BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, C. B.

The vessel rose upon the mountain waves, with her bowsprit pointing up to the northern star, and then plunged down into the trough of the sea, as if she were diving like the porpoises which played across her bows,—shaking and trembling fore and aft as she chopped through the masses of water which impeded her wild course. Sea after sea struck her on the chesstree or the beam, pouring over her decks and adding to the accumulation of water in her hold. Her sides were without a vestige of paint—her shrouds and standing rigging worn to less than inch-rope; her running rigging as mere threads; the foresail, the only sail set, as thin as gauze. Decay was visible in every part of her; her timbers were like touchwood; even her capstan had half rotted away; and her masts might have proved, if once ashore, a safe asylum to colonies of ants and woodpeckers. How then could a vessel in this forlorn condition continue afloat or contend with so fierce a gale? Because it was the spectre-ship with her spectre-crew; Vanderdecken, in the Flying Dutchman, still contending against the divine fiat, still persevering in his fatal oath—that he would double the Cape. Vanderdecken stood at the break of the weather-gangway with his chief officer, Jansen, by his side. The crew were most of them sheltering themselves under the weather-side of the deck; their large, flat, pale muffin faces sunk down deep in their chests; shoulders, high and bony; their nether garments like bladders half shrunken, as if there was nothing in them. When they shifted from one part of the deck to the other, their broad, flat feet made no sound as they passed along the planks, which were soft as pith.

Their dresses were now of the colour of mahogany or chocolate; seaweed was growing here and there on their jackets; and to the seats of their small-clothes, a crop of barnacles had become firmly attached. They all looked melancholy and disheartened; and as they shivered, the rattle of their bones was distinctly to be heard.

Vanderdecken put his speaking-trumpet to his lips—

"Another pull of the weather fore-brace," cried he.

"Yaw, yaw," replied the spectre-crew, put into motion by the order.

The boatswain piped belay—the sound could hardly be distinguished, as from long use he had blown away much of the metal of which his pipe was composed. Jansen, the mate, looked up at the fore-yard, and then at Vanderdecken. He appeared at first irresolute when he looked into the dogged countenance of Vanderdecken;—at last, he hitched up his nether garments with both hands, and spoke—"It won't do, Captain Vanderdecken,—and the men say it won't do—do you not, my lads, all of you?"

"Yaw," was the hollow, melancholy response of the seamen.

"Donder und blitzen—what won't do?" replied the captain.

"We must bear up, Captain Vanderdecken," replied Jansen; "the ship leaks like an old sieve; our hold is full of water; the men are worn out; every sail we have has been bent and split; nothing but the foresail left. It's no use, Captain Vanderdecken, we must bear up and refit."

"You forget mine oath," replied Vanderdecken, surlily. "Hold on, Jansen, that sea is aboard of us."

Jansen shook his three jackets and ten pair of small-clothes, as soon as the drenching had passed over.

"I tell you, Mynheer Vanderdecken, it won't do—we must bear up."

"Yaw, yaw," responded the crew.

"Mine oath!" cried the captain again, as he held on by one of the belaying pins.

"Without sails, without provisions, and without fresh water on board, you cannot keep your oath—which was to double the Cape. We must bear up, refit, and then try it again."

"Mine Oath—I have sworn—I cannot—I will not bear up; Jansen, hold your tongue."

"Well, you may keep your oath—for we will bear up for you against your will."

"We will! Who will? Do you mutiny?"

"Yaw, yaw; we all mutiny," cried the sailors; "we have been now two years trying to double this stormy Cape, and never had a dry jacket the whole time; we must mend our small-clothes, and darn our stockings. For two years and more we have had no fresh meat, and that is contrary to the articles. Captain Vanderdecken we do not mutiny; but we will bear up; with your will, if you please; if not, against your will."

"So you mutiny, you ungrateful rascals! Well, stop a moment, till I go into my cabin; when I come out again, I will hear what you have to say, and see if any man dares speak;" and Captain Vanderdecken in a great fury rushed aft and went into his cabin.

"I know what he will do, my men," said Jansen; "he has gone for his double-barrelled pistols, and will shoot us through the head;—we must not let him come out again."

"Nein, nein," replied the seamen; and they ran to the cabin-doors, and made them fast, so that Vanderdecken could not get out, and could shoot nobody but himself.

"Now my lads," said Jansen, "put the helm up, and square the yards."

"What's the course to be, Mynheer Jansen," asked the man at the helm.

"Keep her right before it, my man; how's her head now?"

"About south-west."

"That will do—it will fetch somewhere—she walks fast through it. Spielman, heave the log."

"What does she go?"

"Eighty-five miles an hour; but we must allow something for the heave of the sea," replied the second mate.

"She don't sail as well as she did; but we are half full of water," replied Jansen.

When a ship runs down more than two degrees of longitude in an hour, it does not take her long to go half round the world. The Flying Dutchman, as she flew along, was pursued by the demons of the storm visible to the crew on board, although not to mortal eyes: some, with puffed-out cheeks, were urging her through the water; others mouthed and yelled; some kicked her stern in derision; others tumbled and curveted in the air above her—ever keeping pace with the vessel, jibing and jeering at their victory; for the Flying Dutchman no longer battled against the adverse elements, but at last had yielded to them. The Dutchmen cared little for the imps, they were used to them, and they smoked their pipes in silence, all but Vanderdecken; the mutiny of the men had put his pipe out.

On the second day they had passed Cape Horn without perceiving it; the wind veered more to the east, and they steered more to the northward. On the fourth evening, the sailor on the look-out at the bow called out "Land, hoh!" They steered right for it and entered a large bay; the anchor, in many parts not thicker than a pipe-stem, was dropped, the foresail clued up, and having first armed themselves, the seamen let the captain loose. Vanderdecken was as savage as a bear. He ran out with a pistol in each hand, but a pea-jacket was thrown over his head, and he was disarmed.

"Cowardly villains!" exclaimed the captain, as soon as the jacket was removed; "mutinous scoundrels—"

"We return to our duty, Captain Vanderdecken," replied the crew, "we will obey your orders. What shall we do first? Shall we mend the sails, or mend our clothes? Shall we darn our stockings, or go on shore for fresh water? Shall we caulk the ship, or set up the rigging? Speak, Captain Vanderdecken, you shall order us as you please."

"Tousend tyfels!" replied Vanderdecken, "go to——, all of you."

"Show us the way, captain, and we will follow you," replied the crew.

Gradually the captain's wrath was appeased; the ship required refitting and watering; he never could have doubled the Cape in the state she was in; the mutiny had prevented his breaking his oath—and now the seamen were obedient.

"Shall we take possession of the land, in the name of his most Christian Majesty?" said Jansen.

"Take possession in the name of his Satanic Majesty," replied Vanderdecken, turning sulkily away.

The captain had not quite recovered his good-humour—he returned to his cabin, mixed a tumbler of brandy and gunpowder, set fire to it, and drank it off—this tisane cooled him down, and when he came out, the crew perceived that all was right, so they went aft and touched their hats.

"Liberty on shore for an hour or two if you please," said they; "it's a long while that we've been treading the planks."

"Yes, you may go; but I'll keelhaul every man who's not off to his work by daylight—recollect that," replied Vanderdecken.

Donder und blitzen—we will all be on board, captain.

"They be queer sort of people in this country," observed Jansen, who had been surveying the shore of the bay with his telescope. "I can't make them out at all. I see them put their heads down close to the ground, and then they stand up again; they wear their breeches very low, and yet they jump remarkably well—Hundred tousend tyfels!" continued he, as he looked through the telescope again; "there's one of them six feet high at least, and he has jumped twenty yards. It can't be a woman—if she is, what a springy partner she would make in a dance!"

"We'll take the fiddle and schnapps on shore, and have a dance with the natives," cried the boatswain.

"Mind you behave civilly and make friends with them," said Vanderdecken; "don't be rude to the women."

"Nein, Mynheer," replied the crew, who now lowered the boats and were very soon pulling for the shore—every man with his pipe in his mouth.

The spectre-crew gained the beach—quitted the boat, and took up a position under a high rock. The pipes were refilled—the schnapps handed round, and very soon they were as jolly as ghosts could be.

"Come, Jansen, give us a song," cried Spielman; "and you, Dirk Spattrel, keep company with your fiddle."

"My windpipe is not quite so fresh as it was once," said Jansen, putting his bony fingers up to his neck, "but here goes:—

"Yaw—yaw," cried the crew, "we'll round the Cape yet. Drink, boys, drink—three cheers for Vanderdecken! We'll caulk the old ship; we'll repair our old sail; we'll mend our old clothes; we'll darn our old stockings, and then to sea again. Hurrah!—hurrah!"

Thus did they continue to drink and carouse until, if they had had any eyes left in their head, they never could have seen visually; but ghosts see mentally, and in the midst of their mirth and jollity, they saw some tall objects coming down gradually and peeping over the rocks, probably attracted by the fiddle of Dirk Spattrel.

"The natives!"—cried Jansen, "the natives!—now, my men, recollect the captain's orders—don't be rude to the women."

"Yaw—nein—yaw!" replied the reeling spectres; "oh, nein, but we'll get them down here and have a dance; that's civility all over the world."

"But I say," hiccupped Spielman, "what rum beggars these islanders be! only look, they are coming down to us, all of their own accord!"

This was true enough; a herd of kangaroos, attracted by the sound of the music, but of course not able to distinguish the spectre seamen, who, like all others of a similar nature, were invisible to mortal and to kangaroo eyes, had come down fearlessly to the foot of the rock where the crew were carousing.

The Dutchmen had never seen an animal so tall which stood erect like a man, and they were all very drunk; it is not therefore surprising that they mistook the kangaroos for natives clothed in skins, and as the broadest part of their dress was down on the ground, of course they fancied they were the women belonging to the island.

"Strike up, Dirk Spattrel," cried Jansen, taking hold of the paws of one of the kangaroos. "Wel sie valtz, Fraulein?"

The kangaroo started back, although it saw nothing, and of course said nothing.