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John Ruskin - "The King of the Golden River"

Thomas Carlyle - "Latter Day Pamphlets"

B. M. Bower - "Good Indian"

Kate Douglas Wiggin - "Penelope's Irish Experiences"

The Captain of the Polestar

A >> Arthur Conan Doyle >> The Captain of the Polestar




And now I am coming near the end of this narrative of mine, which
I have written a great deal more for my own amusement than for that
of any one else. The termination of the strange episode in which
these two Russians had played a part was as wild and as sudden as
the commencement. The events of one single night freed me from all
my troubles, and left me once more alone with my books and my
studies, as I had been before their intrusion. Let me endeavour to
describe how this came about.

I had had a long day of heavy and wearying work, so that in the
evening I determined upon taking a long walk. When I emerged from
the house my attention was attracted by the appearance of the sea.
It lay like a sheet of glass, so that never a ripple disturbed its
surface. Yet the air was filled with that indescribable moaning
sound which I have alluded to before--a sound as though the spirits
of all those who lay beneath those treacherous waters were sending
a sad warning of coming troubles to their brethren in the flesh.
The fishermen's wives along that coast know the eerie sound, and
look anxiously across the waters for the brown sails making for the
land. When I heard it I stepped back into the house and looked at
the glass. It was down below 29 degrees. Then I knew that a wild
night was coming upon us.

Underneath the hills where I walked that evening it was dull and
chill, but their summits were rosy-red, and the sea was brightened
by the sinking sun. There were no clouds of importance in the sky,
yet the dull groaning of the sea grew louder and stronger. I
saw, far to the eastward, a brig beating up for Wick, with a reef
in her topsails. It was evident that her captain had read the
signs of nature as I had done. Behind her a long, lurid haze lay
low upon the water, concealing the horizon. "I had better push
on," I thought to myself, "or the wind may rise before I can get
back."

I suppose I must have been at least half a mile from the house when
I suddenly stopped and listened breathlessly. My ears were so
accustomed to the noises of nature, the sighing of the breeze and
the sob of the waves, that any other sound made itself heard at a
great distance. I waited, listening with all my ears. Yes, there
it was again--a long-drawn, shrill cry of despair, ringing over the
sands and echoed back from the hills behind me--a piteous appeal
for aid. It came from the direction of my house. I turned and ran
back homewards at the top of my speed, ploughing through the sand,
racing over the shingle. In my mind there was a great dim
perception of what had occurred.

About a quarter of a mile from the house there is a high sand-hill,
from which the whole country round is visible. When I reached the
top of this I paused for a moment. There was the old grey
building--there the boat. Everything seemed to be as I had left
it. Even as I gazed, however, the shrill scream was repeated,
louder than before, and the next moment a tall figure emerged from
my door, the figure of the Russian sailor. Over his shoulder
was the white form of the young girl, and even in his haste he
seemed to bear her tenderly and with gentle reverence. I could
hear her wild cries and see her desperate struggles to break away
from him. Behind the couple came my old housekeeper, staunch and
true, as the aged dog, who can no longer bite, still snarls with
toothless gums at the intruder. She staggered feebly along at the
heels of the ravisher, waving her long, thin arms, and hurling, no
doubt, volleys of Scotch curses and imprecations at his head. I
saw at a glance that he was making for the boat. A sudden hope
sprang up in my soul that I might be in time to intercept him. I
ran for the beach at the top of my speed. As I ran I slipped a
cartridge into my revolver. This I determined should be the last
of these invasions.

I was too late. By the time I reached the water's edge he was a
hundred yards away, making the boat spring with every stroke of his
powerful arms. I uttered a wild cry of impotent anger, and stamped
up and down the sands like a maniac. He turned and saw me. Rising
from his seat he made me a graceful bow, and waved his hand to me.
It was not a triumphant or a derisive gesture. Even my furious and
distempered mind recognised it as being a solemn and courteous
leave-taking. Then he settled down to his oars once more, and the
little skiff shot away out over the bay. The sun had gone down
now, leaving a single dull, red streak upon the water, which
stretched away until it blended with the purple haze on the
horizon. Gradually the skiff grew smaller and smaller as it
sped across this lurid band, until the shades of night gathered
round it and it became a mere blur upon the lonely sea. Then this
vague loom died away also and darkness settled over it--a darkness
which should never more be raised.

And why did I pace the solitary shore, hot and wrathful as a wolf
whose whelp has been torn from it? Was it that I loved this
Muscovite girl? No--a thousand times no. I am not one who, for
the sake of a white skin or a blue eye, would belie my own life,
and change the whole tenor of my thoughts and existence. My heart
was untouched. But my pride--ah, there I had been cruelly wounded.

To think that I had been unable to afford protection to the
helpless one who craved it of me, and who relied on me! It was
that which made my heart sick and sent the blood buzzing through my
ears.

That night a great wind rose up from the sea, and the wild waves
shrieked upon the shore as though they would tear it back with them
into the ocean. The turmoil and the uproar were congenial to my
vexed spirit. All night I wandered up and down, wet with spray and
rain, watching the gleam of the white breakers and listening to the
outcry of the storm. My heart was bitter against the Russian. I
joined my feeble pipe to the screaming of the gale. "If he would
but come back again!" I cried with clenched hands; "if he would but
come back!"

He came back. When the grey light of morning spread over the
eastern sky, and lit up the great waste of yellow, tossing waters,
with the brown clouds drifting swiftly over them, then I saw him
once again. A few hundred yards off along the sand there lay a
long dark object, cast up by the fury of the waves. It was my
boat, much shattered and splintered. A little further on, a vague,
shapeless something was washing to and fro in the shallow water,
all mixed with shingle and with seaweed. I saw at a glance that it
was the Russian, face downwards and dead. I rushed into the water
and dragged him up on to the beach. It was only when I turned him
over that I discovered that she was beneath him, his dead arms
encircling her, his mangled body still intervening between her and
the fury of the storm. It seemed that the fierce German Sea might
beat the life from him, but with all its strength it was unable to
tear this one-idea'd man from the woman whom he loved. There were
signs which led me to believe that during that awful night the
woman's fickle mind had come at last to learn the worth of the true
heart and strong arm which struggled for her and guarded her so
tenderly. Why else should her little head be nestling so lovingly
on his broad breast, while her yellow hair entwined itself with his
flowing beard? Why too should there be that bright smile of
ineffable happiness and triumph, which death itself had not had
power to banish from his dusky face? I fancy that death had been
brighter to him than life had ever been.

Madge and I buried them there on the shores of the desolate
northern sea. They lie in one grave deep down beneath the yellow
sand. Strange things may happen in the world around them. Empires
may rise and may fall, dynasties may perish, great wars may come
and go, but, heedless of it all, those two shall embrace each other
for ever and aye, in their lonely shrine by the side of the
sounding ocean. I sometimes have thought that their spirits flit
like shadowy sea-mews over the wild waters of the bay. No cross or
symbol marks their resting-place, but old Madge puts wild flowers
upon it at times, and when I pass on my daily walk and see the
fresh blossoms scattered over the sand, I think of the strange
couple who came from afar, and broke for a little space the dull
tenor of my sombre life.



THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX.

All aboard?" said the captain.

"All aboard, sir!" said the mate.

"Then stand by to let her go."

It was nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning. The good ship
Spartan was lying off Boston Quay with her cargo under hatches,
her passengers shipped, and everything prepared for a start. The
warning whistle had been sounded twice; the final bell had been
rung. Her bowsprit was turned towards England, and the hiss of
escaping steam showed that all was ready for her run of three
thousand miles. She strained at the warps that held her like a
greyhound at its leash,

I have the misfortune to be a very nervous man. A sedentary
literary life has helped to increase the morbid love of solitude
which, even in my boyhood, was one of my distinguishing
characteristics. As I stood upon the quarter-deck of the
Transatlantic steamer, I bitterly cursed the necessity which drove
me back to the land of my forefathers. The shouts of the sailors,
the rattle of the cordage, the farewells of my fellow-passengers,
and the cheers of the mob, each and all jarred upon my sensitive
nature. I felt sad too. An indescribable feeling, as of some
impending calamity, seemed to haunt me. The sea was
calm, and the breeze light. There was nothing to disturb the
equanimity of the most confirmed of landsmen, yet I felt as if I
stood upon the verge of a great though indefinable danger. I have
noticed that such presentiments occur often in men of my peculiar
temperament, and that they are not uncommonly fulfilled. There is
a theory that it arises from a species of second-sight, a subtle
spiritual communication with the future. I well remember that Herr
Raumer, the eminent spiritualist, remarked on one occasion that I
was the most sensitive subject as regards supernatural phenomena
that he had ever encountered in the whole of his wide experience.
Be that as it may, I certainly felt far from happy as I threaded my
way among the weeping, cheering groups which dotted the white decks
of the good ship Spartan. Had I known the experience which
awaited me in the course of the next twelve hours I should even
then at the last moment have sprung upon the shore, and made my
escape from the accursed vessel.

"Time's up!" said the captain, closing his chronometer with a snap,
and replacing it in his pocket. "Time's up!" said the mate. There
was a last wail from the whistle, a rush of friends and relatives
upon the land. One warp was loosened, the gangway was being pushed
away, when there was a shout from the bridge, and two men appeared,
running rapidly down the quay. They were waving their hands and
making frantic gestures, apparently with the intention of stopping
the ship. "Look sharp!" shouted the crowd.

"Hold hard!" cried the captain. "Ease her! stop her! Up with the
gangway!" and the two men sprang aboard just as the second warp
parted, and a convulsive throb of the engine shot us clear of the
shore. There was a cheer from the deck, another from the quay, a
mighty fluttering of handkerchiefs, and the great vessel ploughed
its way out of the harbour, and steamed grandly away across the
placid bay.

We were fairly started upon our fortnight's voyage. There was a
general dive among the passengers in quest of berths and luggage,
while a popping of corks in the saloon proved that more than one
bereaved traveller was adopting artificial means for drowning the
pangs of separation. I glanced round the deck and took a running
inventory of my compagnons de voyage. They presented the usual
types met with upon these occasions. There was no striking face
among them. I speak as a connoisseur, for faces are a specialty of
mine. I pounce upon a characteristic feature as a botanist does on
a flower, and bear it away with me to analyse at my leisure, and
classify and label it in my little anthropological museum. There
was nothing worthy of me here. Twenty types of young America going
to "Yurrup," a few respectable middle-aged couples as an antidote,
a sprinkling of clergymen and professional men, young ladies,
bagmen, British exclusives, and all the olla podrida of an ocean-
going steamer. I turned away from them and gazed back at the
receding shores of America, and, as a cloud of remembrances rose
before me, my heart warmed towards the land of my adoption.
A pile of portmanteaus and luggage chanced to be lying on one side
of the deck, awaiting their turn to be taken below. With my usual
love for solitude I walked behind these, and sitting on a coil of
rope between them and the vessel's side, I indulged in a melancholy
reverie.

I was aroused from this by a whisper behind me. "Here's a quiet
place," said the voice. "Sit down, and we can talk it over in
safety."

Glancing through a chink between two colossal chests, I saw that
the passengers who had joined us at the last moment were standing
at the other side of the pile. They had evidently failed to see me
as I crouched in the shadow of the boxes. The one who had spoken
was a tall and very thin man with a blue-black beard and a
colourless face. His manner was nervous and excited. His
companion was a short plethoric little fellow, with a brisk and
resolute air. He had a cigar in his mouth, and a large ulster
slung over his left arm. They both glanced round uneasily, as if
to ascertain whether they were alone. "This is just the place," I
heard the other say. They sat down on a bale of goods with their
backs turned towards me, and I found myself, much against my will,
playing the unpleasant part of eavesdropper to their conversation.

"Well, Muller," said the taller of the two, "we've got it aboard
right enough."

"Yes," assented the man whom he had addressed as Muller, "it's safe
aboard."

"It was rather a near go."

"It was that, Flannigan."

"It wouldn't have done to have missed the ship."

"No, it would have put our plans out."

"Ruined them entirely," said the little man, and puffed furiously
at his cigar for some minutes.

"I've got it here," he said at last.

"Let me see it."

"Is no one looking?"

"No, they are nearly all below."

"We can't be too careful where so much is at stake," said Muller,
as he uncoiled the ulster which hung over his arm, and disclosed a
dark object which he laid upon the deck. One glance at it was
enough to cause me to spring to my feet with an exclamation of
horror. Luckily they were so engrossed in the matter on hand that
neither of them observed me. Had they turned their heads they
would infallibly have seen my pale face glaring at them over the
pile of boxes.

From the first moment of their conversation a horrible misgiving
had come over me. It seemed more than confirmed as I gazed at what
lay before me. It was a little square box made of some dark wood,
and ribbed with brass. I suppose it was about the size of a cubic
foot. It reminded me of a pistol-case, only it was decidedly
higher. There was an appendage to it, however, on which my eyes
were riveted, and which suggested the pistol itself rather than its
receptacle. This was a trigger-like arrangement upon the lid, to
which a coil of string was attached. Beside this trigger there was
a small square aperture through the wood. The tall man,
Flannigan, as his companion called him, applied his eye to this,
and peered in for several minutes with an expression of intense
anxiety upon his face.

"It seems right enough," he said at last.

"I tried not to shake it," said his companion.

"Such delicate things need delicate treatment. Put in some of the
needful, Muller."

The shorter man fumbled in his pocket for some time, and then
produced a small paper packet. He opened this, and took out of it
half a handful of whitish granules, which he poured down through
the hole. A curious clicking noise followed from the inside of the
box, and both the men smiled in a satisfied way.

"Nothing much wrong there," said Flannigan.

"Right as a trivet," answered his companion.

"Look out! here's some one coming. Take it down to our berth. It
wouldn't do to have any one suspecting what our game is, or, worse
still, have them fumbling with it, and letting it off by mistake."

"Well, it would come to the same, whoever let it off," said Muller.

"They'd be rather astonished if they pulled the trigger," said the
taller, with a sinister laugh. "Ha, ha! fancy their faces! It's
not a bad bit of workmanship, I flatter myself."

"No," said Muller. "I hear it is your own design, every bit of it,
isn't it?"

"Yes, the spring and the sliding shutter are my own."

"We should take out a patent."

And the two men laughed again with a cold harsh laugh, as they took
up the little brass-bound package, and concealed it in Muller's
voluminous overcoat.

"Come down, and we'll stow it in our berth," said Flannigan. "We
won't need it until to-night, and it will be safe there."

His companion assented, and the two went arm-in-arm along the deck
and disappeared down the hatchway, bearing the mysterious little
box away with them. The last words I heard were a muttered
injunction from Flannigan to carry it carefully, and avoid knocking
it against the bulwarks.

How long I remained sitting on that coil of rope I shall never
know. The horror of the conversation I had just overheard was
aggravated by the first sinking qualms of sea-sickness. The long
roll of the Atlantic was beginning to assert itself over both ship
and passengers. I felt prostrated in mind and in body, and fell
into a state of collapse, from which I was finally aroused by the
hearty voice of our worthy quartermaster.

"Do you mind moving out of that, sir?" he said. "We want to get
this lumber cleared off the deck."

His bluff manner and ruddy healthy face seemed to be a positive
insult to me in my present condition. Had I been a courageous or
a muscular man I could have struck him. As it was, I treated the
honest sailor to a melodramatic scowl which seemed to cause him no
small astonishment, and strode past him to the other side of
the deck. Solitude was what I wanted--solitude in which I could
brood over the frightful crime which was being hatched before my
very eyes. One of the quarter-boats was hanging rather low down
upon the davits. An idea struck me, and climbing on the bulwarks,
I stepped into the empty boat and lay down in the bottom of it.
Stretched on my back, with nothing but the blue sky above me, and
an occasional view of the mizen as the vessel rolled, I was at
least alone with my sickness and my thoughts.

I tried to recall the words which had been spoken in the terrible
dialogue I had overheard. Would they admit of any construction but
the one which stared me in the face? My reason forced me to
confess that they would not. I endeavoured to array the various
facts which formed the chain of circumstantial evidence, and to
find a flaw in it; but no, not a link was missing. There was the
strange way in which our passengers had come aboard, enabling them
to evade any examination of their luggage. The very name of
"Flannigan" smacked of Fenianism, while "Muller" suggested nothing
but socialism and murder. Then their mysterious manner; their
remark that their plans would have been ruined had they missed the
ship; their fear of being observed; last, but not least, the
clenching evidence in the production of the little square box with
the trigger, and their grim joke about the face of the man who
should let it off by mistake--could these facts lead to any
conclusion other than that they were the desperate emissaries of
some body, political or otherwise, who intended to sacrifice
themselves, their fellow-passengers, and the ship, in one great
holocaust? The whitish granules which I had seen one of them pour
into the box formed no doubt a fuse or train for exploding it. I
had myself heard a sound come from it which might have emanated
from some delicate piece of machinery. But what did they mean by
their allusion to to-night? Could it be that they contemplated
putting their horrible design into execution on the very first
evening of our voyage? The mere thought of it sent a cold shudder
over me, and made me for a moment superior even to the agonies of
sea-sickness.

I have remarked that I am a physical coward. I am a moral one
also. It is seldom that the two defects are united to such a
degree in the one character. I have known many men who were most
sensitive to bodily danger, and yet were distinguished for the
independence and strength of their minds. In my own case, however,
I regret to say that my quiet and retiring habits had fostered a
nervous dread of doing anything remarkable or making myself
conspicuous, which exceeded, if possible, my fear of personal
peril. An ordinary mortal placed under the circumstances in which
I now found myself would have gone at once to the Captain,
confessed his fears, and put the matter into his hands. To me,
however, constituted as I am, the idea was most repugnant. The
thought of becoming the observed of all observers, cross-questioned
by a stranger, and confronted with two desperate conspirators in
the character of a denouncer, was hateful to me. Might it not
by some remote possibility prove that I was mistaken? What would
be my feelings if there should turn out to be no grounds for my
accusation? No, I would procrastinate; I would keep my eye on the
two desperadoes and dog them at every turn. Anything was better
than the possibility of being wrong.

Then it struck me that even at that moment some new phase of the
conspiracy might be developing itself. The nervous excitement
seemed to have driven away my incipient attack of sickness, for I
was able to stand up and lower myself from the boat without
experiencing any return of it. I staggered along the deck with the
intention of descending into the cabin and finding how my
acquaintances of the morning were occupying themselves. Just as I
had my hand on the companion-rail, I was astonished by receiving a
hearty slap on the back, which nearly shot me down the steps with
more haste than dignity.

"Is that you, Hammond?" said a voice which I seemed to recognise.

"God bless me," I said, as I turned round, "it can't be Dick
Merton! Why, how are you, old man?"

This was an unexpected piece of luck in the midst of my
perplexities. Dick was just the man I wanted; kindly and shrewd in
his nature, and prompt in his actions, I should have no difficulty
in telling him my suspicions, and could rely upon his sound sense
to point out the best course to pursue. Since I was a little lad
in the second form at Harrow, Dick had been my adviser and
protector. He saw at a glance that something had gone wrong with
me.

"Hullo!" he said, in his kindly way, "what's put you about,
Hammond? You look as white as a sheet. Mal de mer, eh?"

"No, not that altogether," said I. "Walk up and down with me,
Dick; I want to speak to you. Give me your arm."

Supporting myself on Dick's stalwart frame, I tottered along by his
side; but it was some time before I could muster resolution to
speak.

"Have a cigar," said he, breaking the silence.

"No, thanks," said I. "Dick, we shall be all corpses to-night."

"That's no reason against your having a cigar now," said Dick, in
his cool way, but looking hard at me from under his shaggy eyebrows
as he spoke. He evidently thought that my intellect was a little
gone.

"No," I continued, "it's no laughing matter; and I speak in sober
earnest, I assure you. I have discovered an infamous conspiracy,
Dick, to destroy this ship and every soul that is in her; "and I
then proceeded systematically, and in order, to lay before him the
chain of evidence which I had collected. "There, Dick," I said, as
I concluded, "what do you think of that? and, above all, what am I
to do?"

To my astonishment he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I'd be frightened," he said, "if any fellow but you had told me as
much. You always had a way, Hammond, of discovering mares'
nests. I like to see the old traits breaking out again. Do you
remember at school how you swore there was a ghost in the long
room, and how it turned out to be your own reflection in the
mirror. Why, man," he continued, "what object would any one have
in destroying this ship? We have no great political guns aboard.
On the contrary, the majority of the passengers are Americans.
Besides, in this sober nineteenth century, the most wholesale
murderers stop at including themselves among their victims. Depend
upon it, you have misunderstood them, and have mistaken a
photographic camera, or something equally innocent, for an infernal
machine."

"Nothing of the sort, sir," said I, rather touchily "You will learn
to your cost, I fear, that I have neither exaggerated nor
misinterpreted a word. As to the box, I have certainly never
before seen one like it. It contained delicate machinery; of that
I am convinced, from the way in which the men handled it and spoke
of it."

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