Starve.Org White Noise Usenet Archive: "Forward: THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE-STAR. by Sir A. Conan Doyle."

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> Hello readers.

> I am not the writer of this story..

> I am merely a poster.

> The Captain of the Polestar
> by Arthur Conan Doyle

> THE CAPTAIN OF THE "POLE-STAR."

> September 11th.--Lat. 81 degrees 40' N.; long. 2 degrees E. Still
> lying-to amid enormous ice fields. The one which stretches away to
> the north of us, and to which our ice-anchor is attached, cannot be
> smaller than an English county. To the right and left unbroken
> sheets extend to the horizon. This morning the mate reported that
> there were signs of pack ice to the southward. Should this form of
> sufficient thickness to bar our return, we shall be in a position
> of danger, as the food, I hear, is already running somewhat short.
> It is late in the season, and the nights are beginning to reappear.

> This morning I saw a star twinkling just over the fore-yard, the
> first since the beginning of May. There is considerable discontent
> among the crew, many of whom are anxious to get back home to be in
> time for the herring season, when labour always commands a high
> price upon the Scotch coast. As yet their displeasure is only
> signified by sullen countenances and black looks, but I heard from
> the second mate this afternoon that they contemplated sending a
> deputation to the Captain to explain their grievance. I much doubt
> how he will receive it, as he is a man of fierce temper, and very
> sensitive about anything approaching to an infringement of his
> rights. I shall venture after dinner to say a few words to him
> upon the subject. I have always found that he will tolerate from
> me what he would resent from any other member of the crew.
> Amsterdam Island, at the north-west corner of Spitzbergen, is
> visible upon our starboard quarter--a rugged line of volcanic
> rocks, intersected by white seams, which represent glaciers. It is
> curious to think that at the present moment there is probably no
> human being nearer to us than the Danish settlements in the south
> of Greenland--a good nine hundred miles as the crow flies. A
> captain takes a great responsibility upon himself when he risks his
> vessel under such circumstances. No whaler has ever remained in
> these latitudes till so advanced a period of the year.

> 9 P.M,--I have spoken to Captain Craigie, and though the result has
> been hardly satisfactory, I am bound to say that he listened to
> what I had to say very quietly and even deferentially. When I had
> finished he put on that air of iron determination which I have
> frequently observed upon his face, and paced rapidly backwards and
> forwards across the narrow cabin for some minutes. At first I
> feared that I had seriously offended him, but he dispelled the idea
> by sitting down again, and putting his hand upon my arm with a
> gesture which almost amounted to a caress. There was a depth of
> tenderness too in his wild dark eyes which surprised me
> considerably. "Look here, Doctor," he said, "I'm sorry I ever took
> you--I am indeed--and I would give fifty pounds this minute to see
> you standing safe upon the Dundee quay. It's hit or miss with me
> this time. There are fish to the north of us. How dare you shake
> your head, sir, when I tell you I saw them blowing from the
> masthead?"--this in a sudden burst of fury, though I was not
> conscious of having shown any signs of doubt. "Two-and-twenty fish
> in as many minutes as I am a living man, and not one under ten
> foot.[1] Now, Doctor, do you think I can leave the country when
> there is only one infernal strip of ice between me and my fortune?
> If it came on to blow from the north to-morrow we could fill the
> ship and be away before the frost could catch us. If it came on to
> blow from the south--well, I suppose the men are paid for risking
> their lives, and as for myself it matters but little to me, for I
> have more to bind me to the other world than to this one. I
> confess that I am sorry for you, though. I wish I had old Angus
> Tait who was with me last voyage, for he was a man that would never
> be missed, and you--you said once that you were engaged, did you
> not?"

> [1] A whale is measured among whalers not by the length of its
> body, but by the length of its whalebone.

> "Yes," I answered, snapping the spring of the locket which hung
> from my watch-chain, and holding up the little vignette of Flora.

> "Curse you!" he yelled, springing out of his seat, with his very
> beard bristling with passion. "What is your happiness to me? What
> have I to do with her that you must dangle her photograph before my
> eyes?" I almost thought that he was about to strike me in the
> frenzy of his rage, but with another imprecation he dashed open the
> door of the cabin and rushed out upon deck, leaving me considerably
> astonished at his extraordinary violence. It is the first time
> that he has ever shown me anything but courtesy and kindness. I
> can hear him pacing excitedly up and down overhead as I write these
> lines.

> I should like to give a sketch of the character of this man, but it
> seems presumptuous to attempt such a thing upon paper, when the
> idea in my own mind is at best a vague and uncertain one. Several
> times I have thought that I grasped the clue which might explain
> it, but only to be disappointed by his presenting himself in some
> new light which would upset all my conclusions. It may be that no
> human eye but my own shall ever rest upon these lines, yet as a
> psychological study I shall attempt to leave some record of Captain
> Nicholas Craigie.

> A man's outer case generally gives some indication of the soul
> within. The Captain is tall and well-formed, with dark, handsome
> face, and a curious way of twitching his limbs, which may arise
> from nervousness, or be simply an outcome of his excessive energy.
> His jaw and whole cast of countenance is manly and resolute, but
> the eyes are the distinctive feature of his face. They are of the
> very darkest hazel, bright and eager, with a singular mixture of
> recklessness in their expression, and of something else which I
> have sometimes thought was more allied with horror than any other
> emotion. Generally the former predominated, but on occasions, and
> more particularly when he was thoughtfully inclined, the look of
> fear would spread and deepen until it imparted a new character to
> his whole countenance. It is at these times that he is most
> subject to tempestuous fits of anger, and he seems to be aware of
> it, for I have known him lock himself up so that no one might
> approach him until his dark hour was passed. He sleeps badly, and
> I have heard him shouting during the night, but his cabin is some
> little distance from mine, and I could never distinguish the words
> which he said.

> This is one phase of his character, and the most disagreeable one.
> It is only through my close association with him, thrown together
> as we are day after day, that I have observed it. Otherwise he is
> an agreeable companion, well-read and entertaining, and as gallant
> a seaman as ever trod a deck. I shall not easily forget the way in
> which he handled the ship when we were caught by a gale among the
> loose ice at the beginning of April. I have never seen him so
> cheerful, and even hilarious, as he was that night, as he paced
> backwards and forwards upon the bridge amid the flashing of the
> lightning and the howling of the wind. He has told me several
> times that the thought of death was a pleasant one to him, which is
> a sad thing for a young man to say; he cannot be much more than
> thirty, though his hair and moustache are already slightly
> grizzled. Some great sorrow must have overtaken him and blighted
> his whole life. Perhaps I should be the same if I lost my Flora--
> God knows! I think if it were not for her that I should care very
> little whether the wind blew from the north or the south to-morrow.

> There, I hear him come down the companion, and he has locked
> himself up in his room, which shows that he is still in an
> unamiable mood. And so to bed, as old Pepys would say, for the
> candle is burning down (we have to use them now since the nights
> are closing in), and the steward has turned in, so there are no
> hopes of another one.

> September 12th.--Calm, clear day, and still lying in the same
> position. What wind there is comes from the south-east, but it is
> very slight. Captain is in a better humour, and apologised to me
> at breakfast for his rudeness. He still looks somewhat distrait,
> however, and retains that wild look in his eyes which in a
> Highlander would mean that he was "fey"--at least so our chief
> engineer remarked to me, and he has some reputation among the
> Celtic portion of our crew as a seer and expounder of omens.

> It is strange that superstition should have obtained such mastery
> over this hard-headed and practical race. I could not have
> believed to what an extent it is carried had I not observed it for
> myself. We have had a perfect epidemic of it this voyage, until I
> have felt inclined to serve out rations of sedatives and nerve-
> tonics with the Saturday allowance of grog. The first symptom
> of it was that shortly after leaving Shetland the men at the wheel
> used to complain that they heard plaintive cries and screams in the
> wake of the ship, as if something were following it and were unable
> to overtake it. This fiction has been kept up during the whole
> voyage, and on dark nights at the beginning of the seal-fishing it
> was only with great difficulty that men could be induced to do
> their spell. No doubt what they heard was either the creaking of
> the rudder-chains, or the cry of some passing sea-bird. I have
> been fetched out of bed several times to listen to it, but I need
> hardly say that I was never able to distinguish anything unnatural.

> The men, however, are so absurdly positive upon the subject that it
> is hopeless to argue with them. I mentioned the matter to the
> Captain once, but to my surprise he took it very gravely, and
> indeed appeared to be considerably disturbed by what I told him.
> I should have thought that he at least would have been above such
> vulgar delusions.

> All this disquisition upon superstition leads me up to the fact
> that Mr. Manson, our second mate, saw a ghost last night--or, at
> least, says that he did, which of course is the same thing. It is
> quite refreshing to have some new topic of conversation after the
> eternal routine of bears and whales which has served us for so many
> months. Manson swears the ship is haunted, and that he would not
> stay in her a day if he had any other place to go to. Indeed the
> fellow is honestly frightened, and I had to give him some
> chloral and bromide of potassium this morning to steady him
> down. He seemed quite indignant when I suggested that he had been
> having an extra glass the night before, and I was obliged to pacify
> him by keeping as grave a countenance as possible during his story,
> which he certainly narrated in a very straight-forward and matter-
> of-fact way.

> "I was on the bridge," he said, "about four bells in the middle
> watch, just when the night was at its darkest. There was a bit of
> a moon, but the clouds were blowing across it so that you couldn't
> see far from the ship. John M`Leod, the harpooner, came aft from
> the foc'sle-head and reported a strange noise on the starboard bow.

> I went forrard and we both heard it, sometimes like a bairn crying
> and sometimes like a wench in pain. I've been seventeen years to
> the country and I never heard seal, old or young, make a sound like
> that. As we were standing there on the foc'sle-head the moon came
> out from behind a cloud, and we both saw a sort of white figure
> moving across the ice field in the same direction that we had heard
> the cries. We lost sight of it for a while, but it came back on
> the port bow, and we could just make it out like a shadow on the
> ice. I sent a hand aft for the rifles, and M`Leod and I went down
> on to the pack, thinking that maybe it might be a bear. When we
> got on the ice I lost sight of M`Leod, but I pushed on in the
> direction where I could still hear the cries. I followed them for
> a mile or maybe more, and then running round a hummock I came right
> on to the top of it standing and waiting for me seemingly. I
> don't know what it was. It wasn't a bear any way. It was tall and
> white and straight, and if it wasn't a man nor a woman, I'll stake
> my davy it was something worse. I made for the ship as hard as I
> could run, and precious glad I was to find myself aboard. I signed
> articles to do my duty by the ship, and on the ship I'll stay, but
> you don't catch me on the ice again after sundown."

> That is his story, given as far as I can in his own words. I fancy
> what he saw must, in spite of his denial, have been a young bear
> erect upon its hind legs, an attitude which they often assume when
> alarmed. In the uncertain light this would bear a resemblance to
> a human figure, especially to a man whose nerves were already
> somewhat shaken. Whatever it may have been, the occurrence is
> unfortunate, for it has produced a most unpleasant effect upon the
> crew. Their looks are more sullen than before, and their
> discontent more open. The double grievance of being debarred from
> the herring fishing and of being detained in what they choose to
> call a haunted vessel, may lead them to do something rash. Even
> the harpooners, who are the oldest and steadiest among them, are
> joining in the general agitation.

> Apart from this absurd outbreak of superstition, things are looking
> rather more cheerful. The pack which was forming to the south of
> us has partly cleared away, and the water is so warm as to lead me
> to believe that we are lying in one of those branches of the gulf-
> stream which run up between Greenland and Spitzbergen. There
> are numerous small Medusse and sealemons about the ship, with
> abundance of shrimps, so that there is every possibility of "fish"
> being sighted. Indeed one was seen blowing about dinner-time, but
> in such a position that it was impossible for the boats to follow it.

> September 13th.--Had an interesting conversation with the chief
> mate, Mr. Milne, upon the bridge. It seems that our Captain is as
> great an enigma to the seamen, and even to the owners of the
> vessel, as he has been to me. Mr. Milne tells me that when the
> ship is paid off, upon returning from a voyage, Captain Craigie
> disappears, and is not seen again until the approach of another
> season, when he walks quietly into the office of the company, and
> asks whether his services will be required. He has no friend in
> Dundee, nor does any one pretend to be acquainted with his early
> history. His position depends entirely upon his skill as a seaman,
> and the name for courage and coolness which he had earned in the
> capacity of mate, before being entrusted with a separate command.
> The unanimous opinion seems to be that he is not a Scotchman, and
> that his name is an assumed one. Mr. Milne thinks that he has
> devoted himself to whaling simply for the reason that it is the
> most dangerous occupation which he could select, and that he courts
> death in every possible manner. He mentioned several instances of
> this, one of which is rather curious, if true. It seems that on
> one occasion he did not put in an appearance at the office, and
> a substitute had to be selected in his place. That was at the time
> of the last Russian and Turkish war. When he turned up again next
> spring he had a puckered wound in the side of his neck which he
> used to endeavour to conceal with his cravat. Whether the mate's
> inference that he had been engaged in the war is true or not I
> cannot say. It was certainly a strange coincidence.

> The wind is veering round in an easterly direction, but is still
> very slight. I think the ice is lying closer than it did
> yesterday. As far as the eye can reach on every side there is one
> wide expanse of spotless white, only broken by an occasional rift
> or the dark shadow of a hummock. To the south there is the narrow
> lane of blue water which is our sole means of escape, and which is
> closing up every day. The Captain is taking a heavy responsibility
> upon himself. I hear that the tank of potatoes has been finished,
> and even the biscuits are running short, but he preserves the same
> impassible countenance, and spends the greater part of the day at
> the crow's nest, sweeping the horizon with his glass. His manner
> is very variable, and he seems to avoid my society, but there has
> been no repetition of the violence which he showed the other night.

> 7.30 P.M.--My deliberate opinion is that we are commanded by a
> madman. Nothing else can account for the extraordinary vagaries of
> Captain Craigie. It is fortunate that I have kept this journal of
> our voyage, as it will serve to justify us in case we have to put
> him under any sort of restraint, a step which I should only
> consent to as a last resource. Curiously enough it was he himself
> who suggested lunacy and not mere eccentricity as the secret of his
> strange conduct. He was standing upon the bridge about an hour
> ago, peering as usual through his glass, while I was walking up and
> down the quarterdeck. The majority of the men were below at their
> tea, for the watches have not been regularly kept of late. Tired
> of walking, I leaned against the bulwarks, and admired the mellow
> glow cast by the sinking sun upon the great ice fields which
> surround us. I was suddenly aroused from the reverie into which I
> had fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow, and starting round I
> found that the Captain had descended and was standing by my side.
> He was staring out over the ice with an expression in which horror,
> surprise, and something approaching to joy were contending for the
> mastery. In spite of the cold, great drops of perspiration were
> coursing down his forehead, and he was evidently fearfully excited.

> His limbs twitched like those of a man upon the verge of an
> epileptic fit, and the lines about his mouth were drawn and hard.

> "Look!" he gasped, seizing me by the wrist, but still keeping his
> eyes upon the distant ice, and moving his head slowly in a
> horizontal direction, as if following some object which was moving
> across the field of vision. "Look! There, man, there! Between
> the hummocks! Now coming out from behind the far one! You see
> her--you MUST see her! There still! Flying from me, by
> God, flying from me--and gone!"

> He uttered the last two words in a whisper of concentrated agony
> which shall never fade from my remembrance. Clinging to the
> ratlines he endeavoured to climb up upon the top of the bulwarks as
> if in the hope of obtaining a last glance at the departing object.
> His strength was not equal to the attempt, however, and he
> staggered back against the saloon skylights, where he leaned
> panting and exhausted. His face was so livid that I expected him
> to become unconscious, so lost no time in leading him down the
> companion, and stretching him upon one of the sofas in the cabin.
> I then poured him out some brandy, which I held to his lips, and
> which had a wonderful effect upon him, bringing the blood back into
> his white face and steadying his poor shaking limbs. He raised
> himself up upon his elbow, and looking round to see that we were
> alone, he beckoned to me to come and sit beside him.

> "You saw it, didn't you?" he asked, still in the same subdued
> awesome tone so foreign to the nature of the man.

> "No, I saw nothing."

> His head sank back again upon the cushions. "No, he wouldn't
> without the glass," he murmured. "He couldn't. It was the glass
> that showed her to me, and then the eyes of love--the eyes of love.

> I say, Doc, don't let the steward in! He'll think I'm mad. Just
> bolt the door, will you!"

> I rose and did what he had commanded.

> He lay quiet for a while, lost in thought apparently, and then
> raised himself up upon his elbow again, and asked for some more
> brandy.

> "You don't think I am, do you, Doc?" he asked, as I was putting the
> bottle back into the after-locker. "Tell me now, as man to man, do
> you think that I am mad?"

> "I think you have something on your mind," I answered, "which is
> exciting you and doing you a good deal of harm."

> "Right there, lad!" he cried, his eyes sparkling from the effects
> of the brandy. "Plenty on my mind--plenty! But I can work out the
> latitude and the longitude, and I can handle my sextant and manage
> my logarithms. You couldn't prove me mad in a court of law, could
> you, now?" It was curious to hear the man lying back and coolly
> arguing out the question of his own sanity.

> "Perhaps not," I said; "but still I think you would be wise to get
> home as soon as you can, and settle down to a quiet life for a
> while."

> "Get home, eh?" he muttered, with a sneer upon his face. "One word
> for me and two for yourself, lad. Settle down with Flora--pretty
> little Flora. Are bad dreams signs of madness?"

> "Sometimes," I answered.

> "What else? What would be the first symptoms?"

> "Pains in the head, noises in the ears flashes before the eyes,
> delusions"----

> "Ah! what about them?" he interrupted. "What would you call a
> delusion?"

> "Seeing a thing which is not there is a delusion."

> "But she WAS there!" he groaned to himself. "She WAS there!"
> and rising, he unbolted the door and walked with slow and uncertain
> steps to his own cabin, where I have no doubt that he will remain
> until to-morrow morning. His system seems to have received a
> terrible shock, whatever it may have been that he imagined himself
> to have seen. The man becomes a greater mystery every day, though
> I fear that the solution which he has himself suggested is the
> correct one, and that his reason is affected. I do not think that
> a guilty conscience has anything to do with his behaviour. The
> idea is a popular one among the officers, and, I believe, the crew;
> but I have seen nothing to support it. He has not the air of a
> guilty man, but of one who has had terrible usage at the hands of
> fortune, and who should be regarded as a martyr rather than a
> criminal.

> The wind is veering round to the south to-night. God help us if it
> blocks that narrow pass which is our only road to safety! Situated
> as we are on the edge of the main Arctic pack, or the "barrier" as
> it is called by the whalers, any wind from the north has the effect
> of shredding out the ice around us and allowing our escape, while
> a wind from the south blows up all the loose ice behind us and hems
> us in between two packs. God help us, I say again!

> September 14th.--Sunday, and a day of rest. My fears have
> been confirmed, and the thin strip of blue water has disappeared
> from the southward. Nothing but the great motionless ice fields
> around us, with their weird hummocks and fantastic pinnacles.
> There is a deathly silence over their wide expanse which is
> horrible. No lapping of the waves now, no cries of seagulls or
> straining of sails, but one deep universal silence in which the
> murmurs of the seamen, and the creak of their boots upon the white
> shining deck, seem discordant and out of place. Our only visitor
> was an Arctic fox, a rare animal upon the pack, though common
> enough upon the land. He did not come near the ship, however, but
> after surveying us from a distance fled rapidly across the ice.
> This was curious conduct, as they generally know nothing of man,
> and being of an inquisitive nature, become so familiar that they
> are easily captured. Incredible as it may seem, even this little
> incident produced a bad effect upon the crew. "Yon puir beastie
> kens mair, ay, an' sees mair nor you nor me!" was the comment of
> one of the leading harpooners, and the others nodded their
> acquiescence. It is vain to attempt to argue against such puerile
> superstition. They have made up their minds that there is a curse
> upon the ship, and nothing will ever persuade them to the contrary.

> The Captain remained in seclusion all day except for about half an
> hour in the afternoon, when he came out upon the quarterdeck. I
> observed that he kept his eye fixed upon the spot where the vision
> of yesterday had appeared, and was quite prepared for another
> outburst, but none such came. He did not seem to see me
> although I was standing close beside him. Divine service was read
> as usual by the chief engineer. It is a curious thing that in
> whaling vessels the Church of England Prayer-book is always
> employed, although there is never a member of that Church among
> either officers or crew. Our men are all Roman Catholics or
> Presbyterians, the former predominating. Since a ritual is used
> which is foreign to both, neither can complain that the other is
> preferred to them, and they listen with all attention and devotion,
> so that the system has something to recommend it.

> A glorious sunset, which made the great fields of ice look like a
> lake of blood. I have never seen a finer and at the same time more
> weird effect. Wind is veering round. If it will blow twenty-four
> hours from the north all will yet be well.

> September 15th.--To-day is Flora's birthday. Dear lass! it is
> well that she cannot see her boy, as she used to call me, shut up
> among the ice fields with a crazy captain and a few weeks'
> provisions. No doubt she scans the shipping list in the Scotsman
> every morning to see if we are reported from Shetland. I have to
> set an example to the men and look cheery and unconcerned; but God
> knows, my heart is very heavy at times.

> The thermometer is at nineteen Fahrenheit to-day. There is but
> little wind, and what there is comes from an unfavourable quarter.
> Captain is in an excellent humour; I think he imagines he has seen
> some other omen or vision, poor fellow, during the night, for he
> came into my room early in the morning, and stooping down over
> my bunk, whispered, "It wasn't a delusion, Doc; it's all right!"
> After breakfast he asked me to find out how much food was left,
> which the second mate and I proceeded to do. It is even less than
> we had expected. Forward they have half a tank full of biscuits,
> three barrels of salt meat, and a very limited supply of coffee
> beans and sugar. In the after-hold and lockers there are a good
> many luxuries, such as tinned salmon, soups, haricot mutton, &c.,
> but they will go a very short way among a crew of fifty men. There
> are two barrels of flour in the store-room, and an unlimited supply
> of tobacco. Altogether there is about enough to keep the men on
> half rations for eighteen or twenty days--certainly not more. When
> we reported the state of things to the Captain, he ordered all
> hands to be piped, and addressed them from the quarterdeck. I
> never saw him to better advantage. With his tall, well-knit
> figure, and dark animated face, he seemed a man born to command,
> and he discussed the situation in a cool sailor-like way which
> showed that while appreciating the danger he had an eye for every
> loophole of escape.

> "My lads," he said, "no doubt you think I brought you into this
> fix, if it is a fix, and maybe some of you feel bitter against me
> on account of it. But you must remember that for many a season no
> ship that comes to the country has brought in as much oil-money as
> the old Pole-Star, and every one of you has had his share of it.
> You can leave your wives behind you in comfort while other poor
> fellows come back to find their lasses on the parish. If you have
> to thank me for the one you have to thank me for the other, and we
> may call it quits. We've tried a bold venture before this and
> succeeded, so now that we've tried one and failed we've no cause to
> cry out about it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can make the
> land across the ice, and lay in a stock of seals which will keep us
> alive until the spring. It won't come to that, though, for you'll
> see the Scotch coast again before three weeks are out. At present
> every man must go on half rations, share and share alike, and no
> favour to any. Keep up your hearts and you'll pull through this as
> you've pulled through many a danger before." These few simple
> words of his had a wonderful effect upon the crew. His former
> unpopularity was forgotten, and the old harpooner whom I have
> already mentioned for his superstition, led off three cheers, which
> were heartily joined in by all hands.

> September 16th.--The wind has veered round to the north during
> the night, and the ice shows some symptoms of opening out. The men
> are in a good humour in spite of the short allowance upon which
> they have been placed. Steam is kept up in the engine-room, that
> there may be no delay should an opportunity for escape present
> itself. The Captain is in exuberant spirits, though he still
> retains that wild "fey" expression which I have already remarked
> upon. This burst of cheerfulness puzzles me more than his former
> gloom. I cannot understand it. I think I mentioned in an
> early part of this journal that one of his oddities is that he
> never permits any person to enter his cabin, but insists upon
> making his own bed, such as it is, and performing every other
> office for himself. To my surprise he handed me the key to-day and
> requested me to go down there and take the time by his chronometer
> while he measured the altitude of the sun at noon. It is a bare
> little room, containing a washing-stand and a few books, but little
> else in the way of luxury, except some pictures upon the walls.
> The majority of these are small cheap oleographs, but there was one
> water-colour sketch of the head of a young lady which arrested my
> attention. It was evidently a portrait, and not one of those fancy
> types of female beauty which sailors particularly affect. No
> artist could have evolved from his own mind such a curious mixture
> of character and weakness. The languid, dreamy eyes, with their
> drooping lashes, and the broad, low brow, unruffled by thought or
> care, were in strong contrast with the clean-cut, prominent jaw,
> and the resolute set of the lower lip. Underneath it in one of the
> corners was written, "M. B., aet. 19." That any one in the short
> space of nineteen years of existence could develop such strength of
> will as was stamped upon her face seemed to me at the time to be
> well-nigh incredible. She must have been an extraordinary woman.
> Her features have thrown such a glamour over me that, though I had
> but a fleeting glance at them, I could, were I a draughtsman,
> reproduce them line for line upon this page of the journal. I
> wonder what part she has played in our Captain's life. He has
> hung her picture at the end of his berth, so that his eyes
> continually rest upon it. Were he a less reserved man I should
> make some remark upon the subject. Of the other things in his
> cabin there was nothing worthy of mention--uniform coats, a camp-
> stool, small looking-glass, tobacco-box, and numerous pipes,
> including an oriental hookah--which, by-the-bye, gives some colour
> to Mr. Milne's story about his participation in the war, though the
> connection may seem rather a distant one.

> 11.20 P.M.--Captain just gone to bed after a long and interesting
> conversation on general topics. When he chooses he can be a most
> fascinating companion, being remarkably well-read, and having the
> power of expressing his opinion forcibly without appearing to be
> dogmatic. I hate to have my intellectual toes trod upon. He spoke
> about the nature of the soul, and sketched out the views of
> Aristotle and Plato upon the subject in a masterly manner. He
> seems to have a leaning for metempsychosis and the doctrines of
> Pythagoras. In discussing them we touched upon modern
> spiritualism, and I made some joking allusion to the impostures of
> Slade, upon which, to my surprise, he warned me most impressively
> against confusing the innocent with the guilty, and argued that it
> would be as logical to brand Christianity as an error because
> Judas, who professed that religion, was a villain. He shortly
> afterwards bade me good-night and retired to his room.

> The wind is freshening up, and blows steadily from the north. The
> nights are as dark now as they are in England. I hope to-morrow
> may set us free from our frozen fetters.

> September 17th.--The Bogie again. Thank Heaven that I have
> strong nerves! The superstition of these poor fellows, and the
> circumstantial accounts which they give, with the utmost
> earnestness and self-conviction, would horrify any man not
> accustomed to their ways. There are many versions of the matter,
> but the sum-total of them all is that something uncanny has been
> flitting round the ship all night, and that Sandie M`Donald of
> Peterhead and "lang" Peter Williamson of Shetland saw it, as also
> did Mr. Milne on the bridge--so, having three witnesses, they can
> make a better case of it than the second mate did. I spoke to
> Milne after breakfast, and told him that he should be above such
> nonsense, and that as an officer he ought to set the men a better
> example. He shook his weatherbeaten head ominously, but answered
> with characteristic caution, "Mebbe aye, mebbe na, Doctor," he
> said; "I didna ca' it a ghaist. I canna' say I preen my faith in
> sea-bogles an' the like, though there's a mony as claims to ha'
> seen a' that and waur. I'm no easy feared, but maybe your ain
> bluid would run a bit cauld, mun, if instead o' speerin' aboot it
> in daylicht ye were wi' me last night, an' seed an awfu' like
> shape, white an' gruesome, whiles here, whiles there, an' it
> greetin' and ca'ing in the darkness like a bit lambie that hae lost
> its mither. Ye would na' be sae ready to put it a' doon to
> auld wives' clavers then, I'm thinkin'." I saw it was hopeless to
> reason with him, so contented myself with begging him as a personal
> favour to call me up the next time the spectre appeared--a request
> to which he acceded with many ejaculations expressive of his hopes
> that such an opportunity might never arise.

> As I had hoped, the white desert behind us has become broken by
> many thin streaks of water which intersect it in all directions.
> Our latitude to-day was 80 degrees 52' N., which shows that there
> is a strong southerly drift upon the pack. Should the wind
> continue favourable it will break up as rapidly as it formed. At
> present we can do nothing but smoke and wait and hope for the best.
> I am rapidly becoming a fatalist. When dealing with such uncertain
> factors as wind and ice a man can be nothing else. Perhaps it was
> the wind and sand of the Arabian deserts which gave the minds of
> the original followers of Mahomet their tendency to bow to kismet.

> These spectral alarms have a very bad effect upon the Captain. I
> feared that it might excite his sensitive mind, and endeavoured to
> conceal the absurd story from him, but unfortunately he overheard
> one of the men making an allusion to it, and insisted upon being
> informed about it. As I had expected, it brought out all his
> latent lunacy in an exaggerated form. I can hardly believe that
> this is the same man who discoursed philosophy last night with the
> most critical acumen and coolest judgment. He is pacing backwards
> and forwards upon the quarterdeck like a caged tiger, stopping
> now and again to throw out his hands with a yearning gesture, and
> stare impatiently out over the ice. He keeps up a continual mutter
> to himself, and once he called out, "But a little time, love--but
> a little time!" Poor fellow, it is sad to see a gallant seaman and
> accomplished gentleman reduced to such a pass, and to think that
> imagination and delusion can cow a mind to which real danger was
> but the salt of life. Was ever a man in such a position as I,
> between a demented captain and a ghost-seeing mate? I sometimes
> think I am the only really sane man aboard the vessel--except
> perhaps the second engineer, who is a kind of ruminant, and would
> care nothing for all the fiends in the Red Sea so long as they
> would leave him alone and not disarrange his tools.

> The ice is still opening rapidly, and there is every probability of
> our being able to make a start to-morrow morning. They will think
> I am inventing when I tell them at home all the strange things that
> have befallen me.

> 12 P.M.--I have been a good deal startled, though I feel steadier
> now, thanks to a stiff glass of brandy. I am hardly myself yet,
> however, as this handwriting will testify. The fact is, that I
> have gone through a very strange experience, and am beginning to
> doubt whether I was justified in branding every one on board as
> madmen because they professed to have seen things which did not
> seem reasonable to my understanding. Pshaw! I am a fool to let
> such a trifle unnerve me; and yet, coming as it does after all
> these alarms, it has an additional significance, for I cannot doubt
> either Mr. Manson's story or that of the mate, now that I have
> experienced that which I used formerly to scoff at.

> After all it was nothing very alarming--a mere sound, and that was
> all. I cannot expect that any one reading this, if any one ever
> should read it, will sympathise with my feelings, or realise the
> effect which it produced upon me at the time. Supper was over, and
> I had gone on deck to have a quiet pipe before turning in. The
> night was very dark--so dark that, standing under the quarter-boat,
> I was unable to see the officer upon the bridge. I think I have
> already mentioned the extraordinary silence which prevails in these
> frozen seas. In other parts of the world, be they ever so barren,
> there is some slight vibration of the air--some faint hum, be it
> from the distant haunts of men, or from the leaves of the trees, or
> the wings of the birds, or even the faint rustle of the grass that
> covers the ground. One may not actively perceive the sound, and
> yet if it were withdrawn it would be missed. It is only here in
> these Arctic seas that stark, unfathomable stillness obtrudes
> itself upon you in all its gruesome reality. You find your
> tympanum straining to catch some little murmur, and dwelling
> eagerly upon every accidental sound within the vessel. In this
> state I was leaning against the bulwarks when there arose from the
> ice almost directly underneath me a cry, sharp and shrill, upon the
> silent air of the night, beginning, as it seemed to me, at a note
> such as prima donna never reached, and mounting from that ever
> higher and higher until it culminated in a long wail of agony,
> which might have been the last cry of a lost soul. The ghastly
> scream is still ringing in my ears. Grief, unutterable grief,
> seemed to be expressed in it, and a great longing, and yet through
> it all there was an occasional wild note of exultation. It
> shrilled out from close beside me, and yet as I glared into the
> darkness I could discern nothing. I waited some little time, but
> without hearing any repetition of the sound, so I came below, more
> shaken than I have ever been in my life before. As I came down the
> companion I met Mr. Milne coming up to relieve the watch. "Weel,
> Doctor," he said, "maybe that's auld wives' clavers tae? Did ye no
> hear it skirling? Maybe that's a supersteetion? What d'ye think
> o't noo?" I was obliged to apologise to the honest fellow, and
> acknowledge that I was as puzzled by it as he was. Perhaps to-
> morrow things may look different. At present I dare hardly write
> all that I think. Reading it again in days to come, when I have
> shaken off all these associations, I should despise myself for
> having been so weak.

> September 18th.--Passed a restless and uneasy night, still
> haunted by that strange sound. The Captain does not look as if he
> had had much repose either, for his face is haggard and his eyes
> bloodshot. I have not told him of my adventure of last night, nor
> shall I. He is already restless and excited, standing up, sitting
> down, and apparently utterly unable to keep still.

> A fine lead appeared in the pack this morning, as I had
> expected, and we were able to cast off our ice-anchor, and steam
> about twelve miles in a west-sou'-westerly direction. We were then
> brought to a halt by a great floe as massive as any which we have
> left behind us. It bars our progress completely, so we can do
> nothing but anchor again and wait until it breaks up, which it will
> probably do within twenty-four hours, if the wind holds. Several
> bladder-nosed seals were seen swimming in the water, and one was
> shot, an immense creature more than eleven feet long. They are
> fierce, pugnacious animals, and are said to be more than a match
> for a bear. Fortunately they are slow and clumsy in their
> movements, so that there is little danger in attacking them upon
> the ice.

> The Captain evidently does not think we have seen the last of our
> troubles, though why he should take a gloomy view of the situation
> is more than I can fathom, since every one else on board considers
> that we have had a miraculous escape, and are sure now to reach the
> open sea.

> "I suppose you think it's all right now, Doctor?" he said, as we
> sat together after dinner.

> "I hope so," I answered.

> "We mustn't be too sure--and yet no doubt you are right. We'll all
> be in the arms of our own true loves before long, lad, won't we?
> But we mustn't be too sure--we mustn't be too sure."

> He sat silent a little, swinging his leg thoughtfully backwards and
> forwards. "Look here," he continued; "it's a dangerous place this,
> even at its best--a treacherous, dangerous place. I have known
> men cut off very suddenly in a land like this. A slip would do it
> sometimes--a single slip, and down you go through a crack, and only
> a bubble on the green water to show where it was that you sank.
> It's a queer thing," he continued with a nervous laugh, "but all
> the years I've been in this country I never once thought of making
> a will--not that I have anything to leave in particular, but still
> when a man is exposed to danger he should have everything arranged
> and ready--don't you think so?"

> "Certainly," I answered, wondering what on earth he was driving at.

> "He feels better for knowing it's all settled," he went on. "Now
> if anything should ever befall me, I hope that you will look after
> things for me. There is very little in the cabin, but such as it
> is I should like it to be sold, and the money divided in the same
> proportion as the oil-money among the crew. The chronometer I wish
> you to keep yourself as some slight remembrance of our voyage. Of
> course all this is a mere precaution, but I thought I would take
> the opportunity of speaking to you about it. I suppose I might
> rely upon you if there were any necessity?"

> "Most assuredly," I answered; "and since you are taking this step,
> I may as well"----

> "You! you!" he interrupted. "YOU'RE all right. What the devil
> is the matter with YOU? There, I didn't mean to be peppery, but
> I don't like to hear a young fellow, that has hardly began life,
> speculating about death. Go up on deck and get some fresh air
> into your lungs instead of talking nonsense in the cabin, and
> encouraging me to do the same."

> The more I think of this conversation of ours the less do I like
> it. Why should the man be settling his affairs at the very time
> when we seem to be emerging from all danger? There must be some
> method in his madness. Can it be that he contemplates suicide? I
> remember that upon one occasion he spoke in a deeply reverent
> manner of the heinousness of the crime of self-destruction. I
> shall keep my eye upon him, however, and though I cannot obtrude
> upon the privacy of his cabin, I shall at least make a point of
> remaining on deck as long as he stays up.

> Mr. Milne pooh-poohs my fears, and says it is only the "skipper's
> little way." He himself takes a very rosy view of the situation.
> According to him we shall be out of the ice by the day after to-
> morrow, pass Jan Meyen two days after that, and sight Shetland in
> little more than a week. I hope he may not be too sanguine. His
> opinion may be fairly balanced against the gloomy precautions of
> the Captain, for he is an old and experienced seaman, and weighs
> his words well before uttering them.

> . . . . . .

> The long-impending catastrophe has come at last. I hardly know
> what to write about it. The Captain is gone. He may come back to
> us again alive, but I fear me--I fear me. It is now seven o'clock
> of the morning of the 19th of September. I have spent the
> whole night traversing the great ice-floe in front of us with
> a party of seamen in the hope of coming upon some trace of him, but
> in vain. I shall try to give some account of the circumstances
> which attended upon his disappearance. Should any one ever chance
> to read the words which I put down, I trust they will remember that
> I do not write from conjecture or from hearsay, but that I, a sane
> and educated man, am describing accurately what actually occurred
> before my very eyes. My inferences are my own, but I shall be
> answerable for the facts.

> The Captain remained in excellent spirits after the conversation
> which I have recorded. He appeared to be nervous and impatient,
> however, frequently changing his position, and moving his limbs in
> an aimless choreic way which is characteristic of him at times. In
> a quarter of an hour he went upon deck seven times, only to descend
> after a few hurried paces. I followed him each time, for there was
> something about his face which confirmed my resolution of not
> letting him out of my sight. He seemed to observe the effect which
> his movements had produced, for he endeavoured by an over-done
> hilarity, laughing boisterously at the very smallest of jokes, to
> quiet my apprehensions.

> After supper he went on to the poop once more, and I with him. The
> night was dark and very still, save for the melancholy soughing of
> the wind among the spars. A thick cloud was coming up from the
> northwest, and the ragged tentacles which it threw out in front of
> it were drifting across the face of the moon, which only shone
> now and again through a rift in the wrack. The Captain paced
> rapidly backwards and forwards, and then seeing me still dogging
> him, he came across and hinted that he thought I should be better
> below--which, I need hardly say, had the effect of strengthening my
> resolution to remain on deck.

> I think he forgot about my presence after this, for he stood
> silently leaning over the taffrail, and peering out across the
> great desert of snow, part of which lay in shadow, while part
> glittered mistily in the moonlight. Several times I could see by
> his movements that he was referring to his watch, and once he
> muttered a short sentence, of which I could only catch the one word
> "ready." I confess to having felt an eerie feeling creeping over
> me as I watched the loom of his tall figure through the darkness,
> and noted how completely he fulfilled the idea of a man who is
> keeping a tryst. A tryst with whom? Some vague perception began
> to dawn upon me as I pieced one fact with another, but I was
> utterly unprepared for the sequel.

> By the sudden intensity of his attitude I felt that he saw
> something. I crept up behind him. He was staring with an eager
> questioning gaze at what seemed to be a wreath of mist, blown
> swiftly in a line with the ship. It was a dim, nebulous body,
> devoid of shape, sometimes more, sometimes less apparent, as the
> light fell on it. The moon was dimmed in its brilliancy at the
> moment by a canopy of thinnest cloud, like the coating of an
> anemone.

> "Coming, lass, coming," cried the skipper, in a voice of
> unfathomable tenderness and compassion, like one who soothes a
> beloved one by some favour long looked for, and as pleasant to
> bestow as to receive.

> What followed happened in an instant. I had no power to interfere.

> He gave one spring to the top of the bulwarks, and another which
> took him on to the ice, almost to the feet of the pale misty
> figure. He held out his hands as if to clasp it, and so ran into
> the darkness with outstretched arms and loving words. I still
> stood rigid and motionless, straining my eyes after his retreating
> form, until his voice died away in the distance. I never thought
> to see him again, but at that moment the moon shone out brilliantly
> through a chink in the cloudy heaven, and illuminated the great
> field of ice. Then I saw his dark figure already a very long way
> off, running with prodigious speed across the frozen plain. That
> was the last glimpse which we caught of him--perhaps the last we
> ever shall. A party was organised to follow him, and I accompanied
> them, but the men's hearts were not in the work, and nothing was
> found. Another will be formed within a few hours. I can hardly
> believe I have not been dreaming, or suffering from some hideous
> nightmare, as I write these things down.

> 7.30 P.M.--Just returned dead beat and utterly tired out from a
> second unsuccessful search for the Captain. The floe is of
> enormous extent, for though we have traversed at least twenty miles
> of its surface, there has been no sign of its coming to an end.
> The frost has been so severe of late that the overlying snow is
> frozen as hard as granite, otherwise we might have had the
> footsteps to guide us. The crew are anxious that we should cast
> off and steam round the floe and so to the southward, for the ice
> has opened up during the night, and the sea is visible upon the
> horizon. They argue that Captain Craigie is certainly dead, and
> that we are all risking our lives to no purpose by remaining when
> we have an opportunity of escape. Mr. Milne and I have had the
> greatest difficulty in persuading them to wait until to-morrow
> night, and have been compelled to promise that we will not under
> any circumstances delay our departure longer than that. We propose
> therefore to take a few hours' sleep, and then to start upon a
> final search.

> September 20th, evening.--I crossed the ice this morning with
> a party of men exploring the southern part of the floe, while Mr.
> Milne went off in a northerly direction. We pushed on for ten or
> twelve miles without seeing a trace of any living thing except a
> single bird, which fluttered a great way over our heads, and which
> by its flight I should judge to have been a falcon. The southern
> extremity of the ice field tapered away into a long narrow spit
> which projected out into the sea. When we came to the base of this
> promontory, the men halted, but I begged them to continue to the
> extreme end of it, that we might have the satisfaction of knowing
> that no possible chance had been neglected.

> We had hardly gone a hundred yards before M`Donald of Peterhead
> cried out that he saw something in front of us, and began to
> run. We all got a glimpse of it and ran too. At first it was only
> a vague darkness against the white ice, but as we raced along
> together it took the shape of a man, and eventually of the man of
> whom we were in search. He was lying face downwards upon a frozen
> bank. Many little crystals of ice and feathers of snow had drifted
> on to him as he lay, and sparkled upon his dark seaman's jacket.
> As we came up some wandering puff of wind caught these tiny flakes
> in its vortex, and they whirled up into the air, partially
> descended again, and then, caught once more in the current, sped
> rapidly away in the direction of the sea. To my eyes it seemed but
> a snow-drift, but many of my companions averred that it started up
> in the shape of a woman, stooped over the corpse and kissed it, and
> then hurried away across the floe. I have learned never to
> ridicule any man's opinion, however strange it may seem. Sure it
> is that Captain Nicholas Craigie had met with no painful end, for
> there was a bright smile upon his blue pinched features, and his
> hands were still outstretched as though grasping at the strange
> visitor which had summoned him away into the dim world that lies
> beyond the grave.

> We buried him the same afternoon with the ship's ensign around him,
> and a thirty-two pound shot at his feet. I read the burial
> service, while the rough sailors wept like children, for there were
> many who owed much to his kind heart, and who showed now the
> affection which his strange ways had repelled during his
> lifetime. He went off the grating with a dull, sullen splash, and
> as I looked into the green water I saw him go down, down, down
> until he was but a little flickering patch of white hanging upon
> the outskirts of eternal darkness. Then even that faded away, and
> he was gone. There he shall lie, with his secret and his sorrows
> and his mystery all still buried in his breast, until that great
> day when the sea shall give up its dead, and Nicholas Craigie come
> out from among the ice with the smile upon his face, and his
> stiffened arms outstretched in greeting. I pray that his lot may
> be a happier one in that life than it has been in this.

> I shall not continue my journal. Our road to home lies plain and
> clear before us, and the great ice field will soon be but a
> remembrance of the past. It will be some time before I get over
> the shock produced by recent events. When I began this record of
> our voyage I little thought of how I should be compelled to finish
> it. I am writing these final words in the lonely cabin, still
> starting at times and fancying I hear the quick nervous step of the
> dead man upon the deck above me. I entered his cabin to-night, as
> was my duty, to make a list of his effects in order that they might
> be entered in the official log. All was as it had been upon my
> previous visit, save that the picture which I have described as
> having hung at the end of his bed had been cut out of its frame, as
> with a knife, and was gone. With this last link in a strange chain
> of evidence I close my diary of the voyage of the Pole-Star.

> [NOTE by Dr. John M'Alister Ray, senior.--I have read over the
> strange events connected with the death of the Captain of the
> Pole-Star, as narrated in the journal of my son. That everything
> occurred exactly as he describes it I have the fullest confidence,
> and, indeed, the most positive certainty, for I know him to be a
> strong-nerved and unimaginative man, with the strictest regard for
> veracity. Still, the story is, on the face of it, so vague and so
> improbable, that I was long opposed to its publication. Within the
> last few days, however, I have had independent testimony upon the
> subject which throws a new light upon it. I had run down to
> Edinburgh to attend a meeting of the British Medical Association,
> when I chanced to come across Dr. P----, an old college chum of
> mine, now practising at Saltash, in Devonshire. Upon my telling
> him of this experience of my son's, he declared to me that he was
> familiar with the man, and proceeded, to my no small surprise, to
> give me a description of him, which tallied remarkably well with
> that given in the journal, except that he depicted him as a younger
> man. According to his account, he had been engaged to a young lady
> of singular beauty residing upon the Cornish coast. During his
> absence at sea his betrothed had died under circumstances of
> peculiar horror.]