"Shadowy Reflections," by Henry Hagny

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Shadowy Reflections

Owen Chase ivriting the "Wreck of the Essex" THE PURE GOLDEN glow of the candle flame spread a halo of light. It confined itself to the small area at which he was writing. The rest of the room submitted to a velvety darkness. Ah! — there gathered shades of the departed. Did they grimace in mock derision? No! — he felt no malice in their presence. There was Matthew P. Joy; only a sad, melancholy smile seemed to emanate from the reflected image in the mirror before him. If only the mate could step out of the vespertine glass and grasp his hand again!

How many times had these apparitions appeared to him? Uncounted numbers, and usually at eve, in the soft twilight, when the tenseness of daytime activity gave way to the cool, relaxed tranquility of the evening, and so it was now. He felt as if the specters in the gloom were directing his pen, compelling him to put down in human writing the saga of their tortuous voyage.

They commanded that this mortal must record the courage, intrepidity and unselfishness of their united endeavor in the face of certain death — how they, with stubborn boldness, came to direct this, their wooden shell, toward an unattainable goal. This delicate boat, made for quick maneuver and ease of handling: solely to facilitate the short and final dash to the whale, there to provide the quietus of the huge mammal; this done, to return to the mother ship.

It was many sea-weary days, added as if step by step to their doom, that they spent aboard her: the horrible slants to windward, frustrating inch long reaches. Conversely, favorable wind tides smashed at the frail craft, seeping through hastily repaired ribs and planking. The continual bailing was attended to with uncomplaining faithfulness. At eve their vittles were meted out: they were reduced now to a mug of water and a large sea-biscuit. It was merely a teaser for a stomach rumbling its displeasure. It was torture to even open their sun-baked, salt-encrusted lips, and then hardly enough moisture to get the food past swollen tongus. This accentuated the extreme hazard of their position. The nerve now breaks; they turn their bony faces to the planking — thus their mates will not see the tears engendered by their anguish.

To ease the terrible heat of the tropic sun they bare their anatomy for a brief immersion in the cool ocean. Their body bones stick out, they look like skeletons. It is then that some, eyeing the emaciated forms, may have recourse to remember old dog "Trey" back home. How they had brutally kicked the old hound

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dog waiting at the door for his rations — he is now too old and of no more use in trailing game; so they wish only to be rid of him. There he cowers, poor rib-bones sticking out. The rheumatic hind legs shaking, quivering tail between legs he yelps and totters away. He has that squatting, uncertain gait, the legs seemingly barely able to support the body. These poor humans are suffering the same fate: now they know, guilty or not guilty, how it feels. To add to it all, the culpable ones know that there will be no homecoming for them to atone. These poor thoughts engender others of a like nature, of past misdeeds. Thus is their misery augmented. They search their hearts and minds for something good they may have done; some are hard put. Finally these dismal ruminations give way to general lassitude, a merciful numbness sets in. Eventually their minds refuse to mull over anything.

Simple, rough and uncouth men though they were, they could still show each other how to die. They went to their deaths in a manly, uncomplaining fashion. Witness the sublime abnegation of the young cabin boy, Owen Coffin. Their visages show no craven cowardice — the taut faces are chiseled into lines of rigid courage and resolution. What a masterpiece would evolve if caught on canvas! So some of them perished — like a dying seabird earthbound (as they were seabound) gasping his last breath, his eyes unblinking, sharp, staring bright lights. He does not compromise one whit of soul spirit. Until that spirit is gone, the light gleams forth, steadily dauntless. Then after one last lustrous, brilliant flash from the unwinking eye, the soul fire is gone — the spirit has indeed departed. That is how these men had gone — did he not bear witness? How could a poor mortal such as he put pen to paper, and sketch the palpable elements in their true perspective? He knew the prosaic words he indited were a poor replica of their titanic struggle. Even the erudite pen of the well-known author who was to edit his words, would fail! His intuition told him so. Still the shadowy apparitions in the darkness spurred him on — a draft flickered the light, but the spermaceti candle held to its duty — as if it too was undaunted by any stray zephyr. . . .

I

A shift of wood, partly converted to ash, in the fireplace made a soft sigh. He roused to half-startled consciousness. He had dozed and awakened to find the pen fallen from his hand. The soft, golden candle flame still burned steadily — was it he who had penned the phrases before him?

Harry Hagny

Captain Joseph N. Plaskett — 1810-1845 One of the fine portraits in the Nantucket Whaling Museum painted by William Swain and recently restored.