Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction by James Doig Page B

another in the pause that followed. “An’ Mr Forbes’ll remember his promise to help keep the fok’sle lamp trimmed.” This speech was received with a deep growl of approval. It was the starboard watch—good men all, and the last I should have thought to be easily frightened. And I felt puzzled. But clearly it was a time for action, not talk. The captain was napping, and I did not want to bother him about such rubbish; so, calling the second mate, who was smoking an after-supper pipe on the quarter-deck, I gave him charge of the ship while, followed by the men, I went for’ard and down the hatchway. Rather to my surprise, not a soul offered to accompany me.
    “Now then,” I asked laughingly, as I stood halfway down the ladder, with my head over the coamings, “isn’t anybody coming to help me do Jimmy Duck’s work?”
    None of the second mate’s watch made answer. But one of my own men, a little fellow called Daniels, belonging to the Isle of Wight, replied cheerily:
    “Ay, ay, sir. I’ll come if old Nick hisself’s there. Wheer another man’s game to go I ain’t afeard.”
    So down we went. It was black as pitch: and getting to the foot of the ladder, I struck a long wax vesta and glanced around. It wasn’t a very cheerful place. Along one side ran twelve bunks, six on top, six below. Underneath them were lashed chests; on the opposite bulkhead hung suits of oilskins; on the floor was a wooden tub containing a big lump of salt beef, and another one full of biscuits; from a capsized hook-pot the tea had flowed in a dark stream; close to it lay a square bottle of vinegar, out of which the liquor still ran when each heave of the barque canted it forward; about the chests were scattered plates and pots; disorder everywhere testifying to a very hurried evacuation. All this I noted before my match went out, and while my companion struck another. Taking it from him, I approached the lamp that swung from the ceiling nearly amid ships. It was just the ordinary tin receptacle, full of oil, from which projected a couple of long spouts for the wicks, that one still sees in many “sailers’” forecastles, where it has not been superseded by the kerosene-fed, closed “hurricane.” Applying the match to one of the wicks, it “fizzled” and would not light.
    “The idiots!” I exclaimed. “The cotton’s wet as a soaked swab! They’ve been too lazy to trim it! Bring the thing on deck, Daniels, and I’ll get the steward to fix it properly.”
    Taking the lamp aft to the pantry, I left my companion sitting on the hatch, and whistling with a fine assumption of devil-may-careness as the rest came round him.
    “An’ ye saw nothin’—nothin’ at all, Dan?” I heard one of them say as I returned and lit the lamp under shelter of the hood that drew over the scuttle.
    “Ne’er a thing,” replied Dan calmly. “What should us see? Come on, you star bowlines, an’ finish yer suppers; the mate an’ me ’ll purtect ye while yer stows ’em away.”
    “Garn!” replied one of the taunted watch in a tone of exasperation. “Why, blast me if I’m ever going to get warm again; to say nothin’ o’ the stink o’ rotten corpses as is in my nose yet! Damp wick! Ho!” and the speaker snorted indignantly.
    Hanging the lamp on its hook, it burned clearly and with a good bright flame.
    “There, now,” I remarked complacently, seating myself on a chest and filling my pipe; “what could be better than that? We’ll stay awhile to make sure; and then we’ll call those babies up there to finish their supper. And—” But, here, glancing at Daniels, I caught him staring open mouthed past me into the darksome corner right for’ard, known as the “eyes.” Following his intent gaze, I saw, coming slowly towards us, a sort of thick mist shaped like a human figure with outstretched arms, while the air, hitherto warm and close, grew icy cold with a chill in it that seemed to freeze my very marrow. And as if this were not