The Ghost Pirates and Other Revenants of the Sea

by William Hope Hodgson

  “I felt strangely dazed and frightened.

  “ ‘My Dear! My Dear!’ I said, and could say no more. Yet, at my words, she broke down and cried bitterly. Gradually, as she calmed, I got from her the news that she had tried it the preceding day, and—and liked it. I got her to promise on her knees not to touch it again, however great our hunger. After she had promised, she told me that the desire for it had come suddenly, and that, until the moment of desire, she had experienced nothing towards it, but the most extreme repulsion.

  “Later in the day, feeling strangely restless, and much shaken with the thing which I had discovered, I made my way along one of the twisted paths—formed by the white, sand-like substance—which led among the fungoid growth. I had, once before, ventured along there; but not to any great distance. This time, being involved in perplexing thought, I went much further than hitherto.

  “Suddenly, I was called to myself, by a queer hoarse sound on my left. Turning quickly, I saw that there was movement among an extraordinarily shaped mass of fungus, close to my elbow. It was swaying uneasily, as though it possessed life of its own. Abruptly, as I stared, the thought came to me that the thing had a grotesque resemblance to the figure of a distorted human creature. Even as the fancy flashed into my brain, there was a slight, sickening noise of tearing, and I saw that one of the branch-like arms was detaching itself from the surrounding grey masses, and coming towards me. The head of the thing—a shapeless grey ball, inclined in my direction. I stood stupidly, and the vile arm brushed across my face.I gave out a frightened cry, and ran back a few paces. There was a sweetish taste upon my lips, where the thing had touched me. I licked them, and was immediately filled with an inhuman desire. I turned and seized a mass of the fungus. Then more, and—more. I was insatiable. In the midst of devouring, the remembrance of the morning’s discovery swept into my mazed brain. It was sent by God. I dashed the fragment I held, to the ground. Then, utterly wretched and feeling a dreadful guiltiness, I made my way back to the little encampment.

  “I think she knew, by some marvellous intuition which love must have given, so soon as she set eyes on me. Her quiet sympathy made it easier for me, and I told her of my sudden weakness; yet omitted to mention the extraordinary thing which had gone before. I desired to spare her all unnecessary terror.

  “But, for myself, I had added an intolerable knowledge, to breed an incessant terror in my brain; for I doubted not but that I had seen the end of one of those men who had come to the island in the ship in the lagoon; and in that monstrous ending, I had seen our own.

  “Thereafter, we kept from the abominable food, though the desire for it had entered into our blood. Yet, our drear punishment was upon us; for, day by day, with monstrous rapidity, the fungoid growth took hold of our poor bodies. Nothing we could do would check it materially, and so—and so—we who had been human, became—Well, it matters less each day. Only—only we had been man and maid!

  “And day by day, the fight is more dreadful, to withstand the hunger-lust for the terrible lichen.

  “A week ago we ate the last of the biscuit, and since that time I have caught three fish. I was out here fishing tonight, when your schooner drifted upon me out of the mist. I hailed you. You know the rest, and may God, out of His great heart, bless you for your goodness to a—a couple of poor outcast souls.”

  There was the dip of an oar—another. Then the voice came again, and for the last time, sounding through the slight surrounding mist, ghostly and mournful.

  “God bless you! Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye,” we shouted together, hoarsely, our hearts full of many emotions.

  I glanced about me. I became aware that the dawn was upon us.

  The sun flung a stray beam across the hidden sea; pierced the mist dully, and lit up the receding boat with a gloomy fire. Indistinctly, I saw something nodding between the oars. I thought of a sponge—a great, grey nodding sponge— The oars continued to ply. They were grey—as was the boat—and my eyes searched a moment vainly for the conjunction of hand and oar. My gaze flashed back to the—head. It nodded forward as the oars went backward for the stroke. Then the oars were dipped, the boat shot out of the patch of light, and the—the Thing went nodding into the mist.

  The Shamraken

  Homeward-Bounder

  I

  The old Shamraken, sailing-ship, had been many days upon the waters. She was old—older than her masters, and that was saying a great deal. She seemed in no hurry, as she lifted her bulging, old, wooden sides through the seas. What need for hurry! She would arrive sometime, in some fashion, as had been her habit heretofore.

  Two matters were especially noticeable among her crew—who were also her masters—; the first the agedness of each and everyone; the second the family sense which appeared to bind them, so that the ship seemed manned by a crew, all of whom were related one to the other; yet it was not so.

  A strange company were they, each man bearded, aged and grizzled; yet there was nothing of the inhumanity of old age about them, save it might be in their freedom from grumbling, and the calm content which comes only to those in whom the more violent passions have died.

  Had anything to be done, there was nothing of the growling, inseparable from the average run of sailor men. They went aloft to the “job” —whatever it might be—with the wise submission which is brought only by age and experience. Their work was gone through with a certain slow pertinacity—a sort of tired steadfastness, born of the knowledge that such work had to be done. Moreover, their hands possessed the ripe skill which comes only from exceeding practice, and which went far to make amends for the feebleness of age. Above all, their movements, slow as they might be, were remorseless in their lack of faltering. They had so often performed the same kind of work, that they had arrived, by the selection of utility, at the shortest and most simple methods of doing it.

  They had, as I have said, been many days upon the water, though I am not sure that any man in her knew to a nicety the number of those days. Though Skipper Abe Tombes—addressed usually as Skipper Abe—may have had some notion; for he might be seen at times gravely adjusting a prodigious quadrant, which suggests that he kept some sort of record of time and place.

  Of the crew of the Shamraken, some half dozen were seated, working placidly at such matters of seamanship as were necessary. Besides these, there were others about the decks. A couple who paced the lee side of the main-deck, smoking, and exchanging an occasional word. One who sat by the side of a worker, and made odd remarks between draws at his pipe. Another, out upon the jibboom, who fished, with a line, hook and white rag, for bonito.

  This last was Nuzzie, the ship’s boy. He was grey-bearded, and his years numbered five and fifty. A boy of fifteen he had been, when he joined the Shamraken, and “boy” he was still, though forty years had passed into eternity, since the day of his “signing on”; for the men of the Shamraken lived in the past, and thought of him only as the “boy” of that past.

  It was Nuzzie’s watch below—his time for sleeping. This might have been said also of the other three men who talked and smoked; but for themselves they had scarce a thought of sleep. Healthy age sleeps little, and they were in health, though so ancient.

  Presently, one of those who walked the lee side of the main-deck, chancing to cast a glance forrard, observed Nuzzie still to be out upon the jibboom, jerking his line so as to delude some foolish bonito into the belief that the white rag was a flying-fish. The smoker nudged his companion. “Time thet b’y ’ad ’is sleep.”

  “I, I, mate,” returned the other, withdrawing his pipe, and giving a steadfast look at the figure seated out upon the jibboom.

  For the half of a minute they stood there, very effigies of Age’s implacable determination to rule rash Youth. Their pipes were held in their hands, and the smoke rose up in little eddies from the smouldering contents of the bowls.

  “Thar’s no tamin’ of thet b’y!” said the first man, looking very stern and determined. Th
en he remembered his pipe, and took a draw.

  “B’ys is tur’ble queer critters,” remarked the second man, and remembered his pipe in turn.

  “Fishin’ w’en ’e orter be sleepin’,” snorted the first man.

  “B’ys needs a tur’ble lot er sleep,” said the second man. “I ’member w’en I wor a b’y. I reckon it’s ther growin’.”

  And all the time poor Nuzzie fished on.

  “Guess I’ll jest step up an’ tell ’im ter come in outer thet,” exclaimed the first man, and commenced to walk towards the steps leading up on to the fo’cas’le head.

  “B’y!” he shouted, as soon as his head was above the level of the fo’cas’le deck. “B’y!”

  Nuzzie looked round, at the second call. “Eh?” he sung out.

  “Yew come in outer thet,” shouted the older man, in the somewhat shrill tone which age had brought to his voice. “Reckon we’ll be ’avin’ yer sleepin’ at ther wheel ter night.”

  “i,” joined in the second man, who had followed his companion up onto the fo’cas’le head. “Come in, b’y, an’ get ter yer bunk.”

  “Right,” called Nuzzie, and commenced to coil up his line. It was evident that he had no thought of disobeying. He came in off the spar, and went past them without a word, on the way to turn in. They, on their part, went down slowly off the fo’cas’le head, and resumed their walk fore and aft along the lee side of the main-deck.

  II

  “I reckon, Zeph,” said the man who sat upon the hatch and smoked, “I reckon as Skipper Abe’s ’bout right. We’ve made a trifle o’ dollars outer the ole ’ooker, an’ we don’t get no younger.”

  “Ay, thet’s so, right ’nuff,” returned the man who sat beside him, working at the stropping of a block.

  “An’ it’s ’bout time’s we got inter the use o’ bein’ ashore,” went on the first man, who was named Job. Zeph gripped the block between his knees, and fumbled in his hip pocket for a plug. He bit off a chew and replaced the plug.

  “Seems cur’ous this is ther last trip, w’en yer comes ter think uv it,” he remarked, chewing steadily, his chin resting on his hand.

  Job took two or three deep draws at his pipe before he spoke.

  “Reckon it had ter come sumtime,” he said, at length. “I’ve a purty leetle place in me mind w’er’ I’m goin’ ter tie up. ’Ave yer thought erbout it, Zeph?”

  The man who held the block between his knees, shook his head, and stared away moodily over the sea.

  “Dunno, Job, as I know what I’ll do w’en they old ’ooker’s sold,” he muttered. “Sence M’ria went. I don’t seem nohow ter care ’bout bein’ ’shore.”

  “I never ’ad no wife,” said Job, pressing down the burning tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. “I reckon seafarin’ men don’t ought ter have no truck with wives.”

  “Thet’s right ’nuff, Job, fer yew. Each man ter ’is taste. I wer’ tur’ble fond uv M’ria—” he broke off short, and continued to stare out over the sea.

  “I’ve allus thought I’d like ter settle down on er farm o’ me own. I guess the dollars I’ve arned ’ll do the trick,” said Job.

  Zeph made no reply, and, for a time, they sat there, neither speaking.

  Presently, from the door of the fo’cas’le, on the starboard side, two figures emerged. They were also of the “watch below.” If anything, they seemed older than the rest of those about the decks; their beards, white, save for the stain of tobacco juice, came nearly to their waists. For the rest, they had been big vigourous men; but were now sorely bent by the burden of their years. They came aft, walking slowly. As they came opposite to the main hatch, Job looked up and spoke:

  “Say, Nehemiah, thar’s Zeph here’s been thinkin’ ’bout M’ria, an’ I ain’t bin able ter peek ’im up nohow.”

  The smaller of the two newcomers shook his head slowly.

  “We hev oor trubbles,” he said. “We hev oor, trubbles. I hed mine w’en I lost my datter’s gell. I wor powerful took wi’ thet gell, she wor that winsome; but it wor like ter be—it wor like ter be, an’ Zeph’s hed his trubble sence then.”

  “M’ria wer a good wife ter me, she wer’,” said Zeph, speaking slowly. “An’ now th’ old ’ooker’s goin’, I’m feared as I’ll find it mighty lonesome ashore yon,” and he waved his hand, as though suggesting vaguely that the shore lay anywhere beyond the starboard rail.

  “Ay,” remarked the second of the newcomers. “It’s er weary thing to me as th’ old packet’s goin’. Six and sixty year hev I sailed in her. Six and sixty year!” He nodded his head, mournfully, and struck a match with shaky hands.

  “It’s like ter be,” said the smaller man. “It’s like ter be.”

  And, with that, he and his companion moved over to the spar that lay along under the starboard bulwarks, and there seated themselves, to smoke and meditate.

  III

  Skipper Abe, and Josh Matthews, the First Mate, were standing together beside the rail which ran across the break of the poop. Like the rest of the men of the Shamraken, their age had come upon them, and the frost of eternity had touched their beards and hair.

  Skipper Abe was speaking:—

  “It’s harder ’n I’d thought,” he said, and looked away from the Mate, staring hard along the worn, white-scoured decks.

  “Dunno w’at I’ll du, Abe, w’en she’s gone,” returned the old Mate. “She’s been a ’ome fer us these sixty years an’ more.” He knocked out the old tobacco from his pipe, as he spoke, and began to cut a bowl-full of fresh.

  “It’s them durned freights!” exclaimed the Skipper. “We’re jest losin’ dollars every trip. It’s them steam packets as hes knocked us out.”

  He sighed wearily, and bit tenderly at his plug.

  “She’s been a mighty comfertable ship,” muttered Josh, in soliloquy. “An’ sence thet b’y o’ mine went, I sumhow thinks less o’ goin’ ashore ’n I used ter. I ain’t no folk left on all thar ’arth.”

  He came to an end, and began with his old trembling fingers to fill his pipe.

  Skipper Abe said nothing. He appeared to be occupied with his own thoughts. He was leaning over the rail across the break of the poop, and chewing steadily. Presently, he straightened himself up and walked over to leeward. He expectorated, after which he stood there for a few moments, taking a short look round—the result of half a century of habit. Abruptly, he sung out to the Mate….

  “W’at dyer make outer it?” he queried, after they had stood awhile, peering.

  “Dunno, Abe, less’n it’s some sort o’ mist, riz up by ther ’eat.”

  Skipper Abe shook his head; but having nothing better to suggest, held his peace for awhile.

  Presently, Josh spoke again:—

  “Mighty cur’us, Abe. These are strange parts.”

  Skipper Abe nodded his assent, and continued to stare at that which had come into sight upon the lee bow. To them, as they looked, it seemed that a vast wall of rose-coloured mist was rising towards the zenith. It showed nearly ahead, and at first had seemed no more than a bright cloud upon the horizon; but already had reached a great way into the air, and the upper edge had taken on wondrous flame-tints.

  “It’s powerful nice-lookin’,” said Josh. “I’ve allus ’eard as things was diff’rent out ’n these parts.”

  Presently, as the Shamraken drew near to the mist, it appeared to those aboard that it filled all the sky ahead of them, being spread out now far on either bow. And so in a while they entered into it, and, at once, the aspect of all things was changed…. The mist, in great rosy wreaths, floated all about them, seeming to soften and beautify every rope and spar, so that the old ship had become, as it were a fairy craft in an unknown world.

  “Never seen nothin’ like it, Abe—nothin’!” said Josh. “Ey! but it’s fine! It’s fine! Like ’s of we’d run inter ther sunset.”

  “I’m mazed, just mazed!” exclaimed Skipper Abe, “but I’m ’gree’ble as it’s purty, mighty purty.”


  For a further while, the two old fellows stood without speech, just gazing and gazing. With their entering into the mist, they had come into a greater quietness than had been theirs out upon the open sea. It was as though the mist muffled and toned down the creak, creak, of the spars and gear; and the big, foamless seas that rolled past them, seemed to have lost something of their harsh whispering roar of greeting.

  “Sort o’ unarthly, Abe,” said Josh, later, and speaking but little above a whisper. “Like as of yew was in church.”

  “Ay,” replied Skipper Abe. “It don’t seem nat’rel.”

  “Shouldn’t think as ’eaven was all thet diff’rent,” whispered Josh. And Skipper Abe said nothing in contradiction.

  IV

  Sometime later, the wind began to fail, and it was decided that, when eight-bells was struck, all hands should set the main t’gallant. Presently, Nuzzie having been called (for he was the only one aboard who had turned in) eight bells went, and all hands put aside their pipes, and prepared to tail onto the ha’lyards; yet no one of them made to go up to loose the sail. That was the b’y’s job, and Nuzzie was a little late in coming out on deck. When, in a minute, he appeared, Skipper Abe spoke sternly to him.

  “Up now, b’y, an’ loose thet sail. D’y think to let er grown man dew suchlike work! Shame on yew!”

  And Nuzzie, the grey-bearded “b’y” of five and fifty years, went aloft humbly, as he was bidden. Five minutes later, he sung out that all was ready for hoisting, and the string of ancient Ones took a strain on the ha’lyards. Then Nehemiah, being the chaunty man, struck up in his shrill quaver:—

  “Thar wor an ole farmer in Yorkshire did dwell.”

  And the shrill piping of the ancient throats took up the refrain:—

  “Wi’ me ay, ay, blow thar lan’ down.”

  Nehemiah caught up the story:—

  “ ’e ’ad ’n ole wife, ’n ’e wished ’er in ’ell.”

  “Give us some time ter blow thar lan’ down,” came the quavering chorus of old voices.