I was standing5 on the wharf6 near the ship, waiting for the arrival of some waggons7 of wool, when the master of a German vessel that lay just astern of us came up to me, and said—
“Dot vhas a bad shob last night.”
“What was?” said I.
“Haf not you heard of der brudal murder in Shorge Street?”
“I have not seen a morning paper.”
“She vhas dot small chop vhere dey sells grocery und odder tings on der left going oop. She vhas a Meester Abney, dey say. Der murderer vhas a beas’ly rogue8 called Murray; she helped in der shop; she hod been a soldier. Dis morning poor Abney vhas found dead in her bedt mit her troat cut und her skull9 sphlit.”
“Have they got the murderer?”
[71]
“No. Dot vhas der pity. He make clean off mit sixty pound.”
Throughout the day people coming and going talked of this murder. The yarn10 ran thus:—Mrs. Abney occupied a room next to the murdered man’s; the son, Thomas, a youth of about eighteen, used an apartment at the back of the shop; the servant lay in the attics11; the assistant, Murray, lodged12 out. Neither Mrs. Abney, her son, nor the servant had heard a sound in the night; Murray had broken into the house, passed into Abney’s room, and murdered him; then from a safe, whose key Abney kept under his pillow, he had taken about sixty sovereigns; all so noiselessly, the footfalls of a cat are not stiller. The family slept on, and the murder was not discovered till half-past seven in the morning.
It was known by these damning tokens that Murray was the murderer: first, the knife Abney’s throat had been cut with was Murray’s; after using it he had dropped it behind some paper in the bedroom grate. Next, when he had shifted himself at his lodgings13 he had buried the clothes in the back garden; a dog belonging to the woman of the house was observed to run into the garden with its nose stooped as though on a trail, and, stopping where the bundle was buried, it began to scratch and howl. The woman called a neighbour; they went to the place with a spade and found Murray’s clothes, covered with bloodstains.
The man himself was off, and the people who[72] from time to time during the day gave me news of this thing told me he was still at large, that the police were in hot pursuit, and there was no hope for him.
That evening I strolled up George Street for a walk, and saw a great crowd at the Abneys’ shop. I stopped to stare with the rest of them. They call this sort of curiosity vulgar and debasing. But crime puts the significance of human emotion, misery15, and remorse16 into stocks and stones. Human passion gives the vitality17 of romance, tragic18 or comic, to the most sordid19 and contemptible20 aspects of the commonplace. I had passed that grocer’s shop twenty times, and often looked at the house. I looked at it again now, and found the matter-of-fact structure as strange, grotesque21, repulsive22 as a nightmare.
The days rolled on; Murray remained at large. His escape, or at least his marvellous manner of hiding, was the source of more excitement than the murder itself had proved. Most people supposed he had got clean away and was lurking23 among the islands, unless he was halfway24 on the road to Europe or America; others, that he had struck inland and had perished in the wilds.
But by degrees of course the matter went out of one’s head; out of mine certainly. Before the ship sailed I could walk up George Street and look at the shop and think of other things than the murder. Yet the memory of it was freshened a day or two before[73] the tug25 got hold of us by the commander of the ship, Captain Charles Lytton, telling me that amongst those who had taken berths26 in the steerage were the widow and son of the murdered man.
“I’m almost sorry they chose this ship,” said he, with an uneasy half-laugh. “For my part I’d as lief sail on a Friday as carry anything with such a shadow upon it as murder.”
“They’re long in catching27 Murray,” said I.
“It’s no fault of the police,” he answered. “We’re not in England here. A brisk walk takes a man into desolation. When you talk of catching a murderer, you think of beadles and fire-engines, and the electric telegraph. But the black man is still in this country; there’s never a village pump betwixt Wooloomooloo and the Antarctic circle. Small wonder your bush-ranger flourishes.”
We sailed on a Monday in the beginning of February, having been belated by the breakdown28 of some transport machinery29 in the interior. There went about a dozen people to the steerage company, and we carried ten passengers in the saloon. The Walter Hood was a smart and beautiful clipper of a vanished type; elliptical stern, a swelling31 lift of head with an exquisite32 entry of cut-water, coppered to the bends, a green hull33, yards as square as a frigate’s, with a noble breast of topsail and royal yards hoisting34 close under the trucks, man-of-war style. On a wind, one point free, she could have given her tow-rope to any[74] Blackwall liner then afloat and not known there was anything in her wake.
When we were clear of the Heads, I came aft after seeing to the ground tackle, and in the waist saw a woman in deep mourning, looking over the rail at the receding35 land. A young fellow stood beside her. He too was in black. I cannot recall a finer specimen36 of a young man than that youth. His height was about six feet. He held himself erect37 as a soldier. His breadth of shoulder warranted in him the hurricane lungs of a boatswain. He was looking at the land, and his face was hard with a fixed38 and dark expression of grief.
The third mate was near. I whispered to him to say if those two were the Abneys. He answered they were. When some time later on I had leisure to look about me, I observed that the widow of the murdered man and her son held aloof39 from their fellow-passengers down on the main-deck. She always appeared with a veil on. She and the youth would get together in some corner or recess40, and there sit, talking low. The steerage folks treated them with a sort of commiserative41 respect, as though affliction had dignified42 the pair. The steward43 told me he had picked up that, after the murder of Abney, the widow had sold off the contents of the shop and her furniture; she was going home to live with her sister, the wife of a tradesman at Stepney. He told me that the son often spoke44 of his father’s murder.
[75]
“His notion is,” said the steward, “that Murray’s out of the colony, and’s to be found in England. That’s his ’ope. He’s a bit crazed, I think, with some queer dream of meeting of him, and talks, with his eyes shining, of a day of reckoning. Otherwise he’d have stayed in Sydney, where he’s got friends, and where his father’s murder was likely to have improved his prospects45 by bringing him pity and business.”
When the Australian coast was out of sight, the wind chopped from the westward46 into the south, and blew a wonderful sailing breeze, bowling47 a wide heave of sea from horizon to horizon in lines of milky48 ridges49 and soft, dark blue valleys, freckled50 as with melting snow, and along this splendid foaming52 surface rushed the ship with the westering sunlight red as blood in every lifting flash of her wet sheathing53. So through the night; the white water full of fire poured away on either hand the thunderous stem; the purely-shining stars reeled above our phantom54 heights of sail faint as steam.
At ten a corner of crimson55 moon rose over our bows, to be eclipsed for awhile by the shadowy square of a ship’s canvas right ahead; but before the moon had brightened into silver we had the stranger abeam56 of us, and were passing her as though she were at anchor—a lubberly, blubberly whaler, square-ended, with stump57 topgallant-masts—a splashing grease-box gamely tumbling in our wake with a convulsive sawing and shearing58 of her masts and yardarms, as though,[76] sentient59 but drunken too, the lonely fabric60 sought to foul61 the stars with her trucks, and drag the stellar system out of gear.
So through next day, and a whole week of days and nights following; then the breeze scanted62 one afternoon, and at sundown it was a glassy calm, with a languid pulse of swell30 out of the south-east, and a sky of red gold, shaded with violet cloud, brighter eastwards63 when the sun was set than astern where the light had been.
The middle watch was mine that night. I turned out with a yawn at midnight, and going on deck found the reflection of the moon trembling with the brushing of a delicate warm catspaw of wind; the sails were asleep, and the ship was wrinkling onwards at two knots. The moon was over our port main-topsail yardarm, and being now hard upon her full, and hanging in a perfectly64 cloudless sky, she filled the night with a fine white glory till the atmosphere looked to brim to the very stars with her light; the Southern Cross itself in the south shone faint in that spacious65 firmament66 of moonlight.
I never remember the like of the silence that was upon that sea; the sense of the solitude67 of the prodigious68 distances worked in one like a spirit, subduing69 the heart with a perception of some mysterious inaudible hush70! floating to and meeting in the ship out of every remote pale ocean recess. I had used the sea for years, and knew what it was to lie motionless under the Line[77] for three weeks, stirless as though the keel had been bedded in a sheet-flat surface of ice or glass; but never before had the mystery, the wonder, the awe71 which dwell like sensations of the soul itself in any vast scene of ocean night that is silent as death, and white as death too with overflowing72 moonlight, affected73 and governed me as the beauties and sublime74 silence of this midnight did.
The second mate went below, and I paced the deck alone. Saving the fellow at the helm, I seemed to be the only man in the ship. Not a figure was visible. But then I very well knew that to my call the deck would be instantly clamorous75 and alive with running shapes of seamen76.
After I had walked a little while, I crossed to the port side where the flood of moonshine lay shivering upon the ocean, and looked at the bright white rim14 of the sea under the moon, thinking I saw a sail there. It was then I heard a faint cry; it sounded like a halloaing out upon the water on the port bow. I strained my ears, staring ahead with intensity77. Then, hearing nothing, I supposed the sound that had been like a human voice hailing was some creaking or chafing78 noise aloft, and I was about to resume my walk when I heard it again, this time a distinct, melancholy79 cry.
“Did you hear that, sir?” cried the fellow at the wheel.
I answered “Yes,” and sung out for some hands to[78] get upon the forecastle and report anything in sight. The halloaing was repeated; in a few minutes a man forward hailed the poop and told me there was a boat or something black two points on the port bow; on which I shifted the helm for the object, which the night-glass speedily resolved into the proportions of a small open boat, with a man standing up in her.
By this time the captain, who had been aroused by our voices, was on deck. We floated slowly down upon the little boat, and the captain hailed to know if the man had strength to scramble80 aboard alone.
“Yes, sir,” was the answer.
“Then look out for a line.”
The boat came under the bow; a rope’s end was thrown and caught. The man languidly climbed into the fore-channels, omitting to secure the boat, which drove past and was already in our wake whilst the fellow was crawling over the side. Some of our seamen helped him over the rail, and he then came aft, walking very slowly, with an occasional reel in his gait, as though drunk or excessively weak.
He mounted the poop ladder with the assistance of a seaman81. The moonlight was so bright it was almost the same as seeing things by day. He was a short, powerfully built man, habited in the Pacific beach-comber’s garb82 of flannel83 shirt and dungaree breeches, without a hat or shoes; his hair was long and wild, his beard ragged84; he was about thirty years of age, with a hawksbill nose, and large protruding85 eyes,[79] hollow-cheeked, and he was of the colour of a corpse86 as he faced the moon.
He begged for a drink and for something to eat, and food and a glass of rum and water were given to him before he was questioned.
He then told us he had belonged to the Colonial schooner87 Cordelia that had been wrecked89 five days before on a reef, how far distant from the present situation of our ship he did not know. The master and Kanaka crew left the wreck88 in what he called the long-boat. He said he was asleep when the schooner grounded. He did not apparently90 awaken91 until some time after the disaster; when he came on deck he found the schooner hard and fast and deserted92. A small boat was swinging in davits; he lowered her and left the wreck, unable to bring away anything to eat or drink with him, as the hold was awash and the vessel quickly going to pieces and floating off in staves.
He delivered this yarn in a feeble voice, but fluently. Undoubtedly93 he had suffered; but somehow, as I listened, I could not satisfy myself that what had befallen him had happened just as he stated.
He asked what ship ours was, and looked round quickly when he was told she was the Walter Hood from Sydney bound to London. The captain asked him what his rating had been aboard the schooner; he answered, “Able seaman.” He was then sent forward into the forecastle.
I went below at four, and was again on deck at[80] eight, and learned that the man we had rescued was too ill to “turn to,” as we call it. The ship’s doctor told me he was suffering from the effects of privation and exposure, but that he was a hearty94 man, and would be fit for work in a day or two. He had told the doctor his name was Jonathan Love, and that the Cordelia belonged to Hobart Town, at which place he had joined her. The doctor said to me he did not like his looks.
“I make every allowance,” he went on, “for hairiness and colour, and for the expression which the sufferings a man endures in a dry, starving, open boat at sea will stamp upon his face, sometimes lastingly95. There’s an evil memory in the eyes of that chap. He glances at you as though he saw something beyond.”
“Men of a sweet and angelic expression of countenance96 are rarely met with in these seas,” said I.
“Likely as not he will prove an escaped convict,” said the doctor.
Three days passed, and Love still kept his hammock. But now the doctor reported him well, and the captain sent orders to the boatswain to turn the man to and find out what he was fit for. This happened during a forenoon watch which was mine. The day had broken in splendour. Masses of white cloud were rolling their stately bulk, prismatic as oyster-shells, into the north-east, and the blue in the breaks of them was of the heavenly dye of the Pacific. The ship was curtsying forwards under breathing topsails and studding-sails,[81] and the cuddy breakfast being ended, all the passengers were on deck.
I stood at the head of the starboard poop ladder, watching the steerage passengers on the main deck. I took particular notice, I recollect97, on this occasion, of the Abneys, widow and son, as they sat on the coaming of the main-hatch, the youth reading aloud to his mother. It was the contrast, I suppose, of the heavy crape and thick veil of the woman with the light tropic garments of the rest of the people which invited my eyes to the couple. I found my mind recalling as best my memory could the particulars of the horrible crime the widow’s sombre clothes perpetuated98.
Then it was, and whilst I was recreating the picture of the shop in George Street, that I observed the young fellow lift his gaze from the page it had been fastened to, violently start, then leap to his feet with a sudden shriek99. He was looking at the man we had rescued; he stood in the waist, trousers upturned, arms bared, posture100 as erect as a soldier’s; a formidable iron figure of a fellow of medium height, ragged with hair about the head and face.
“Mother,” yelled the young fellow almost in the instant of his first shriek, whilst the rescued man turned to look at him. “Father’s murderer!—James Murray!—There he is!”
“Not by the son—not by the son!” shouted Murray, holding out his arms as the other rushed towards him.[82] “Not by you! He’s got his father’s looks! Any man else—but——”
Before the young fellow could grasp him, Murray, in a single leap, swift and agile101 as a goat’s, had gained the fore-rigging, and was halfway up the shrouds102, the young fellow after him.
“Not you!” roared the murderer, “not with your father’s face on you! S’elp me God, it shan’t be, then!” and, rounding to the sea, he put his hands together and shot overboard, brushing the outstretched hand of his pursuer as he flashed past him.
“Pick us up! He must hang for it. Drowning’s too easy! He murdered my father!” and thus shouting the lad sprang into the water.
Such a scene of confusion as now followed defies my pen. The ceaseless screaming of the poor widow complicated the uproar103. I bawled104 to the man at the wheel to put the helm down, then for hands to lay aft to clear away and lower a boat. All our passengers were from Sydney; most of the crew had shipped at that port; every one there had heard of the murder of Mr. Abney; and the effect of the discovery that we had fallen in with the murderer who had so long and successfully eluded105 justice, that he had been on board the ship three days, that he was yonder floating on our quarter, with the murdered man’s son making for him with bold furious sweeps of his arm—was electrical! Women shrieked106 and men roared; overhead the sails flapped as the ship came to the wind, and there was the further noise[83] of the heavy tread of seamen, the flinging down of ropes, my own and the captain’s sharp commands.
When I had time to look, I beheld107 a death-struggle in the sea some quarter of a mile distant. They had grappled. God knows what intention was in the young fellow’s mind; it may be he hoped to keep the murderer afloat till the boat reached them. They churned up the foam51 as though it was white water there boiling on some fang108 of rock.
The moment the boat put off, an awful silence fell upon the ship.
“Pull, men, pull!” the captain shouted, and the brine flew in sheets from the oars109 as the little fabric sprang forward. But though the crew with the second mate in the stern-sheets toiled110 like demons111, they were too late. The boat was within three of her own lengths of the spot, when the two men disappeared. We watched breathless, with a very madness and anguish112 of expectation, for a sight of the head of one or the other of them; but idly: and after the boat had hung some three-quarters of an hour about the place where they had vanished, with the second mate standing up in her, eagerly looking around, she was recalled, hoisted113, and we proceeded on our voyage.
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1
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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2
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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4
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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5
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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6
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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7
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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8
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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9
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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10
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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11
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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12
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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13
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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14
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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15
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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16
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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17
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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18
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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19
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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27
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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28
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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30
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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35
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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36
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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41
commiserative
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| adj.怜悯的，同情的 | |
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42
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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43
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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44
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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45
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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46
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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47
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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48
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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49
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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50
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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52
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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53
sheathing
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| n.覆盖物，罩子v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的现在分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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56
abeam
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| adj.正横着(的) | |
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57
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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59
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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scanted
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| 不足的，缺乏的( scant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
eastwards
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| adj.向东方（的），朝东（的）；n.向东的方向 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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70
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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71
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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78
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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82
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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83
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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84
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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87
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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88
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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lastingly
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| [医]有残留性，持久地，耐久地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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98
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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100
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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101
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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102
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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103
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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104
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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105
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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106
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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108
fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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109
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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111
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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112
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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113
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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