“I know I’m going to die tonight. I just don’t know
if it’ll be the devil or
the sea that claims my soul…”
The
“Vespa” was a fine sailing ship in its day, with a tall, sturdy mast cut from deep
in the Black Forests of Germany. Her wooden hull was smooth and tight, and her
sails were strong and fresh. She
was a fast ship in her time, but she could no longer outrun the small, sleek
thoroughbreds being built in America. She had more grace than those new
steam-powered ships that belched choking black smoke wherever they went, and
her ample beam allowed her to carry more cargo than either. I had grown up on this ship over the
last 25 years as I advanced from a young officer in my twenties to Captain two
years ago after Captain Potter was killed.
The
Captain returned to the bridge one night after a short nap below. The ship was
being tossed about in some heavy seas, but she was in no immediate danger.
Still, the Captain felt better standing on the bridge to make sure nothing went
wrong. Ships sink because of little problems that get out of hand… A moment of
distraction and a wave caused the heavy door to the wheelhouse to slam on the
Captain’s head and shoulders, breaking his neck. I helped to carry Captain Potter to his quarters as gently
as possible, but over the next 10 days the Captain continued to get worse. His
hands and feet were cold and lifeless. He was wracked with pain that moved
around his body randomly. Later, he lost control of his bladder and could
barely swallow. Finally, mercifully, he drew his last breath. Tears formed in
his eyes when he realized then end had come. As they rolled slowly down his
cheek, he died.
The
“Vespa” was rumored to be a jinxed ship since then, and crew had been hard to
find. Sea-going men are the most superstitious on earth, and while I don’t
believe such nonsense, I could not deny the “Vespa” had seen more than her
share of bad luck lately. There have been incidents of tainted water,
mysterious disappearances, and rough weather on 12 straight voyages. Water
problems had been known to happen on ships of this age, and rough weather is
always a risk on the open ocean. But there was the sailor who just vanished one
night that really got the rumors flying.
J.J.
Johnson was just a boy who signed onto the “Vespa” for a short haul up to
Aberdeen. He was well liked and a hard worker. He was full of the excitement of
youth and every new port was an adventure to him. He knew nothing of the sea,
but most youngsters don’t when they first sign up. He was learning quickly, and
never complained when asked to do any task. He disappeared without a trace in
the dead of night, and all we could presume was that he’d fallen overboard. But
there was a bright moon shining, the seas were calm, and no one on watch saw
him on deck after dinner. He had no enemies, nor did he seem despondent. He was
happily eating with the crew one evening, and missing by daylight the next
morning.
We
spent the better part of a day sailing a search pattern to look for the young
man, without the slightest trace. The cold waters had stolen his young soul. I
never even knew J.J.’s first name – or who to tell that he was gone. We simply
held a short memorial service, and headed back to England.
It
was amazing how quickly news traveled. By the time the ship had berthed and I
had reached a pub for a pint and some food, it seemed everyone had a theory as
to what had happened to that unfortunate boy. His death was attributed to
everything from a broken heart to the ghost of Captain Potter. Whatever the
cause, there had been two deaths in two years on the “Vespa”, so I must be
responsible. I tried to bury myself in a bowl of chowder, but I could still
feel the accusing eyes on my back despite a half dozen pints of stout ale. I
could numb my legs, hands, face, and mind – but I couldn’t numb the pain in my
wounded heart. Whitby ceased to be my home that night.
This
last trip was to go over to Germany to pick up cargo destined for some rich
aristocrat escaping unrest in his own country by taking his money and running.
We’d be picking up his earthly possessions that had been moved by coach to
Wismar and bringing them back to Newcastle. There were whispers as we walked
about town, but I could speak no German. I could see the fear in their eyes.
This felt too much like our reception in Whitby after we lost Johnson. I later
found out there had been three murders in the last week in this small town, and
all strangers were regarded with suspicion. It was three days’ sail to reach
Newcastle, and I was ready to be back on the open sea and away from a murderer
and the victim’s accusing looks. We had enough trouble of our own.
As we prepared to leave the harbor, a large black
dog sat wagging his tail when the men patted his head as they boarded the ship.
I normally don’t take in strays, but this one seemed friendly enough and
perhaps he’d bring us a turn of good luck. Maybe I was becoming superstitious
after all. We cast off on a cool, clear morning with bright skies and light
seas. It looked to be an eventless crossing.
The
first night went by peacefully as we sailed around Denmark. The weather
continued clear and calm, and we had a brisk breeze helping us to make good time.
I could tell by the skies this breeze might turn ugly before we finished our
crossing, but a little stormy weather was no longer a surprise aboard the
“Vespa”. Meanwhile, Nachte (“Night” in German – about all I know and my name
for our new mascot) sat quietly by me on the bridge. It may seem strange, but
his presence comforted me.
It was on the following morning that I noticed that
some of the crew were acting strangely. It was as if they hadn’t slept at all.
I began to worry that they had been sickened by bad water once again, but no
one reported any other symptoms. I knew there was a warning in this, but I had
no idea what the danger might be.
My stomach began to twist into knots as night began to fall and the
entire crew fell silent throughout dinner. I knew time was running out. But I
didn’t know why. I reached down to stroke Nachte. I hoped the men didn’t notice
me shudder with relief as his rhythmic warm breath consoled me.
A
low growl from the foot of my bed brought me to full alert. Nachte stood at
attention and so did the hair on the back of my neck as I heard sounds of
scuffling on deck, and a muffled cry. It was time to face the blackness that
boarded this ship in Wismar…
The
wind had grown chill and damp in the darkness as my eyes struggled to gather
the tiniest hint of light. I felt Nachte charge past me, only to hear him stop
suddenly in his tracks.
A
sliver of a moon found a break in the clouds and illuminated a scene that
curdled my blood. My crew stood entranced flanking a tall stranger with
glistening white skin. At his feet lay the second mate, with blood staining the
front of his shirt from a huge wound in his neck. Even Nachte was mesmerized by
the murderous stranger, sitting upright at his feet as if awaiting a command. As if on command, the crew moved
forward in unison toward me. I felt the gaze of the stranger seep into my mind;
the crew was upon me before I could put up any resistance.
“Dracula.”
Though he didn’t say a word, the stranger had given
me his name as he passed by me. He wanted me to know who had turned my crew and
my dog against me. That was both a relief and terrifying as well. I knew he
wouldn’t kill me then, but I fully believed that he was capable of horrors much
worse than murder. The crew tied me to the wheel and followed the stranger
below deck. They were helpless lambs to the slaughter. Through the night, I
heard their screams as Dracula gorged himself on their blood. The cries finally
diminished as dawn crept over the horizon.
I
saw the faces of the tormented and dying crewmen traced in the snow-white foam
riding the blue-gray waves. They followed in our wake and surrounded the ship.
Their spirits would likely haunt this sea and my dreams forever.
Dracula remained in the dark below decks. He could
not stand the light – that’s why I had been spared. Even the dim gray light
that filtered through the gathering clouds gave him great pain. The creature
was not invincible.
As the day wore on, I could feel Dracula’s
relentless grip on my thoughts. It was difficult, but not impossible to form my
own thoughts over his. It was rather like trying to keep the vicar from knowing
that you’ve just come to dinner from an evening’s libation at the pub – with
every ounce of concentration you possessed and a bit of luck, it could be done.
I was exhausted from the effort, but I needed a plan if I was to survive. The
storm blowing in from the north would help me. We were headed for my home port
of Whitby, and I intended to make sure that we did not reach Robin Hood Bay
until it was daylight. The storm would slow our progress just enough to make it
possible.
As
darkness fell again, Dracula rose above decks. Nachte followed in his footsteps
like a faithful servant. A few of the crew had been spared Dracula’s gluttony,
but I knew they would not last the night. And I wasn’t real sure I’d make it,
either. The storm began to blow, and Dracula retreated to the lower decks
early. I was utterly alone and facing the teeth of a vicious storm.
The cold wind cut clear to
the bone. My wrists bled as the ropes that lashed them to the wheel bit into
the flesh. I could not see as far
as the mainmast through the blinding rain and the winds howled like angry
spirits tearing at the rigging. It was all I could do to keep the “Vespa”
pointed into the wind. Icy waves crashed into the bow splintering into spray
that sliced at exposed skin like a thousand tiny knives. This was one of the
worst storms I’d been through, and my hands were literally tied. The sails were
being shredded, as there had been no crew to stow them before the storm hit.
There was a loud crack, as the foremast was overcome by the wind and crashed
into the sea. The drag of the fallen mast and rigging made steering nearly
futile. We were at the mercy of the storm now. Perhaps I would soon be sharing
a grave at the bottom of the ocean with that hideous creature Dracula.
A light shone out of the
darkness. It was so sudden and so
bright, it startled me. It was the lighthouse at Robin Hood Bay. The storm winds and waves had driven us
into Whitby – almost. Right now we were being pushed into the shoals bordering
the harbor and I had no sail or steering to speak of. There was only one chance – drop anchor and hope it would
pull us about before we ran aground. But I was still tied to the wheel and
helpless…
It was as if Dracula had
read my thoughts. (Perhaps he could?) He returned to the deck with two crewmen.
They went and dropped the port anchor and I prayed as the line ran deeper and
deeper. Finally, the anchor caught something solid and the line slowed. I gave
the order to dog the anchor line and said another prayer that it would hold.
The line pulled taught, and slowly the bow pulled around. As the stern washed
around, the rudder dragged the bottom and snapped off as easily as one might
break a toothpick. The wheel jarred violently and snapped my left wrist just as
easily as the rudder and dislocated my right shoulder as well. Had we run
aground with that force we’d have ripped the bottom clean off the ship.
Johnny and Nigel followed
Dracula’s unspoken command and broke the anchor line free after we cleared the
shoals. The line played out to the end and disappeared overboard and into the
dark waters.
After we drifted beyond the
bluff, the wind and the seas were blocked and things calmed a bit as the storm
continued past us. As the rain slowed to a drizzle, I could see the ravages of
the sea on the once-proud “Vespa”. Her foremast had snapped off four feet above
the deck and lay in the water. It seemed a mile of rigging lay tangled in the
decks. The wheel spun easily now; there was no rudder to move. The storm had
also done an admirable job of cleaning the deck of the crew’s blood, but there
were still morbid vestiges staining a corner here and there. Dracula added the
blood of the last two crewmen to as he concluded his gruesome feast. I would’ve
been next, but just at that moment, the first rays of dawn peeked above the
Whitby shores. Dracula retreated below decks once more. Between the pain of my
injuries and pure mental and physical exhaustion, I finally passed out. The “Vespa” gently beached herself just
50 yards from the main dock in Whitby harbor. I stirred from blessed
unconsciousness and recognized Smitty as a local fellow who had crewed on the
“Vespa” under Captain Potter. He and another man cut me loose from the wheel
and brought me to the hospital.
Epilogue
I’ve now told my story a
hundred times, and perhaps a few people believe me. The Whitby murders started
soon after the “Vespa” ran aground. Some blamed me for the carnage aboard the
“Vespa”, though they couldn’t explain how I’d done it tied to the wheel with
both arms useless. The “Vespa” was burned to the water line in the hope it
would drive the tormented spirits of the dead seamen from the town. Some that
did believe me thought that Dracula had escaped in the form of a wolf. I think
it was only Nachte running for his life. Dracula would need to wait for
darkness.
We are hunted animals now.
The townspeople want to kill the dog because they think either a wolf or a
vampire in a wolf’s guise is attacking the women and children of Whitby and
tearing out their throats. Dracula is looking to kill me before too many people
hear my story and begin to believe. His strength is in the reluctance of people
to believe in him. My only hope is that they will believe…