The Last Cruise of the Judas Iscariot by Edward Page
"She formerly showed the name Flying Sprite on her starn moldin',"
said Captain Trumbull Cram, "but I had thet gouged out and planed off,
and Judas Iscariot in gilt sot thar instid."
"That was an extraordinary name," said I.
"'Strornary craft," replied the captain, as he absorbed another inch
and a half of niggerhead. "I'm neither a profane man or an irreverend;
but sink my jig if I don't believe the sperrit of Judas possessed thet
schooner. Hey, Ammi?"
The young man addressed as Ammi was seated upon a mackerel barrel.
He deliberately removed from his lips a black brierwood and shook his
head with great gravity.
"The cap'n," said Ammi, "is neither a profane or an irreverend. What
he says he mostly knows; but when he sinks his jig he's allers to be
Fortified with this neighborly estimate of character, Captain Cram
proceeded. "You larf at the idea of a schooner's soul? Perhaps you hey
sailed 'em forty-odd year up and down this here coast, an' 'quainted
yourself with their dispositions an' habits of mind. Hey, Ammi?"
"The cap'n," explained the gentleman on the mackerel keg, "hez
coasted an' hez fished for forty-six year. He's lumbered and he's iced.
When the cap'n sees fit for to talk about schooners he understands the
"My friend," said the captain, "a schooner has a soul like a hu man
being, but considerably broader of beam, whether for good or for evil.
I ain't a goin' to deny thet I prayed for the Judas in Tuesday 'n'
Thursday evenin' meetin', week arter week an' month arter month. I
ain't a goin' to deny thet I interested Deacon Plympton in the 'rastle
for her redemption. It was no use, my friend; even the deacon's
powerful p'titions were clear waste."
I ventured to inquire in what manner this vessel had manifested its
depravity. The narrative which I heard was the story of a demon of
treachery with three masts and a jib boom.
The Flying Sprite was the first three-master ever built at Newaggen,
and the last. People shook their heads over the experiment. "No good
can come of sech a critter," they said. "It's contrairy to natur. Two
masts is masts enough." The Flying Sprite began its career of base
improbity at the very moment of its birth. Instead of launching
decently into the element for which it was designed, the three-masted
schooner slumped through the ways into the mud and stuck there for
three weeks, causing great expense to the owners, of whom Captain
Trumbull Cram was one to the extent of an undivided third. The oracles
of Newaggen were confirmed in their forebodings. "Two masts is masts
enough to sail the sea," they said; "the third is the Devil's hitchin'
On the first voyage of the Flying Sprite, Captain Cram started her
for Philadelphia, loaded with ice belonging to himself and Lawyer
Swanton; cargo uninsured. Ice was worth six dollars a ton in
Philadelphia; this particular ice had cost Captain Cram and Lawyer
Swanton eighty-five cents a ton shipped, including sawdust. They were
happy over the prospect. The Flying Sprite cleared the port in
beautiful shape, and then suddenly and silently went to the bottom in
Fiddler's Reach, in eleven feet of salt water. It required only six
days to float her and pump her out, but owing to a certain
incompatibility between ice and salt water, the salvage consisted
exclusively of sawdust.
On her next trip the schooner carried a deckload of lumber from the
St. Croix River. It was in some sense a consecrated cargo, for the
lumber was intended for a new Baptist meetinghouse in southern New
Jersey. If the prayerful hopes of the navigators, combined with the
prayerful expectations of the consignees had availed, this voyage, at
least, would have been successfully made. But about sixty miles
southeast of Nantucket the Flying Sprite encountered a mild September
gale. She ought to have weathered it with perfect ease, but she behaved
so abominably that the church timber was scattered over the surface of
the Atlantic Ocean from about latitude 40° 15' to about latitude
43° 50'. A month or two later she contrived to go on her beam ends
under a gentle land breeze, dumping a lot of expensively carved granite
from the Fox Island quarries into a deep hole in Long Island Sound. On
the very next trip she turned deliberately out of her course in order
to smash into the starboard bow of a Norwegian brig, and was
consequently libeled for heavy damages.
It was after a few experiences of this sort that Captain Cram erased
the old name from the schooner's stern and from her quarter, and
substituted that of Judas Iscariot. He could discover no designation
that expressed so well his contemptuous opinion of her moral qualities.
She seemed animate with the spirit of purposeless malice, of malignant
perfidy. She was a floating tub of cussedness.
A board of nautical experts sat upon the Judas Iscariot, but could
find nothing the matter with her, physically. The lines of her hull
were all right, she was properly planked and ceiled and calked, her
spars were of good Oregon pine, she was rigged taut and trustworthy,
and her canvas had been cut and stitched by a God-fearing sailmaker.
According to all theory, she ought to have been perfectly responsible
as to her keel. In practice, she was frightfully cranky. Sailing the
Judas Iscariot was like driving a horse with more vices than hairs in
his tail. She always did the unexpected thing, except when bad behavior
was expected of her on general principles. If the idea was to luff, she
would invariably fall off; if to jibe, she would come round dead in the
wind and hang there like Mohammed's coffin. Sending a man to haul the
jib sheet to windward was sending a man on a forlorn hope: the jib
habitually picked up the venturesome navigator, and, after shaking him
viciously in the air for a second or two, tossed him overboard. A boom
never crossed the deck without breaking somebody's head. Start on
whatever course she might, the schooner was certain to run before long
into one of three things, namely, some other vessel, a fog bank, or the
bottom. From the day on which she was launched her scent for a good,
sticky mud bottom was unerring. In the clearest weather fog fob lowed
and enveloped her as misfortune follows wickedness. Her presence on the
Banks was enough to drive every codfish to the coast of Ireland. The
mackerel and porgies were always where the Judas Iscariot was not. It
was impossible to circumvent the schooner's fixed purposes to ruin
everybody who chartered her. If chartered to carry a deckload, she
spilled it; if loaded between decks, she dived and spoiled the cargo.
She was like one of the trick mules which, if they cannot otherwise
dislodge the rider, get down and roll over and over. In short, the
Judas Iscariot was known from Marblehead to the Bay of Chaleur as the
consummate schooneration of malevolence, turpitude, and treachery.
After commanding the Judas Iscariot for five or six years, Captain
Cram looked fully twenty years older. It was in vain that he had
attempted to sell her at a sacrifice. No man on the coast of Maine,
Massachusetts, or the British provinces would have taken the schooner
as a gift. The belief in her demoniac obsession was as firm as it was
Nearly at the end of a season, when the wretched craft had been even
more unprofitable than usual a conference of the owners was held in the
Congregational vestry one evening after the monthly missionary meeting.
No outsider knows exactly what happened, but it is rumored that in the
two hours during which these capitalists were closeted certain
arithmetical computations were effected which led to significant
results and to a singular decision.
On the forenoon of the next Friday there was a general suspension of
business at Newaggen. The Judas Iscariot, with her deck scoured and her
spars scraped till they shone in the sun like yellow amber, lay at the
wharf by Captain Cram's fish house. Since Monday the captain and his
three boys and Andrew Jackson's son Tobias from Mackerel Cove had been
busy loading the schooner deep. This time her cargo was an
extraordinary one. It consisted of nearly a quarter of a mile of stone
wall from the boundaries of the captain's shore pasture. "I calklet,"
remarked the commander of the Judas Iscariot, as he saw the last
boulder disappearing down the main hatch, "thar's nigh two hundud'n
fifty ton of stone fence aboard thet schoon'r."
Conjecture was wasted over this unnecessary amount of ballast. The
owners of the Judas Iscariot stood up well under the consolidated wit
of the village; they returned witticism for witticism, and kept their
secret. "Ef you must know, I'll tell ye," said the captain. "I hear
thar's a stone-wall famine over Machias way. I'm goin' to take mine
over'n peddle it out by the yard." On this fine sunshiny Friday
morning, while the luckless schooner lay on one side of the wharf,
looking as bright and trim and prosperous as if she were the
best-paying maritime investment in the world, the tug Pug of Portland
lay under the other side, with steam up. She had come down the night
before in response to a telegram from the owners of the Judas Iscariot.
A good land breeze was blowing, with the promise of freshening as the
day grew older.
At half past seven o'clock the schooner put off from the landing,
carrying not only the captain's pasture wall, but also a large number
of his neighbors and friends, including some of the solidest citizens
of Newaggen. Curiosity was stronger than fear. "You know what the
critter," the captain had said, in reply to numerous applications for
passage. "Ef you're a mind to resk her antics, come along, an'
welcome." Captain Cram put on a white shirt and a holiday suit for the
occasion. As he stood at the wheel shouting directions to his boys and
Andrew Jackson's son Tobias at the halyards, his guests gathered around
him--a fair representation of the respectability, the business
enterprise, and the piety of Newaggen Harbor. Never had the Judas
Iscariot carried such a load. She seemed suddenly struck with a sense
of decency and responsibility, for she came around into the wind
without balking, dived her nose playfully into the brine, and skipped
off on the short hitch to clear Tumbler Island, all in the properest
fashion. The Pug steamed after her.
The crowd on the wharf and the boys in the small boats cheered this
unexpectedly orthodox behavior, and they now saw for the first time
that Captain Cram had painted on the side of the vessel in conspicuous
white letters, each three or four feet long, the following legend:
THIS IS THE SCHOONER JUDAS ISCARIOT
N.B.--GIVE HER A WIDE BERTH!!
Hour after hour the schooner bounded along before the northwest
wind, holding to her course as straight as an arrow. The weather
continued fine. Every time the captain threw the log he looked more
perplexed. Eight, nine, nine and a half knots! He shook his head as he
whispered to Deacon Plympton: "She's meditatin' mischief o' some natur
or other." But the Judas led the Pug a wonderful chase, and by half
past two in the afternoon, before the demijohn which Andrew Jackson's
son Tobias had smuggled on board was three quarters empty, and before
Lawyer Swanton had more than three quarters finished his celebrated
story about Governor Purington's cork leg, the schooner and the tug
were between fifty and sixty miles from land.
Suddenly Captain Cram gave a grunt of intelligence. He pointed
ahead, where a blue line just above the horizon marked a distant fog
bank. "She smelt it an' she run for it," he remarked, sententiously.
"Time for business."
Then ensued a singular ceremony. First Captain Cram brought the
schooner to, and transferred all his passengers to the tug. The wind
had shifted to the southeast, and the fog was rapidly approaching. The
sails of the Judas Iscariot flapped as she lay head to the wind; her
bows rose and fell gently under the influence of the long swell. The
Pug bobbed up and down half a hawser's length away.
Having put his guests and crew aboard the tug, Captain Cram
proceeded to make everything shipshape on the decks of the schooner. He
neatly coiled a loose end of rope that had been left in a snarl. He
even picked up and threw overboard the stopper of Andrew Jackson's son
Tobias' demijohn. His face wore an expression of unusual solemnity. The
people on the tug watched his movements eagerly, but silently. Next he
tied one end of a short rope to the wheel and attached the other end
loosely by means of a running bowline to a cleat upon the rail. Then he
was seen to take up an ax, and to disappear down the companionway.
Those on the tug distinctly heard several crashing blows. In a moment
the captain reappeared on deck, walked deliberately to the wheel,
brought the schooner around so that her sails filled, pulled the
running bowline taut, and fastened the rope with several half hitches
around the cleat, thus lashing the helm, jumped into a dory, and
sculled over to the tug.
Left entirely to herself, the schooner rolled once or twice, tossed
a few bucketfuls of water over her dancing bows, and started off toward
the South Atlantic. But Captain Trumbull Cram, standing in the bow of
the tugboat, raised his hand to command silence and pronounced the
following farewell speech, being sentence, death warrant, and funeral
oration, all in one:
"I ain't advancin' no theory to 'count for her cussedness. You all
know the Judas. Mebbe thar was too much fore an' aff to her. Mebbe the
inickerty of a vessel's in the fore an' aff, and the vartue in the
squar' riggin'. Mebbe two masts was masts enough. Let that go; bygones
is bygones. Yonder she goes, carryin' all sail on top, two
hundred'n-odd ton o' stone fence in her holt, an' a hole good two foot
acrost stove in her belly. The way of the transgressor is hard. Don't
you see her settlin'? It should be a lesson, my friends, for us to
profit by; there's an end to the long-sufferin'est mercy, and
unless--Oh, yer makin' straight for the fog, are ye? Well, it's your
last fog bank. The bottom of the sea's the fust port you'll fetch, you
critter, you! Git, and be d--d to ye!"
This, the only occasion on which Captain Cram was ever known to say
such a word, was afterward considered by a committee of discipline of
the Congregational Church at Newaggen; and the committee, after
pondering all the circumstances under which the word was uttered, voted
unanimously to take no action.
Meanwhile, the fog had shut in around the tug, and the Judas
Iscariot was lost to view. The tug was put about and headed for home.
The damp wind chilled everybody through and through. Little was said.
The contents of the demijohn had long been exhausted. From a distance
to the south was heard at intervals the hoarse whistling of an ocean
"I hope that feller's well underwrit," said the captain grimly, "for
the Judas'll never go down afore she's sarched him out'n sunk him."
"And was the abandoned schooner ever heard of?" I asked, when my
informant had reached this point in the narrative.
The captain took me by the arm and led me out of the grocery store
down to the rocks. Across the mouth of the small cove back of his
house, blocking the entrance to his wharf and fishhouse, was stretched
a skeleton wreck.
"Thar she lays," he said, pointing to the blackened ribs. "That's
the Judas. Did yer suppose she'd sink in deep water, where she could do
no more damage? No, sir, not if all the rocks on the coast of Maine was
piled onto her, and her hull bottom knocked clean out. She come home to
roost. She come sixty mile in the teeth of the wind. When the tug got
back next mornin' thar lay the Judas Iscariot acrost my cove, with her
jib boom stuck through my kitchen winder. I say schooners has