A Psychological Shipwreck

by Ambrose Bierce

　　

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In the summer of 1874 I was in Liverpool, whither I had gone on businessfor the mercantile house of Bronson & Jarrett, New York. I am WilliamJarrett; my partner was Zenas Bronson. The firm failed last year, andunable to endure the fall from affluence to poverty he died.Having finished my business, and feeling the lassitude andexhaustion incident to its dispatch, I felt that a protracted sea voyagewould be both agreeable and beneficial, so instead of embarking for myreturn on one of the many fine passenger steamers I booked for New Yorkon the sailing vessel Morrow, upon which I had shipped a large andvaluable invoice of the goods I had bought. The Morrow was an Englishship with, of course, but little accommodation for passengers, of whomthere were only myself, a young woman and her servant, who was amiddle-aged negress. I thought it singular that a travelling Englishgirl should be so attended, but she afterward explained to me that thewoman had been left with her family by a man and his wife from SouthCarolina, both of whom had died on the same day at the house of theyoung lady's father in Devonshire -- a circumstance in itselfsufficiently uncommon to remain rather distinctly in my memory, even hadit not afterward transpired in conversation with the young lady that thename of the man was William Jarrett, the same as my own. I knew that abranch of my family had settled in South Carolina, but of them and theirhistory I was ignorant.The Morrow sailed from the mouth of the Mersey on the 15th of June,and for several weeks we had fair breezes and unclouded skies. Theskipper, an admirable seaman but nothing more, favoured us with verylittle of his society, except at his table; and the young woman, MissJanette Harford, and I became very well acquainted. We were, in truth,nearly always together, and being of an introspective turn of mind Ioften endeavoured to analyse and define the novel feeling with which sheinspired me -- a secret, subtle, but powerful attraction whichconstantly impelled me to seek her; but the attempt was hopeless. Icould only be sure that at least it was not love. Having assured myselfof this and being certain that she was quite as whole-hearted, Iventured one evening (I remember it was on the 3rd of July) as we sat ondeck to ask her, laughingly, if she could assist me to resolve mypsychological doubt.For a moment she was silent, with averted face, and I began to fearI had been extremely rude and indelicate; then she fixed her eyesgravely on my own. In an instant my mind was dominated by as strange afancy as ever entered human consciousness. It seemed as if she werelooking at me, not with, but through, those eyes -- from an immeasurabledistance behind them -- and that a number of other persons, men, womenand children, upon whose faces I caught strangely familiar evanescentexpressions, clustered about her, struggling with gentle eagerness tolook at me through the same orbs. Ship, ocean, sky -- all had vanished.I was conscious of nothing but the figures in this extraordinary andfantastic scene. Then all at once darkness fell upon me, and anon fromout of it, as to one who grows accustomed by degrees to a dimmer light,my former surroundings of deck and mast and cordage slowly resolvedthemselves. Miss Harford had closed her eyes and was leaning back in herchair, apparently asleep, the book she had been reading open in her lap.Impelled by surely I cannot say what motive, I glanced at the top of thepage; it was a copy of that rare and curious work, Denneker'sMeditations, and the lady's index finger rested on this passage:'To sundry it is given to be drawn away, and to be apart from thebody for a season; for, as concerning rills which would flow across eachother the weaker is borne along by the stronger, so there be certain ofkin whose paths intersecting, their souls do bear company, the whiletheir bodies go foreappointed ways, unknowing.'Miss Harford arose, shuddering; the sun had sunk below the horizon,but it was not cold. There was not a breath of wind; there were noclouds in the sky, yet not a star was visible. A hurried trampingsounded on the deck; the captain, summoned from below, joined the firstofficer, who stood looking at the barometer. 'Good God!' I heard himexclaim.An hour later the form of Janette Harford, invisible in thedarkness and spray, was torn from my grasp by the cruel vortex of thesinking ship, and I fainted in the cordage of the floating mast to whichI had lashed myself.It was by lamplight that I awoke. I lay in a berth amid thefamiliar surroundings of the state-room of a steamer. On a couchopposite sat a man, half undressed for bed, reading a book. I recognizedthe face of my friend Gordon Doyle, whom I had met in Liverpool on theday of my embarkation, when he was himself about to sail on the steamerCity of Prague, on which he had urged me to accompany him.After some moments I now spoke his name. He simply said, 'Well,'and turned a leaf in his book without removing his eyes from the page.'Doyle,' I repeated, 'did they save her? 'He now deigned to look at me and smiled as if amused. He evidentlythought me but half awake.'Her? Whom do you mean?''Janette Harford.'His amusement turned to amazement; he stared at me fixedly, sayingnothing.'You will tell me after awhile,' I continued; 'I suppose you willtell me after awhile.'A moment later I asked: 'What ship is this? ' Doyle stared again.'The steamer City of Prague, bound from Liverpool to New York, threeweeks out with a broken shaft. Principal passenger, Mr. Gordon Doyle;ditto lunatic, Mr. William Jarrett. These two distinguished travellersembarked together, but they are about to part, it being the resoluteintention of the former to pitch the latter overboard.'I sat bolt upright. 'Do you mean to say that I have been for threeweeks a passenger on this steamer?''Yes, pretty nearly; this is the 3rd of July.''Have I been ill? ''Right as a trivet all the time, and punctual at your meals.''My God! Doyle, there is some mystery here; do have the goodness tobe serious. Was I not rescued from the wreck of the ship Morrow?'Doyle changed colour, and approaching me, laid his fingers on mywrist. A moment later, 'What do you know of Janette Harford?' he askedvery calmly.'First tell me what you know of her?'Mr. Doyle gazed at me for some moments as if thinking what to do,then seating himself again on the couch, said:'Why should I not? I am engaged to marry Janette Harford, whom Imet a year ago in London. Her family, one of the wealthiest inDevonshire, cut up rough about it, and we eloped -- are eloping rather,for on the day that you and I walked to the landing stage to go aboardthis steamer she and her faithful servant, a negress, passed us, drivingto the ship Morrow. She would not consent to go in the same vessel withme, and it had been deemed best that she take a sailing vessel in orderto avoid observation and lessen the risk of detection. I am now alarmedlest this cursed breaking of our machinery may detain us so long thatthe Morrow will get to New York before us, and the poor girl will notknow where to go.'I lay still in my berth -- so still I hardly breathed. But thesubject was evidently not displeasing to Doyle, and after a short pausehe resumed:'By the way, she is only an adopted daughter of the Harfords. Hermother was killed at their place by being thrown from a horse whilehunting, and her father, mad with grief, made away with himself the sameday. No one ever claimed the child, and after a reasonable time theyadopted her. She has grown up in the belief that she is their daughter.''Doyle, what book are you reading? ''Oh, it's called Denneker's Meditations. It's a rum lot, Janettegave it to me; she happened to have two copies. Want to see it?'He tossed me the volume, which opened as it fell. On one of theexposed pages was a marked passage:'To sundry it is given to be drawn away, and to be apart from thebody for a season; for, as concerning rills which would flow across eachother the weaker is borne along by the stronger, so there be certain ofkin whose paths intersecting, their souls do bear company, the whiletheir bodies go foreappointed ways, unknowing.''She had -- she has -- a singular taste in reading,' I managed tosay, mastering my agitation.'Yes. And now perhaps you will have the kindness to explain how youknew her name and that of the ship she sailed in.''You talked of her in your sleep,' I said.A week later we were towed into the port of New York. But theMorrow was never heard from.

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