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Overview
Captain Frederick Marryat (1792–1848) served for many years in the British Royal Navy. A pioneer of the seafaring novel, Marryat wrote several memorable books, including the semiautobiographical Mr. Midshipman Easy. Maritime authors Joseph Conrad, Herman Melville, and Alexander Kent have cited his influence, and Virginia Woolf observed that "Marryat has the power to set us in the midst of ships and men and sea and sky, all vivid, credible, authentic."
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780486794099 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dover Publications |
| Publication date: | 04/13/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 416 |
| File size: | 8 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Phantom Ship
By Frederick Marryat, H. R. Millar
Dover Publications, Inc.
Copyright © 2015 Dover Publications, Inc.All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-486-79409-9
CHAPTER 1
About the middle of the seventeenth century, in the outskirts of the small but fortified town of Terneuse, situated on the right bank of the Scheldt, and nearly opposite to the island of Walcheren, there was to be seen in advance of a few other even more humble tenements, a small but neat cottage, built according to the prevailing taste of the time. The outside front had, some years back, been painted of a deep orange, the windows and shutters of a vivid green. To about three feet above the surface of the earth, it was faced alternately with blue and white tiles. A small garden, of about two rods of our measure of land, surrounded the edifice; and this little plot was flanked by a low hedge of privet, and encircled by a moat full of water, too wide to be leaped with ease. Over that part of the moat which was in front of the cottage-door was a small and narrow bridge, with ornamented iron hand-rails, for the security of the passenger. But the colours, originally so bright, with which the cottage had been decorated, had now faded; symptoms of rapid decay were evident in the window-sills, the door-jambs, and other wooden parts of the tenement, and many of the white and blue tiles had fallen down, and had not been replaced. That much care had once been bestowed upon this little tenement was as evident as that latterly it had been equally neglected.
The inside of the cottage, both on the basement and the floor above, was divided into two larger rooms in front, and two smaller behind; the rooms in front could only be called large in comparison with the other two, as they were little more than twelve feet square, with but one window to each. The upper floor was, as usual, appropriated to the bedrooms; on the lower, the two smaller rooms were now used only as a washhouse and a lumber-room; while one of the larger was fitted up as a kitchen, and furnished with dressers, on which the metal utensils for cookery shone clean and polished as silver. The room itself was scrupulously neat; but the furniture, as well as the utensils, were scanty. The boards of the floor were of a pure white, and so clean that you might have laid anything down without fear of soiling it. A strong deal table, two wooden-seated chairs, and a small easy couch, which had been removed from one of the bedrooms upstairs, were all the movables which this room contained. The other front room had been fitted up as a parlour; but what might be the style of its furniture was now unknown, for no eye had beheld the contents of that room for nearly seventeen years, during which it had been hermetically sealed, even to the inmates of the cottage.
The kitchen, which we have described, was occupied by two persons. One was a woman, apparently about forty years of age, but worn down by pain and suffering. She had evidently once possessed much beauty: there were still the regular outlines, the noble forehead, and the large dark eye; but there was a tenuity in her features, a wasted appearance, such as to render the flesh transparent; her brow, when she mused, would sink into deep wrinkles, premature though they were; and the occasional flashing of her eyes strongly impressed you with the idea of insanity. There appeared to be some deep-seated, irremovable, hopeless cause of anguish, never for one moment permitted to be absent from her memory: a chronic oppression, fixed and graven there, only to be removed by death. She was dressed in the widow's coif of the time; but although clean and neat, her garments were faded from long wear. She was seated upon the small couch which we have mentioned, evidently brought down as a relief to her, in her declining state.
On the deal table in the centre of the room sat the other person, a stout, fair-headed, florid youth of nineteen or twenty years old. His features were handsome and bold, and his frame powerful to excess; his eye denoted courage and determination, and as he carelessly swung his legs, and whistled an air in an emphatic manner, it was impossible not to form the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and reckless character.
'Do not go to sea, Philip; oh, promise me that, my dear, dear child,' said the female, clasping her hands.
'And why not go to sea, mother?' replied Philip; 'what's the use of my staying here to starve? — for, by Heaven! it's little better. I must do something for myself and for you. And what else can I do? My uncle Van Brennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages. Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficient for your support at home.'
'Philip — Philip, hear me. I shall die if you leave me. Whom have I in the world but you? O my child, as you love me, and I know you do love me, Philip, don't leave me; but if you will, at all events do not go to sea.'
Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while his mother wept.
'Is it,' said he at last, 'because my father was drowned at sea, that you beg so hard, mother?'
'Oh, no — no!' exclaimed the sobbing woman. 'Would to God — —'
'Would to God what, mother?'
'Nothing — nothing. Be merciful — be merciful, O God!' replied the mother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side of it, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer. At last she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of more composure.
Philip, who, during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, again addressed his mother.
'Look ye, mother. You ask me to stay on shore with you, and starve, — rather hard conditions: — now hear what I have to say. That room opposite has been shut up ever since I can remember — why, you will never tell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without bread, and with no prospect of my uncle's return — you were then half frantic, mother, as you know you sometimes are — —'
'Well, Philip, what did you hear me say?' inquired his mother, with tremulous anxiety.
'You said, mother, that there was money in that room which would save us; and then you screamed and raved, and said that you preferred death. Now, mother, what is there in that chamber, and why has it been so long shut up? Either I know that, or I go to sea.'
At the commencement of this address of Philip, his mother appeared to be transfixed, and motionless as a statue; gradually her lips separated, and her eyes glared; she seemed to have lost the power of reply; she put her hand to her right side, as if to compress it, then both her hands, as if to relieve herself from excruciating torture: at last she sank, with her head forward, and the blood poured out of her mouth.
Philip sprang from the table to her assistance, and prevented her from falling on the floor. He laid her on the couch, watching with alarm the continued effusion.
'Oh! mother — mother, what is this?' cried he, at last, in great distress.
For some time his mother could make him no reply; she turned further on her side, that she might not be suffocated by the discharge from the ruptured vessel, and the snow-white planks of the floor were soon crimsoned with her blood.
'Speak, dearest mother, if you can,' repeated Philip, in agony; 'what shall I do? — what shall I give you? — God Almighty! what is this?'
'Death, my child, death!' at length replied the poor woman, sinking into a state of unconsciousness.
Philip, now much alarmed, flew out of the cottage, and called the neighbours to his mother's assistance. Two or three hastened to the call; and as soon as Philip saw them occupied in restoring his mother, he ran as fast as he could to the house of a medical man, who lived about a mile off — one Mynheer Poots, a little, miserable, avaricious wretch, but known to be very skilful in his profession. Philip found Poots at home, and insisted upon his immediate attendance.
'I will come — yes, most certainly,' replied Poots, who spoke the language but imperfectly; 'but Mynheer Vanderdecken, who will pay me?'
'Pay you! my uncle will, directly that he comes home.'
'Your uncle, de Skipper Vanbrennen: no, he owes me four guilders, and he has owed me for a long time. Besides, his ship may sink.'
'He shall pay you the four guilders, and for this attendance also,' replied Philip, in a rage; 'come directly, while you are disputing my mother may be dead.'
'But, Mr. Philip, I cannot come, now I recollect; I have to see the child of the Burgomaster at Terneuse,' replied Mynheer Poots.
'Look you, Mynheer Poots,' exclaimed Philip, red with passion; 'you have but to choose, — will you go quietly, or must I take you there? You'll not trifle with me.'
Here Mynheer Poots was under considerable alarm, for the character of Philip Vanderdecken was well known.
'I will come by and by, Mynheer Philip, if I can.'
'You'll come now, you wretched old miser,' exclaimed Philip, seizing hold of the little man by the collar, and pulling him out of his door.
'Murder! murder!' cried Poots, as he lost his legs, and was dragged along by the impetuous young man.
Philip stopped, for he perceived that Poots was black in the face.
'Must I then choke you, to make you go quietly? for, hear me, go you shall, alive or dead.'
'Well, then,' replied Poots, recovering himself, 'I will go, but I'll have you in prison to-night: and, as for your mother, I'll not — no, that I will not — Mynheer Philip, depend upon it.'
'Mark me, Mynheer Poots,' replied Philip, 'as sure as there is a God in heaven, if you do not come with me, I'll choke you now; and when you arrive, if you do not your best for my poor mother, I'll murder you there. You know that I always do what I say, so now take my advice, come along quietly, and you shall certainly be paid, and well paid — if I sell my coat.'
This last observation of Philip, perhaps, had more effect than even his threats. Poots was a miserable little atom, and like a child in the powerful grasp of the young man. The doctor's tenement was isolated, and he could obtain no assistance until within a hundred yards of Vanderdecken's cottage; so Mynheer Poots decided that he would go — first, because Philip had promised to pay him, and secondly, because he could not help it.
This point being settled, Philip and Mynheer Poots made all haste to the cottage; and on their arrival, they found his mother still in the arms of two of her female neighbours, who were bathing her temples with vinegar. She was in a state of consciousness, but she could not speak; Poots ordered her to be carried upstairs and put to bed, and pouring some acids down her throat, hastened away with Philip to procure the necessary remedies.
'You will give your mother that directly, Mynheer Philip,' said Poots, putting a phial into his hand; 'I will now go to the child of the Burgomaster, and will afterwards come back to your cottage.'
'Don't deceive me,' said Philip, with a threatening look.
'No, no, Mynheer Philip, I would not trust to your uncle Vanbrennen for payment, but you have promised, and I know that you always keep your word. In one hour I will be with your mother; but you yourself must now be quick.'
Philip hastened home. After the potion had been administered, the bleeding was wholly stopped; and in half an hour, his mother could express her wishes in a whisper. When the little doctor arrived, he carefully examined his patient, and then went downstairs with her son into the kitchen.
'Mynheer Philip,' said Poots, 'by Allah! I have done my best, but I must tell you that I have little hopes of your mother rising from her bed again. She may live one day or two days, but not more. It is not my fault, Mynheer Philip,' continued Poots, in a deprecating tone.
'No, no; it is the will of Heaven,' replied Philip, mournfully.
'And you will pay me, Mynheer Vanderdecken?' continued the doctor, after a short pause.
'Yes,' replied Philip, in a voice of thunder, and starting from a reverie. After a moment's silence, the doctor recommenced:
'Shall I come to-morrow, Mynheer Philip? You know that will be a charge of another guilder: it is of no use to throw away money or time either.'
'Come to-morrow, come every hour, charge what you please; you shall certainly be paid,' replied Philip, curling his lip with contempt.
'Well, it is as you please. As soon as she is dead, the cottage and the furniture will be yours, and you will sell them of course. Yes, I will come. You will have plenty of money, Mynheer Philip, I would like the first offer of the cottage if it is to let'.
Philip raised his arm in the air as if to crush Mynheer Poots, who retreated to the corner.
'I did not mean until your mother was buried,' said Poots, in a coaxing tone.
'Go, wretch, go!' said Philip, covering his face with his hands, as he sank down upon the bloodstained couch.
After a short interval, Philip Vanderdecken returned to the bedside of his mother, whom he found much better; and the neighbours, having their own affairs to attend to, left them alone. Exhausted with the loss of blood, the poor woman slumbered for many hours, during which she never let go the hand of Philip, who watched her breathing in mournful meditation.
It was about one o'clock in the morning when the widow awoke. She had in a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her son: —
'My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner so long?'
'My own inclination detained me, mother. I leave you not to others until you are up and well again.'
'That, Philip, I shall never be. I feel that death claims me; and, O my son, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing! I have long been dying, Philip, — and long, long have I prayed for death.'
'And why so, mother?' replied Philip, bluntly; 'I've done my best.'
'You have, my child, you have: and may God bless you for it. Often have I seen you curb your fiery temper — restrain yourself when justified in wrath — to spare a mother's feelings. 'Tis now some days that even hunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother. And, Philip, you must have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and yet to give no reason. I'll speak — again — directly.'
The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for some minutes; then, as if revived, she resumed:
'I believe I have been mad at times — have I not, Philip? And God knows I have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy. It has oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, and now, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame: the blow is struck, Philip, — I'm sure it is. I wait but to tell you all, — and yet I would not, — 'twill turn your brain as it has turned mine, Philip.'
'Mother,' replied Philip, earnestly, 'I conjure you, let me hear this killing secret. Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not. Heaven will not hurt me, and Satan I defy.'
'I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip, — thy strength of mind. If any one could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst. My brain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell it to thee.'
The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had to confide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks; she then appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regained strength.
'Philip, it is of your father I would speak. It is supposed — that he was — drowned at sea.'
'And was he not, mother?' replied Philip, with surprise.
'Oh no!'
'But he has long been dead, mother?'
'No, — yes, — and yet — no, said the widow, covering her eyes.
Her brain wanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again:
'Then where is he, mother?'
The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her whole frame, as she replied —
'In Living Judgment.'
The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered her head with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her own memory. Philip was so much perplexed and astounded that he could make no reply. A silence of some minutes ensued, when, no longer able to bear the agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered —
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Phantom Ship by Frederick Marryat, H. R. Millar. Copyright © 2015 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
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Table of Contents
The Flying Dutchman, a legendary ghost ship, brings despair and death to all who encounter her. Cursed by the captain's deadly sins, the seventeenth-century ship and its crew are doomed to sail and suffer for all eternity―unless a holy relic can be brought to them. Philip Vanderdecken, the captain's son, vows to rescue the ship from its living hell. In the employ of the Dutch East India Company, young Vanderdecken sets sail for a gripping series of adventures, from sea battles and shipwrecks to an encounter with a werewolf.
Captain Frederick Marryat (1792–1848) served for many years in the British Royal Navy. A pioneer of the seafaring novel, Marryat wrote several memorable books, including the semiautobiographical Mr. Midshipman Easy. Maritime authors Joseph Conrad, Herman Melville, and Alexander Kent have cited his influence, and Virginia Woolf observed that "Marryat has the power to set us in the midst of ships and men and sea and sky, all vivid, credible, authentic."
Dover (2015) republication of the edition published by the Macmillan and Company, London and New York, 1896.
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