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“Now I could see that he began to look scared. ‘Mr. Browser,’ said he, to the chief engineer, ‘for some reason or other this ship does not make headway under sail. You must go to work and get the engine running.’ And for the rest of that day everybody on board who understood that sort of thing was down below, hard at work with the machinery, hammering and banging like good fellows.

“The chief officer ordered a good many of the sails to be taken in, for they were only uselessly straining the masts, but there were enough left to move her in case the power of the current, or whatever it was that stopped her, had slackened, and she steadily kept her position with the breeze abaft.

“All the crew, who were not working below, were crowded together on deck, talking about this strange thing. I joined them, and soon found that they thought it was useless to waste time and labor on the machinery. They didn’t believe it could be mended, and if it should be, how could an engine move a vessel that the wind couldn’t stir?

“These men were of many nationalities–Dutch, Scandinavian, Spanish, Italian, South American, and a lot more. Like many other American vessels that sail from our ports, nearly all the officers and crew were foreigners. The captain was a Finlander, who spoke very good English. And the only man who called himself an American was the chief officer; and he was only half a one; for he was born in Germany, came to the United States when he was twenty years old, stayed there five years, which didn’t count either way, and had now been naturalized for twenty years.

“The consequence of this variety in nationality was that the men had all sorts of ideas and notions regarding the thing that was happening. They had thrown over chips and bits of paper to see if the vessel had begun to move, and had found that she didn’t budge an inch, and now they seemed afraid to look over the sides.

“They were a superstitious lot, as might be expected, and they all believed that, in some way or other, the ship was bewitched; and in fact I felt like agreeing with them, although I did not say so.

“There was an old Portuguese sailor on board, an ugly-looking, weather-beaten little fellow, and when he had listened to everything the others had to say, he shuffled himself into the middle of the group. ‘Look here, mates,’ said he, in good enough English, ‘it’s no use talking no more about this. I know what’s the matter; I’ve sailed these seas afore, and I’ve been along the coast of this bay all the way from Negapatam to Jellasore on the west coast, and from Chittagong to Kraw on the other; and I have heard stories of the strange things that are in this Bay of Bengal, and what they do, and the worst of them all is the Water-devil–and he’s got us!’

“When the old rascal said this, there wasn’t a man on deck who didn’t look pale, in spite of his dirt and his sunburn. The chief officer tried to keep his knees stiff, but I could see him shaking. ‘What’s a Water-devil?’ said he, trying to make believe he thought it all stuff and nonsense. The Portuguese touched his forelock. ‘Do you remember, sir,’ said he, ‘what was the latitude and longitude when you took your observation to-day?’ ‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘it was 15 deg. north and 90 deg. east.’ The Portuguese nodded his head. ‘That’s just about the spot, sir, just about. I can’t say exactly where the spot is, but it’s just about here, and we’ve struck it. There isn’t a native seaman on any of these coasts that would sail over that point if he knowed it and could help it, for that’s the spot where the Water-devil lives.’