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Title: The Loss Of The "Gretchen B."
Author: John Kendrick Bangs [
More Titles by Bangs]
A TALE OF A PIRATE GHOST, FOUND FLOATING IN A WATER-BOTTLE.
I
THE DISCOVERY
It was a very pleasant evening in July. Hans Pumpernickel, who had just laid down the duties of Mayor of Schnitzelhammerstein-on-the-Zugvitz, after having filled that lofty office for eight years, was walking with me along the river-front at its busiest point.
"Let us go out on the wharf," said Hans, as we neared its entrance. "When I was a small boy I used to take pleasure in sitting upon the twine-piece of the wharf and letting my legs dingle over."
I scratched my head for a moment before I saw exactly what he meant by "twine-piece" and "dingle."
"You speak English very well, Pumpernickel," said I; "but what you should have said was 'string-piece' and 'dangle,' not 'twine-piece' and 'dingle.'"
"But," he protested, "is not a piece of twine a piece of string?"
"Yes," I replied; "but--"
"Then why may not a 'twine-piece' be a 'string-piece'? And as for 'dingle,' is it not the present tense of the verb 'to dingle'? Dingle, dangle, dungle--like sing, sang, sung? You would not say 'letting him sang'--it would be 'letting him sing'; wherefore, why not say 'letting my legs dingle over,' and avoid saying 'letting my legs dangle over'?"
"Oh, well, have it your own way," said I; and, having reached the end of the wharf, we sat down there, and shortly found our legs "dingling" over the water in the most approved style.
"It is a hard sort of a seat," said I, after a moment or two of silence, as we gazed upon the river flowing by.
"True," said Hans, philosophically, "though it is not made of hard wood. Let us take a boat and have a row."
I agreed, and we hired a small skiff and paddled idly down the stream. We had not gone far when the bow of our craft bumped up against something which scraped against the side of the boat as we passed.
"What was that?" said Pumpernickel.
"I don't know," said I, indifferently. "Nothing, I guess."
"What nonsense you talk sometimes!" he retorted. "It must have been something. We'll retreat and see."
Suiting the action to the words, Hans backed water with his oars, and in the dim light of the moon we soon descried the object of our search--a curious old earthen vessel floating in the river, bobbing up and down very much like a buoy. It looked like a water-bottle of two centuries ago, and, indeed, upon investigation turned out to be such.
"Aha!" cried Hans, triumphantly, as I lifted the bottle into the boat, "it was something, after all. I knew it could not be nothing. Is it empty of contents?"
I turned the vessel bottom side up, and nothing came out of it, but there was a distinct thud within which betrayed the presence of some solid substance.
"It is not empty of contents," said I, giving it another shake, "but it hasn't any table to show what those contents are."
"Oh, we don't need a table," said Hans, failing to appreciate the subtle humor of my remark. "Just shake it out."
With a sigh over my lost joke, I did as I was bidden, and soon, after a vigorous shaking and the removal of a cork which I had not previously noticed, the substance within issued forth through the bottle's neck.
"Dear me," said I. "It appears to be manuscript."
"Let me see," said Hans. "Ah," he observed, "it is writing. Why did you say it was manuscript?"
"That is writing," I explained.
"That may be," said he, "but why waste your tongue on three syllables when two will do?"
I ignored the question and put another.
"Can you read it?" I asked.
"With difficulty," he said, "by this light. Let us return to my rooms and see if we can decimate it."
"Decipher, decipher, Hans," said I.
"As you will," he retorted, with a sweep of the oars which brought us under the shadow of the wharf.
Tying our boat, we hastened back to Pumpernickel's rooms, and within a half-hour of our find we were busily engaged in translating the extraordinary narrative of Captain Hammerpestle, commander of the Gretchen B., a ship that, as we learned from the captain's story, was once of ill-repute, later of pleasant memory, and finally the central figure of an ocean mystery never as yet solved, though at least two hundred and fifty years had passed since she was given up for lost.
The story was in substance as follows:
II
THE TALE OF CAPTAIN HAMMERPESTLE
The end is approaching, and I, Rudolf Hammerpestle, of Bingen, third owner and captain of the ill-starred Gretchen B., formerly known as the Dutch Avenger, will shortly find a watery grave in sixty-eight fathoms of the Atlantic, ninety miles west of the rock of Gibraltar.
The Gretchen B. is sinking, and the pirate ghost is at last a victor, though I have given him a pretty fight these many days. Had it not been for my own stupidity in employing a foreign crew, all might yet be well, and I am impelled in my last moments, for we are sure to go to the bottom within two hours, to write out this story merely in the hope that it may some day reach my fellow-men, tell them of my horrible fate, and possibly warn them against my errors. If I had stuck to my own countrymen, if I had employed Hans Stickenfurst and good old Diedrich Foutzenhickle and their like for my officers and crew, instead of the idiot Pat Sullivan and his twin, Barney O'Brien, and others of that ilk, I should now be nearing port that I shall never reach, instead of sinking, slowly sinking, into the mysterious depths of the great ocean.
I have locked myself within my cabin so as to be free from interruption, and it is highly probable that, having tightly closed my port and calked up the door-cracks and key-hole, I shall be able to gain an extra hour for the writing of this tale even after the Gretchen B. has disappeared beneath the waves, to be hid forevermore from the eyes of man. When the tale is finished I shall place it within my trusty water-bottle, open the port, thrust it forth into the sea, and trust to Heaven that it may rise to the surface and ultimately make some port where it may be read and published, I devoutly hope, by some house of standing.
And now, as every story should begin at the beginning, let me go back to the time when I first took charge of the Gretchen B. It was five years agone, on the 7th day of May, 1635, that the Gretchen B. was purchased by her present owners, and I, Rudolf Hammerpestle, of Bingen, appointed her commander. It was with a light heart, a full crew, and sixty barrels of Schnitzelhammerstein claret that I set out from Bingen on the 27th day of May, 1635, for London, where the claret was to be sold to the public as medicinal port--its nutty flavor, its bouquet, and other properties favoring the illusion. All went well with us until we reached the sea, when one night, after our second day on the ocean, feeling faint from the effects of the sun, for I had had a hard day of it, I tapped one of the barrels of my cargo for a taste of the claret. Understand, I was not in any sense taking away from the full measure which was due to the purchaser in London, for I intended to replace what I had taken with water--so slight in quantity, too, as not to affect the flavor appreciably. Imagine my consternation to find the liquid turned sour and thin--so thin that under no circumstances could it ever pass muster as medicinal port. I was horrified. Ours had always been an honorable firm. What was to be done? My employers' reputation was at stake. If that claret had ever been delivered at London as port they were ruined. I determined to run the Gretchen B. to Naples, and there dispose of my cargo as Chianti, to which, with the infusion of a little whale-oil for appearance' sake, it could be made to bear a remarkable resemblance.
This done, I retired to my cabin to reflect. What could it have been that had wrought such a change, for on leaving Bingen the wine was sweet and good? I locked my door so as to be undisturbed, for I cannot think when there are others about; but hardly had I seated myself at my table when, upon the honor of a sea-captain, a ruffianly person, noiseless as a cat, walked through the massive oaken barrier I had but just fastened to!
"Who--what are you?" I cried, aghast, the spectral quality of the apparition being at once manifest.
"Oh!" he retorted. "It seems to me it's more to the point for me to ask that question. You are the interloper."
"It is my cabin," I said, indignantly.
"Oh, is it?" he sneered. "Since when?"
"Since the seventh day of May," I replied. "I am the commander of this craft."
"Pooh!" said he, harshly. "Do you know who I am?"
"I've asked you once," said I, trying hard to appear calm and sarcastic.
"Well, I almost hate to tell you," he said, throwing off his coat, whereon I was filled with consternation to observe that his belt held four wicked-looking blunderbusses and six cutlasses of razor edge. "You're not a bad fellow, and your hair will turn white when I tell you; but since you ask, so be it. Your hair be upon your own head. I am the ghost of Wouter von Rotterdaam!"
"You?" I cried, clutching wildly at my locks, not to keep them from turning white, of course, but to steady my nerves, for in the name I recognized that of one of the most successful pirates, and the bloodiest in his way.
"Ay, I!" he replied, impressively.
"But--who--what do you here on board the Gretchen B.?" I cried.
"Gretchen nothing," he said. "This is the Dutch Avenger, upon which, after her capture, six months ago, I was hanged, and which, my dear Hammerpestle, I shall haunt till she fills her destiny, which is there!"
The word "there" was pronounced in sepulchral tones, and with Von Rotterdaam's forefinger pointed downward. I shivered from top to toe, but quickly recovered.
"If I cannot have the Dutch Avenger, at least none other shall have her," he added.
"You are mistaken, Mr. von Rotterdaam," I said, politely. "You have taken the wrong boat, sir. This is not the Dutch Avenger, but the Gretchen B., of Bingen."
"She has not always been the Gretchen B., of Bingen," he replied.
"I know that, my dear sir," I observed, "but her previous name was the Anneke van der Q."
"Anneke van der bosh!" he ejaculated, with a laugh. "That is what they told you, and you swallowed the bait. They knew precious well your people wouldn't buy her if they had ever guessed she'd once been the terror of the seas as the Dutch Avenger of everywhere, the ubiquitous ranger of the deep, Captain Wouter von Rotterdaam, better known as the Throat-Cutter of the Caribbees."
"Is that the truth?" I replied.
"As a pirate, I scorn lies," he answered. "We don't need 'em in our business. Get your carpenter to plane off the name on her stern and see!" and even as he spoke he disappeared, fading away through the closed door.
I was nearly prostrated by the revelation, but, hoping for disproof, I rushed up on deck, summoned the carpenter, and ordered the name Gretchen B. planed off the stern. Alas! there beneath the innocent letters lay the horrid proof of the truth of the spectre's story, the words Dutch Avenger, flanked on either side by skull and cross-bones.
Again I sought my room, to recover, and to my added distress Von Rotterdaam had returned, an ugly look on his face.
"You've changed your course!" he said, savagely.
"I know it," said I. "My cargo is spoiled for the original market. I am taking it where it is salable."
He was very wroth.
"I was not aware that you were so clever a man," said he, after a moment, calming down. "I perceive that my attempt to ruin you interlopers at the outset is to be attended with some difficulty. You have individual resources upon which I had not counted."
"Ah!" said I. "It was you who turned the claret sour?"
"It was," he replied--"as a part of my revenge. And, mark you, Captain Hammerpestle, no cargo shall ever reach its destination unspoiled while I have a bit of the old spook left in me. Where are we bound now?"
"To Naples," said I, incautiously, and I further foolishly unfolded my plan to dispose of the cargo as Chianti.
"See here, captain," he said, pleadingly, "give up this honest seafaring business and come out as a pirate, won't you? You're too clever a chap to be honest. Keep the Dutch Avenger going as a terror, and, by Jingo, sir, I'll stand by you to the last."
My answer was the lighting of a sulphur candle in the hope of exorcising him, and, going on deck, I ordered the name Gretchen B. restored, merely to emphasize my determination to have no part in his foul schemes of piracy.
I must now pause in my narrative for a moment, and see how far we have settled in the water. It may be I shall have to write somewhat less in detail so as to finish the tale before I am destroyed by the inrush of the sea.
* * * * *
It is as I feared. The rippling surface of the ocean is already lapping the lower edge of my circular port window, and one or two drops have leaked within. It will not be long, I fear, before the water from below will burst the decks and dash against my door, when, of course, we shall sink the more rapidly, but if the walls of my cabin, and they are unquestionably strong, Von Rotterdaam having had them made bullet-proof, of wrought-iron--if these can withstand the pressure of the water for a half-hour after we are submerged, I am quite confident I can finish the story in time to bottle it up and launch it safely through the port.
* * * * *
After many days of difficulty we passed the Strait of Gibraltar, and on the 18th of July were safely anchored in the Bay of Naples, where I sold the claret, which Von Rotterdaam had changed into water, as the latest mineral product of the Schnitzelhammerstein Spa.
But from the hour of my refusal to compromise with my honor and become the successor and partner of Von Rotterdaam in the profession of piracy we had trouble on board.
Letting my cargo alone, he introduced a system of haunting my crew, so that at the end of several years not a German-speaking sailor was anxious to ship with me, except at ruinously high wages. I found some, but not many, and finally I was reduced to the followers of the two men I have already mentioned--Hans Stickenfurst and Diedrich Foutzenhickle--men who had never known fear, and who, when Von Rotterdaam haunted them, merely laughed and blew the vile-smelling smoke from their pipes into his face. But while the pirate ghost was powerless to fill the men with fear, he did arouse a great interest in the stories of his booty which he told. Night after night, lying in my cabin, I could hear him in the forecastle telling them tales of his prowess, and giving forth vague hints as to where vast treasure was hid which might become theirs if only I would come around and become his successor. The night we entered port I overheard a compact made between them, that on the next outward voyage they would first reason with me and persuade me, if possible, to accept his proposition, and, failing in that, to seize the ship, put me in the long-boat, turn me adrift, and place themselves subject to Von Rotterdaam's orders.
That was a year ago. Since then, until this ill-fated voyage (by-the-way, as I look up the water is clear over the port window, and is beginning to trickle in under the door, so I must again hasten)--until this ill-fated voyage, I was not again on the sea, and having in mind the threats of my crew, which they do not even now know that I overheard, I secured for this voyage the crew of an Irish bark, discharging all my previous men.
"I will at least have men who do not understand Dutch or German," I thought, "and for this voyage shall be comparatively safe. To insure against a possible turning adrift in the long-boat, I shall likewise sail without it."
Alas for all my expectations! While neither Sullivan nor O'Brien, as I had supposed, was acquainted with the native tongue of Von Rotterdaam, that talented ghost could speak English with as fine a brogue as ever gilded speech; and, worse than this, Sullivan, the carpenter, was a fly-away fool. Genial, full of good stories, and an excellent carpenter (the deck beneath my feet is bulging upward), he was absolutely without foresight, and it is to him I owe my present plight.
It happened this afternoon. The day had been absolutely calm and still. Not a ripple on the sea, not a breath of wind to stir even the frayed hemp in the rigging, and yet down, down, down we are sinking, for Sullivan has sawed a hole in our bottom big enough to let a man through!
I didn't suppose he would do it, but he has; and because last night while he and Rafferty, my second mate, were smoking in the forecastle, Von Rotterdaam's spirit rose up before them, and, arousing their cupidity, led them astray.
"For the love of the shaints!" cried Rafferty, as the ghost appeared, "phwat are you?"
Rotterdaam replied, "A spherit of the poirate Von Rotterdaam; and here where I stand, directly below me, in five fathoms of water, lies a million in treasure."
"Go on!" cried Rafferty.
"'Tis true," retorted Von Rotterdaam. "And if at noon to-morrow you will cut away enough of the ship's bottom to let yourselves through the hole, with a rope tied about you so that you can be hauled back again, it will be yours."
"Blame good pay for a shwim," said Sullivan. "A million phwat--pounds or francs, sorr? They's some difference betune the two."
"Exactly," returned Von Rotterdaam. "And they're pounds sterling, ingots of gold, and priceless jewels."
"Phwy don't yees tell the ould man?" asked Rafferty, referring to me.
"Because," replied Von Rotterdaam, "he would keep it all for himself. You gentlemen, I am sure, will divide it justly among all."
"Thrue for youse," said Sullivan, with a laugh. "And phwere do you come in?"
"I have no further use for dross," replied Von Rotterdaam; and I judge that at that moment he faded from their sight, for almost immediately he appeared in my cabin. I was tired and irritated, so I said nothing, pretending to be asleep, never for an instant believing that Sullivan would do so foolish a thing.
"He doesn't ever think of consequences; but he's not such an ass as to cut a hole a yard square in the bottom of this ship," I said to myself; and then, worn out, I really slept. How it happened I do not know; possibly that infernal ghost in some manner drugged me; but it was not until five minutes after midday, just three hours ago, that I awoke, and my heart stood still as I heard the action of a saw deep down in the hold.
"Heavens!" I cried, starting up. "The idiot's at it!"
A deep, baleful laugh greeted the remark. It was from Von Rotterdaam.
"He is! And I am revenged!" he said, in tones which seemed to come from the centre of the earth, and then he vanished--I hope, forever.
I rushed madly out and called for Sullivan, but the only answer was the grating of the saw's teeth. (Dear me! how dark it is getting! I must really not linger with details.) My only answer was the grating of the saw's teeth upon the bottom of my devoted vessel. Shrieking, I clambered down into the hold, but too late. Just as I got there the yard square of planking was burst in by the waters, and the vessel was doomed.
"Well, captain," I said to myself, a great calm coming over my soul, "it's all up with you; now think of others. Those at home, not hearing from you, will be worried. Go to your cabin, and, like a dutiful man, make your report."
This I have done, and this narrative is my report. I hope it will reach its destination in safety, and that the world may yet learn that in the hour of peril, which has but one conclusion, I have been faithful and calm.
It is now the 16th day of June, 1640. I shall never see the 17th, and I am resigned to my fate. And now for the bottle ... now for the cork.... Blithering cyclones! the door is cracking open ... and now--one--two--three--to open the port ... wait. I must put in one final P.S. In case this story ever reaches the land, will the finder kindly be careful in correcting the proof and see that my name is spelled correctly? There is just a moment in which to write it plainly--RUDOLF--with an F, mark you, not a PH, and HAMMERPESTLE with two M's. And so--the port....
* * * * *
There the story ends, and here it is for the world to see. What followed Captain Hammerpestle's last word we can only surmise. Pumpernickel and I have been faithful to the trust unwittingly committed to our care by one who has been dead for a trifle over two hundred and sixty years. We have only to add that those who do not believe that the story is true can see the water-bottle at the home of Herr Pumpernickel at Schnitzelhammerstein-on-the-Zugvitz at any time; but as for the manuscript and the ghost of the pirate Von Rotterdaam, we do not know where they are. The latter we have ourselves never seen, and the former was, as usual, mislaid by the talented young person who undertook to make a type-written copy of it for us a few days after our discovery.
[The end]
John Kendrick Bangs's short story: Loss Of The "Gretchen B."
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