by Jonathan Turner Fever ravishes all in its path, yet it is nothing compared to the curse buried within the corpse of the Elizabeth Jane. Death by delirium is a blessing if you are hunted by darkness, the sweet kiss of disease is nothing compared to the terror of being trapped in a cell while the hounds are on the hunt.

t began, as I am told these things often do, with a simple enough occurrence. I was writing in my study at the hospital, recording the events which had taken place during an operation I had performed that evening. I was attempting a new technique - one I had seen demonstrated in London by Prof. Jeffrey Carmichael from Imperial College.
The patient - a boilermaker by the name of Robinson - had developed a strangulated hernia at his place of employment. Our efforts to rectify this seemed successful enough, though if he lived through the stresses of the night and the next day I would be more certain of his survival. The technique was still new, and of the eight patients I knew who had undergone the procedure, three had since died.
    The auditorium at the theatre is always crowded with students and curious nursing staff, but the new procedure had drawn more than usual. Students crowded over the rails just a few feet away as I incised Robinson to relieve his internal pressures. Behind them colleagues stood on the benches to get a better look - something which I have long frowned upon. To be candid, I am somewhat astounded that I held my temper through the four hours of the operation.
    The procedure itself, coupled with the intense scrutiny I was under, had left me in a state far beyond normal exhaustion. My body craved sleep, but my mind would not rest until I had went some way towards completing my notes. There were many details which I wished to record while they were still fresh in my mind.
    I was interrupted from my labours by a sharp rap on the study door, and on bidding my caller to enter I was pleased to see Dr. Thomas Shaw at the threshold.
    Shaw greeted me warmly, though I could see by his face that something was troubling him. I had half expected his visit - Shaw had been one of the many witnesses at the procedure that evening. I offered him brandy and a cigar and we both sat in the two overstuffed armchairs which I keep in my office. There was a moment's silence as we let the warmth of the liquor settle in our bellies. Then Shaw spoke, gesturing to the papers strewn on the study desk as he did so.
    "I'm sorry to bother you, old man. I know you're rather snowed under at the moment." I waved away his protests.
    "Not at all. I'm glad of the interruption," I half-lied, exhaling the sweet cigar smoke. "Busy as always, I assume?"
    Shaw was the senior physician at the fever hospital, which lay at the rear of the general hospital where I had my practice. A tall, balding man in his thirties, Shaw was regarded as one of the England's leading authorities on fevers - and certainly the best man in Ireland. The job was not easy, especially in these troubled times. His dark whiskers were flecked more and more with grey, and his brow was marked with a permanent furrow. Now he chewed on his lower lip for a moment, as he always did in times of stress, before meeting my eyes with his own.
    "Busy, yes. But I shall come straight to the point. Neither of us have the time to waste dilly-dallying." He punctuated his words by stabbing the air with his cigar. The smoke moved in sudden agitated wisps and ash flecked his coat as he continued.
    "There is something extraordinary going on at the fever ward. A number of patients have been admitted suffering from a terrible malady I have not seen before." His vision clouded for a moment and he seemed lost in thought.
    "Death is not easy for these poor wretches," he murmured, half to himself. "The Reaper does his work slow. And hard." I cut into his reverie with a question of my own.
    "Tell me, what are their symptoms?" Shaw appeared to shake himself, inside, the way a dog tosses off rain from his coat.
    "Chiefly, a raging fever of terrible intensity," he said, suddenly more like his usual self. "This fever is so severe madness and delusions are its usual bedfellows. Like some maladies of the tropics, their very eyes, mouths and other orifices may ooze blood." I nodded. I had seen such fevers during my time in the Congo. Death, as Shaw had said, was not easy.
    "But there are other symptoms," he said, getting to his feet and commencing to pace my office. "Sores - at least I have to say they are sores, though I have not seen their like before." I briefly drew on my cigar.
    "Describe them to me," I said, on which Shaw stopped his pacing and turned to me. He glanced for a second at the papers on the desk again, as if unsure of something.
    "It will be easier if I simply show you," he said.

The corridors of the hospital were filled with the stench of fear and starvation. At every turn people filled the halls, dressed in little more than filthy rags. Their eyes peered out of gaunt faces, skin pulled too taut by the rigours of famine and disease. These were folk from the country, those who fled to Belfast to escape the horrors of the countryside. Over recent weeks it had become a daily occurrence for me to witness the dead and dying lying unattended in the streets of the city. Their bodies festered in the sickly, cloying heat of this month of July, 1847. Pedestrians stepped around them with care, avoiding even those who still had the strength to clutch at their coat-tails - though not the vitality to struggle to their feet once more. Watching this scene of hellish unreality from my carriage, I had begun to believe I might do these wretches more good if I simply took my old Navy pistol from my study and put them out of their misery. But down that road lay madness and further despair. No, I must continue in my duty. It is not my place to neglect what I must do for those I can help.
    Shaw and I took the stairs to the basement and turned right, past the milk pantry and the kitchens. From inside came the sound of clinking pots and pans and the air was filled with steam and the smell of cabbage. We emerged from this fetor at the door to the store. Shaw produced a key and unlocked it. We went through the dimly lit room inside, cluttered with medicinal equipment, to another locked door and from there to the dead room.
    The room was filled with corpses, of course. The grimy, bloated carcasses of the poor and the weak lay all around, all the more pathetic in the helplessness of death. Shaw stepped over them without a second glance as he made his way to the inspection room next door.
    Here more bodies were laid out all around, wrapped in simple linen sheets until they could be taken away and burned. Two lay on the inspection tables. Their filthy feet protruded from underneath the plain white sheets. Shaw paused with his hand on the sheet and looked at me over his shoulder.
    "I felt it wiser to show you those who have succumbed to the rigors of this fever first," he said quietly. I acknowledged the wisdom of his judgment with a short nod. Shaw breathed deeply and threw back the sheet.
    The body was that of a young woman, aged perhaps 20. I could see that her left arm was fractured just below the elbow. Her face wore a twisted mask of death - something which one never truly comes to be comfortable with. Her features were clouded with the customary blackness of cholera. Her death had been painful, without a doubt. I stepped forward as Shaw produced his fountain pen.
    "Look here," he said, rolling back the sheet to reveal the poor victim’s torso. "There are the sores I spoke to you about." He gestured with the pen, showing me a series of long, narrow holes in the woman’s side. I counted four in all.
    "Remarkable," I exclaimed, as I knelt forward for a better look. The wounds were like something inflicted, perhaps with a kitchen skewer. Yet I could tell they had not been caused by violence. If they had, there would have been bruising and other lacerations. As it was, these sores were encrusted with dried pus and the familiar red swelling with accompanied more usual lesions. They carried on some distance into the body, and I could see the glistening of internal organs within.
    As I inspected the first victim, Shaw drew back the sheet on the second, a man in his thirties. His beard was filthy and encrusted with what looked at first glance to be coal dust. It was only when I crossed to examine him more closely that I realised it was dried blood. Flecks still hung around his nostrils and his ears. To my surprise, I found he looked almost at peace.
    Shaw gestured again with his pen and I saw an almost identical row of sores on his abdomen. I rocked back on my heels and stroked my moustache thoughtfully.
    "Absolutely extraordinary," I murmured. Shaw leaned against the inspection table and regarded me for a moment as I stared into space. Our only companions were the dead.
    "What do you make of it?" he asked. I shook my head slowly.
    "It’s bally queer, I’ll give you that." Shaw half-smiled in spite of himself. Obviously my complete bafflement was somehow a relief to him. He clapped me on the back and laughed, more like a dog’s bark than a true exclamation of happiness.
    "Well, thank God, my friend. I thought for a moment I had overlooked some recent text in the library. We have a mystery on our hands then." I nodded, still deep in thought.
    "Yes, but do we have the resources to solve it?" Shaw shrugged and drew the sheet back over the woman’s body.
    "In all, there were six like this," he said sadly. "They all survived for a little while. Some hours," he motioned towards the man, "he clung on the longest."
    "Their wounds must have caused them great agony." Shaw shook his head slowly.
    "No, you see, that is the queerest thing of all. They never felt them or complained of them, only of their raging fevers. They did not even cause discomfort when they were touched."
    "Where did they come from? The country?" Shaw nodded.
    "Indirectly, yes. They were all on a ship which departed Dublin, headed for a new life in America. Fever appears to have broken out and the captain decided to lay in at Belfast. They brought the sick here."
    "When was this?" I inquired. "Recently, obviously." Shaw nodded again.
    "Their vessel, the Elizabeth Jane, is still in the harbour, but I believe all the crew have gone. No-one remains on board." He pointed at the man again. "He was the first mate."
    "These are the dead," I said. "Are there any who are yet alive?" Shaw stepped towards the door to the store and threw it open.
    "There is one," he said over his shoulder. "The boson. But he is not sick. Or at any rate, he has no fever."
    "Then where is he? We must speak to him before he leaves the city as well," I said with a sudden sense of urgency. Shaw smiled slowly.
    "Do not fret, my friend," he said. "He is not going anywhere."

I followed Shaw at a quick pace out through the main doors of the hospital and into the street. Outside Frederick Street was thick with humanity - those who had relatives inside the hospital, those who were waiting for a chance at salvation and many who had nowhere else to go. They made hellish mewling noises as we pushed our way through them, clutching at our coats with grimy hands besmeared with filth. It was all I could do to still my turbulent mind and press on. I stifled the urge to gag at their stench, at the dreadful hopelessness of their plight. When we finally emerged at the far side of the crowd, I could feel my hands were trembling.
    Shaw continued at his quick trot, apparently unconcerned at the sea of despair we had just waded through. I struggled for a moment to catch up with him, clutching the brim of my hat. Still shaken, it took me a moment to get my bearings. With a start, I realised we were walking along the sprawling driveway of the District Lunatic Asylum.
    "Dear God, man," I exclaimed to Shaw. "Do you mean to tell me the boson is being kept here, among lunatics?" Shaw nodded curtly and grunted an affirmative.
    "This is why I fear for his safety. I saw him briefly yesterday to examine him for signs of the fever. He had none, but... his mind was none too clear. He was rambling, talking in riddles."
    "Talking about what?" I asked. Shaw shrugged.
    "Devils. Devils aboard the Elizabeth Jane. No doubt brought on by his confinement on board that vessel."
    I took in our surroundings for a moment as I pondered this latest development. The grounds of the Asylum were a mixture of rolling grass and shrubbery mixed in with the spray of colour from the many flowerbeds. An elderly gardener stooped over one of them raised a withered hand to us as we passed. We tipped our hats and continued on in silence for some minutes.
    The Asylum itself was an impressive building, a monolith of red and white stone set among the charming trees and shrubbery of the grounds. Nonetheless, the sight of it chilled me somewhat as always. Inside there dwelt the most wretched of the sick - those whose minds were twisted or poisoned beyond repair. Our attempts at healing them seemed doomed to failure.
    It was with a certain sense of trepidation then that I followed Shaw up the steps into the Asylum. Shaw had regular contact with those interned within, but it was seldom that I set foot in the place.
    Inside, Shaw made his way to the nurses' room and asked for Moffett, the head orderly. I stood outside and tapped my cane somewhat impatiently against the marble floor. A nurse walked past and nodded, carrying a tray of medicines. I smiled tightly at her and doffed my hat.
    Shaw emerged with Moffett and we exchanged greetings. Moffett was a huge man, bluff and hearty with patient and colleague alike. In his bull-like fist he held a ring of iron keys which jangled as he walked. Slipped through his leather belt on a thong was a simple blackjack. I felt comforted by his presence, and of course by my own cane. On occasion I had been forced to use it as a club to force back some of the residents of the asylum. The mind of a lunatic was greatly dulled to pain, and it often took a blow capable of breaking a bone to drive them back. We were in hell in this place. It was the home of devils, that is for certain.
    Moffett lead us down one of the wide, empty corridors, our boot heels clicking on the marble. A nurse scrubbed at the floor outside one of the rooms and I saw blood tainting the water in her washing bucket as we passed. Devils, indeed, I thought.
    "Has he asked for anything?" Shaw enquired. Moffett nodded slowly, spinning his keys on his finger.
    "Aye, Dr. Shaw, he has. He begged me for a New Testament for most of the evening. Desperate to get it before nightfall, he was. And salt, also. I don't know why. I asked Dr Badger and he said it was all right."
    We passed the rows of white metal doors which kept the lunatics safely hidden from view. Desperate for conversation I said to Moffett:
    "They are quiet enough at any rate." Moffett raised a bushy eyebrow.
    "Aye, that they are during the day, sir. But at night, when the moon is high, they put up a noise that would drive away the devil himself."
    At this, we arrived before the metal door behind which the boson was interred. Its white paint was flaking in places but it otherwise looked solid enough. Moffett pulled back the metal slot set in the centre of the door and peered into the gloomy cell.
    "He looks quiet enough," Moffett grunted, sliding the slot closed. He jangled his keys and unlocked the door. I touched Shaw on the arm and he turned questionably.
    "Shaw," I enquired. "What is his name?"
    "Crowe," he answered flatly. "James Crowe." The door swung open slowly with a screech of hinges. It was then that I first set eyes of James Crowe. I tried hard to hide the shock in my face.
    Crowe sat in the centre of his cell, his shirt gone and his thin chest slick with sweat. He rocked back and forth, muttering, and in his hands he clutched Dr. Badger's worn New Testament. Around him, in a rough circle, was a pile of white powder which I assumed was the salt Moffett had spoken of.
    At our entry, Crowe started suddenly and rocked backwards, scuffling to the edge of his bizarre circle. Shaw held up his hands placatingly and took a step towards him, the way one would approach a frightened animal.
    His hair was unkempt and wild, sticking out.
    "All right, now," Shaw said. "I'm not going to hurt you, man." Crowe whimpered and his eyes slid over to Moffett, holding the door open. I stood transfixed on the threshold.
    "Crowe," Shaw continued in his same calm tone, "you know me, Dr. Shaw. I came to see you yesterday. Do you recall?" Crowe's wild eyes skipped back over to Shaw, as if he was struggling to understand the meaning behind his words. He looked as though they were a foreign language to him, one which he had learned long ago and since forgotten.
    Shaw kneeled on his haunches at the edge of Crowe's circle, but did not enter it. I stood on the threshold, not daring to move lest my presence drive Crowe into some paroxysm of terror. Moffett stood quietly by the door like a sentinel, his eyes never leaving the shattered boson. I glanced down to see his blackjack lying in his right hand by his thigh, hidden from Crowe's view.
    Crowe himself had taken to whimpering, clutching the Testament so tightly it was folded in two. Shaw looked over his shoulder at me and raised an eyebrow. He turned back to the boson and spoke again.
    "Crowe, you must tell us about the ship. Those who fell sick. Do you remember?" Crowe locked eyes with the doctor, his face a mask of terror.
    "The Elizabeth Jane," Shaw prompted. I myself thought Shaw was treading a dangerous path, trying to goad the boson into some insightful outburst. I had once see a doctor lose an eye that way. I tightened my grip on my cane and imagined what I would do if Crowe lunged at Shaw.
    But the boson instead began to sob, rocking back and forth on his heels. He began to speak then, but his words were so racked with bitter sobbing that they were unintelligible.
    Shaw stayed where he was and waited for Crowe to get some measure of himself. The boson sucked in his breath and began muttering anew, though this time his words carried.
    "A devil. A devil came aboard," he said to Shaw, turning his gaze to him with maniacal intensity. "It was with those folk who came aboard, those folk we took on in Dublin." Shaw shook his head slowly.
    "Now, James, you know there are no such things as devils. It was a disease, a fever. Tell me when they first fell sick..." Crowe lunged forward a foot and Moffett stiffened, preparing to leap forward.
    "No!" Crowe spat. "You know nothing of what happened! There was a devil, I tell you!" Crowe was on his hands and knees now, leaning to the very edge of his circle.
    "A dog. Satan's blasted and accursed pet," Crowe continued. Spittle flecked his lips and the arteries at either side of his temple pulsed with a renewed ferocity as he ranted on.
    "A black dog with eyes as red as burning coals. It came onto the ship after them, for they had sinned against God with their blasted heathen rites. The captain warned us to stay away from them, but I saw them, down in the hold, heard them chanting as we sailed forth. It was a devil, and its tongue lashed them to the very soul." Crowe stumbled forward again and Shaw shied away. Then the boson reached out from beyond the circle and grasped Shaw's collar, trying to pull him in.
    "It's me it wants! I saw it and it will not let me be," he screamed, dragging at the terrified Shaw, clawing his face in terror. I jumped forward to seize Shaw under the armpits, but before I had even started into the room, Moffett was at the circle, his blackjack poised to strike. He hit Crowe on the forehead and knocked him backwards, out of his circle. As he did I seized Shaw and dragged him back.
    Crowe scrambled up, his arms wrapped over his head, and tried to get back into his circle. He lay whimpering, rolled into a ball, not moving. Moffett kept his blackjack to hand, but did not strike the wretch again.
    I helped Shaw to his feet in the doorway. Blood trickled down his cheek where Crowe had clawed him. He was pale and seemed badly shaken.
    "Dear God, man, are you all right?" I asked, helping him out into the corridor. Shaw leaned on me for a moment and then sat down heavily on a chair outside. He put his head between his knees for a long moment.
    I looked back inside the room to see Crowe peering out at us. His New Testament lay on the floor, some distance from his circle. He whimpered and cried, reaching out for it, but not daring to stretch beyond the circle.
    Moffett looked back at me as he prepared to close the door. I stepped quickly into the room and picked up the dog-eared Testament. Crowe looked up at me with pleaded in his bright blue eyes. I tossed him the volume and he fell on it gladly, like a dog to a bone, clutching it to his chest and whimpering thanks.
    He looked up then, his blue eyes shining. For a second I saw something pass through them, like the shadow of an animal deep down in dark water.
    "Protect yourselves," he whispered.
    The sound of the cell door closing behind me echoed for a long time down the marble hallway.

 IT was drawing close to evening when we approached the docks. There was still a tinge of red fading in the western sky. As Shaw and I alighted from our carriage I could hear the sound of gulls calling to one another as they made their way home, wheeling above in the darkening sky.
    I gagged a little at the stench from the docks and Shaw also wrinkled his face in distaste. The area was still busy, surly sailor types going back and forth with the usual scattering of urchins scurrying between them. This was a dangerous place and no mistake. As we stood by the carriage in our fine clothes we were favored with several hostile glances. The weight of my revolver in my coat pocket was my only comfort.
    Ahead of us we could see the line of ships tied up at the dock, rolling gently with the swell. Sailors called to one another in the rigging of most of them, dock hands hurried around others, loading and unloading cargo. I saw hundreds queuing patiently at the gangway of another schooner, clutching what little belongings they had, dirty faces peering into the half light, filled with silent apprehension. Emigrants, fleeing the horror. Perhaps half of them would make it alive to America.
    As I took this all in, Shaw had gathered his bearings. He pointed down the dock: "There," he said. "The Elizabeth Jane."
    I turned to follow his arm and saw a battered looking ship which seemed to be filling with shadows as the light failed. No-one shouted colourful curses from her deck or rigging, no dockhands hefted cargo on her decks. She lay, abandoned and forgotten, her ropes crying protest as she rose with the swell.
    Her gangway was roped off, but Shaw simply ducked underneath after a sly glance around to ensure we would not be molested. We scurried up the ramp and onto the ship proper, where we stood in the darkness on the empty deck. There was only the furtive sound of rats for company.
    Shaw felt his way along the wall of the wheelhouse, his lantern still shuttered closed. I rested a hand on his shoulder and followed in the gathering darkness. Shaw came to the door inside and threw it open, its hinges protesting as it swung aside.
    Inside, Shaw unshuttered the lantern and we had our first look at the Elizabeth Jane. The wheelhouse was in utter disarray. Maps and charts lay strewn around the floor among the debris of what had once been a chair. Every cupboard in the small room had been thrown open and its contents tossed aside. The brass compass by the rough wooden wheel was smashed, and the tiller itself was tied off. Rats scuttled away from the light to the safety of the shadows.
    Shaw began to search through the debris on the floor, while I picked up one of the charts and spread it on the table in the centre of the room. By the light I could see a dark stain splashed across it.
    "Shaw," I hissed, holding up the chart. "It's blood." My companion stepped forward and we examined the floor more closely. There was a dark brown stain about three feet across on the wooden boards. Shaw looked under the table, holding the light in front of him. He started suddenly and withdrew. His face seemed drawn in the yellow light of the lantern.
    "What is it?" I asked, leaning under myself. There, half way under the table I saw what had caused Shaw to start - a severed human hand, laying palm up in another sticky puddle of blood. In the darkness a rat stared back at me, its black eyes gleaming like pins.
    Swallowing my disgust I stamped my foot and the rat scurried away, casting a final baleful glance in my direction. Drawing a fountain pen from my pocket, I was able to push the hand out into the centre of the floor where we could examine it more closely.
    "Have these blasted rats no fear?" Shaw spat, whirling around with the lantern. They were waiting at the edge of the light, scurrying back and forth, waiting with impatience to return to their meal.
    "Hold the light steady," I said, much more quickly than I intended. Shaw complied silently, though I could see he was ill at ease.
    The hand was missing at least half its tissue and two fingers where the rats had dined, but I could tell that it was a man's. Judging by the calluses on the fingers it was that of a sailor or other manual worker. There was no wedding band.
    The hand had been severed cleanly at the wrist by some cutting implement.
    "Look here," I said to Shaw. "The hand has been severed at the wrist. Judging by the nature of the laceration, I would say it was done with some rough instrument such as an axe or sabre." We sat for a moment in silence.
    "Did any of the victims you saw..." I began, but Shaw cut in.
    "No, none of them had any signs of violence upon them." He paused.
    "Good God, man," Shaw muttered. "What happened here?" I stood slowly and drew my revolver. I opened it quickly and checked it was fully loaded.
    "Perhaps we shall find more below decks," I said.

The door to the corridor which led to the hold was wedged closed, and Shaw and I both had to put our shoulders to it before it sprang open.
    We both huddled together in the doorway, darkness closing in around our weak puddle of yellow light. When I stepped into the corridor, my revolver at the ready, I saw a hatchet buried into the wall at head height. Shaw and I exchanged glances before ducking beneath the handle and venturing further into the bowels of the vessel.
    We crept into the darkness in silence, each of us on edge. Shaw's hands shook, making the light dance about the walls like something alive. The stygian vaults of the Elizabeth Jane were filled with a stench that was all too familiar to me: humanity, cramped and crowded together like cattle. It was the smell of their fear, of their despair, of their desperation.
    There was more blood on the floor of the passageway, and more splashed on the walls. At one junction I saw several human teeth gleaming in the light as we passed. They crunched under Shaw's boot as we stole past.
    "The fever, the fever is the only explanation," Shaw whispered. "They must have turned on one another, mad with their malady. Or perhaps those that were healthy chose to try and keep the sick below decks."
    Had we been sitting on the green lawns of Belfast Castle, or wandering through the streets of the Pale on a summer Sunday afternoon, I might well have taken some comfort from Shaw's explanation of those signs of terrible violence around us. But here, trapped in this awful blackness, with the walls closing in, the ship moaning with every swell, his words of reason were hollow and worthless. This was no place for them.
    After an eternity we came to a ladder leading down into the bilges. I peered down into the inky nothingness and listened. There was no sound save for the constant scratching of the rats. I took a breath and swung my leg over the top rung, using one hand as I made my way down, my revolver pointing into the darkness with the other.
    I reached the end of the ladder and stood, breathing shallowly. Shaw started down, the light swinging crazily as he did so.
    The hold was evidently where the refugees had bedded down. Rude wooden bunks stretched back into the blackness, swathed in filthy bedding. Now the only creatures that nested there were vermin. They watched us without fear.
    "What shall we do now?" I asked Shaw, who held the lantern as high as he could. He turned to me and shrugged shortly.
    "Let us see what we can find. Personal papers perhaps, which may tell us where these folk were from." I nodded and we started into the hold.
    Each of the bunks were very similar in their appearance, no more than a simple collection of slats barely big enough for one person to lie upon. My own bitter experience had taught me that in reality sometimes an entire family would be housed in such a tiny space. These places were a breeding place for disease and despair. Death stalked here with a fickle hand.
    We made our way along them slowly, Shaw holding the lantern high. Ahead the weak light illuminated a bulkhead, separating this part of the hold from the stern section. A crude wooden door was set in its centre.
    But to one side there was a bunk which brought us up short. A set of simple curtains had been thrown around it, drawn to give those within some degree of privacy. They were of red velvet, drifting slightly in the breeze that came before us in the dead air as we walked.
    I stepped forward with my hand out to throw them to one side when Shaw touched my arm. His eyes said everything - dare we look within? My hand touched and I recoiled. The fabric was damp and cold. I wiped the mildew onto my jacket with ill-concealed distaste.
    I reached forward then, mindful of Shaw behind me, and flung back the curtains. Better to know what was within, I thought, but my viscera was begging me to flee.
    But there were no horrors within, no terror waiting behind this crude veil. Inside there was another bunk, as coarse and simple as the others. I stepped back to allow Shaw to shine the light within. He stepped smartly into the hovel and looked around. I squeezed in behind him and turned my gaze to the bed. Shaw peered underneath and I heard the tiny clatter of rats as they fled. I lifted the mattress, clumps of which fell away as I did so.
    There, underneath, was a small parcel wrapped in tarpaulin. I seized it excitedly.
    "Shaw," I hissed. "What have we here?" Like schoolboys stealing away on an evening prank we clustered together as I unwrapped the square of cloth. Inside, there was a book, withered and ancient. I turned it over gently in my hands lest it fall asunder. On the spine, written in a crabby, cramped script, was its title: De Vermiis Mysteriis.
    "What is it?" Shaw enquired with a baffled expression. "I have never heard of such a book. Why would it be hidden here?" I opened the volume hesitantly and saw pages in this same cramped lettering, all in Latin. Shaw resumed his search of the little hovel, but found nothing. I was about to pocket the treatise when I came across a page which made me freeze.
    It was a simple drawing, like a medieval woodcut. In it, there was a man, dressed in rich vestments like a noble. A massive dog, far bigger than even a mastiff, was throwing itself on this unfortunate. Its eyes burned red like hot coals, and in the crude picture its breath enveloped the helpless victims in coiling tendrils of steam. He clutched at its black coat as it tore his chest open with terrible claws.
    I turned and showed the terrible image to Shaw, who turned white at the sight.
    "The hound," he whispered. "The hound that Crowe spoke of. Could this be it?" I was about to reply that I had no idea when there was a sound from the stern. It was a simple rustling, which was suddenly replaced by a pounding on the door behind us.
    I steeled myself to run, but Shaw grabbed my arm and dragged me into the hovel. He pulled the curtains across as we heard the door begin to swing open. Shaw shuttered the lantern and hissed: "We would never flee in time. Stay still, and silent. Keep your revolver ready."
    I would have rebuked him if I had the strength, but instead I merely nodded into the darkness, my trembling hand slick on the grip of my pistol.
    Outside, the door thudded softly against the wall of the bulkhead and there was silence. I waited for perhaps ten seconds which seemed like minutes, and then realised I was holding my breath. I exhaled slowly, then froze again at a sound just beyond the curtain.
    There was a soft padding first along the ground, followed by a muffled sort of snuffling. I could feel the curtain swinging softly in the darkness, but I could see nothing. Then the padding, snuffling sound outside came closer. I could hear what seemed to be a dog just beyond the mouldy red velvet, inching closer. In my mind’s eye I saw the woodcut again, the noble torn to pieces by the black dog’s terrible claws. The animal outside in the hold was heavy - I could ascertain as much from the way the boards of the vessel creaked as it crept forward.
    Then I stepped back in horror as it heard it snuffling at the base of the curtains. I could imagine its terrible snout turning this way and that, scenting for us, its coal red eyes peering into the blackness for a hint of our forms. It was scenting for something, of that there was no doubt. Then Shaw answered my sudden realisation in a hoarse whisper which I could barely hear.
    "The book," he murmured. "It wants the book." He gripped my arm again, his fingers like claws in the flesh. "Give it to it, man. Throw it out."
    I shook my head vigorously, a futile gesture in the blackness, and dragged my arm from Shaw’s grasp. Terror gripped my chest and my legs were as lead, but I knew better than to let the thing beyond the curtain have this volume. I raised my pistol and aimed it at that terrible snuffling, preparing to fire. I cocked the hammer with a click which was as loud as a firework in the dark of the hold.
    But abruptly, the creature outside growled softly and turned away, its padding footsteps retreating towards the bow. I collapsed backwards onto the bunk with relief, my limbs quivering uncontrollably. Beside me I heard Shaw stifle a desperate, twisted laugh, a guffaw which released all his tensions.
    "It is gone," he babbled in a stage whisper. "Thank the Lord." I stuffed the book into my pocket and got to my feet as Shaw unshuttered the lantern with an unsteady hand. "Now we must get out of this damnable place."
    "Wait, my friend," I chided gently. "It has went towards the bow, where we wish to go. We must tread with care." Shaw nodded, turning towards the curtain. He drew it partially aside and looked out. He stepped over the threshold and looked ahead.
    "It is gone," he said, smiling. "I cannot see any sign of it. But keep your pistol handy, eh?" I stepped out myself, but lingered at the edge of the curtain.
    "Shaw, the light, if you please," I snapped, crouching by the foot of the drape. As the yellow beam of the lantern illuminated the floor, I saw a white residue on the floor of the hold. I dared not taste it, but it looked like the same salt circle Crowe had around him in the asylum. The salt followed the circumference of the velvet drapes. With a start I recognised why the creature had stopped where it had. This circle was an invocation, perhaps. Something to keep the unholy at bay. And Crowe… He knew something was coming for him.

Our journey out of the bowels of the Elizabeth Jane was a slow and cautious one. Once, at one of the intersections above, we fancied we heard the hound and once more shuttered the lantern. But there was no sign of the dog, if that is what it was, by the time we reached the wheelhouse once more. Moonlight was pouring in from one of the cracked windows, casting stark shadows. I could feel the smile breaking on my face as I saw the door standing open. It was only as Shaw made his way forward that I remembered we had left it securely fastened.
    "Shaw, the door was closed when we went below," I exclaimed. He turned to me with a baffled look and peered cautiously outside. Voices called to one another on the dock, sailors and whores and other rough types. All seemed at ease.
    I went to go forward and looked down again for the hand. I fancied I would take it with me, for closer examination. But the hand was gone. And beside it, in the sticky black ichor that was the owner’s blood, there was a monstrous paw print. Shaw and I stood frozen at the sight. It was the size of a dinner plate, its claws digging into the wood of the floor and splintering it as it had passed. I looked at Shaw in the moonlight and saw the mirror image of my own terror upon his face.
    "It is free," I said simply. Shaw paused.
    "Crowe," he exclaimed.

As we made our way through the streets in our cab, I could feel the night air thicken with the promise of a storm. As the cab drew up to the gates of the asylum with a clatter, the sky flickered with the first glimpse of the lightning that was to come.
    Shaw leapt out ahead of me and raced up the steps, leaving me to tip the driver. As I did, I saw my hands were still shaking from the experience on board the Elizabeth Jane. Nothing we had seen or found explained the horrors there. Horrors that were beyond the everyday we saw on the streets of the city. I patted the black weight of my revolver in my coat for comfort as I ascended the steps.
    Behind me, the horse shied as a peal of thunder rumbled across the asylum grounds. I paused and looked back as the driver reined the animal in and muttered soothing words in his thick southern brogue. It was then that the lightning flickered above us, tossing the horse into another spasm of fright. But then I realised it was not the storm which had frightened the horse so.
    In the flicker of lightning I had seen it, creeping over the wall of the asylum grounds. A thing that was like a dog, but that moved with the careless feline grace of a leopard. Or a spider. It clung to the railings which topped the wall before dropping stealthily to the ground.
    I stepped forward, my mouth agape. I was frozen for a long moment. I did not know whether to call to Shaw, inside fetching Moffett, or to draw my pistol, or… to what? As I stood, there was a crack of thunder and another flash of lightning. I saw the thing again, loping across the grounds, between the flower beds, with its long feline tail flicking softly behind it.
    The horse cried out in pure terror then, and its scream was like a slap in my face. I started up into the asylum at a dead run.
    I spied Shaw and Moffett some way down the corridor ahead, walking quickly towards Crowe’s room. The big man’s keys jangled softly in his hand. As I ran down the corridor, which seemed to be an eternal length, I could hear the cries and screams of the inmates on either side. They gibbered and jabbered, driven into some other grip of madness by the storm outside. Or perhaps, perhaps they knew. Perhaps some insane insight in their damaged minds let them glimpse what was to be.
    Their cries drowned my own shouts of alarm until I was almost upon Shaw and Moffett. The orderly turned in surprise as I slammed into them, dropping his keys and drawing his blackjack on pure reflex.
    "What the bloody hell!" he spluttered. Shaw grabbed me with both hands to steady me.
    "The thing," I stammered. "It’s outside. I saw it in the grounds." Shaw turned on his heel and sprinted towards Crowe’s room with myself directly behind. He peered in through the small barred opening in the door. Crowe was softly muttering to himself, safe in his circle. Shaw called to him, but the boson ignored him. I looked into the gloomy cell over Shaw’s shoulder. I could make out Crowe’s figure crouched on the floor, but little else.
    I turned to urge Moffett on when I heard, quite clearly, a growl from inside the room. It was then that Crowe started to scream.
    I am accustomed to the sounds men make while in pain, of course. Often we are forced to hold strong men down in surgery, perhaps while sawing through their very limbs. But this sound was something else. It was terror, pure and simple. And something else. The loss of all hope.
    "Quickly, man!" I shouted at Moffett, who had recovered his keys. He stood fumbling with them at the door. Shaw called out Crowe’s name, telling him to hold on, but I doubt the boson heard him. I looked inside and there was a flash of lightning. Shaw and I jumped back. There had been something else in that cell with Crowe. Something like a black leopard, with a tail which seemed much too long. Crowe kept up his twisted, keening wail. And then there was another cry, like a deep, bass rumbling voice, growling out the boson’s name.
    Something slammed into the door then, driving it back on its hinges and buckling its frame. It cracked and splintered, but did not break. Crowe began screaming out names, then, crying out for aid from I know not what or who. He was still in his circle, with the thing inside, pacing around him. Then, as I peered in, I saw it lunge forward. Crowe cried out again, and this time I recognised it as the scream of a man in pain.
    Shaw seized me and shook me violently. Behind us, other orderlies were running down the corridor.
    "Your revolver! Your revolver!" Shaw yelled. "Shoot, man! For the love of God, shoot!"
    I drew my pistol and aimed through the window of the buckled door. I fired into the room and kept firing until there was nothing but a dull click. I don’t know that I was aiming for that thing, for I fear my bullets would have had scant impact upon it. In my darkest nights, I know that I was aiming at Crowe. I know I was trying to stop that terrible screaming.
    The reports carried down the corridor like a peal of thunder, stopping the orderlies in their path. When the shooting was over, I saw Shaw hunched down to one side, his hands clamped over his ears. Moffett likewise was behind me. The screaming had stopped.
    It took five orderlies several minutes to get the door off, in the end resorting to a pry bar. We entered reluctantly, for we knew what we would find.
    Crowe’s body was intact, lying sprawled over his salt circle. Obviously he had mislaid some vital ingredient in his invocation, for he was quite dead. His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning.
    And in the centre of his forehead, one of those terrible sores glistened in the light - bored straight through to the floor beneath his lifeless corpse.
    Of the creature, there was no sign.

We told our tale to no-one, of course. Crowe’s body was taken and burned at the rear of the Fever Hospital along with the others. He had no family, no friends or work colleagues. Shaw and I learned later that the Elizabeth Jane was sold to a Dutch trading company a few days later. By the end of a simple week, the only thing we had to tell us that our memories were anything more than a fever dream was the book we had taken from the ship.
    But that, as they say, is an altogether darker and more terrible story.

Copyright © 1997, Jonathan Turner. All Rights Reserved.