The Oblong Box

Some years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C., to the

city of New York, in the fine packet-ship “Independence,” Captain

Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June),

weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to

arrange some matters in my state-room.

I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a

more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my

acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that

of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained

feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student

at C—— University, where we were very much together. He had the

ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of

misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he

united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human

bosom.

I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and,

upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he

had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters—his own.

The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths,

one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so

exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one

person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three

state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in

one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally

inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I

busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous

conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It

was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less

pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the

enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great

wonder why I had not arrived at it before. “It is a servant of

course,” I said; “what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of

so obvious a solution!” And then I again repaired to the list—but

here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party,

although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring

one—for the words “and servant” had been first written and then

overscored. “Oh, extra baggage, to be sure,” I now said to

myself—“something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something

to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and

this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the

Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my

curiosity for the nonce.

Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever

girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never

yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence,

however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her

as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was,

therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.

On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt

and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I

waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of

being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. “Mrs. W.

was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until

to-morrow, at the hour of sailing.”

The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the

wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, “owing to

circumstances” (a stupid but convenient phrase), “he rather

thought the ‘Independence’ would not sail for a day or two, and

that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know.” This

I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as

“the circumstances” were not forthcoming, although I pumped for

them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return

home and digest my impatience at leisure.

I did not receive the expected message from the captain for

nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went

on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing

was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt’s party

arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two

sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his

customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to

these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not

even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, per force,

upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in

a few hurried words, made us acquainted.

Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil,

in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly

astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not

long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a

reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist,

when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When

beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared

into the regions of the purely ideal.

The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a

decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was

not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in

exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated

my friend’s heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect

and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her

state-room with Mr. W.

My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that

was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage.

After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong

pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected.

Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time

were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.

The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet

in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it

attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar;

and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the

accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be

remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist,

would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he

had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino:—and now

here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain

nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last Supper;” and

a copy of this very “Last Supper,” done by Rubini the younger, at

Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of

Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently

settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It

was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of

his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a

march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my

very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved

to quiz him well, now and hereafter.

One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go

into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt’s own; and

there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the

floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his

wife;—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it

was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,

disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On

the lid were painted the words—“Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New

York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled

with care.”

Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the

artist’s wife’s mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address

as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my

mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get

farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in

Chambers Street, New York.

For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although

the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward,

immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers

were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I

must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly,

and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the

party. Wyatt’s conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy,

even beyond his usual habit—in fact he was morose—but in him I

was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could

make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms

during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused,

although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any

person on board.

Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she

was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea.

She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies; and, to

my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to

coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say

“amused”—and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I

soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The

gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little

while, pronounced her “a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent

looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar.” The great

wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match.

Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no solution

at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a

dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. “He had

married,” he said, “for love, and for love only; and his bride

was far more than worthy of his love.” When I thought of these

expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt

indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking

leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so

intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of

the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be

sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him—particularly so in

his absence—when she made herself ridiculous by frequent

quotations of what had been said by her “beloved husband, Mr.

Wyatt.” The word “husband” seemed forever—to use one of her own

delicate expressions—forever “on the tip of her tongue.” In the

meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in

the most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up

alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said

to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse

herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main

cabin.

My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist,

by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of

enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite

himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the

natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied

him from the bottom of my heart—but could not, for that reason,

quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the “Last

Supper.” For this I resolved to have my revenge.

One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my

wont, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom,

however (which I considered quite natural under the

circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and

that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two,

and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I

thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put

on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series

of covert insinuations, or innuendoes, about the oblong box—just

to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the

butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My

first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said

something about the “peculiar shape of that box”; and, as I

spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him

gently with my forefinger in the ribs.

The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry

convinced me, at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me

as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my

remark; but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his

brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from

their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—then, as

if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and

boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with

gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In

conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to

uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.

I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to

himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At

length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was

quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of

his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest

of the passage, by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide

with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me

to say nothing on this head to any person on board.

Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of

Wyatt which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I

was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been

nervous—drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at

night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to

sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or

dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt’s

three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the

main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As

we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a

little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and

whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door

between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the

trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a

position, that when my own state-room door was open, as well as

the sliding door in question (and my own door was always open on

account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite

distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were

situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights

(not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about

eleven o’clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the

state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she

remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and

went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had

separate apartments—no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent

divorce; and here, after all I thought was the mystery of the

extra state-room.

There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much.

During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after

the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was

attracted by certain singular cautious, subdued noises in that of

her husband. After listening to them for some time, with

thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in

translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the

artist in prying open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and

mallet—the latter being apparently muffled, or deadened, by some

soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.

In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment

when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine

when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the

lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example,

by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the

wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very

gently—there being no room for it on the floor. After this there

was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either

occasion, until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a

low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be

nearly inaudible—if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were

not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to

resemble sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it could not have

been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr.

Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein

to one of his hobbies—indulging in one of his fits of artistic

enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box, in order to feast his

eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this,

however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have

been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain

Hardy’s green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of

which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon

the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by

means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his

state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from

hers.

We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras,

when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We

were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had

been holding out threats for some time. Every thing was made

snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay

to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.

In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship

proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and

shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period,

however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our

after-sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough

of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one

immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men

overboard with the caboose, and nearly the whole of the larboard

bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses, before the

foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay-sail

and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading

the sea much more steadily than before.

The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its

abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly

strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the

afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by

the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of

it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before

we had succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet

of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps

choked and nearly useless.

All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to

lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as

could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that

remained. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable

to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the leak

gained on us very fast.

At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as

the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of

saving ourselves in the boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke

away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon—a piece

of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping

spirits.

After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the

longboat over the side without material accident, and into this

we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This

party made off immediately, and, after undergoing much suffering,

finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the third day

after the wreck.

Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board,

resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern.

We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a

miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the

water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr.

Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and

myself, with a negro valet.

We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively

necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our

backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save any thing

more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when

having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up

in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that

the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his

oblong box!

“Sit down, Mr. Wyatt,” replied the captain, somewhat sternly,

“you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale

is almost in the water now.”

“The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—“the box, I say!

Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight

will be but a trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. By the mother

who bore you—for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I

implore you to put back for the box!”

The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal

of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely

said:

“Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say,

or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about

to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!”

As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the

boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by

almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung

from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and

rushing frantically down into the cabin.

In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being

quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea

which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,

but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the

tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate

artist was sealed.

As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for

as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the

companion—way, up which by dint of strength that appeared

gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in

the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns

of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his

body. In another instant both body and box were in the

sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and forever.

We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted

upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained

unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.

“Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that

an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some

feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself

to the box, and commit himself to the sea.”

“They sank as a matter of course,” replied the captain, “and that

like a shot. They will soon rise again, however—but not till the

salt melts.”

“The salt!” I ejaculated.

“Hush!” said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the

deceased. “We must talk of these things at some more appropriate

time.”

We suffered much, and made a narrow escape; but fortune

befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed,

in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense

distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained

here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length

obtained a passage to New York.

About a month after the loss of the “Independence,” I happened to

meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned,

naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of

poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.

The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and

a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a

most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the

fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship),

the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was

frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the

deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her

mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the

universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was

well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned

the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.

In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being

first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of

salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on

board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady’s

decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had

engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some

person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased

lady’s-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room,

originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was

now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept,

of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best

of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had

been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers

on board.

My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too

inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is

a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a

countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an

hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.