The purpose of the "writing" threads is to introduce long texts to be included in the game. These texts typically refer, although sometimes obliquely, to available quests, locations or people.
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The First Mate’s Account
In normal circumstances I would never have taken sail with such a crew of scoundrels and reprobates, but I found myself in rather desperate straits in San Paolo due to a particular weakness I have for dice. After this last voyage it is a flaw in my character which I assure you I intend to correct.
But my desperation wasn’t just a matter of my being penniless. That is a state to which I am well used. Along the docks in any major city, one may find certain types of men to facilitate one’s vices, and indeed to encourage said vices to depths far beyond which a man might go on his own. In San Paolo I found myself in not a little debt to such a man. Unfortunately, this type is also rather disinclined to the more gentlemanly virtues, such as patience and forgiveness.
Captain Marsh had lost his original choice of mate to the sudden onset of a strange and vicious illness which left the man delirious and bedridden. Captain Marsh trusted no one among his crew for the position, or as I later discovered, much else. Looking over the vessel I was most dispirited by its overall condition and seaworthiness and especially the aspect of the men, who I will describe in more detail presently.
Once under sail, I at once learned all I needed of the captain’s true nature. Never have I seen a group of men so heartily abused and scorned, or a captain so ready with a lash. I held my tongue when I first witnessed these depredations, reasoning that as first mate I would put my own stamp on things in good time and perhaps by example show the captain a more civilized way to lead.
Later, when for those few hours each day the captain retired to his cabin and I was left sole master of the ship I soon understood why he acted so hard against these mongrels from ports around the world. The men were entirely undisciplined, sullen and ever treading the line of pure insubordination. As you are probably aware, tidiness and a strict rationing of all things, from food, water and supplies, and even to a man’s temperament, are key to the success of any sea voyage. Both are required to husband precious resources and to keep up overall morale. But these men were lazy and querulous. What’s more, they were filthy in a way that is commonly seen in seamen only when ashore.
As the weeks passed, any hope of engendering goodwill or even the barest work ethic in the crew was thoroughly extinguished. It is my conviction now that fear of the captain alone prevented all out mutiny and myself being cinched to an anchor and cast overboard!
To the simmering air of malaise and resentment which blanketed the Persephone was added the discomfort of never once putting in to port, despite sailing just beyond sight of the coast the whole journey. Our fresh water grew sour after the first week. We weren’t short of that small beer which the sailor drinks daily at sea, but why suffer it when sweet water was so near to hand? I had thought at the time this was prudence. I reasoned that men of such low calibre would flee once exposed even briefly to the vicissitudes to which they were accustomed. Now I think the reason for Marsh’s urgency was of a different nature.
To this sorry state of affairs was added one additional punishment: that of a former military man among the sailors who was plagued by the most terrific night terrors. Once or twice every day between dusk and dawn would arise the most magnificent shrieking from the vicinity of the crew’s quarters below deck. He would be quickly hushed by his comrades, but however many times I heard those cries they did not fail to shake me to my core.
All I have told you was unpleasant to be sure, but the truly inexplicable wasn’t revealed to me until we had been three weeks at sea: the sick first mate had been aboard and residing in a half-empty storage compartment below decks the whole time! I didn’t witness him personally, but overheard a whispered conversation betwixt two crewmen thinking me a-doze against a tar barrel on deck. The gist of their talk related to how closely the man responsible for the invalid former mate must watch out for his needs. Failure at this task would mean Lord-knows-what manner punishment to be meted out by the dreaded captain.
What sort of lunatic would bring a man laid out by an unknown illness to sea and perhaps expose the rest of us to his mysterious malady? And however ill this man may have been, shouldn’t he have been brought aboveboard for some portion of the journey and not sequestered in the foul hold of this rickety, claptrap vessel? For what reason was he brought along at all? Even were the man some kind of fugitive, like myself, I found it beyond imagining that the captain would stand him free passage out of charity. As with so much else, it was inexplicable.
The more outrageous the conditions of my employment, the more I sensed I must keep my opinions to myself. I had no ally among my shipmates, the strange and evil-eyed crew, nor the raving and cruel Captain Marsh. The more I thought on it afterward, the more I credited this caution with preserving my life, if not my peace of mind, right up to our arrival at Innsmouth.
You will find it strange, even with my close-mouthed nature in the face of the surly crew and my initial, overwhelming relief at escaping San Paolo, that I had never enquired as to the nature of the Persephone’s cargo. Indeed, my only companion and confident on that journey was the bible given me by my mother in anticipation of my first sea voyage a decade before. The final fact of the Persephone cargo was not revealed to me until our ultimate arrival at port. As the captain rushed ashore with all urgency and not a word of explication, it was left to me to produce the manifest for the harbourmaster.
What I discovered was this: the ample stores provided for the voyage –the stores which meant never halting our trip- was our only cargo, or at least the only one properly recorded for the authorities.
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Excerpts from the Log for Innispoint Lighthouse, 1761/62On the Occasion of the Wreck of the Genevieve17 April, 1761It was near Midnight when my boy, standing first Watch, woke me to say a Ship was in distress off our Coast. A ferocious Wind had blown up in the Night as I had foreseen, and the rain was lashing down & the waves running un-Godly high.
I told Michael to get our weather gear ready whilst I check’d the Lamp. At the first lull in the Wind I heard the ring of the ship’s fo’castle Bell and the shouts of her Crew. From the nearness of the sounds I judged her to be driven on the Rocks any moment. I gather’d up some musty blankits and filled our biggest cauldron to boil.
Returning to my Lookout for another view of our Friends, what did I see but another Light some ways down the coast, and blinking in exackly opposite time to our own! This was not much of a Surprise to an old salt like mesel. Ever since the white man has plied his Trade in these Waters, there have been Villinous beggars who will try to lure ships upon the rocks to salvage whatever Loot they may find afterwards. A bigger Mystary is how some Ruffians had set up a Light as strong as our own and Timed it perfeckly to match us. And this in the middle of such a Storm as I hadn’t witnessed in Twenty Year.
I shouted to the boy to grab my Musket, which I all-ways kept primed and close to hand for such dire Events. He came back right smart, and with a boathook for himsel beside. Good lad!
‘Twas then the crash came, like a Thunderbolt striking about our heads, follow’d by a long and Terrible grinding. There was no mistaking her Fate now.
Without the lighthouse we did our best against the Gale, my bulls-eye lanthorn fighting the darkness ahead. After some minutes heading South, we came upon a Desperate Sight indeed: bodies washed up hither and yon, an even dozen by my count, all mixt with wreckage and ruin. I settled our Lanthorn in the sand and moved to grab a pair of ankles and drag their owner to dry Ground. Whither he was Alive or Dead I would sort out later.
Then it was I spotted our Enemy, two of them and big fellows, loping away down the shore, their Light no longer to be seen. As far as I could Judge, they made for a nearby Sea-cave, already flooding with the rising Tide. One carried some sort of strongbox recovered from the wrack all about, and t’other a Sailor limp in his arms. Why he wanted a waterlog’d sailor, as like Dead as not, I do not know, but as I raised my Musket, he was the one I Aimed for.
I waited the Lamp’s sweep to light him plain for I’d only have time for the one Shot. Then I let loose. It was a coin toss whether the Ancient Meckanism would fire or blow up in my Hand. Fire it did though, and True, for the Wretch stumbled, and fell to one knee. But then
he rose up again and lurched on with his companion, without so much as dropping his burthen! Both waded into that unlighted crevice in the earth. Yon Cave must have some hidey-hole within, which these Scoundrels know better than I.
I barely had time to draw Breath before the boy was hot after them, a-waving his boathook in the Air, heedless that his quarry could take a half-inch lead ball in its back and barely lose a step.
I shouted the boy back but the Storm grab’d up the words and hurled them in my Face laughing. I stumbled fighting a huge Gust of Wind, and crack’d my head on a rock what God had put in that place at the Dawn of Creation for just such a Purpose. I swear I only Swooned a moment but when I look’t up the boy had vanish’d into the Cave. My lanthorn was lost in the Dark and the Waters in that evil Grotto were already chest-high and rising. ‘Twas no use to follow.
Swallowing my heart I made all Haste back down the beach to see what could be done for any Survivors. I found the Beach empty of men or their Corpses. If I hadn’t my long experience of the Sea -or a lick of Sense- perhaps I’d have thought a Monstrus Wave had claimed them back to Ocean’s cold bosom. But if that were so, why was the scattered Ruin of the ship just where I left it?
18 April, 1761 After yestereve’s confused Debacle, I set mesel down outside that Cave and Waited, with only my musket for Company. I dared not but Hope that there was some Refuge in the Darkness where the boy might escape the rising Sea.
When the waters did at last Recede, my Prayers were answered! The boy struggled out, still clutching that blasted boathook. I thanked God and wept then, I am not Ashamed to say it. He was batter’d, cut and bruis’d, but whither it were the work of our Enemies or just the Sea hersel I do not know. The boy’s eyes were Empty and seeming Sightless at first, and him so weak I needs must carry him up our treacherous stair to the kitchen. There I will watch o’er him until he is full well again, warrant it.
Now that my Hands have stop’t their shaking, there is one thing more I must add which is absent from last night’s Acct.
Just afore I Fired, when the cone of Light shone upon the Villins as they loped up the beach, I saw that my target was Naked and of a great Bulk, greater than any stevedore or seaman I had ever seen. His Skin also shone as if scaled and was of an un-natural hue. He was shaped like a man, aye, but Twisted somehow, like some horrible Creature of the Depths that had learnt to walk on land. I question’d my senses after the Maelstrom and hectic Activity of last Night, but after To-day’s long Vigil, I grow only more certain of what I saw.
27 May, 1761The boy’s tongue is stop’t ever since the Aweful night of the Wreck. I bethought his Voice would return with a little Time, but now I Despair of’t. What’s more, his hair is growing White at the root, as pure white as a man of six-ty. I am sore glad now he was brung to me an Orphan. For how should I return a boy to his father in such a State?
12 June, 1761The boy is of no use to me Any More. He will take an Order if told severally, but he is Spiritless and slow of Wit. Most times he stands at the shore without our Lighthouse and Stares at the waves, silent all-ways.
17 April, 1762I did not realize until dipping my quill early this Morning that it was one year To-day since that Accursed Night when the Genevieve founder’d on our Shore. I bethought the boy yet lay a-bed as he does now Every Day until roused, but when the porridge was hot I found his cot Empty. I rush’d then to the rail without the Lamp and looked to that spot where ever he was wont to stand. Nothing. Turning my eyes to the Sea I spied for a moment, some yards out where I gues’d the water about five feet deep, the barest white spot amongst the waves, as of a tiny white head.
The boy is gone now and will not return.
30 June, 1762This will be my last entry. Called a Disgrace and a Wastrel, I have been discharged from my Dutie. Not so many months agone, I would have been disgusted at this turn of Events. Now I wish only to be away from this horrid Place. The last thing of mine I have kept is the Truth, and I give it now entire to my Successor to believe or not as he Wisht. God willing, I am rid of it for Ever.
When the boy walked off into the Sea –to Drown, I most fervently Hope– I espied another Figure, some yards farther out and standing head and shoulder above the Water, a greenish-blue shape, man-like, but no man under God’s eyes. All in a Panick, I grab’d up my musket and Fired, although it was Useless at such a Distance. Then rushed I straight down our treacherous stair. At the Beach head I stared out, just as Michael had done many and many a time, but saw nothing but the Cruel and Senseless Waves.
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4 January, 1693Report to Chief Magistrate Ledwidge, BostonOn the Tryal of the Sorcerer, Warlock and Pracktition’r of the Black Arts, Silas Zork, convict’d Witchcraft 27 November, 1692 ~On the 3rd December of last Year I did my Utmost to carrie out the Sentence passed down by Dunwich Township’s Council of Inquirie, to-wit: that the Accus’d be Hang’d by the Neck for Crimes against God, the Church and Humanitie. The Punishmnt was to take place at Twelv Noon as is our Custom. The Prisoner was Quiet and Calm as he was led to the Gallows and I anticipated no Problem from him. Upon his Sentence being Pronounced and the Trapp being open’d, the Criminal did hang by his neck, but did not die nor choke nor swing. The Scoundrel did verily Grinn at us and suffer’d no ill effect from his righteous Punishmnt. Womenfolk were sore Afraid and some fainted Dead away, but the Congregation, Goode and Virtuous Protestants All, were of strong Faithe and did take Mr. Zork into Custodie again and return him to the Gaol to awaite our further Deliberations.
After long Deliberations, our Council decided the Accus’d must be Burnt to the Stake, this sentence to be carried out on 5th December, 1692. After the Shocking Events of the prev. Wednesday, the Entire Township came to see the Villin’s Punishmnt, his Words and Face being Much Loathed by good folk Every Where. On this Occasion, methinks because of the Power of Fire to Cleanse the Divill, the Warlock Zork made a fierce Struggle in his Final Hour and had been beaten sore about the face. Be-Cause of his sense-less gibbering in his Last Hours, we had gagged him to Protect Ourselfs should the Divill speak thru him and try to Tempt us from our most Virtuous Course.
Just as the Tinder began to take Fire, Goodwife Wainwright cried out in an Hysteria ‘twas not Zork on the Stake of Judgment at All but Magister Hathorne. The Hon. Magistrate was head of the Council of Inquirie which pass’d the Sentence on Zork, and was the only Man in the Settlement who did not attend, having been call’d out Verry Late on the Night Prev. on some Un-known Errand.
Before Goodie Wainwright could kick apart the Pyre, a second Goodwife knock’d her back, shouting that the Divill had Shadowed our Eyes and that truely it was Zork tied to the Stake. For an Instant Only did I too think I saw Magister Hathorne about to Burn, but when the first great Plume of Smoke cleared, I saw for Certain it was Zork indeed. After those few moments of Doubt, it was of no profitt to Question the man’s Identitie, for the Heat lept up Hard and Fierce, as if the jumping Flames Hunger’d for Zork in particklar, and No Man could approach. The Prisoner’s gag howsoever had worked loose and the man call’d out to the Lord God for Mercy from his Torment. Only then did we all agree it was in truth the Hon. Magister Hathorne, and that Fate had done him a most unjust Turn.
Looking both High and Low we soon Discover’d that the Most Hideous Villin Zork has escaped clean away, no doubt on the Wings of the Divill Himsel.
Afterwards I bethought Myself hard to recall who belong’d to the 2nd Voice which stop’d Goodie Wainwright from Saving the Magistrate. I decid’d it to be to be that of Goodwife Cooper. She Denied this Allegation and claimed the Woman in Question to be Goodwife Carter. I could not be Definite in my Own Mind and so Examined Goodwife Carter. Goodie Carter in turn sayeth she believ’d the Voice’s Owner to be Goodwife Wainwright, which of course maketh no Sense What-so-ever.
I Beg Forgiveness for this Terrible Mistake, and Promise to Pursue the Sorcerer Zork with all Haste and Zeal.
Ever your Servant in Christ,
Reverend Benjamin Bott
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Appended notes: Silas Zork was not seen again in Dunwich for decades. Rumour had him traveling the world to several unholy places -Tibet, Hispaniola, France- to complete his education in dark works. His family maintained that Zork was innocent. They further claimed his original conviction of witchcraft was Magistrate Hathorne’s retribution over a land deal gone sour, and the accused’s escape a miracle sent by God.
In failing health, Zork returned to Dunwich and his family some time in the first half of the 18th century. By this time, the hysteria over witches had subsided and he lived out his last days unmolested. In July of 1734, after a humble Protestant ceremony, Silas Zork was interred in the family mausoleum in Dunwich.
Contrary to the dire predictions of Magistrate Hathorne’s descendants, the earth did not reject Zork’s body, nor did the corpse spontaneously burst into flame.
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