times wishing that the waters would rise
and cover me. Late in the evening I fell
into a kind of uneasy doze, which was balm
of Gilead to the tempest-tost landsman.

When I awoke again, it was night once
more; at least, there was the dull oil-lamp,
swinging lazily as before. There was the
same painful music—the same eternal creaking
and straining, as of ship’s timbers in
agony. What o’clock was it?  Where were
we now?  Better make an effort, and go
up, and see how we were getting on—it was
so lonely down here. Come in!

Here the door was opened, and Mr. Bode
the mate presented himself. It was a bad
night, Mr. Bode said—a very bad night.—He
had come to tell me we were off the Head at
last. He thought I might care to know.

“I am glad to hear it,” I said faintly; “it
will be something smoother in the open sea”

He shook his head. “No open sea for us
to-night; no, nor to-morrow night most
likely.”

“What is all this mystery?” said I, now
recollecting the captain’s strange allusions at
the inn door. “What do you mean?”

“It is Jan Fagel’s night,” said he solemnly.
“He comes into the bay to-night. An hour
more of the wind, and we should have been
clear. But we did what we could—a man
can do no more than his best.”

“But who is Jan Fagel?”

”You never heard?”

“Never. Tell me about him.”

“Well,” said he, “I shan’t be wanted on
deck for some time yet, so I may as well be
here.” And Mr. Bode settled himself in one
of the canons’ stalls, thus retiring into the
shadow, and began the history of Jan Fagel
and his vessel.

“You have never heard of the famous brig
Maelström, once on a time well known in
these roads? No,—for you have not been
much about here, I dare say; and it is only
old sea-folk like myself that would care to
talk to you of such things. But I can tell
you this—there’s not a sailor along the coast
that hasn’t the story, though it’s now—let
me see—a good hundred years since she
made her last cruise. Why, I recollect when
I was a boy, the old hull lying on the sands,
and breaking up with every tide—for she came
to that end after all—the famous Maelström,
Captain Jan Fagel, commander. I have been
told there never was such a boat for foul
weather, but that was when he was on board
of her. He was a terrible man, was Captain
Fagel, and would turn wild when a gale got
up; and as the wind blew harder, so he grew
wilder, until at last it seemed as if he had
gone mad altogether. Why, there was one
night my father used to tell of, when there
was a great thunderstorm, and the sea was
washing over the lighthouses—the most
awful night he ever was out in—it was said
that when the flashes came, Captain Jan had
been seen dancing and skipping upon his
deck. Many of his sailors told afterwards how
they heard his mad shrieks above the roaring
of the wind! Some said he had sold himself
to the Evil One, which I think myself more
than likely, for he cared neither for God nor
man.

“Well sir, Captain Fagel took first to the
smuggling trade; and soon he and his famous
brig became known all along the coast, from
Hoek up to Helder—ay, and beyond that.
But he was seen oftenest at the Head—as if
he had a sort of liking for the place—and
always came and went in a storm. So, that
when the Zuyder was like a boiling
cauldron, and the water running over the
lighthouse galleries, old sailors would look up in
the wind’s eye, and say ‘Captain Fagel’s
running a cargo to-night.’ At last it came
to this, that whenever he was seen off
Helder, he was thought to bring a storm
with him. And then they would shake
their heads, and say Captain Fagel was
abroad that night. Soon he grew tired of
this work—it was too quiet for him—so he
turned Rover, and ran up the black flag.
He still kept up his old fashion of bearing
down in a gale; and many a poor disabled
craft that was struggling hard to keep
herself afloat, would see the black hull of
the Maelström coming down upon her in the
storm, and so would perish miserably upon
the rocks. He was no true sailor, sir, that
captain, but a low pirate; and he came to
a pirate’s end. And this was the way he
fell upon his last cruise, just off Helder Head
yonder.

“There was a certain councillor of the town
who had many times crossed him in his
schemes, and had once been near taking him.
Fagel hated him like poison, and swore he
would have his revenge of him, one day. But
the councillor did not fear him—not a bit of
him, but even offered a reward to whoever
would take or destroy Captain Fagel and his
vessel. When the captain came to hear of
this he fell to raving and foaming at the
mouth, and then swore a great oath upon his
own soul that he would be revenged of the
councillor. And this was the way he went
about it:

The councillor had a fair, young wife,
Madame Elde, whom he had brought out
of France some years before, and whom
he loved exceedingly—foolishly, some said,
for a man of his years. They and their
little girl, lived together at a place called
Loo, and no family could be happier. Jan
Fagel knew the place well, and laid his devilish
plans accordingly. So, as usual, on one
of his wild, stormy nights, the brig was seen
standing in to shore—for no good purpose, as
everybody guessed. How he and his mad
crew got to land was never accounted for—
but this is certain—they broke into the house
at Loo, and dragged Madame Elde and her
child from their beds, and forced them down
to their boats. The councillor was away in