The next day, as Philip was superintending the fitting of the rigging, the captain of the Vrow Katerina arrived, and stepping on board of her by the plank which communicated with the quay, the first thing that he did was to run to the mainmast and embrace it with both arms, although there was no small portion of tallow on it to smear the cloth of his coat. “Oh! my dear Vrow, my Katerina!” cried he, as if he were speaking to a female. “How do you do? I’m glad to see you again—you have been quite well, I hope? You do not like being laid up in this way. Never mind, my dear creature! you shall soon be handsome again.”
The name of this personage who thus made love to his vessel was Wilhelm Barentz. He was a young man, apparently not thirty years of age, of diminutive stature and delicate proportions. His face was handsome, but womanish. His movements were rapid and restless, and there was that appearance in his eye which would have warranted the supposition that he was a little flighty, even if his conduct had not fully proved the fact.
No sooner were the ecstasies of the captain over, than Philip introduced himself to him, and informed him of his appointment. “Oh! you are the first mate of the Vrow Katerina Sir, you are a very fortunate man. Next to being captain of her, first mate is the most enviable situation in the world.”
“Certainly not on account of her beauty,” observed Philip; “she may have many other good qualities.”
“Not on account of her beauty! Why, sir, I say (as my father has said before me, and it was his Vrow before it was mine) that she is the handsomest vessel in the world. At present you cannot judge; and besides being the handsomest vessel, she has every good quality under the sun.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir,” replied Philip; “it proves that one should never judge by appearances. But is she not very old?”
“Old! not more than twenty-eight years—just in her prime. Stop, my dear sir, till you see her dancing on the waters, and then you will do nothing all day but discourse with me upon her excellence, and I have no doubt that we shall have a very happy time together.”
“Provided the subject be not exhausted,” replied Philip.
“That it never will be on my part: and allow me to observe, Mr Vanderdecken, that any officer who finds fault with the Vrow Katerina quarrels with me. I am her knight, and I have already fought three men in her defence,—I trust I shall not have to fight a fourth.”
Philip smiled: he thought that she was not worth fighting for; but he acted upon the suggestion, and, from that time forward, he never ventured to express an opinion against the beautiful Vrow Katerina.
The crew were soon complete, the vessel rigged, her sails bent, and she was anchored in the stream, surrounded by the other ships composing the fleet about to be despatched. The cargo was then received on board, and, as soon as her hold was full, there came, to Philip’s great vexation, an order to receive on board 150 soldiers and other passengers, many of whom were accompanied by their wives and families. Philip worked hard, for the captain did nothing but praise the vessel, and at last they had embarked everything, and the fleet was ready to sail.
It was now time to part with Amine, who had remained at the hostelrie, and to whom Philip had dedicated every spare moment that he could obtain. The fleet was expected to sail in two days, and it was decided that on the morrow they should part. Amine was cool and collected. She felt convinced that she should see her husband again, and with that feeling she embraced him as they separated on the beach, and he stepped into the boat in which he was to be pulled on board.
“Yes,” thought Amine, as she watched the form of her husband, as the distance between them increased—“yes, I know that we shall meet again. It is not this voyage which is to be fatal to you or me; but I have a dark foreboding that the next, in which I shall join you, will separate us for ever—in which way I know not—but it is destined. The priests talk of free will. Is it free-will which takes him away from me? Would he not rather remain on shore with me? Yes. But he is not permitted, for he must fulfil his destiny. Free-will? Why, if it were not destiny it were tyranny. I feel, and have felt, as if these priests are my enemies; but why I know not: they are both good men, and the creed they teach is good. Goodwill and charity love to all, forgiveness of injuries, not judging others. All this is good; and yet my heart whispers to me that—but the boat is alongside, and Philip is climbing up the vessel. Farewell, farewell, my dearest husband. I would I were a man! No, no! ’tis better as it is.”
Amine watched till she could no longer perceive Philip, and then walked slowly to the hostelrie. The next day, when she arose, she found that the fleet had sailed at daylight, and the channel, which had been so crowded with vessels, was now untenanted.
“He is gone,” muttered Amine; “now, for many months of patient, calm enduring,—I cannot say of living, for I exist but in his presence.”
* * *
Chapter Sixteen.
We must leave Amine to her solitude, and follow the fortunes of Philip. The fleet had sailed with a flowing sheet, and bore gallantly down the Zuyder Zee; but they had not been under way an hour before the Vrow Katerina was left a mile or two astern. Mynheer Barentz found fault with the setting and trimming of the sails, and with the man at the helm, who was repeatedly changed; in short, with everything but his dear Vrow Katerina: but all would not do; she still dropped astern, and proved to be the worst-sailing vessel in the fleet.
“Mynheer Vanderdecken,” said he, at last, “the Vrow, as my father used to say, is not so very fast before the wind. Vessels that are good on a wind seldom are; but this I will say, that, in every other point of sailing, there is no other vessel in the fleet equal to the Vrow Katerina.”
“Besides,” observed Philip, who perceived how anxious how captain was on the subject, “we are heavily laden, and have so many troops on deck.”
The fleet cleared the sands and were then close-hauled, when the Vrow Katerina proved to sail even more slowly than before. “When we are so very close-hauled,” observed Mynheer Barentz, “the Vrow does not do so well; but a point free, and then you will see how she will show her stern to the whole fleet. She is a fine vessel, Mynheer Vanderdecken, is she not?”
“A very fine, roomy vessel,” replied Philip, which was all that in conscience, he could say.
The fleet sailed on, sometimes on a wind, sometimes free, but let the point of sailing be what it might, the Vrow Katerina was invariably astern, and the fleet had to heave-to at sunset to enable her to keep company; still, the captain continued to declare that the point of sailing on which they happened to be, was the only point in which the Vrow Katerina was deficient. Unfortunately, the vessel had other points quite as bad as her sailing; she was crank, leaky, and did not answer the helm well, but Mynheer Barentz was not to be convinced. He adored his ship and like all men desperately in love he could see no fault in his mistress. But others were not so blind, and the admiral, finding the voyage so much delayed by the bad sailing of one vessel, determined to leave her to find her way by herself so soon as they had passed the Cape. He was, however, spared the cruelty of deserting her, for a heavy gale came on which dispersed the whole fleet, and on the second day the good ship Vrow Katerina found herself alone, labouring heavily in the trough of the sea, leaking so much as to require hands constantly at the pumps, and drifting before the gale as fast to leeward almost as she usually sailed. For a week the gale continued, and each day did her situation become more alarming. Crowded with troops, encumbered with heavy stores she groaned and laboured, while whole seas washed over her, and the men could hardly stand at the pumps. Philip was active, and exerted himself to the utmost, encouraging the worn-out men, securing where aught had given way, and little interfered with by the captain, who was himself no sailor.
“Well,” observed the captain to Philip, as they held on by the belaying-pins, “you’ll acknowledge that she is a fine weatherly vessel in a gale—is she not? Softly, my beauty, softly,” continued he, speaking to the vessel, as she plunged heavily into the waves, and every timber groaned. “Softly, my dear, softly. How those poor devils in the other ships must be knocking about now. Heh! Mynheer Vanderdecken, we have the start of them this time: they must be a terrible long way down to leeward. Don’t you think so?”
“I really cannot pretend to say,” replied Philip, smiling.
“Why, there’s not one of them in sight. Yes! by Heavens, there is! Look on our lee-beam. I see one now. Well, she must be a capital sailer, at all events: look there, a point abaft the beam. Mercy on me! how stiff she must be to carry such a press of canvass!”
Philip had already seen her. It was a large ship on a wind, and on the same tack as they were. In a gale, in which no vessel could carry the topsails, the Vrow Katerina being under close-reefed foresails and staysails, the ship seen to leeward was standing under a press of sail—topgallant-sail, royals, flying jib, and every stitch of canvass which could be set in a light breeze. The waves were running mountains high, bearing each minute the Vrow Katerina down to the gunwale: and the ship seen appeared not to be affected by the tumultuous waters, but sailed steadily and smoothly on an even keel. At once Philip knew it must be the Phantom Ship, in which his father’s doom was being fulfilled.
“Very odd, is it not?” observed Mynheer Barentz.
Philip felt such an oppression on his chest that he could not reply. As he held on with one hand, he covered up his eyes with the other.
But the seamen had now seen the vessel, and the legend was too well known. Many of the troops had climbed on deck when the report was circulated, and all eyes were now fixed upon the supernatural vessel; when a heavy squall burst over the Vrow Katerina, accompanied with peals of thunder and heavy rain, rendering it so thick that nothing could be seen. In a quarter of an hour it cleared away, and, when they looked to leeward the stranger was no longer in sight.
“Merciful Heaven! she must have been upset, and has gone down in the squall,” said Mynheer Barentz. “I thought as much, carrying such a press of sail. There never was a ship that could carry more than the Vrow Katerina. It was madness on the part of the captain of that vessel; but I suppose he wished to keep up with us. Heh, Mynheer Vanderdecken?”
Philip did not reply to these remarks, which fully proved the madness of his captain. He felt that his ship was doomed, and when he thought of the numbers on board who might be sacrificed, he shuddered. After a pause, he said—
“Mynheer Barentz, this gale is likely to continue, and the best ship that ever was built cannot, in my opinion, stand such weather. I should advise that we bear up, and run back to Table Bay to refit. Depend upon it, we shall find the whole fleet there before us.”
“Never fear for the good ship, Vrow Katerina,” replied the captain; “see what weather she makes of it.”
“Cursed bad,” observed one of the seamen, for the seamen had gathered near to Philip to hear what his advice might be. “If I had known that she was such an old, crazy beast, I never would have trusted myself on board. Mynheer Vanderdecken is right; we must back to Table Bay ere worse befall us. That ship to leeward has given us warning—she is not seen for nothing,—ask Mr Vanderdecken, captain; he knows that well, for he is a sailor.”
This appeal to Philip made him start; it was, however, made without any knowledge of Philip’s interest in the Phantom Ship.
“I must say,” replied Philip, “that, whenever I have fallen in with that vessel, mischief has ever followed.”
“Vessel! why, what was there in that vessel to frighten you? She carried too much sail, and she has gone down.”
“She never goes down,” replied one of the seamen.
“No! no!” exclaimed many voices; “but we shall, if we do not run back.”
“Pooh! nonsense! Mynheer Vanderdecken, what say you?”
“I have already stated my opinion,” replied Philip, who was anxious, if possible, to see the ship once more in port, “that the best thing we can do, is to bear up for Table Bay.”
“And, captain,” continued the old seaman who had just spoken, “we are all determined that it shall be so, whether you like it or not; so up with the helm, my hearty, and Mynheer Vanderdecken will trim the sails.”
“Why! what is this?” cried Captain Barentz. “A mutiny on board of the Vrow Katerina? impossible! The Vrow Katerina! the best ship, the fastest in the whole fleet!”
“The dullest old rotten tub,” cried one of the seamen.
“What!” cried the captain, “what do I hear? Mynheer Vanderdecken, confine that lying rascal for mutiny.”
“Pooh! nonsense! he’s mad,” replied the old seaman. “Never mind him; come, Mynheer Vanderdecken, we will obey you; but the helm must be up immediately.”
The captain stormed, but Philip, by acknowledging the superiority of his vessel, at the same time that he blamed the seamen for their panic, pointed out to him the necessity of compliance, and Mynheer Barentz at last consented. The helm was put up, the sails trimmed, and the Vrow Katerina rolled heavily before the gale. Towards the evening the weather moderated, and the sky cleared up; both sea and wind subsided fast; the leaking decreased, and Philip was in hopes that in a day or two they would arrive safely in the Bay.
As they steered their course, so did the wind gradually decrease, until at last it fell calm; nothing remained of the tempest but a long heavy swell which set to the westward, and before which the Vrow Katerina was gradually drifting. This was respite to the worn-out seamen, and also to the troops and passengers, who had been cooped below or drenched on the main-deck.
The upper deck was crowded; mothers basked in the warm sun with their children in their arms; the rigging was filled with the wet clothes, which were hung up to dry on every part of the shrouds; and the seamen were busily employed in repairing the injuries of the gale. By their reckoning, they were not more than fifty miles from Table Bay, and each moment they expected to see the land to the southward of it. All was again mirth, and every one on board, except Philip, considered that danger was no more to be apprehended.
The second mate, whose name was Krantz, was an active, good seaman, and a great favourite with Philip, who knew that he could trust to him, and it was on the afternoon of this day that he and Philip were walking together on the deck.
“What think you, Vanderdecken, of that strange vessel we saw?”
“I have seen her before, Krantz; and—”
“And what?”
“Whatever vessel I have been in when I have seen her, that vessel has never returned into port—others tell the same tale.”
“Is she, then, the ghost of a vessel?”
