Chapter I

A storm on the ocean is a fearful thing to see. It roars, it flashes, it races huge waves mountain-high one after the other, it dashes them furiously against the sharp rocks, it howls, it blows, and it tosses great ships about as though they were tiny toys.

Once, long, long ago there was just such a storm as this off the Cape of Good Hope, that most southern point of Africa. For the Evil Spirit who ruled the seas in those days, and who had many servants to do his bidding, had ordered one of them, the Wind Storm, to sweep over the waters far and wide. Perhaps the Evil Spirit wanted to add to the treasures that he had gathered from all the ships he had wrecked--treasures that he kept far beneath the water.

At any rate, the Wind Storm did as he was told. He lashed the mighty waves into anger so that they crashed against the jagged rocks of the Cape, and all the ships that were abroad scudded swiftly along before him in fear.

"Go home," whistled the Wind Storm through the sails. "Go back to your safe harbors. There is no room for you on this sea. I need it all--all--all."

And the ships scurried into their harbors--all but one. The captain of that ship was not afraid of the Wind Storm nor of the Evil Spirit, either, for that matter. His ship was strong, and so was his will. He was determined to go around the Cape. He stood at the prow while the ship rocked violently to and fro. The salt spray dashed over him, but still he defied the Wind Storm.

"I will not go back," he cried, and he swore a mighty oath. "I'll sail on and round that Cape if I sail forever."

Now the Evil Spirit happened to be lurking beneath the angry waters, and he heard the oath.

"Very well," cried he. "Sail on forever and ever, then! Sail on until you find a maiden fair who will be willing to die for love of you!"

And so it came to pass. Through all the long years that followed, the ship sailed on and on. In fair or foul weather, over smooth or stormy seas, under blue or gray skies, the strange voyage continued year after year.

Sometimes the captain in his despair would steer straight for the craggy rocks, hoping to be dashed to pieces, but the rocks would not harm his ship. He steered in the path of terrible pirates, but when the pirates saw the ship, they crossed themselves and hurried away. The blustering tempest would not harm it, nor the eddying whirlpool. It just sailed on and on.

The sailors, who had been young and lively, grew old and silent. Their hearts were as gray as their heads, for though the days grew into weeks, the weeks into years, the years into centuries, still there was no rest for them. Their faces became as white as ghosts, and some say that the blood left their bodies and crept into the sails. At any rate, the strong, white ship turned black and weather-beaten, and the strong, white sails, red, red as blood.

Only the captain remained forever young and handsome, and each seven years as the ship sailed into some harbor, he was allowed to go on shore to seek the maiden fair who would deliver him and his crew from their fate and set them at rest. But alas! no such maiden had he ever found. Many maidens had he met and loved, and many had loved him, too, but to be true to him forever and to die for him,--that was quite another matter.

And so each time "The Flying Dutchman" had gone on again, until once at the end of a seven years' period he came to the coast of Norway.