- end_line
- 1690
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.149Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1623
- text
- Stories like these were related as gospel truths, by those who declared
themselves eye-witnesses.
It is a circumstance not generally known, perhaps, that among ignorant
seamen, Philanders, or Finns, as they are more commonly called, are
regarded with peculiar superstition. For some reason or other, which I
never could get at, they are supposed to possess the gift of second
sight, and the power to wreak supernatural vengeance upon those who
offend them. On this account they have great influence among sailors,
and two or three with whom I have sailed at different times were
persons well calculated to produce this sort of impression, at least
upon minds disposed to believe in such things.
Now, we had one of these sea-prophets aboard; an old, yellow-haired
fellow, who always wore a rude seal-skin cap of his own make, and
carried his tobacco in a large pouch made of the same stuff. Van, as we
called him, was a quiet, inoffensive man, to look at, and, among such a
set, his occasional peculiarities had hitherto passed for nothing. At
this time, however, he came out with a prediction, which was none the
less remarkable from its absolute fulfilment, though not exactly in the
spirit in which it was given out.
The night of the burial he laid his hand on the old horseshoe nailed as
a charm to the foremast, and solemnly told us that, in less than three
weeks, not one quarter of our number would remain aboard the ship—by
that time they would have left her for ever.
Some laughed; Flash Jack called him an old fool; but among the men
generally it produced a marked effect. For several days a degree of
quiet reigned among us, and allusions of such a kind were made to
recent events, as could be attributed to no other cause than the Finn’s
omen.
For my own part, what had lately come to pass was not without its
influence. It forcibly brought to mind our really critical condition.
Doctor Long Ghost, too, frequently revealed his apprehensions, and once
assured me that he would give much to be safely landed upon any island
around us.
Where we were, exactly, no one but the mate seemed to know, nor whither
we were going. The captain—a mere cipher—was an invalid in his cabin;
to say nothing more of so many of his men languishing in the
forecastle.
Our keeping the sea under these circumstances, a matter strange enough
at first, now seemed wholly unwarranted; and added to all was the
thought that our fate was absolutely in the hand of the reckless
Jermin. Were anything to happen to him, we would be left without a
navigator, for, according to Jermin himself, he had, from the
commencement of the voyage, always kept the ship’s reckoning, the
captain’s nautical knowledge being insufficient.
But considerations like these, strange as it may seem, seldom or never
occurred to the crew. They were alive only to superstitious fears; and
when, in apparent contradiction to the Finn’s prophecy, the sick men
rallied a little, they began to recover their former spirits, and the
recollection of what had occurred insensibly faded from their minds. In
a week’s time, the unworthiness of Little Jule as a sea vessel, always
a subject of jest, now became more so than ever. In the forecastle,
Flash Jack, with his knife, often dug into the dank, rotten planks
ribbed between us and death, and flung away the splinters with some sea
joke.
As to the remaining invalids, they were hardly ill enough to occasion
any serious apprehension, at least for the present, in the breasts of
such thoughtless beings as themselves. And even those who suffered the
most, studiously refrained from any expression of pain.
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