 | The coronal |  |
“STAND FROM UNDER!”
[The following story was told me as one actually related
by a sailor. I wrote it, not because I believed it
for a moment, but because I supposed it was one of the
numerous traditions among sea-faring people; and I
thought it a fine specimen of that wild and terrible grandeur
of imagination naturally excited by the solitude and
dangers of the ocean. I have since learned that the
same story, or a similar one, had been previously written
for an English periodical; but never having seen that
story, I cannot be accused of plagiarism, or imitation.]
We were on board a slave-ship, bound to
the coast of Africa. I had my misgivings
about the business; and I believe others had
them too. We had passed the Straits of
Gibraltar, and were lying off Barbary, one
clear, bright evening, when it came my turn
to take the helm. The ship was becalmed,
and every thing around was as silent as the
day after the deluge. The wide monotony
of water, varied only by the glancings of the
think the old fables of Neptune were true;
and that Amphitrite and her Naiads were
sporting on the surface of the ocean, with
diamonds in their hair. Those fancies were
followed by thoughts of my wife, my children,
and my home; and all were oddly enough
jumbled together in a delicious state of approaching
slumber. Suddenly I heard, high
above my head, a loud, deep, terrible voice,
call out, “Stand from under!” I started
to my feet—it was the customary signal when
any thing was to be thrown from the shrouds,
and mechanically I sung out the usual answer,
“Let go!” But nothing came—I
looked up in the shrouds—there was nothing
there. I searched the deck,—and found
that I was alone! I tried to think it was a
dream,—but that sound, so deep, so stern, so
dreadful, rung in my ears, like the bursting
of a cannon!
In the morning, I told the crew what I
had heard. They laughed at me; and were
all day long full of their jokes about
“Dreaming Tom.” One fellow among them
was a swarthy, malignant-looking Spaniard;
who carried murder in his eye, and curses on
his tongue; a daring and lordly man, who
boasted of crime, as if it gave him pre-eminence
among his fellows. He laughed longest
and loudest at my story. “A most uncivil
ghost, Tom,” said he; “when such chaps
come to see me, I'll make 'em show themselves.
I'll not be satisfied without seeing
and feeling, as well as hearing.”
The sailors all joined with him; and I,
ashamed of my alarm, was glad to be silent.
The next night, Dick Burton took the helm.
Dick had nerves like an ox, and sinews like a
whale; it was little he feared, on the earth,
or beneath it. The clock struck one—Dick
was leaning his head on the helm, as he said,
thinking nothing of me, or my story,—when
that awful voice again called from the
shrouds, “Stand from under!” Dick darted
forward like an Indian arrow, which they
say goes through and through a buffalo, and
wings on its way, as if it had not left death
in the rear. It was an instant, or more, before
“Let go!” Again nothing was seen,—nothing
heard. Ten nights in succession, at
one o'clock, the same unearthly sound rung
through the air, making our stoutest sailors
quail, as if a bullet-shot had gone through
their brains. At last the crew grew pale
when it was spoken of; and the worst of us
never went to sleep without saying our
prayers. For myself, I would have been
chained to the oar all my life, to have got
out of that vessel. But there we were in
the vast solitude of ocean; and this invisible
being was with us! No one put a bold face
on the matter, but Antonio, the Spaniard.
He laughed at our fears, and defied Satan
himself to terrify him. However, when it
came his turn at the helm, he refused to go.
Several times, under the pretence of illness,
he was excused from a duty, which all on
board dreaded. But at last, the Captain ordered
Antonio to receive a round dozen lashes
every night, until he should consent to perform
his share of the unwelcome office. For
awhile this was borne patiently; but at
one way as another—Give me over to the
ghost!”
That night Antonio kept watch on deck.
Few of the crew slept; for expectation and
alarm had stretched our nerves upon the
rack. At one o'clock, the voice called,
“Stand from under!” “Let go!” screamed
the Spaniard. This was answered by
a shriek of laughter—and such laughter!—It
seemed as if the fiends answered each other
from pole to pole, and the bass was howled in
hell! Then came a sudden crash upon the
deck, as if our masts and spars had fallen.
We all rushed to the spot—and there was a
cold, stiff, gigantic corpse. The Spaniard
said it was thrown from the shrouds, and
when he looked on it he ground his teeth
like a madman. “I know him,” exclaimed
he; “I stabbed him within an hour's sail of
Cuba, and drank his blood for breakfast.”
We all stood aghast at the monster. In
fearful whispers we asked what should be
done with the body. Finally we agreed that
the terrible sight must be removed from us,
of us attempted to raise it: but human
strength was of no avail—we might as well
have tugged at Atlas. There it lay, stiff,
rigid, heavy, and as immoveable as if it formed
a part of the vessel. The Spaniard was
furious; “let me lift him,” said he; “I lifted
him once, and can do it again. I'll teach
him what it is to come and trouble me.” He
took the body round the waist, and attempted
to move it. Slowly and heavily the corpse
raised itself up; its rayless eyes opened; its
rigid arms stretched out, and clasped its victim
in a close death-grapple—and rolling
over to the side of the ship, they tottered an
instant over the waters—then with a loud
plunge sunk together. Again that laugh,—
that wild, shrieking laugh,—was heard on the
winds. The sailors bowed their heads, and
put up their hands to shut out the appalling
sound. * * * * * *
I took the helm more than once after, but
we never again heard in the shrouds that
thundering sound, “Stand from under.”
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