Tales of Terror from the Black Ship (20 page)

‘How many days Dawson clung to that mast he never could say, but however terrible the days were, with the sun beating down on him like a hammer, the nights were worse, knowing that he was surrounded by miles of empty black ocean with only the bloated, floating dead of his shipmates for company.

‘Then, one day, a fog rolled in across the sea. It came upon him so sudden-like and thick that, though it meant some respite from the sun, it filled him with dread.

‘And all at once he heard it: the wonderful sound of water slapping against timbers, the rustle and flap of sailcloth. It was a ship! Rescue was at hand!

‘Sure enough, the faint shape of masts and sails hove into view through the mist, becoming darker and darker all the while. Dawson’s heart rose up like a bird and tears of joy ran down his sun-cracked face.

‘But then, as he was about to raise his arm aloft and sing out for help, his attention was distracted by a movement in the water nearby. A body that had kept grim company with him those past few days, face down and floating some two feet away, twitched.’

‘Twitched, you say?’ said the ship’s carpenter.

‘Aye,’ said Jacob. ‘Twitched. At first Dawson thought his eyes had tricked him, that the sun had taken its toll on his mind – but no; the body twitched again. There could be no doubt this time.

‘Then all at once the body lifted itself up, water dripping from its lank black hair, and raised its arms and waved. Dawson stared in horror. There was no way that the man could be alive. He had not moved for days. In any event, the cry that escaped his lips was one that no living man might make, the sea gurgling in his lifeless throat more like a bilge pump than a human voice.

‘Then Dawson saw another body lift itself – and another – and another – until half a dozen corpses waved and cried out like hideous mermen, their faces all pale and soft, like fish that have been pickled in brine.

‘Dawson looked to the ship, his need for rescue all the more urgent for being surrounded by these living corpses of his fellows.

‘He was about to call out, but saw that the crew were already helping aboard a man he knew to be as dead as a marlinspike. Not only did they show no horror at his appearance, they greeted him most warmly as if he were an old friend.

‘Dawson looked at the ship with new eyes and saw its true form. The timbers were black, holed and rotted so near the waterline that there was no godly way that the ship could stay afloat.

‘The masts were likewise black, rotted and cracked, eaten by worms and bored by beetles. The sails were frayed and thin, as flimsy as a fly’s wing.

‘As the crew of the ship helped another of the floating dead aboard, Dawson realised that this was the Black Ship that mariners spoke of, crewed by the corpses of shipwrecked seamen.

‘Though the thought of another minute in that briny waste filled him with horror, Dawson grabbed the mast with both hands and submerged himself as the ship approached. He saw its rotten planks pass by beneath the water as he held his breath and prayed that they would not see him.

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‘When he finally burst to the surface, the ship was gone and the fog with it. All the corpses of his crewmates were gone, too. He was alone once more and half mad with what he’d seen.

‘Dawson had given up all hope when another ship appeared on the horizon, and he was rescued and brought back to Bristol, where he vowed never to sail again – a vow he broke within the year, knowing no other life than that of the sea. In time he came to serve as cook aboard a Royal Navy ship-of-the-line – a ship on which I also served – and there, one night, he told the tale I have now told to you.’

Though he had not been sure what reaction he might get from the hardened sea dogs round the table, Jacob had not expected the total silence that greeted the end of his tale.

No man spoke and though every eye was turned to Jacob, the faces did not show fear or amusement, but were instead wearing strange and melancholy expressions.

‘Now, then,’ said Jacob, banging his fist down on the table. ‘Was that a tale or no?’

‘Aye, lad,’ said the captain, but still no one else spoke nor moved.

‘What is it?’ said Jacob. ‘Do you not believe the tale? I swear I heard it from Dawson’s own lips and he was a man who was not given to foolish talk.’

‘Aye,’ said the captain. ‘Every man here knows of the Black Ship.’

‘Well, then,’ said Jacob, noticing for the first time that fog was curling in through the open window.

‘How came you to serve on this ship, Jacob?’ said the captain.

It struck Jacob as an odd question for the captain to ask, as it must have been he who granted him leave to serve aboard his ship. All the same, for some strange reason, Jacob could not remember how he came to be there.

‘Wreck ahoy!’ came a voice. The captain stood up with a sigh.

‘Look lively, lads,’ he said. ‘There’s work to do.’

‘Aye aye, Captain,’ they responded and rose as one to go out on to the deck.

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It was then that Jacob noticed with horror that Gibson had a huge piece of his side missing. His clothes hung down limply, mercifully covering, though only just, what must have been a massive bite-shaped wound.

Then as Finch left the cabin, Jacob saw that the ragged hole in his cap now glowed with the milky light coming from the open door. The hole passed completely through his head. The captain saw the expression on Jacob’s face and smiled grimly.

‘Think, lad,’ he said. ‘Do you not remember how you came aboard?’

Jacob tried to remember, closing his eyes to help, but his mind seemed filled with the same fog that encircled the ship. Then it came back to him all at once: the French frigate off Gibraltar, the grapeshot whistling past, the mainmast crashing to the deck, the sound of cannon blast and the howls of the dying, and the musket ball that broke his ribs above his heart and snuffed out the candle of his life. He put his hand to his jacket and let his finger explore the hole.

The ship had gone down, taking most men with it, including Dawson, sucked down into the slimy depths of the ocean, where crabs grew fat on the glut of food. He alone had floated free, as if in a dream, and it was he alone who had answered the Black Ship’s call.

‘Come, lad,’ said the captain. ‘Let us meet our new shipmates.’

*

There was a great suffocating silence as Thackeray finished his story, as if we were all now in the hold of a sunken ship and the sounds of the dry world were muffled by submerged ears. The raucous clamour of the storm had died away, and its breath was now a sigh, now a whisper.

‘You can’t say
that
tale was true,’ I said, trying to assuage my own fear by a forced return to the rational. ‘How could anyone be dead and not know it and how could you know what goes on aboard the Black Ship, if such a vessel exists?’

‘Well, now,’ he said with a smile. ‘I think you know the answer to those questions.’

I certainly had not expected such a reply and after a moment I assured him that I did not, and Cathy grabbed my sleeve.

‘What does he mean, Ethan?’ she asked nervously.

‘He is trying to frighten us, Cathy,’ I said. ‘They are only yarns, and I am afraid that Mr Thackeray does not know when to stop.’

Thackeray looked at us both, but his smile seemed now tinged with sadness. I saw something that looked very much like pity in his eyes, and I resented it.

‘Why do you look at us in that way?’ I asked, standing up and making clear that I meant to knock him down if he did not give me a satisfactory answer.

‘Calm yourself, friend,’ he said. ‘I meant no harm.’

‘Perhaps it is time that you finally left, Mr Thackeray,’ I said coldly. ‘The storm seems to have passed.’

Thackeray took a deep breath and sighed. This time there was no objection from Cathy.

‘Aye. It’s time I was going,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘My fate lies elsewhere.’

A bell sounded some way off in the distance, like a church bell but with an unearthly resonance that seemed to vibrate in my very bones and which made the glass on the table hum to its tune.

‘My ship is calling,’ said Mr Thackeray, ‘and I must answer. So I bid you adieu. Ethan, Miss Cathy – ’twas a pleasure to meet you both.’

‘Mr Thackeray,’ I said, but I did not shake his hand.

‘’Twas an honour to meet you too,’ said Cathy, blushing in a most annoying way, and I noted that she seemed to flutter her eyelashes. ‘Thank you for telling us so many stories.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said, gazing at her with a haunted expression. And Thackeray finally walked away towards the door with Cathy and I following close behind.

He opened the door and stood on the threshold for a while, gazing out into the night. He seemed annoyingly reluctant to actually leave, and I was sorely tempted to shove him out and bolt the door behind him. In any event, he turned and bowed to Cathy and to me, and, with one last twinkling smile, he set off towards the cliff edge as though he were about to throw himself off.

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Cathy let out a little shriek as he made no attempt to stop himself but did indeed step over the edge, and we ran to see what had become of him. To our amazement he was sliding and hopping down the sheer cliff face with the agility and sure-footedness of a mountain goat. He reached the bottom in seconds and stepped nonchalantly on to the rocks and sand of the bay as if he did this kind of thing every day.

The great heavy mass of cloud that had blanketed the night sky and hidden every star from view now parted theatrically from east to west, like the curtains at a music hall, and there, taking centre stage in the bay, was a three-masted sailing ship, spot-lit by a milk-white moon.

A boat was rowing ashore from the anchored ship to meet him. There was something so dreamlike and unearthly about the scene that it was a little while before I began to see the detail of it.

The moon was near full and as bright as a beacon. I squinted at the ship and at the boat, trying to make sense of what the spectral light was telling me.

The hull of the ship seemed to be holed like a moth-eaten coat, the moonlit sea clearly visible through its pierced ribs. The sails were furled but seemed tattered and frayed. In fact the whole ship looked worm-eaten and rotten to the rib-timbers.

I assumed that this damage was as a result of the tempest, but the more I looked, the less this explanation seemed to hold true. The ship appeared to be corrupted by the ravages of time more than by the actions of the weather.