The Last Survivor
QUITE the most interesting and picturesque spot on the water front of the old San Francisco was the establishment of Three-Fingered Jack, publican and sailors' boarding-house master. In the interest of sanitation and civic pride it is perhaps just as well that the great conflagration of 1906 removed him and his ramshackle institution, although, as one who knew him well and revered him for certain rough virtues, and who further regarded his place of business as the haunt of maritime romance, tragedy, and adventure, I regret the passing. For Three-Fingered Jack's place was patronized almost exclusively by the men from the dark blue. Seated in the row of armchairs along the walls, or playing cards for the drinks in the stuffy little back room, were always to be found (in the old days) half a dozen sailors of the type that looks with ill-concealed aversion upon steamship men. Here were no north Pacific laborers but the men of the Seven Seas, who cling to life with their hands, and when at length life is abandoned depart in one of two orthodox fashions—suddenly, in their working clothes, over the lee rail in a smother of foam, or slowly, in a nightgown, in some marine hospital.
It was from one of these that I had this tale of the bark Geneva—an unbelievable tale, 'tis true, but nevertheless a tale so perfectly coordinated that unbelief gives way to wonder, wonder to doubt, and doubt to— But you shall be your own judge of the story. My task is merely that of a historian.
To the story: It was night in Three-Fingered Jack's. The talk had been of ships that never returned, and the maritime boniface had bethought himself of a ship that returned but minus her crew, having lost it in the south Indian Ocean and apparently for no conceivable reason.
"There's a mystery for you," he declared, "an' a mystery that's never been solved. You've all heard about the bark Geneva, haven't you?"
It appearing from the silence that nobody present had heard the tale. Three-Fingered Jack, ever on the alert to stimulate trade, suggested that if somebody would wet the whistles of the company he would relate as much of the yarn as he knew. … . "The Geneva," began Three-Fingered Jack, "is—for she's runnin' yet—a wooden bark of about eighteen hundred tons register, owned by Baldwin & Cobb of Bath, Me. On the voyage that I'm speakin' of she was commanded by a fine, decent little Bluenose by the name o' Nathan Munson. I knew him well, havin' furnished him with A. B.'s off an' on for years whenever he'd touch in this port. His mate at the time I'm speakin' of was young Ambrose Cobb, son o' the junior partner, for old Cobb was a man that held his own ideas, an' one o' them was that no son o' his should presume to manage a ship's business until he'd come up from before the mast to a master's ticket. I disremember the name o' the second mate, but no matter. He was a Bluenose too, an' a sailor every inch o' him, or he wouldn't have been a mate in a Baldwin & Cobb ship. The crew was Down East men mostly, an' at least half o' them had been in the Geneva for several voyages, for she was what you'll seldom find, an' that's a family ship—all hands happy an' satisfied an' with no reason for quittin' the ship when a voyage was finished. Good grub an' decent treatment was never yet wasted on a good sailor, for all the mates an' skippers that'll tell you otherwise, an' if ever there was a ship that a mutiny couldn't have happened on—if ever there was a ship better able to cope with wind an' wave than most, that ship was the Geneva.
"She cleared from Surabaya, Java, in June o' 1900, loaded with coffee an' spices for discharge at New York. Like all o' the Baldwin & Cobb ships, she had accommodations for a few passengers, an' in Surabaya she'd picked up one passenger, a German scientist or naturalist or somethin', who'd been out in the wilds o' Borneo an' Sumatra for a couple o' years an' was so wracked up with jungle fever he concluded to go to New York on a sailin' vessel, figurin' the long sea voyage would do him a lot o' good.
"Well, sir, maybe a month later the old gunboat Comanche, bound from Batavia for Hampton Roads, via the Cape of Good Hope, found herself down around 49 south—"
"What was the Comanche doin' so far south?" one of Jack's auditors demanded pointedly, believing he had caught our host in a nautical error, than which naught is more provocative of scorn in a deep-sea sailor.
"For the benefit o' the savage that interrupted me," continued Three-Fingered Jack, still addressing the company in general, "I'll swing off my course long enough to state that I'm tellin' this story an' that I know what I'm talkin' about, because I saved the clippin's from the Fremantle 'Argus,' an' later I had the story from a deserter that was one o' the bluejackets aboard the Comanche when she picked up the Geneva. The Comanche was down in 49 south latitude because that was the safest place for her at the time. She was one o' them old-time gunboats that was built in the eighties for service on the China coast—bark-rigged, with stuns'l booms, an' a fast, free sailer. When she had wind they'd slip the clutch on the shaft an' let her propeller turn free, an' when she didn't have any wind she could do ten knots under steam. Three days out from Batavia she run into a typhoon an' bucked it with her engines. She was stove up a bit, an' just about the time the storm passed over her she kicked off her wheel. The glass come up an' they had fair weather for two weeks, an' then along comes another typhoon, with the wind from the east'ard an' haulin' to north of east, an' the commander o' the Comanche did the sensible thing—he just run south'ard until he cleared it.
"Well, then, the Comanche had made all the southing she needed to clear this typhoon, an' when the glass begun to rise she stood away on her course again, an' pretty soon she sights a bark, sail set an' steerin' wild. The Comanche hoisted her number by international code, but receivin' no answer she altered her course an' started after the bark, an' when finally she was overhauled 'twas seen she was deserted.
"‘We'll have a look at her,' says the commander of the Comanche. The bark was rampin' along at a smart clip, so they had to launch the steam cutter, an' a boarding officer an' a dozen bluejackets went chasin' her. As they come under her stern they saw she was the Geneva of Bath, Me., an' that the boat falls from the davits where the dinghy should have been were trailin' in the water. The falls from the starboard davits where No. 2 lifeboat had been swung were also danglin', but No. 1, which had been swung clear o' the davits on the port side, was restin' in a cradle on top o' the house.
"‘What a prize lot o' maritime hayseeds to take the little dinghy an' leave the lifeboat,' says the boarding officer. 'That's the craziest thing I ever heard of. Stand by, two of you, to grab those boat falls an' shin aboard before she rolls back on us.'
"The cutter shot in under her stern, an' two men jumped an' grabbed the dinghy falls, while the cutter passed around to starboard an' the officer shinned up the lifeboat falls, followed by another bluejacket. One o' them took the helm an' the others backed her yards an' hove her to.
"Well, sir, they say 'twas uncannylike—that fine ship, spick an' span an' not a thing wrong with her—an' not a man Jack aboard. The boarding officer searched high an' low for the Geneva's rough log an' couldn't find, it, provin' that the skipper an' his officers had deserted the ship an' took it with them. An' there couldn't have been any disease aboard, such as cholera or yellow jack, to scare them off, for if there had been they must have known they couldn't escape it by takin' to the boats. She carried a crew o' twelve foremast hands, which with the cook, the skipper, the two mates, an' the German passenger totaled seventeen men—an' since they had taken the lifeboat an' the dinghy, it stands to reason that the seventeen was alive when they left the ship, otherwise they could all have fitted in one lifeboat! An' there hadn't been any fight, because there wasn't any signs of it. There was a spatter o' blood up near the break o' the fo'castle, but there was also a couple o' live chickens in a coop, an' the head of a chicken lyin' in the port scupper close by, an' the carpenter's broadax, with some blood an' feathers on it, was lyin' on top o' the scuttle butt. All the belayin' pins was in place; likewise the capstan bars; her decks was clear, the braces taut, an' the gear was laid up neatly on the pins. When the well was sounded there was only half an inch o' water in it; the hatches was down tight an' the cargo intact; she had plenty o' water in her tanks an' the scuttle butt was half full. She had plenty o' provisions in the pantry an' storeroom, although it was plain to be seen from the confusion in the store-room that her boats had been provisioned. Everything was as orderly in the fo'castle as you'll ever find it in a fo'castle, an' there was only one thing here to make a man wonder. While she carried a crew o' twelve A. B.'s, there was only seven canvas sea bags on hand, an' since we know that every deep-water sailor has a sea bag an' that when he takes to the boats in mid-ocean he leaves it behind him, we've got to admit that there was somethin' strange in seven sea bags in that fo'castle instead o' twelve.
"Another thing that looked mighty strange was the fact that the Geneva was under all plain sail to the to'gallan's'ls an' had her helm lashed when they found her. Why did they take the trouble to lash the helm when they left her? Why, to keep her rudder from thrashin' around an' bustin' off. Then why didn't they take the canvas off her before they left? If Munson expected she'd drift around an' maybe be salvaged, he wouldn't have left her with all that sail set, knowin' that the first gale she struck would strip every rag off her, or take the sticks out o' her. No, sir. If he'd thought anything about the ship, he'd have hove her to on the starboard tack, under flyin' jib an' upper fore-topsail, or lower fore-topmast stays'l an' close-reefed spanker. Then he would have lashed her wheel amidships an' left her safe, makin' about a mile an' hour an' with a fair chance o' bein' picked up an' towed into port. I tell you, gentlemen, I knew Captain Munson, an' he was nobody's fool, afloat or ashore. He knew his business.
"In the skipper's cabin everything was very orderly. Nothin' seemed to have been disturbed. The barometer was missin', likewise the chronometer, but Munson's sextant (it had his name on it) was lyin' on his desk. Of course that seemed to show as plain as the wart on the nose o' the swab that interrupted me a minute ago that Munson was dead before the crew left the Geneva; the mate had a sextant o' his own, so he took the barometer an' the chronometer which belonged to the ship an' left the skipper's sextant behind. But the mate's room, like the master's, was undisturbed also! All his Sunday clothes was there, an' his gold watch hangin' on a nail in the wall, an' a loaded revolver under his pillow. There was a picture o' his best girl settin' on his desk, an' double-framed photos of old man Cobb an' Mrs. Cobb, an' inside his desk was the smooth log, written up to a week before an' showin' nothin' excitin' except the mysterious loss o' the helmsman the night before the makin' o' the last entry. It was supposed he'd gone insane an' jumped overboard, as he was a queer, crack-brained man at best, an' was alone on the poop at the time; consequently no other member o' the crew could have hove him overboard, an' there had been no outcry. The man had come aboard very drunk at Surabaya an' for a week he'd had the horrors an' been perfectly useless. Mr. Cobb had feared to send him aloft.
"The second mate's room—come to think of it, his name was Joshua Kent—was all upset. He'd cleaned up pretty well before he left; every little personal thing he had was gone, an' you'll remember this wasn't so in the case o' the first mate, Cobb. So it would sorter look as if young Cobb was as dead as the skipper before the crew deserted the Geneva, the second mate, not havin' a sextant o' his own, helpin' himself to the mate's. An' when we recall the fact that there was only seven sea bags in the fo'castle—an' a sailor bein' forced to take to the small boat is never allowed to clutter her up with his belongin's—well, it's goin' to take a smarter man than me to figure it out. If seven men left with the cook an' the second mate an' the passenger, they left seven bags behind. Then what became o' the other five bags an' the other five men? Did the five men die an' did the second mate heave their bags overboard after 'em, or, o' the twelve men that signed for the cruise, was five without sea bags?"
"How about the cook?" one of the audience queried.
"He left a batch o' bread in the galley stove," Three-Fingered Jack replied promptly, "an' took some o' his things—clothes mostly, an' a blanket or two—for his berth off the galley had but one blanket in it."
"How about the passenger?" queried a swarthy, weather-beaten, powerfully built little man at the end of the bar. "What was this German naturalist's name?"
"I disremember, lad. Von Something or other."
"Wasn't it Franz von Weigand—Dr. Franz von—"
"The same," Three-Fingered Jack replied promptly. "You've a better memory for names than I have. He wasn't a regular doctor, as I remember, but a doctor of philosophy or law or science or something, from the University of Leipzig. Well, the doctor got away from the Geneva alive, although he didn't expect to live very long after leavin'. His will was found in the ship's safe, along with the ship's papers (again provin' Munson an' Cobb was dead, or they'd never left the ship's papers behind). There wasn't any money in the safe or aboard the ship—naturally, since nobody on board needed any money an' wouldn't have brought Dutch money from Java to New York if they could help it. The Dutchman said in his will that while his health was good compared to what it had been two months before—said he hadn't had any chills or fever since comin' aboard the Geneva—an' he was sure he wasn't insane, an' he knew he wasn't frightened o' man or devil or threatened by either; still he thought he'd make his will an' get his affairs shipshape for the reason that he realized he stood a fat chance o' dyin' in the near future, as he was about to embark upon the strangest adventure that had ever befallen a human bein' since man quit being a monkey down on all fours an' commenced to stand erect on his hind legs. He said he purposely avoided leavin' behind him a yarn he could spin—this for three reasons. In the first place he didn't have time to write it, an' the record would appear in the ship's log anyhow; moreover, his standin' as a scientist precluded his makin' any report on the matter that might be semiofficial, an' he must make his report if at all, to the place where he'd got his education—the University of Leipzig. He said, too, that he couldn't lay himself open to the charge o' bein' crazy by tellin' the story now, because he only knew half of it, nor o' bein' called a scientific fraud when he was dead an' gone because he'd submitted an incomplete report. He said he had to have photographs to prove his discovery—an' he was goin' after the photographs. He left directions for forwardin' all the specimens—birds, snakes, an' beasts of all sort—that was stored in the ship's hold, to the University of Leipzig an' willed his entire estate to Joshua Kent, second mate o' the American bark Geneva. He referred to Kent as a sailor with the soul of true scientist, a true gentleman, an' a true friend,
Three-Fingered Jack filled the glasses of the company; then he leaned his elbows on the bar and scrutinized each man carefully.
"Can you beat that?" he demanded. "Here's this crazy loon of a Dutchman that spends his life collectin' monkeys an' other critters, callin' that no good son of a pirate of a second mate a true scientist, a true gentleman, an' a true friend. An' right away Kent makes him out a darned poor judge o' human nature an' maritime ethics, for, instead o' stickin' by the ship an' doing his duty by his owners, he leaves her—turns her loose in the south Indian Ocean with all plain sail set, to ramp to ruin with a valuable cargo o' coffee an' spices, an' th' doctor's crates o' specimens in No. 1 hold! Eh! What do you think of that? What a sublimated sort of a fool that man Kent must have been. First he hornswoggles that German passenger to make out a will in his favor; then he proves his ingratitude by not carin' a hoot in a holler what becomes of all them animal specimens the Dutchman has been years collectin' in the wilds o' Sumatra an' Borneo an' such like places; an' lastly this dog-goned second mate goes overside an' leaves the will behind him in the ship's safe. I'm hopin' he'll show up some time to claim the estate; then, if he ain't crazy altogether, maybe the world will find out what become o' the crew o' the Geneva, for it's fifteen years agone since the Comanche's prize crew sailed her into Fremantle an' cabled her owners to send a skipper to take charge o' her, an' the world ain't any the wiser to what become o' them than it was then."
"IT IS a strange story, indeed," I remarked, to break the silence that followed the rendition of Three-Fingered Jack's remarkable yarn. "I would give something to learn the finish of it."
The little swarthy man who had interrupted our host to inquire the name of the Geneva's ill-fated passenger eyed me with appraising interest.
"How much would you give, matey?" he queried. "Old Three Fingers here says you're a writin' man. Maybe you could write the yarn up an' make somethin' out of it?"
"I could indeed," I answered. "It would be worth twenty-five dollars to the man who could solve that mystery and prove to me that he had the correct solution."
The swarthy little man smiled. "Well, sir," he answered, "I wouldn't undertake to prove I had the correct solution. You must remember that German doctor was afraid to tell half the story for fear of being accused of being a lunatic or a fraud."
"A good many smarter men than you have tried to figure out that mystery, my lad, an' they never got anywhere," Three-Fingered Jack reminded him. "It just ain't figurable; that's all. I explained as much as any man familiar with ships an' the habits o' seafarin' men will ever explain."
The swarthy little man subsided, abashed, stowed away his grog, and presently left the room via the side door leading to the rooming house above. He returned in a few minutes, passed through the barroom, and out into the street, and half an hour later I found him waiting for me at the corner of Stuart and Market Streets. He carried a paper-bound package under his arms.
"See here, sir," he said briskly, tragic story "I'm shipping out in the May Queen as second mate the day after to-morrow, and I want to get my sextant out of hock. I asked it for five dollars the day before yesterday" (and he held up a blue pawn ticket from Bilgewater Billy's three-all safety station at 42 Embarradero—it was 42 East Street in those days). "If you give me ten dollars now, we'll go together to Bilgewater Billy's an' redeem the sextant; then you keep the sextant until you've had a chance to look through this log book. If you're satisfied after reading that you've found out what became of the crew of the Geneva and why the men left he ship, then leave the other fifteen dollars with Three-Fingered Jack for me. On the other hand, if you think you've been swindled, you can sell my sextant for ten dollars and get your money back. It's worth fifteen easily. The truth of the matter is, sir, it used to belong to Ambrose Cobb, first mate of the bark Geneva. It's inscribed: 'To Ambrose Cobb, 4th, upon the occasion of the granting of his license as second mate, Boston, Mass., July 21, 1899. From his father, Ambrose Cobb, 3d.' "
I TOOK the paper-bound package under one arm and the swarthy little man under the other, and together we proceeded to Bilgewater Billy's and rescued the sextant. It was inscribed exactly as he had stated, and the rescue from Bilgewater Billy cost me $5.50. I then gave the swarthy little man $4.50 and asked him if he had any objection to telling me how the sextant had come into his possession.
He laughed. "I didn't steal it," he answered. "I found it going to waste beside a dead man, and because I needed a sextant very badly indeed, sir, I took it. I found it in a cave in the cliff that fronts on Christmas Harbor, on the coast of Kerguelen Land, or Desolation Island, as some call it, in the south Indian Ocean. I was before the mast in the full-rigged ship Altaire, Batavia to Montevideo, and we were caught in a typhoon in the Indian Ocean and dismasted. The old man was bearing away to the south'ard to get out of the dangerous semicircle, just as Munson of the Geneva did, but he held on to his canvas too long and the storm caught up with us; then he couldn't get it off, and the sticks went by the board. She was an old wooden vessel and rotten to the core; the seas tore the heart out of her, and we had four men swept overboard in the mess. We had one boat left, and we swung that in the throat halyards and lowered it off the lee quarter with two men in it. We got them away from the ship, and they pulled astern and held her head up to the seas, while the men crawled out on the end of the spanker boom and slid down the painter into the boat. When all hands, with the exception of the skipper, the carpenter, and myself, were in the boat (we'd strung oil bags off the Altaire's weather bow, so the seas wouldn't break over her and the small boat) I saw we didn't have a chance. The boat didn't have enough freeboard as it was, so I decided to die on the ship. Chips did, too, and the skipper cut the painter and told the first mate to pull away, which he did, and we saw them upset and drowned the minute the boat cleared the oiled area.
"The Skipper, Chips, and myself lashed some spare spars and timber together and made a raft. The Altaire was waterlogged and liable to founder any minute, but we worked fast, stepped a mast and a sail from the smashed lifeboat, put water and provisions aboard, and just before the ship settled we floated clear through a rent in her bulwarks. We had a two-gallon demijohn of water, and we smashed that. However, we didn't upset, for a good big raft won't do that unless the passengers stand on it. The typhoon was blowing from the northeast, so we went southwest, and the skipper and Chips died. They ate a lot of bully beef and biscuit before we cracked the demijohn—and bully beef is a bit salty. I knew that, so I didn't eat any, and as I'm a hardy bit of a man I was alive and conscious and holding to the raft a day after the skipper and Chips had let go. Then it rained, and I caught some water in the belly of the sail and filled two bully-beef cans I'd saved. I was adrift four days before I sighted land; then I ran for it and crawled ashore at Christmas Harbor, on Kerguelen Land. I was nearly dead from exposure, but I found some dry driftwood and made a fire, and after I was warm I found drinking water. Kerguelen's uninhabited, sir. Mountains without any timber—it's volcanic, and nothing but the roar of the sea, the barking of the sea lions and the screams of the sea fowl for company.
"Were you able to form an estimate of the length of time the skeleton had lain there?" I queried.
"Well, I landed on Kerguelen in January of 1901, and I judge, from reading that log, that the man died in August of 1900. August 5 is the last entry in the log. And the bones weren't stale—the birds and crabs had been there before me, you see. And the seams in the dory had scarcely commenced to open, for as soon as I hauled her down to the surf—I used the mast for a roller—the seams swelled and she was tight and seaworthy. She was an extra big dory. However, about this body I found in the cave. He had been there first, so I didn't dispossess him, but looked around for another cave and found it; then I rolled up in his blankets and slept and rested, and between times I made tea and soup on the oil stove. When I was ready to leave I loaded all the dunnage in the dory, with the exception of the rifle and the camera and some other things I didn't need and didn't understand, and shoved off. Of course the chronometer was of no use to me because it had run down, but the sextant was, and I had charts. I ran down the latitude to the west coast of Australia and made a landing about fifty miles west of Fremantle. I had good weather all the way, sailing on a fair wind. When I needed sleep I threw out the sea anchor and rode bow on to the sea, and if there was much of a sea running I got along without my sleep, and when I couldn't get along any longer I threw out two oil bags and took my chances. I was two weeks making the fifteen-hundred-mile run, and I never shipped water enough to wash myself. Had hot food all the way and arrived in pretty good shape. At landing I abandoned the dory and its contents, with the exception of the barometer, the chronometer, the sextant, the blankets, and enough bully beef and biscuits to last me to Fremantle. I sold the barometer and the chronometer there, but didn't say where I'd found them for fear somebody might dispute my right to them."
"But didn't you tell your story to the newspapers in Fremantle?" I demanded.
"To be quite truthful, I didn't, sir. I got drunk on the proceeds of the barometer, purchased a sea bag, a suit of dungarees, two woolen shirts, and a pair of sea boots with the chronometer and shipped out on a barkentine to Durban as soon as I sobered up. I've told about it in the fo'castles of a dozen ships since, but nobody believes the yarns an old sailor spins, sir, and a man forgets half the things that happen to him."
"But you have never showed this log to anybody?"
"Yes, but you'll notice the name of the ship was never written out in the space provided for that purpose on the outside of the cover, and I was never able to find any mention of the name in the body of the log. So it didn't mean anything to anybody who hadn't heard the story of the Geneva. I had never heard it until to-night, but when Three-Fingered Jack mentioned Captain Nathan Munson, Ambrose Cobb, Joshua Kent, Dr. Franz von Weigand, the time, the latitude—why I put two and two together, sir, and there you are. The last part of the log is in a foreign language, and I've never happened to be ship-mates with anybody who could translate it for me."
I UNWRAPPED the book. It was a ship's log book, and it reeked of many forecastles. I had not perused it five minutes before I decided it was worth the price, so I gave the swarthy little man $15 and in my excitement parted from him without learning his name. As for my purchase of the log book of the bark Geneva, you shall judge whether or not I got value received.
EXCERPT FROM THE ROUGH LOG OF THE BARK GENEVA OF BATH, ME.
ENTRIES SIGNED BY CAPTAIN NATHAN MUNSON AND SECOND OFFICER JOSHUA KENT
Note—It is not probable that the reader would be interested in the log of a vessel enjoying a fair passage; hence those entries that deal with that portion of the voyage dating from the departure of the ship from Surabaya until she lost her first man have been omitted. They are merely a bald and uninteresting record of weather observations and work done aboard ship. Suffice it, therefore, that on the eighteenth day from Surabaya, Captain Munson commenced to observe the infallible portents of an approaching typhoon. For three days the barometer had been abnormally high, the sky clear and serene, with bright, dazzling, lurid sunsets. On the third night the moon wore a greasy halo, while a long, low swell from the eastward was quite noticeable. At midnight the barometer suddenly commenced falling, the wind freshened, and gradually hauled to southeast, with occasional puffs from east, indicating that the storm would come from that quarter. Consequently Captain Munson, seeing that he was in the dangerous semicircle of a typhoon that would be along in earnest within twenty-four hours, changed his course to bear away to the south and thus gradually draw out of the storm center. His judgment in this instance appears to have been excellent, for the vessel suffered no damage and at no time was she subjected to the full force of the typhoon. Not until she had passed well below the 49th parallel, south latitude, however, did the barometer commence to rise, and when it was normal and the Geneva stood away on her course again, she entered a belt of light and baffling airs, giving away at times to a dead calm. We will therefore omit all record of the voyage up to that period and commence with the first entry of importance.
July 25—Shortly after midnight wind failed entirely. Ship rolling in dead calm ever since, making leeway of about three miles an hour toward Kerguelen Island, which was sighted shortly after daylight. Observation at noon, 48° 37' 15" S., 69° 37' 12" E. Kerguelen Island five miles abeam at sunset. Soundings show no bottom. Have cockbilled both anchors in readiness to let go if necessary to keep from drifting ashore. Frequent soundings up to midnight. No bottom. Frequent puffs from southeast about offset our leeway. So ends this day.
Nathan Munson, Master.
July 26—Changed watches at midnight. Seaman John Wiggins at the wheel. Mr. Kent, second mate, was on the poop with helmsman until 1 a.m., when he went forward to order the boatswain to take soundings. The moon had set and it was very dark. The watch was congregated in the waist, yarning. At 1.30 a.m. Mr. Kent returned to the poop and found the man Wiggins in a high state of excitement. He declared some gigantic bird had flown twice around the ship; the first time he had felt distinctly the wind from its wings; the second time it had collided, quite heavingly, with the spanker boom, which was swinging idly amidships at the time, and knocked it over the port quarter. To Mr. Kent's suggestion that an albatross had flown by and that a roll of the ship had caused the spanker boom to swing over to port, Wiggins declared he had heard the impact and that it could not have been an albatross because he had heard it hiss loudly when it struck the boom. He maintained he had detected a strong reptilian odor each time the thing flew by.
Now, this man Wiggins was a drunken beach comber I shipped in Surabaya to take the place of a sailor we had lost overboard on the passage out. I did not want Wiggins, but he was the only man I could procure. He was drunk when he came aboard, and after we put to sea and his supply of liquor gave out he had the horrors and had to be confined in the lazaret. Mr. Cobb, the first mate, had only turned him to a few days before and even now was afraid to order him aloft. Mr. Kent, hearing Wiggins speak of a hiss and a reptilian odor, concluded, therefore, that Wiggins was about to have another touch of the "snakes," and decided to relieve him and send him below rather than await the regular relief at two o'clock. Thereupon Mr. Kent descended the companion to the main deck to call a relief, but had not proceeded very far until he heard a shriek from Wiggins. He attached no importance to it, and when the watch came running forward he said it was only Wiggins with the horrors again. He directed the boatswain and one man to accompany him to the poop to remove Wiggins and return him to the lazaret, and ordered another man to go aft and take the wheel.
When they reached the poop Wiggins was not there. A cursory search of the ship was made but failed to reveal the man, so Mr. Kent waited until daylight and searched the ship again, with the same result.
It is his belief that Wiggins went suddenly insane and leaped over the taff-rail into the sea.
Light, fitful airs all night and all of this day.Nathan Munson, Master.
July 27—Shortly after the moon set last night, Mr. Cobb reported to me that he had heard and felt something fly past the ship's stern, and had detected a reptilian odor that was almost nauseating. It happened to be absolutely calm at the time, and Mr. Cobb felt a sudden rush of air, as from mighty wings; he heard the swish of them. I attached no importance to this report until two o'clock this morning when I was awakened by a scream from the helmsman. Then he shrieked "Help! It's killing me!" After that there was silence. I rushed out in my pajamas and climbed to the poop by the starboard companion, while Mr. Kent ran up the port companion, flashing an electric torch as he went. The helm was deserted, and Seaman J. R. Davenport is gone. The mysterious part of it is that Mr. Kent went up the port companion while I took the starboard; hence we know that Davenport could not have left the poop except over the taffrail; neither could his assailant, for there can be no doubt from the nature of his outcries that he was attacked. This much also is certain and adds to the mystery. He was not attacked by any man on the ship, for the location of every man, including our passenger, at the precise instant of Davenport's outcry, has been accounted for. Moreover, he alluded to his assailant as "it"; hence we must assume that he did not know what was attacking him, but that he did know it was not human. There were not the slightest signs of a struggle on the poop.
The occurrence is most uncanny and sheds a new light upon the disappearance of the unfortunate man Wiggins. Was he crazy when he spoke of something that smelled snaky and flew twice around the ship? If so, then Ambrose Cobb is crazy too. Did something really collide with the spanker boom hard enough to swing it out over the port quarter, and did it hiss with rage as it collided with the spanker boom? Does the fabled sea serpent really exist and does it lift its slimy folds out of the sea and pluck my men from the wheel? Was the swift thrust of its body through the air what Wiggins and Mr. Cobb mistook for the "swish" of mighty wings? These and similar thoughts are in the mind of every man aboard.
When Mr. Cobb heard of the occurrence he dressed, and, despite the fact that it was Mr. Kent's watch on deck, armed himself with an ax and stated that he would remain on the poop continuously with the helmsman and Mr. Kent.
At four o'clock Mr. Cobb complained that he was getting drowsy and asked Mr. Kent to please get him a cup of coffee from the galley. Mr. Kent departed for the galley and had scarcely reached it when there was a commotion on the poop, mingled with shouts and screams. When Mr. Kent, followed by the watch, ran aft, the helmsman, Isaac Simpson, was gone, the wheel was spattered with blood, and beside it Mr. Cobb lay, quite dead, with his forehead crushed in as by a blow from a tomahawk. Poor fellow! He did not have time to swing his ax.
This third affair is most horrible. How shall I ever account to Ambrose Cobb, 3d, for the loss of his boy, Ambrose Cobb, 4th? He will always feel that I was lax in my vigilance; he placed the boy in my care, and I fear that he will never understand that no human agency could have prevented his son's death.
12 P.M.—Still abreast Kerguelen. Weather raw as usual in these latitudes, sea smooth, wind coming in weak puffs and all points of the compass. Mr. Kent is now first mate, and all of our efforts are devoted to keeping the vessel offshore. Have advanced Daniel Kennedy, formerly the boatswain, to second mate. While he knows nothing of navigation, he is a rare seaman.
For his old father's sake, I decided not to bury poor Ambrose at sea. The carpenter made a coffin, and after holding funeral services aboard ship we cleared away a boat and sent the body ashore in charge of Mr. Kent and three seamen. Dr. von Weigand asked and was granted permission to accompany the boat party. I noticed he placed one heavy express rifle, two light sporting rifles, and a shotgun, all his own weapons, in the boat.
7 P.M.—Mr. Kent should have returned not later than four o'clock. It is now dark, and he is not here yet. Instructed Mr. Kennedy to burn Coston lights at intervals to guide the boat party back to the ship.
Note.—This is the last entry in the handwriting of Captain Munson.
In accordance with instructions from Captain Munson went ashore this morning to bury Mr. Cobb, taking with me Seamen Samuel Pease, Alonzo Beck, and Silas Rice and our passenger. Dr. Franz von Weigand. Buried Mr. Cobb in the sand on the beach, but safe above high-water mark, at the base of the cliff that fronts on the center of the harbor, 409 paces north of the twin pinnacles of rocks and 97 paces south of the half-submerged wreck on the beach. Marked the grave with a headboard prepared aboard ship; also built a cairn over it.
WHILE engaged in our melancholy task Dr. von Weigand took his shotgun and walked up the beach. I paid no attention to him, thinking he intended to shoot a few specimens of sea birds, but proceeded with the burial. About the time we had finished the doctor returned and drew me aside. "Order your men to go into that cave in the cliff yonder," he said, "and to take the two light rifles with them. Tell them not to leave the shelter of the cave under any circumstances until you return: that their lives are in danger. Then take my heavy game rifle and accompany me. I have something to show you."
I complied. We walked up the beach half a mile, and the doctor led me to a peculiar imprint in the sand and asked me what I thought of it. After some reflection I told him I thought a hen nine feet tall had sat down in the sand. He nodded and led me about fifty yards beyond high-water mark, to where a flock of sea birds clamored over something. There wasn't much left of what they were clamoring over, but from the sea boots I recognized Wiggins. While the doctor kept guard, I scooped a hole in the sand and buried the poor fragment.
"Now, then, Mr. Kent," said the doctor, "what opinion have you formed?"
"That a nine-foot hen lives on Kerguelen," I answered. "It flies and is powerful enough to carry away a man, for the tide did not deposit Wiggins here. A blow from its beak killed Cobb, and being a nocturnal prowler it was attracted to the vessel by our red and green side lights. In the darkness of the main deck it failed to see the other men in my watch, and the flapping canvas and the spars made a landing difficult. But when it circled around the stern it saw the man at the wheel in the dim light from the binnacle lamps, and because the fore-and-aft rig was swung over to port or starboard, as the case might be, the creature was enabled to fly right in and alight on the poop."
"I agree with you," he replied. "Now, how do you account for the presence of such a monster on Kerguelen? I have my own theory, but I desire yours."
"To begin," I replied. "Kerguelen is a volcanic island; hence it has no fauna of its own. We see millions of sea birds and hundreds of sea lions along the beach, but these are merely emigrants from the surrounding ocean. Consequently this Thing that can attack and kill a man and fly away with him must be an emigrant also. The question naturally arises, then: Whence did it come? The answer is obvious—from the nearest mainland; and that is the west coast of Australia, approximately fifteen hundred miles distant. Australia, as every schoolboy knows, is much older, geologically, than the rest of the earth's surface, if we are to judge by her fauna, many common specimens of which appear to be holdovers from an age when queer animals were the rule and not the exception. For instance, in the reptilian age, Nature, working at cross-purposes apparently, produced a flying reptile, a creature with a reptile's body and tail, wings of a bat and the head of a bird. To-day in Australia we find the spoonbill, a creature with the body of an otter and a duck's beak. It is, with the exception of this beak, a mammal, and a mammal bears its young alive and suckles them; yet the spoonbill, like a fowl, is reproduced from an egg. Then there are more than a score of species of marsupials found nowhere on earth, not to mention that wingless bird, the emu."
It would appear possible that the creature which carried away Wiggins came from Australia—possible, but hardly probable," Von Weigand replied.
"Its obviously great antiquity would against such a presumption," I answered, "although there is no doubt that certain species of the reptile family do attain an unbelievable age. Scientists have estimated the age of certain individuals among the large turtles to be found on the Galapagos Islands at more than two thousand years, and when captured there was nothing about these turtles to indicate that they might not continue to live indefinitely. It is probable, however, that a pair of these Things, ancestors of this monster now resident on Kerguelen, while ranging off the Australian coast, were swept to sea by a terrific typhoon. Creatures as powerful as they, flying before a typhoon, would easily average a speed of a hundred miles an hour on a sustained flight of fifteen hours, until Kerguelen hove in sight and they alighted. Food is plentiful here—fish, seals, sea fowl—and until 1772, when Kerguelen-Tremarec discovered the island, there were no natural enemies to disturb them or their descendants, no upheavals of nature to destroy them. Cook visited the island in 1774, and a party of scientists visited it last in 1874, to observe the transit of Venus. However, Kerguelen is fifty miles wide at its greatest width and about a hundred miles long, so it is not a matter of surprise that this monster has not been met with heretofore."
The doctor declared that when I went to sea a scientist went to the devil. In common with many landsmen, he does not know that sailors are often greater students than landsmen. And in my school days I studied natural history and physical geography, and no man with a mentality on a par with the forecastle ever became a master in Baldwin & Cobb's employ.
We decided to climb to the higher ground back of the harbor and spend two hours hunting for the Thing. I had the heavy rifle Von Weigand had used for tiger hunting in Sumatra, and he carried his ten-gauge shotgun, full-choked and with each cartridge loaded with eleven buckshot and four grains of high nitropowder. It was a weapon I would have preferred to the rifle.
AFTER a futile hunt we were returning to the boat, via a long ravine which led down to the beach, when we were both startled at the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot. We listened, and a perfect fusillade followed. "It has attacked them," Von Weigand said quietly, and started to run, every ten seconds casting a look skyward. The firing ceased (apparently the men had emptied their magazines or killed it) within a minute after we heard the first shot. As we approached the place where we had left the boat we were distressed to see one of the men sprawled out on the beach. It was Pease, killed in the same manner as Mr. Cobb, and with an empty rifle beside him. Beside the boat we found Seaman Beck, also dead. It is probable that he disregarded my instructions to remain in the cave, and ventured down to the beach to get his pipe, which I discovered afterward in the boat. Here he was attacked, his cries doubtless bringing Pease and Rice out of the cave to his aid and to their death. Having killed all three in sheer, wanton fury, the Thing, evidently uninjured, had taken Rice's body and departed, for we found his rifle about twenty feet from the mouth of the cave, and close beside it the sand was very gory.
I buried them both beside Mr. Cobb, while Von Weigand stood guard, ready to give warning in order that we might dart into the cave, thus insuring a frontal attack only. We did not dare return to the vessel in daylight, for, in the event of attack while bobbing around in the boat, our aim would be far from accurate, so we decided to wait until dark and then pull back to the vessel. I knew Captain Munson would burn Coston lights to guide us, and he did. We saw one presently. Five minutes later we saw another; another five-minute interval, and we saw a third; after that the rockets ceased. Half an hour later Von Weigand said to me: "They have had a visit from it. The Coston signals attracted it to the ship, and now the men are cowering in the forecastle afraid to appear on deck and send up more lights."
WE were pulling around for nearly three hours before we saw the ship's side lights and rowed in under her quarter. I shouted, and after a while one of the men came and threw over a Jacob's ladder and we climbed aboard, leaving the boat to drift astern at the end of a long painter.
Von Weigand was right. They had had a visit, and the captain and Mr. Kennedy lay dead on the poop. The Thing had evidently attacked Kennedy first and then struck the captain down at the very instant one of the Coston signals he had lighted commenced to splutter along the deck. Evidently the rocket had frightened it away, but not until the helmsman had seen it distinctly. This man, Seaman Etienne Labory, a French Canadian, was beside himself with terror when Von Weigand and I interviewed him, declaring that the ship was pursued by a malignant devil, analogous to the loup-garou of the Canadian forests. The vessel had been hove to. Suddenly they felt a rush of wind and the Thing alighted on the poop with a thump, folding its batlike wings as it came. It had a torso as thick as the foremast, ending in a tail as thick as a python and fully eight feet long. It had large, lidless eyes, rather red-tinted and surrounded by scaly plates, like a turtle. It had an elongated beak, with teeth like a crocodile, and it had struck at him once with its great taloned leg, but missed him. Of a certainty it was Satan himself.
It is now long past midnight; we have already held a hasty funeral service over the captain and Mr. Kennedy and consigned them to the sea. The testimony of Seaman Labory has confirmed Von Weigand and myself in the identity of the Thing. It is a pterodactyl or a pteranodon of huge size, probably the last of its species on earth, and Franz von Weigand and Joshua Kent are confronted with a dual duty. Our duty to mankind demands that we shall not leave Kerguelen until we have hunted down and destroyed this monster; our duty to science demands that we photograph it, both alive and dead and if possible on the wing, and that we carefully preserve the horrid carcass and transport it to New York, where Von Weigand will mount it and whence it will be shipped to the University of Leipzig, the doctor's Alma Mater.
A FAIR wind has sprung up, but I will remain hove to until morning, when I shall sail the ship into Christmas Harbor and set Von Weigand ashore, with two months' provisions and his personal dunnage, arms, camera, etc. He will make his headquarters in the cave, getting his water at night and trusting to the buckshot in that ten-gauge, close-bore shotgun of his to protect him. At best the monster can be no more deadly than a charging tiger—and Von Weigand says the first shot always halts the charge; then, before the tiger can gather its wits and renew the attack, a second shot does the trick. If Von Weigand can break a wing and bring it to earth, he has no fear of the outcome.
He has made his will in my favor and indorsed to me a draft on London for three thousand dollars. I am to bring the ship into Fremantle, place her in safety, cable the owners, and ask to be relieved. After my frightful experiences this will, of course, be granted. I am then to charter a small schooner and return to Kerguelen for the doctor and it, if he has succeeded in killing it. If not, I am to kill it and present the body, together with a full record of the exploit to any scientific institution I may see fit. (Of course, under these circumstances, I should present it to the University of Leipzig, and the doctor, like a good sport, is merely making me his heir; in the event that I should survive, I will have the necessary funds for further search of Kerguelen for other specimens, if any exist.) I have given him my word of honor that nothing shall stand between me and his desires in the matter, for, in truth, sailor that I am, I am as genuinely interested as he.
July 29—Set Von Weigand ashore, up hook and away. No sign of the monster. Eight p.m. cleared northern end of Kerguelen and laid course for Fremantle. Fair breeze. While washing down the quarter deck this morning discovered where the Thing, having struck at Labory with its great leg and missed, had scored the deck with its talons. Will not plane it down until 1 have showed it to the authorities at Fremantle.
Note.—This is the last entry in the handwriting of Joshua Kent. From here on the entries are in German, a translation of which is as follows:
August 5, 1901—I, Franz Carl Wilhelm von Weigand, late of the field naturalist staff of the University of Leipzig, Germany, being about to die, declare on my honor as a gentleman and scientist that the following is a true record of the events that have taken place since Joshua Kent placed me ashore here, at my own request, and in accordance with an agreement existing between us. Joshua Kent pledged me his word of honor that nothing should come between him and my desires in this matter, and, like a true gentleman, he has kept his word at the price of his life, and I, his friend, condemned to death on this barren island, weep for him as I write.
ON the afternoon of the day Kent set me ashore I came upon it, gorged and asleep on top of the cliff above me. I approached quite close and photographed it half a dozen times in repose. From various indications I assumed that this was its favorite resting place. I would have liked to disturb it, in order that I might make some snapshots of it in flight, but, fearful of so doing, I hid behind an adjacent bowlder, hoping that it would soar of its own accord. The light failed, however, before it bestirred itself, plunging straight downward from the cliff and out to sea. I could have killed or disabled it from where I crouched, but I did not desire to do this until I had obtained a photograph of the monster in flight. There are so many skeptics—so many grudging fellow scientists eager to cry "Faker!"
The two days that followed I contented myself with crouching close to the cave entrance, watching the cliff above, in case the creature should essay a daylight flight. At about 2 p.m. I was amazed to observe at the entrance to the harbor a small boat under sail. My glasses showed me that it was occupied by one man. He was sailing at a smart clip, and as he approached dropped his sail and took out his oars preparatory to running the surf line, I saw to my surprise that it was Joshua Kent. When I stepped out of the cave and he saw me, he waved his hand, but I motioned him to be silent, for I was fearful that any shout might arouse the somnolent Fury on top of the cliff. Together we dragged the boat up on the shingle and the receding tide left it high and dry. Then, while I walked beside him, carrying my heavy rifle and the shotgun, in case of sudden attack, Kent carried the contents of his boat up to the cave; then we dragged the dory up beyond the surf line, anchored it with a heavy stone, and retreated to the cave, where Kent told me his story. It appears that of the crew the monster had left him there was Labory, the Canadian; Wimbley, the little cockney Dobson, the negro cook, and two Finns with unpronounceable names. When the vessel cleared the island they came to him, gave it as their opinion that the ship was haunted—pursued by a fiend—and suggested that they all abandon her and take to the lifeboat. They were convinced that this was their only salvation. Kent ridiculed their fears and refused to entertain the suggestion; his duty to his owners prohibited that. They then refused to take their trick at the wheel, and Kent had accordingly steered the ship all night. In order to provide for emergencies, however, he had given the cockney, Dobson, the course to Fremantle, together with certain instructions in the event of his (Kent's) death.
At daylight one of the Finns relieved Kent, who breakfasted and turned in for a few hours' sleep. He set the alarm clock to awaken him, and when he came on deck he discovered that his terror-stricken and superstitious crew had provisioned one of the lifeboats and fled. That's what he got for giving them the course to Fremantle. The vessel was sailing on the wind, with her helm lashed a little below amidships and was steering herself.
THIS condition placed Kent between the devil and the deep sea. He could not sail the bark alone, and the barometer was falling; if he ran into a gale with all the canvas set he would be dismasted; on the other hand, the only way to get the canvas off her was to run up on the yards and cut it loose, in which event he could not use it again. He might ride out any gale hove to under close-reefed spanker, lower foretopsail and lower foretopmast staysail, but—he could not reef the spanker. In any event it didn't seem as if he was ever going to get to Fremantle to charter a schooner and come back for me, hence I was doomed to starvation; also I had given him a draft for three thousand dollars on London and made my will in his favor, and if he failed to return to Kerguelen he feared I might think he had betrayed me. So he decided to abandon the vessel (she and her cargo being fully insured) and return to Kerguelen in one of the ship's boats. He was unequal to the task of launching the lifeboat from the top of the house, but fortunately the dinghy, formerly carried in the davits over the stern, had been replaced on the previous voyage with a fine dory such as the fishermen on the Grand Banks use. These are splendid sea boats, so Kent stepped a mast, bent a sail, and loaded the little craft heavily with provisions, clothing, oil, etc. He took also the barometer, the chronometer, Mr. Cobb's sextant, and all the charts and navigation books aboard, and with his usual skill and adroitness managed to launch the dory without upsetting it, towing it astern until he was ready to leave the ship, when he tied the painter to his waist, sprang over the taffrail, swam to the dory, and left the ship to sail whither she would.
HOW happy I was to have this splendid and devoted fellow's company in this, the greatest adventure a naturalist ever dreamed of. We planned to skin the pterodactyl, carefully preserving the pelt with salt and alum, of which I had brought a sufficient quantity ashore. The carcass we would leave on the beach until the millions of sea birds had stripped it of its flesh, when we planned to disarticulate it. Thus it would take up but little room in the dory. We had plenty of food to last us until the typhoon season should be past; then we planned to sail to Fremantle in the dory. Really we could have made the voyage in comfort, one steering while the other slept. How we pictured our triumphal return to civilization! In fancy I saw the Emperor decorating me—I, Franz von Weigand, a mere professor of natural history. I would be famous; even the great Cuvier, with his pitiful fossil remains of runt pterodactyls from the chalk beds of Kansas, would fade to insignificance beside the man who, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and one, stalked, photographed, and destroyed the last terrible monster of the Reptilian Age.
But all those bright dreams are over now, for yesterday the Homeric battle took place. I have won, yet I have lost. About ten in the morning we saw it flying across Christmas Harbor, but too far distant to be photographed. It disappeared down the coast, and we seized upon its absence to haul the dory up into the cave, out of the weather. We then climbed to the top of the cliff and hid among the rocks close to the spot where I had seen it lying. In about an hour it returned, flying with incredible speed, circled over us as we crouched, immovable, in order not to attract its attention, and then planed slowly to earth, like a great gull. Slowly I lifted the camera and its great body flashed squarely across the finder as I pressed the bulb.
The slight movement attracted its attention to me; instantly it flapped its great wings and soared above us eying us curiously. I was enabled to obtain another snapshot of it (which should have been perfect, although I have never developed the plate), and at the same instant Kent fired. His bullet struck in the left side, close to the junction of the wing with the scaly body. The wing collapsed.
"Good!" I cried approvingly, as the monster came tumbling earthward at a tangent. I planned to cripple it further with a charge of buckshot the instant it landed.
Nothing daunted, the creature whirled on me. At the same instant I saw Kent drop, as if to get out of range, and I fired point-blank at the creature's head. The charge blew the immense beak to pieces and, entering the skull, killed the monster as dead as Cheops on the instant. The momentum of its rush, however, carried it right on top of me; I went down under its fetid body, and in its brief death agony it clawed my right leg terribly. When I recovered my breath I managed to wriggle out from under—I remember wondering vaguely at the time why Kent didn't help me—and looked about for my companion.
The monster had done with a sweep of its tail, covered with horny scales, what it had failed to do with beak and talons. The terrific blow had crushed in my poor friend's breast, and he was dying when I crawled to his side. He smiled at me.
"You have—course," he whispered brokenly, "ride—to—sea—anchor—when—sleepy—oil bags—heavy weather—good-by, Dutchy—hope photos—turn out—O. K."
And then he passed. I wept. I dragged him to the beach and buried him there; now ere I follow I am leaving to mankind this record of his sacrifice. I cannot develop the pictures. Have field developing outfit of my own invention, but I need water and I am too weak to fetch it. And the sea birds will eat my precious pterodactyl—with time the bones will disarticulate, and the storms will scatter them over the cliffs and bury them in the sands of the beach. I have blood poison in my leg where the devil clawed me—I cannot survive; why, then, should I linger and suffer? Von Weigand.
AS I stated in the beginning, my part in this recital is simply that of a historian. I am dealing entirely with the documents in the case.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1957, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 66 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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