable cargo. It was his third voyage to India, Philip, and it was to
have been, if it had so pleased God, his last, for he had purchased that
good ship with only part of his earnings, and one more voyage would have
made his fortune. O! how often did we talk over what we would do upon
his return, and how these plans for the future consoled me at the idea
of his absence, for I loved him dearly, Philip,--he was always good and
kind to me! and after he had sailed, how I hoped for his return! The
lot of a sailor's wife is not to be envied. Alone and solitary for so
many months, watching the long wick of the candle and listening to the
howling of the wind--foreboding evil and accident--wreck and widowhood.
He had been gone about six months, Philip, and there was still a long
dreary year to wait before I could expect him back. One night, you, my
child, were fast asleep; you were my only solace--my comfort in my
loneliness. I had been watching over you in your slumbers: you smiled
and half pronounced the name of mother; and at last I kissed your
unconscious lips, and I knelt and prayed--prayed for God's blessing on
you, my child, and upon him too--little thinking, at the time, that he
was so horribly, so fearfully CURSED."

The widow paused for breath, and then resumed. Philip could not speak.
His lips were sundered, and his eyes riveted upon his mother, as he
devoured her words.

"I left you and went down stairs into that room, Philip, which since
that dreadful night has never been re-opened. I sate me down and read,
for the wind was strong, and when the gale blows, a sailor's wife can
seldom sleep. It was past midnight, and the rain poured down. I felt
unusual fear,--I knew not why, I rose from the couch and dipped my
finger in the blessed water, and I crossed myself. A violent gust of
wind roared round the house and alarmed me still more. I had a painful,
horrible foreboding; when, of a sudden, the windows and window-shutters
were all blown in, the light was extinguished, and I was left in utter
darkness. I screamed with fright--but at last I recovered myself, and
was proceeding towards the window that I might reclose it, when whom
should I behold, slowly entering at the casement, but--your father,--
Philip!--Yes, Philip,--it was your father!"

"Merciful God!" muttered Philip, in a low tone almost subdued into a
whisper.

"I knew not what to think,--he was in the room; and although the
darkness was intense, his form and features were as clear and as defined
as if it were noon-day. Fear would have inclined me to recoil from,--
his loved presence to fly towards him. I remained on the spot where I
was, choked with agonising sensations. When he had entered the room,
the windows and shutters closed of themselves, and the candle was
relighted--then I thought it was his apparition, and I fainted on the
floor.

"When I recovered I found myself on the couch, and perceived that a cold
(O how cold!) and dripping hand was clasped in mine. This reassured me,
and I forgot the supernatural signs which accompanied his appearance. I
imagined that he had been unfortunate, and had returned home. I opened
my eyes, and beheld my loved husband and threw myself into his arms.
His clothes were saturated with the rain; I felt as if I had embraced
ice--but nothing can check the warmth of woman's love, Philip. He
received my caresses but he caressed not again: he spoke not, but looked
thoughtful and unhappy. `William--William,' cried I; `speak, to your
dear Catherine.'

"`I will,' replied he, solemnly, `for my time is short.'

"`No, no, you must not go to sea again; you have lost your vessel but
you are safe. Have I not you again?'

"`Alas! no--be not alarmed, but listen? for my time is short. I have
not lost my vessel, Catherine, BUT I HAVE LOST!--Make no reply, but
listen; I am not dead, nor yet am I alive. I hover between this world
and the world of spirits. Mark me.'

"`For nine weeks did I try to force my passage against the elements
round the stormy Cape, but without success; and I swore terribly. For
nine weeks more did I carry sail against the adverse winds and currents,
and yet could gain no ground and then I blasphemed,--ay, terribly
blasphemed. Yet still I persevered. The crew, worn out with long
fatigue, would have had me return to the Table Bay; but I refused; nay,
more, I became a murderer--unintentionally, it is true, but still a
murderer. The pilot opposed me, and persuaded the men to bind me, and
in the excess of my fury, when he took me by the collar, I struck at
him; he reeled; and, with the sudden lurch of the vessel, he fell
overboard, and sank. Even this fearful death did not restrain me; and I
swore by the fragment of the Holy Cross, preserved in that relic now
hanging round your neck, that I would gain my point in defiance of storm
and seas, of lightning, of heaven, or of hell, even if I should beat
about until the Day of Judgment.'

"`My oath was registered in thunder, and in streams of sulphurous fire.
The hurricane burst upon the ship, the canvass flew away in ribbons;
mountains of seas swept over us, and in the centre of a deep o'erhanging
cloud, which shrouded all in utter darkness, were written in letters of
livid flame, these words--UNTIL THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT.'

"`Listen to me, Catherine, my time is short. _One hope_ alone remains,
and for this am I permitted to come here. Take this letter.' He put a
sealed paper on the table. `Read it, Catherine, dear, and try if you
can assist me. Read it, and now farewell--my time is come.'

"Again the window and window-shutters burst open--again the light was
extinguished, and the form of my husband was, as it were, wafted in the
dark expanse. I started up and followed him with outstretched arms and
frantic screams as he sailed through the window;--my glaring eyes beheld
his form borne away like lightning on the wings of the wild gale, till
it was lost as a speck of light, and then it disappeared. Again the
windows closed, the light burned, and I was left alone!

"Heaven, have mercy! My brain!--my brain!--Philip!--Philip!" shrieked
the poor woman; "don't leave me--don't--don't--pray don't!"

During these exclamations the frantic widow had raised herself from the
bed, and, at the last, had fallen into the arms of her son. She
remained there some minutes without motion. After a time Philip felt
alarmed at her long quiescence; he laid her gently down upon the bed,
and as he did so her head fell back--her eyes were turned--the widow
Vanderdecken was no more.

CHAPTER TWO.

Philip Vanderdecken, strong as he was in mental courage, was almost
paralysed by the shock when he discovered that his mother's spirit had
fled; and for some time he remained by the side of the bed, with his
eyes fixed upon the corpse, and his mind in a state of vacuity.
Gradually he recovered himself; he rose, smoothed down the pillow,
closed her eyelids, and then clasping his hands, the tears trickled down
his manly cheeks. He impressed a solemn kiss upon the pale white
forehead of the departed, and drew the curtains round the bed.

"Poor mother!" said he, sorrowfully, as he completed his task, "at
length thou hast found rest,--but thou hast left thy son a bitter
legacy."

And as Philip's thoughts reverted to what had passed, the dreadful
narrative whirled in his imagination and scathed his brain. He raised
his hands to his temples, compressed them with force, and tried to
collect his thoughts, that he might decide upon what measures he should
take. He felt that he had no time to indulge his grief. His mother was
in peace: but his father--where was he?

He recalled his mother's words--"One hope alone remained." Then there
was hope. His father had laid a paper on the table--could it be there
now? Yes, it must be--his mother had not had the courage to take it up.
There was hope in that paper, and it had lain unopened for more than
seventeen years.

Philip Vanderdecken resolved that he would examine the fatal chamber--at
once he would know the worst. Should he do it now, or wait till
daylight?--but the key, where was it? His eyes rested upon an old
japanned cabinet in the room: he had never seen his mother open it in
his presence: it was the only likely place of concealment that he was
aware of. Prompt in all his decisions, he took up the candle, and
proceeded to examine it. It was not locked; the doors swung open, and
drawer after drawer was examined, but Philip discovered not the object
of his search; again and again did he open the drawers, but they were
all empty. It occurred to Philip that there might be secret drawers,
and he examined for some time in vain. At last he took out all the
drawers, and laid them on the floor, and lifting the cabinet off its
stand he shook it. A rattling sound in one corner told him that in all
probability the key was there concealed. He renewed his attempts to
discover how to gain it, but in vain. Daylight now streamed through the
casements, and Philip had not desisted from his attempts: at last,
wearied out, he resolved to force the back panel of the cabinet; he
descended to the kitchen, and returned with a small chopping-knife and
hammer, and was on his knees busily employed forcing out the panel, when
a hand was placed upon his shoulder.

Philip started: he had been so occupied with his search and his wild
chasing thoughts, that he had not heard the sound of an approaching
footstep. He looked up and beheld the Father Seysen, the priest of the
little parish, with his eyes sternly fixed upon him. The good man had
been informed of the dangerous state of the widow Vanderdecken, and had
risen at daylight to visit and afford her spiritual comfort.

"How now, my son," said the priest: "fearest thou not to disturb thy
mother's rest? and wouldst thou pilfer and purloin even before she is in
her grave?"

"I fear not to disturb my mother's rest, good father," replied Philip,
rising on his feet, "for she now rests with the blessed. Neither do I
pilfer or purloin. It is not gold, I seek although if gold there were,
that gold would now be mine. I seek but a key, long hidden, I believe,
within this secret drawer, the opening of which is a mystery beyond my
art."

"Thy mother is no more, sayest thou, my son?