The Suicide Ships

It turns out that there are few things more terrible than finding an abandoned ship at sea. If by day the danger is less, by night neither can be seen nor is any warning possible: the collision sweeps one and the other away.

These ships, abandoned for one reason or another, stubbornly navigate in the direction of the currents or the wind, if their sails are unfurled. Thus they traverse the seas, changing course capriciously.

Not a few of the steamers that one fine day failed to reach port have stumbled in their path upon one of these silent vessels traveling on their own. There is always a probability of encountering them, at any minute. As luck would have it, currents often entangle them in the Sargasso Sea. The ships finally stop, here or there, motionless forever in that desert of seaweed. Thus, until little by little they break apart. But others arrive every day, taking their place in silence, so that the tranquil and gloomy port is always frequented.

The main reason for these abandonments of ships is undoubtedly storms and fires that leave behind black, wandering skeletal hulls. But there are other singular causes among which one can include what happened to the María Margarita, which set sail from New York on August 24, 1903, and on the morning of the 26th hailed a corvette, without reporting anything out of the ordinary. Four hours later, a liner, receiving no answer, lowered a longboat that boarded the María Margarita. On the ship there was no one. The sailors’ undershirts were drying on the forecastle. The galley stove was still lit. A sewing machine had its needle suspended over the seam, as if it had been left a moment before. There was not the least sign of struggle or panic, everything in perfect order; and everyone was missing. What happened?

The night I learned this we were gathered on the bridge. We were bound for Europe, and the captain was telling us his sea story, perfectly true, by the way.

The female company, won over by the suggestion of the present battlefield, listened, shuddering. The nervous girls unwillingly lent an anxious ear to the voices of the sailors in the bow. A newlywed lady dared:

“Could they not be eagles?...”

The captain smiled good-naturedly:

“What, madam? Eagles that carry off the crew?”

Everyone laughed and the young woman did the same, a little embarrassed.

Fortunately, a passenger knew something about that. We looked at him with curiosity. During the voyage he had been an excellent companion, keeping to himself and speaking little.

“Ah! If you would only tell us, sir!” pleaded the young woman of the eagles.

“I have no objection,” agreed the discreet individual. “In a nutshell,” and in northern seas, like the captain’s María Margarita, “we once encountered a sailing ship. Our course,” we were also traveling under sail, “brought us almost alongside her. The singular air of abandonment that does not deceive on a vessel caught our attention, and we slowed down observing her. At last we lowered a longboat; aboard no one was found, and everything was also in perfect order. But the last log entry dated from four days back, so we did not feel much of an impression. We even laughed a little at the famous sudden disappearances.”

Eight of our men stayed aboard to navigate the new ship. We would travel in company. At nightfall we gained a little distance. The next day we caught up to it, but we saw no one on the bridge. The longboat was lowered again, and those who went searched the ship in vain: everyone had disappeared. Not an object out of place. The sea was absolutely calm across its entire expanse. In the galley a pot with potatoes was still boiling.

As you will understand, the superstitious terror of our people reached its peak. In the long run, six dared to fill the void, and I went with them. Scarcely aboard, my new companions decided to drink to banish all worry. They sat in a circle and within the hour most were already singing.

Midday arrived and the siesta passed. At four, the breeze ceased and the sails dropped. A sailor approached the bulwark and looked at the oily sea. Everyone had gotten up, pacing, no longer wishing to talk. One sat on a rope and took off his undershirt to mend it. He sewed for a while in silence. Suddenly he stood up and let out a long whistle. His companions turned. He looked at them vaguely, surprised as well, and sat down again. A moment later he left the undershirt on the coiled rope, walked to the bulwark, and jumped into the water. Upon hearing the splash, the others turned their heads, with a slightly furrowed brow. Immediately they forgot, returning to their common apathy.

After a while another stretched, rubbed his eyes walking, and jumped into the water. Half an hour passed; the sun was going down. I felt someone touch my shoulder suddenly.

“What time is it?”

“Five,” I replied. The old sailor looked at me distrustfully, with his hands in his pockets, leaning opposite me. He looked at my trousers for a long time, absent-mindedly. At last he jumped into the water.

The three who remained quickly approached and observed the whirlpool. They sat on the bulwark, whistling softly, their gaze lost in the distance. One got down and lay on the deck, tired. The others disappeared one after another. At six, the last one got up, straightened his clothes, pushed the hair from his forehead, walked still sleepy, and jumped into the water.

Then I remained alone, staring like an idiot at the deserted sea. Everyone, without knowing what they were doing, had thrown themselves into the sea, enveloped in the lingering somnambulism that hovered over the ship. When one threw himself into the water, the others would turn around momentarily preoccupied, as if remembering something, only to forget immediately. Thus everyone had disappeared, and I suppose the same happened to those of the previous day, and the others, and those of the other ships. That is all.

We remained looking at the odd man with excessive curiosity.

“And did you not feel anything?” my cabin neighbor asked him.

“Yes, a great listlessness and stubbornness of the same ideas, but nothing more. I do not know why I did not feel anything more. I presume the reason is this: instead of exhausting myself in a harrowing and at all costs defense against what I felt, as everyone else must have done, and even the sailors without realizing it, I simply accepted that hypnotic death, as if I were already annulled. Something very similar undoubtedly happened to the sentries of that famous guard, who night after night hanged themselves.”

As the commentary was quite complicated, no one answered. He left a while later. The captain watched him out of the corner of his eye for a moment.

“Fraud!” he muttered.

“On the contrary,” said a sick passenger, who was going home to die. “If he were a fraud he wouldn’t have kept thinking about it, and he would have thrown himself into the water.”