"stoker-dracula-168" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stoker Bram)

and two hands left to work ship.

1 August.- Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when
in the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in
somewhere. Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind.
Dare not lower, as could not raise them again. We seem to be
drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralised than
either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly
against himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and
patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he
Roumanian.

2 August, midnight.- Woke up from few minutes' sleep by hearing a
cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on
deck, and ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of
man on watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be
past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North
Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in
the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to
move with us; and God seems to have deserted us.

3 August.- At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we
ran before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted
for the mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his
flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his
reason has given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with
his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: "It is
here; I know it, now. On the watch last night I saw it, like a man,
tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking
out. I crept behind It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went
through it, empty as the air." And as he spoke he took his knife and
drove it savagely into space. Then he went on: "But it is here, and
I'll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I'll
unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm." And with a
warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. There was
springing up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw
him come out on deck again with a tool-chest and a lantern, and go
down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving mad, and it's no
use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those big boxes: they are
invoiced as "clay," and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as
he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and write these notes. I
can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can't
steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails and
lie by, and signal for help.

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that
the mate would come out calmer- for I heard him knocking away at
something in the hold, and work is good for him- there came up the
hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold,