_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.
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_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.
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_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 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....
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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?
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_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 Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty....
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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 is thwarted 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!
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