THE GHOST SHIP.

Otago Witness, Issue 3865, 10 April 1928, Page 82

THE GHOST SHIP.

By Hugh Mountain. “ Well, captain,” said Hugh Walton rising from the chartroom settee, “ I’m willing to buy at your price if you’ll let me investigate this ghost for myself. I’ve made a hobby of-this sort of thing. A haunted chartroom on a small schooner is something of a novelty. But who are more superstitious than sailors? Shall we say 10 o’clock?” He laughed pleasantly, and took Captain Brierley’s outstretched hand. “ You’ll find me here, sir, and I’ll ask my first officer if he -will come with me,” replied the. captain as he conducted him on deck. “ I’ve never dared to investigate it myself. I’d rather take it for granted. I’ve always locked up that ehartroom for a coliple of hours each year. That was the advice of the last owner. It has become a matter of routine.”

As Hugh Walton took his place in the ship’s boat he waved a hand towards the captain. The man had attracted him. There was something of rugged simplicity in his weather-beaten face and a frankness in the eyes which was disarming. He felt that it would not be fair to drive a hard bargain with sudh a man who was totally ignorant that one small part of his schooner would have sold for a'sum sufficient to buy 10 schooners.

Hugh Walton was a New York millionaire interested in antiques and works of art. This hobby had absorbed him mote than his business had ever done. In the late ’thirties, tall and of aesthetic appearance, his languid movements masked the strength in his wiry frame. He had heard of Captain Brierley’s schooner, the Corsair, and had run it to earth at Apia. It was the charthouse which interested him—That square, whitepainted structure on the poop which comprised the chartroom, a small hallway, and thb stairs leading to the cabins below.

He knew its history. When the Corsair was built the charthouse was taken bodily from the frigate’ Belton, which was being broken up at Falmouth. And when, some 70 years before, the frigate Belton was being built that same charthouse was taken bodily from the East Indiaman Columba. And the builder of the Columba took the charthouse from a privateer which, dismasted, had been towed into Dover Harbour.

Apart from its historical value, the charthouse had an intrinsic value. Its panellings were of the finest seasoned teak with carved cornices, mellowed by age. The table and settee in the chartroom and the banisters and newel posts outside were of rich mahogany. The brasswork was smooth and thin, welded by age to the timber, and with a sheen which only time can give. It had also a psychic value. It was haunted. Hugh Walton did not laugh at the stories he had heard. He had set out to verify them. He had studied old log books in nautical museums—logs of the Beltoji, the Columba, and others, arid was struck by the similarity of certain entries. The information he had got from these increased his determination to investigate for himself.

He had found that the privateer was captured on the 21st day of December. It was on the anniversaries of that day that the entries had been unusual. He had them carefully tabulated. So it was on the afternoon of the 21st of December that he had boarded the Corsair at Apia with his proposal to purchase. His examination of the charthouse satisfied him that its value as an antique was far beyond what Captain Brierley had placed upon the schooner. Beaching his hotel he spent some time examining his records of the vessel. Then, nearing 10 o’clock, he put off towards the schooner, lying at anchor in the bay.

The captain’s gruff voice greeted him as he pushed open the chartroom door. “Sit down, Mr Walton.” He pointed to the swivel chair on the opposite side of the table. “ I was beginning to doubt if you would come. It’s just after 10, and I was beginning to get nervous.” There was no hint of nervousness in the captain’s hearty laugh. Walton sat down and, drawing some papers from his pocket, spread them on the table. The captain rose and turned up the light of the oil lamp, tilen drew the curtain over the porthole. Well, he said as- he sat down on the settee and put his feet on the corner of the table, “ got any new information ? ” Walton smiled and ran a finger down a column of figures. “ I find,” he replied, “ that on 36 occasions there have been peculiar happenings. That is, according to. the entries in the log. They vary as to the hour." That may be explained by error in chronometer time or by some other eause. But they are all on the 21st of December.”

“Well,” encouraged ''the captain as the other paused. “In 17 instances deaths have been recorded. In nine there are serious injuries, and in eight minor injuries. Two cases resulted in loss of reason. All have happened to captains or officers of various vessels between the hours of 10 o’clock and midnight of the 21st of December.”

“ The Belton and the Columba,” put in the captain with a smile.

Walton looked up surprisedly. “You know, then? ” The captain nodded, puffed at his pipe for some moments, then said:

“Yes. (Something of it. How much is true I cannot say. But the logs don’t give any information other than the events. They don’t suggest the cause.” “Go on.” Walton was impatient. “According to sailors’ stories the cause was the revenge of-the captain of the privateer. He w r as captured off Havre. Apparently he had put up a good fight, but the odds were too great. When his vessel was taken in tow he was locked in the chartroom. He sat on this very settee where lam now. They called him Bed Harry. . . . “He had a long run. Shipping was rich in those days. He was successful from his own point of view. Piracy paid better, he found, if one could capture someone with a handle to their,name. Preferably a titled woman who was making the Channel crossing. Ransoms were big. . . .”

Walton answered the captain’s smile. “ There was Lady Margaret Fyston, who was captured in a lugger off Calais. Lady Margaret was running away—running away from her husband. Strange to say, she didn’t mind being captured. Red Harry didn’t mind it either, because she was a beautiful woman. She was surprised and pleased at the way Red Harry treated her. It was something new for her to be treated kindly, and with respect. She fell in love with him ”

The captain’s sudden laugh sounded weirdly. The oil lamp flickered and dimmed for a second, then flared up again.

“ In a little creek, a few miles from Brest, Red Harry had his home. The peasants were his friends. They worshipped Lady Margaret. s She became their real ruler, and Red Harry was only second.

“As years passed he accumulated a good deal of wealth—far more than he .had use for—but still adventure called him.

“ Lady Margaret was with him when he was captured. She took an aen.e part in the fight, encouraging the men at the guns regardless of danger, and when the boarding party got alongside she fought them tooth and claw. You see, she really loved Red Harry. “ The odds were too big, as I said. But they fought to the last. Then, when they were overcome and taken in tow, officers came into this very room, where Red Harry was imprisoned. Lady Margaret was dragged between them.”

The captain’s voice had fallen almost to a whisper. Walton leaned over the table interestedly. “ She had confessed her association with the pirate. She had confessed her love for ’.ir-. She demanded to be hanged at a yardarm with her lover—the pirate’s due.

“ But their captors wanted more. They wanted to know where the plunder was hidden. Both refused to tell. You see, it would have meant death to those peasant subjects of theirs. “ So they started to torture Lady Margaret before the pirate’s eyes. He sat here, quite unconcerned, smiling at her; and she smiled at him. She wouldn’t betray hei’ people. I suppose you know that they had ready means of making people talk' in those days ” Walton nod<Ted. The captain rose and took a heavj' old-fashioned belaying pin from a rack.

“ Here,” he continued, “ is one of the instruments. They made it red hot, branded her shoulders, her bosom, her forehead. Yes! They drew the crossbones on her forehead, and she still smiled. So did Red Harry.

“ Look above your head! ” The captain pointed, and Walton followed his finger. A rile in the panelling showed where a boltTiad once projected. “ They fixed a rope to that. Then they put a noose round her neck and stood her on a chair. They gave her 30 seconds to betray their hiding place. If she didn’t they would hang her before his eyes. She smiled at him as one of the officers stood, counting. Red Harry smiled at her. Then, as the officer finished and moved towards her she cried: ‘Curse them, Harry. Curse these hounds of officers. Curse this room as I die.’ And the next moment she was dead.”

Walton sat up rigidly. The story seemed so real in these surroundings, and the vividness of the captain’s words made him feel that it was no fable. He glanced at the chronometer. Twenty minutes to 12! The captain was smiling at him and toying with the belaying pin. “It rings true,” said Walton. “ Had it been told anywhere else I should probably have put it down as gruesome fiction.”

“ Maybe,” replied the captain. “ But that is the foundation of the spell on this place. When she hung there, swayinnbefore his eyes, he jumped to his feet livid with anger, and poured out curses on the heads of those officers who had disgraced • the name oF sailor by wreaking their vengeance on a loving woman. The officers laughed at him, ciaielly; then left. When they returned they found him suspended from the same rope, his lady laid out peacefully in death on this table. Have a look at this chart.” The captain reached to a locker and spread a chart on the table. He explained to Walton the position of the privateer when the fight took place, the course they had taken when they left the French coast. Then, setting the point of the belaying pin on a tiny inlet, he said: “It was just here that Red Harry had his cache. As you enter you will see three juts of rock on the port quarter. It is the third one. There are caves ” A sudden choke behind made Walton stiffen. Followed a noise lijre a falling

chair. The light dimmed. An iridescent haze filled the room. He glanced at the clock, and blanched. It was still at 20 minutes to 12. It had stopped. He jerked round towards the captain. His mouth had widened into an evil grin. Both hands on the iron belaying pin, he bent it double to the sliape of a horseshoe. He flung it on fhe table, and half rose. The lamp flared and sputtered. The light was green. The captain leered over the table. Horror-stricken, Walton struck out. He crashed his fist into the captain’s face. It struck air. He could still see the leer, fading. He struck again and again, barking his knuckles on the panelleu walls. There was a curse—r from above his head. The lamp was enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Some? thing struck him on the base of the skull. Everything was dark. * * * M ajton’s senses returned as dawn waq breaking. Captain Brierley and his chief officer were propping him on the settee and bathing his head. Presently the captain examined him carefully and said: “Afraid you’ll have to spend a whilq in hospital. Looks like a slight fracture. Lou piust have fallen and knocked vour head on the edge of the table.” Walton looked up at them dully. - The mate said: “Lou shouldn’t- have risked it, sir. When Captain Brierley told me you were going in for this fool? ishness I wouldn’t let him do it. So we spent the night ashore. You should have done the same, sir. That’s why we sent that note to your hotel.” I got no note,” said Walton feebly, and craned his-, head round. “ Well, we sent it,” confirmed Captain Brierley. “ I said that all I wanted was a fair price, and I wouldn’t stand in with any of this other stuff. We sailors are superstitious, as you know, and thercmust be some reason for it.” Then he shouted amazedly: “ What the devil have you done to the chronometer? And what fool’s been monkeying with this belaying pin ? ”