t's owned by the English now, but
Castries is a French town, through and through. But Castries sticks in
my memory for a reason which means more to a deep-water sailor than any
land fightin'. We were lyin' in the harbor at Castries when the _Roddam_
came in, ay, more'n twenty years ago."

"What was the _Roddam_?" queried Stuart, scenting a story.

"Have ye forgotten," answered the mate in a return query, "or didn't ye
ever know? Let me tell ye what the _Roddam_ was!"

"We were lyin' right over there, in Castries Harbor, dischargin'
coal--which was carried down by negro women in baskets on their
heads--when we saw creep round the headland of Vigie, where you can see
the old barracks from here, the shape of a steamer. She came slowly,
like some wounded an' crippled critter. Clear across the bay we could
hear her screw creakin,' an' her engines clankin' like they were all
poundin' to pieces. What a sight she was! We looked at her, struck still
ourselves an' unable to speak. They talk of a Phantom Ship, but if ever
anything looked like a Phantom Steamer, the _Roddam_ was that one.

"From funnel-rim to water-line she was grey an' ghost-like, lookin' like
a boat seen in an ugly dream. Every scrap o' paint had been burned from
her sides, or else was hangin' down from the bare iron like flaps o'
skin. She had been flayed alive, an' she showed it. Some of her derricks
were gone, the ropes charred an' the wires endin' in blobs o' melted
metal. The planks of her chart-house were blackened. Her ventilators had
crumpled into masses without any shape.

"Laborin' like a critter in pain, she managed to make shallow water, an'
a rattle o' chain told o' the droppin' o' the anchor. After that,
nothin'! There wasn't a sign o' life aboard.

"The harbor folks pulled out to take a look at the craft. As they came
near, the smell o' fire an' sulphur met them. A hush, like death, seemed
to hang over her. The colored boatmen quit rowin', but the harbor-master
forced them on. Her ladder was still down. The harbor-master climbed
aboard.

"On deck, nothin' moved. The harbor-master stepped down into grey ashes,
sinkin' above his knee. With a scream he drew back. The ashes were hot,
almost white-hot, below. The light surface ash flew up about him and
half-suffocated him. His boot half-burned from his foot and chokin', the
harbor-master staggered back to the rail for air.

"No life was to be seen, nothin' but piles o' grey ash, heaped in
mound