Part 12

“I was placed in a grave by the side of my father, but alas! I did not rest there; for when next day dawned, behold my soul and understanding faculties had entered the painted monk, and there, in the east window, for five centuries I have been cognizant of all things going on around me, but with no power of speech or movement, except for one all too brief hour every hundred years.

“In 1494 I came down from my window, and scared the brethren in the dear old Abbey, who, crossing themselves, gabbled their Paters and Aves, and conjured me to go back to my place in the window. I did so, and then they put out all the candles, rushed from the church, and locked the door behind them. Left alone, I had not long to reflect on the awfulness of my position; but in a short time, dreadful as it may appear, I determined to jump down from my lofty niche in the window, and endeavour to kill myself, for I had only a _few more minutes to live_!

“I ascended to my place beneath the canopy of the window, and, closing my eyes, bent forward, and hurled myself heavily to the stone floor, to try if I could break my neck, rather than live in death for another hundred years.

“Down I fell--swiftly: but my impact with the floor was as if a feather had been wafted down from the wing of some passing bird.

“I was foiled in my wicked attempt to avert my doom, and as I sat on the encaustic pavement a fiend stood by me, who, with mocking laugh and leering eye, whispered in a discordant voice in my ear--

“‘From the grid to the fire is but poor change; from thy doom up there, to my cavern below, would not have availed thee much. I am disappointed in not taking down a monk with me, for monks seldom lay violent hands on themselves. But he! he! ha!--list to the rusty iron tongue of yon bell; get thee to thy vigil; into thy niche; I may have thee yet. I wish thee joy of thy hundred years. Be patient, good monk!’

“I was in my niche again ere the rolling boom of the great bell had ceased to reverberate in the black vastness of night.

“1594 at length came, and this time I found myself in the east window of St. F----’s Church, whither I had been transported soon after the Reformation. Midnight crashed out from the great bell, and I was once more free for one short, solitary hour--a mere speck in the revolution of a whole century of time.

“This time I stepped from my niche rearward into the churchyard, and made my way into the town, walking boldly into the High Street, without an idea of what I was about to do, except that I wished to find the vicar of the church in which I was incarcerated.

“I accosted two swaggering soldiers, and desired them to kindly tell me where he lived, but they, being somewhat in liquor, looked at me and then at each other, and laughed as if I had been some raree show.

“‘Come, comrade,’ said one, ‘we will show thee the vicar,’ and linking their arms in mine they dragged me through the street to the Town Hall, where, thrusting me before them, they forced me into the centre of a group of boisterous soldiers, who opened out to receive me, evidently thinking I was some Jack Pudding, masquerading in monk’s attire. They bandied jests with me, and when I resented their rudeness, they only laughed the louder, taking my remonstrance as part of my performance, which they thought most excellent. Knowing my time was short, I became so angry that they at length found a mistake had been made, and I forced my way out of the throng, intending to find the vicar’s house by myself, but, ere I reached the entrance door, I was hauled back into the presence of the captain of the guard, who had just entered the hall, and who leisurely proceeded to question me in a very rude and imperious manner.

“I objected; and in turn became insolent to him, whereupon he ordered me to be locked up till morning, that I might be haled before the magistrate to give an account of myself. At this I saw my last chance of finding the vicar gone, so, seizing a large sword that lay on the table, I let drive at the nearest man to me, but he was too quick for me, and guarded my blow, in turn aiming a blow at me which, had I not parried, would have cut me in twain. I guarded the stroke involuntarily, else might my life and penance have been severed at a blow.

“Fool that I must have been: next instant I was flying through space, and before I had time to draw a single breath I was again a stained-glass figure.

“1693 gave me one more brief respite from my penance, but it was again abortive, not bringing any kindly _accident_ for my release. I was again revivified at midnight, a most inappropriate time, as you will allow, for one to carry out any important business, such as the release of a man from centuries of purgatory. During my weary imprisonment I heard all the news of the period from the gossip of those who chose to chatter just beneath me; I knew what king reigned, what battles were fought; all the grand events that took place in England, and even all the local scandal; but nothing I heard or saw gave me the slightest interest. I was dumb but could hear; hear and understand all that was said; but not a ray of hope ever came to me in the way of a plot to blow up the church, although I heard many plots to demolish the State.

“Now and again an aimless stone struck one or other of the saints around me and fractured him or her, but never a one gave me a kindly blow, although my broad face and tonsured head gave a splendid target at which a school urchin might have been pleased to try his skill; but none ever did.

“On the night of my third revival a terrible storm was raging; the lightning was flashing most vividly around the old church, and I longed for a bolt to strike me; but I appeared to bear a charmed existence, even in the flesh, for although I sat with my back to the lightning-conductor which came down from the tower, not a spark of the current touched me, although it toppled over the upper portion of the spire, and hurled it in shivered atoms at my feet; not a stone from the falling mass touched me, though I had designedly placed myself in the way of danger. I sat on a gravestone and pondered what I should do, but could think of nothing in the way of accident that could befriend me.

“As I sat thus, two soldiers passed by along the road, and one, on perceiving me, stopped suddenly and clutched his comrade’s arm in terror, pointing his finger tremblingly at me.

“They took me for a ghost.

“Here was my chance. If they would only fire at me, and kill me, I should be absolved from my penance.

“They challenged me, but I answered never a word.

“Again they hailed.

“‘Who are you? speak, or we will fire.’

“I stood upon tiptoe and faced them, making a weird sound with my lips that they might take me for something unearthly, and, if they had the courage, fire upon me.

“One man raised his flintlock and fired deliberately at me, and the bullet actually shore off a lock from my temple, which blew away among the rank wet grass.

“He looked surprised as I gave a loud, hollow ‘ha! ha!’ as apparitions and goblins are supposed to do; upon which he turned and fled, leaving his more courageous comrade to face me alone. He was a noble, brave fellow, and I blessed him as he knelt by the churchyard wall, upon the top of which he rested his gun and took deliberate aim at my breast.

“My heart throbbed for joy as I awaited the releasing leaden missile; but there was only a puff and a snap, and I knew that only a flash in the pan had resulted when the soldier drew his trigger.

“‘Hang the damp powder!’ I heard him say; then in a louder tone--‘Hold, old Hyter sprite! I’ll have at thee again; stay thee steady till I prime afresh. I’ll see of what thou’rt made, and whether thou art foul fiend in priestly guise, or some hair-brained loon who would scare an old soldier who has fought the battles of his country these twenty years.’

“Then, to my dismay, as he primed his weapon with dry powder the bell rung out the hour of one, and I found myself amid the saints in the window again. I saw the soldier go and examine the tomb on which I had recently stood, and its surroundings, and then stride away after his comrade, shaking his head, and I mentally blessed him.

“A hundred years ago--in 1793--I once more gained my life for the allotted sixty minutes, and knew that in Paris the Revolution was at its height. But what did that signify to me. St. F----’s Church was not in Paris, or I might have been released unknowingly by one of the dreadful bands of ruffians to whom nothing was sacred.

“I stood in the dark old church and pondered.

“What _should_ I do?

“_Where_ could I go?

“What could I _do_?

“Nothing, absolutely _nothing_! Stay; I would spend my time in fervent prayer, kneeling before the cross on the Holy Table, and see if that could release me from my awful doom.

“I knelt, and prayed, and wept, wringing my hands as the tears coursed down my cheeks, like burning streams of molten lava; but as I thus knelt at my devotions the vestry door of the church opened, and two men entered, one of them bearing a lantern. They paused near the communion rails, and one (by whose attire I judged him to be the vicar) said:

“‘Now, Giles, I may have dropped it here whilst performing the evening service, and if so we should see the stone glitter by the light of the lantern; let us look around the chancel.’

“The speaker had evidently lost a gem ring and was seeking it.

“Not knowing what to do I continued kneeling, to see what course events might take. I had not long to wait, for a sudden shrill scream, a moan, and a dull thud caused me to look round. Down the nave bounded the man who bore the lantern, yelling lustily for help, and his companion lay prone upon his face quite near me. I approached, bent over the prostrate form, and turned the body over on its back--for body only it was, the soul had fled. Happy man! he could die and be at rest, while I, who courted death in any form, could only be--(Boom! the bell tolled One)--a quaint, stiff, transparent figure of glass!

* * * * *

“And now, my dear friend (for you _will_ befriend me if it is in your power, I know, after hearing my awful story) I find myself in 1893 in your studio, and to my horror hear that I am to be bound in fetters of new leadwork: a new lease, as it were, of my penance!

“My time is short; what can you do for me?

“How can you destroy me?

“How _can_ a catastrophe be brought about without premeditation? How can one _think_ without premeditation?

“My friend, save me! but five minutes remain. I cannot think, my brain is on fire.

“My dear friend, think for me, I implore you!

“Oh! Heaven help me; do not extend my penance till the crack of doom!

“Watch the minutes gliding by--but two remain.

“I am going mad; mad! and you sit there dumb, who might, by an effort of thought, be my saviour.

“_One_ minute; and then--purgatory for one hundred years!”

I looked at my guest and saw the great beads of perspiration chasing each other down his temples; I saw his fingers writhing like serpents, clutching at the empty air; I saw his eyes glaring upon me, and piercing me through like two arrows; I saw him rise as if to fly at me and strangle me, and recoiled with horror at the sight of him; but he never came a step nearer for the bell of the neighbouring church struck a big, reverberating _One!_ and as the corporeal figure of the monk began quickly to dissolve into its glassy form, I sprang at it not knowing what I did, and tried to grasp it, but my arms pierced through it as if it were tissue paper, and I fell headlong upon the floor, with a terrible pain in my forehead, and as I fell I distinctly heard the words--“Joy and rest for ever; my doom is past! God in His mercy be praised!”

* * * * *

When I recovered consciousness it was 8.30 a.m., and a doctor and my assistants were round me, using various restoratives. Across my forehead was a terrible gash, which the doctor had sewn and bandaged, and at the foot of the glass screen lay the broken fragments of my visitor, the Monk.

* * * * *

To show that it does not always do to rely on one’s own strength, either physically or mentally, I may say that not only did I obtain complete control over the will of my stained-glass artist friend, but taking him at his word, I received from his unconscious self the material for _several_ capital stories; and all this from the man who could neither be hypnotized nor tell a single story! The overplus of this glass-painter’s genius as a story-teller I reserve for future consideration.

IX.

INTRODUCTION TO “DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR.”

Wherever I happen to be, whether in town or at a seaport, the sight of a genuine tar has a fascination for me, and I feel bound to speak to the man, if he is at all a decent person and has a civil and clean tongue. I find that the average sailor is a very reticent fellow on first acquaintance, probably taking every landsman for a shark; and as that is his belief, he is very wary of strangers who may wish to engage him in conversation. No doubt, in ports all over the world, Jack meets with plenty of unprincipled people, ready to take advantage of him in any way that presents itself, and, knowing this, he is consequently on his guard, and in time looks with doubt upon all strangers, as possible enemies, sailing under false colours. Thus is Jack taciturn on first acquaintanceship, both at home or abroad, but when once he finds that he has a friend to deal with, his tongue is loosened and the bulkhead of cautious reserve soon battered down, and he will then fire off his jokes and yarns in a most amicable and boisterous manner.

Old John Beamish, whom I met in the port of Aberdeen, was one of these peculiarly reserved men, carrying his character in his face, as a stout, true, hard-headed North Briton; and it was only after several friendly “cracks” that I could at all thaw the apparently austere Captain Beamish.

The gallant skipper no doubt put me down as a bad lot, seeing that I lived in a gipsy-van, and when I informed him that I only wandered about for my own pleasure, tapped his short fat forefinger on his nose, which I took to be a sign that my statement was somewhat open to doubt. He could not conceive that any sane person, with a fair income, should live on wheels, with no permanent address, when the said income would provide “a nice snug little house, with a tidy bit of garden, a summer-house, and a tall flagstaff, for its possessor.”

However, after I had persuaded the captain to pay me several visits, he came to the conclusion that I might by some chance be speaking the truth after all, and we had several pleasant evenings, which were passed in chatting, cards, and whisky. Captain John loved cribbage very much, but whisky more; and, on one or two occasions, I had to steady him as he took his departure from my van, the step-ladder, or companion as he called it, being very steep.

When I broached the subject of hypnotism the good man was unfeignedly alarmed, and I fully believe placed my cards, whisky, and hospitality down to a bad cause. I think he expected I had been luring him on to rob him, or take some other advantage of him, and for several days I could not prevail upon him to spend another evening with me, until I informed him that I was to depart in a day or two. Then I invited him to pay me a farewell visit. My invitation was accepted, and he came, but I very soon noticed one thing, and that was, that he had left his watch at home.

He played and drank as usual, and as the evening wore on he mellowed under the influence of “mountain dew.” With each successive draught his uneasiness gradually disappeared, until he became quite communicative; and then--well then, feeling for all the world like a murderer--I added him to the number of my victims.

DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR.

I have--as seaman, mate, and skipper--in forty years seen some curious sights, you may be sure, although all my voyages have been to the north, ay, and pretty far north too, some of them; for we whalers have to go wherever the fish are to be found, and if we cannot find them near home, why, we have just got to go north and search till we do fall in with them.

You want to know the most wonderful thing I ever came across in my long life of hardship and adventure in the Arctic Seas? Well, there is nothing that I know of to equal the finding of Doctor Angus Sinclair in 1862. But as you want it spun properly I’ll give you the yarn from beginning to end, and then you’ll see for yourself what a curious adventure it was.

In 1862 I was mate of the _White Swan_ whaler, sailing from the port of Dundee, and as we had made a very poor fishing during the previous season in the Greenland Sea, our skipper made up his mind to try fresh ground, and to steer north-eastward to the Spitzbergen Islands, as he knew of some likely ground to the eastward of those islands.

The most eastern of the Spitzbergen Isles is one called Wyches, or King Charles’s Island, and our skipper made straight for this island, intending to build a hut there, and make it a kind of winter habitation, should we be obliged to go into winter quarters before getting a full cargo. Our owner had instructed the skipper to take what oil he could get of the right sort, but, if he could not obtain a full cargo, to wait till he could fill up with something else--by this meaning seal-pelts, seal-oil, bear’s robes, walrus’ tusks or skin, or anything else worth the freight.

Having all our outfit aboard we left Dundee, touched at Tromso, and in a fortnight arrived safely at Wyches Island, where we stayed about a week to build a large and comfortable hut, with timber brought with us from Dundee. Holes were dug into the everlastingly frozen ground, and posts erected, upon the outsides of which inch boards were nailed, and afterwards upon the inside also. This formed a double skin, leaving a space of some six inches between, which was filled with sawdust tightly rammed down. The roof was made in the same way, and when it was finished the whole of the interior was lined with thick felt.

There were four double-glazed windows facing the cardinal points, and only one door facing south-west. This door was well draped in thick blanketing to keep out the cold blasts of air. Bunks were ranged round the walls, and a large stove for cooking and heating purposes stood in the centre of the floor. Round the stove, forming three sides of a square, stood deal tables, for dining and other purposes. Such was our “Swan’s Nest,” as we christened it, and we afterwards found it very cosy.

Between Spitzbergen and Franz Joseph Land we cruised during the summer and autumn with fair success, but when the time came that we should for safety be sailing southward and homeward, we found that our cargo was not nearly a full one. Seeing this, the skipper had a grand “palaver” on deck, in which he did nearly all the talking, and informed the crew that he had decided to winter in White Swan Inlet; and finding that one or two of the crew were for going home and returning in the early spring, he gave them leave to do so, but also pointed out that if they were mammy sick, and wished to go home, they would have to _walk_ there!

Our crew numbered forty hands all told, and a fine, jolly lot of fellows they were, living very harmoniously together, splitting up naturally into parties for fishing and shooting expeditions, when the weather would allow of it. Some of these excursions were for the benefit of our owner, as the skipper and I each headed parties to hunt bears, and to knock over a few seals now and again. At other times the parties were for the purpose of replenishing the larder, as we learnt to snare white foxes, geese, and other things of a furry or feathered nature; whatever we obtained went into the huge cauldron which always stood on the stove, _à la_ the French _pot au feu_. By the way, our stove was as carefully watched as any sacred lamp in a continental cathedral, for it was never allowed to show even a symptom of going out, either by night or day.

Sometimes we would organize little exploring parties on our own account (having first obtained the skipper’s sanction), and wandered away for miles among the hills of the frozen island, thus leaving more space for those who remained at home to play their indoor games. Could any of our friends have looked into the “Swan’s Nest,” they might easily have mistaken it for a boys’ school, or even a play-ground. Let me just give you an idea of what the inmates did to pass their time away, from notes of the scene jotted in my pocket-book on one occasion.

Two men were cooking for the general mess. The armourer was cleaning or repairing guns, knives, etc., for some projected expedition, while round the fire sat a noisy group telling yarns and smoking. Near them sat a party of four playing some game of cards; a desperate game apparently, for they looked very solemn and absorbed. The boys were enjoying a game of leap-frog at one end of the room, while several of the bunks were occupied by men, some of whom were asleep, a couple on the sick list, and others reading. There was a man, the cobbler of the crew, mending boots, while at his side sat Snip, sewing away at the seat of a pair of duffel trousers, what he calls armour-plating them; and along the north side was a skittle alley, at which a knot of tars are very much enjoying themselves, if we might judge by the shouts of merriment and hearty smacks upon the back with which they salute each other.

Hands behind his back by the stove, with his legs thrust apart like a pair of compasses, stood the skipper, sipping a glass of something steaming hot, while your humble servant had just finished posting up the ship’s journal; for the skipper was a poor hand with the pen, his fingers being all thumbs, and his thumbs like stun’sail booms.

Well, now that I have shown you how we amused ourselves, I will proceed with my yarn.

Ever since I was quite a nipper I have had a fondness for exploring and roaming about whenever I could get off duty, and this propensity did not desert me amid the snow and ice of the Arctic regions, as you shall hear.

I begged the skipper to allow me to make a tour of the island on which we were living; a tour having for its object the making of an accurate map; one, at any rate, more accurate than that at the time laid down in the charts.

He met me with a flat and decided “No!”

“Why, man, are you mad? The island we are on is as large as the principality of Wales, and to compass it you would have to travel at least four hundred miles, which would probably mean an absence of nine or ten weeks! No, my man, this is not _quite_ a lunatic asylum; not yet, at all events.”

It was no use pleading, but his refusal set my back up, as the men twitted me (not to my face, but indirectly), with wanting to be a circumnavigator of the world on my own account.

Two of them would waddle round the tables, and, when they met, pretend they had not seen each other for years, and shake hands and embrace in a most enthusiastic manner, to the delight of the crew and my own chagrin.

One day, the weather being clear, the skipper brought out his big telescope, and was very busy with it, taking long surveys at a distant island lying due south of the Inlet. He requested me to get the charts of the Spitzbergen group down, which I did.