“The suicidal ships”: Horacio Quiroga; story and analysis

“The suicidal ships”: Horacio Quiroga; story and analysis.

The suicide ships (The Suicidal Ships) is a horror story by the Uruguayan writer Horacio Quiroga (1878-1937), published in the 1917 anthology: Tales of Love of Madness and Death.

The suicide ships, one of Horacio Quiroga’s best stories, tells the story of a macabre discovery: an abandoned ship, adrift, whose crew has mysteriously disappeared. The curious thing is that a new group of men is sent from another boat to crew it, who also disappear the next day. Only the narrator manages to avoid the hypnotic influence of the ship and, consequently, his own death.

In this sense, The suicide ships continues the venerable tradition of the nautical horror story, with formidable exponents such as Edgar Allan Poe, Frederick Marryat and William Hope Hodgson, among many others. The curious thing about Horacio Quiroga’s story is that there is no explanation for the mystery. Disappearances are not resolved. We will never know if it is a ghost ship, although everything seems to indicate that something extremely strange and disturbing is on board it.

The suicide ships.
The suicidal ships, Horacio Quiroga (1878-1937)

It turns out that there are few things more terrifying than finding an abandoned ship at sea. If during the day the danger is less, at night the ship is not seen nor is there any possible warning: the collision takes both sides. These ships, abandoned by year or year, sail stubbornly in favor of the currents or the wind; if they have the sails unfurled. Thus they travel the seas, capriciously changing course.

Quite a few of the steamers that one day did not reach port have encountered one of these silent ships that travel on their own. There is always a chance of finding them, every minute. Fortunately, the currents tend to entangle them in the sargassum seas. The ships finally stop, here or there, forever motionless in that desert of algae. Like this, until little by little they fall apart. But others arrive every day, silently taking their place, so that the quiet and gloomy port is always frequented.

The main reason for these ship abandonments is undoubtedly the storms and fires that leave wandering black skeletons adrift. But there are other singular causes among which can be included what happened to the María Margarita, which set sail from New York on August 24, 1903, and that on the 26th morning she spoke with a corvette, without reporting any new developments. Four hours later, a package, without receiving a response, detached a boat that boarded the María Margarita. There was no one on the ship. The sailors’ shirts were dried on the bow. The stove was still on. A sewing machine had the needle suspended over the seam, as if it had been left a moment earlier. There was not the slightest sign of struggle or panic, everything was in perfect order. And they were all missing. What happened?

The night I learned this we were gathered on the bridge. We went to Europe, and the captain told us his marine history, perfectly true, on the other hand. The female audience, won over by the suggestion of the whispering waves, listened tremblingly. The nervous girls inadvertently listened restlessly to the hoarse voice of the sailors in the bow. A very young and newly married lady dared:

—Won’t they be eagles…?

The captain smiled kindly:

“What, ma’am?” Eagles taking the crew?

Everyone laughed, and the young woman did the same, a little embarrassed. Fortunately, a passenger knew something about that. We looked at him curiously. During the trip he had been an excellent companion, admiring his expense and risk, and saying little.

—Ah! If only you would tell us, sir! —the young woman of the eagles pleaded.

“I have no problem,” the discreet individual agreed. In two words: in the northern seas, like the captain’s Maria Margarita, we once found a sailing ship. Our course—we were also traveling under sail—took us almost alongside him. The singular air of abandonment that does not deceive in a ship caught our attention, and we slowed down, observing it. At last we took off a boat; No one was found on board, everything was also in perfect order. But the last entry in the diary was four days ago, so we didn’t feel much impression. We still laugh a little at the famous sudden disappearances. Eight of our men remained on board to steer the new ship. We would travel in canned. At dusk he took us a little way. The next day we reached it, but we didn’t see anyone on the bridge. The boat broke away again, and those who went searched the ship in vain: they had all disappeared. Not an object out of place. The sea was absolutely smooth throughout its entire length. In the kitchen a pot of potatoes was still boiling.

As you will understand, the superstitious terror of our people reached its peak. In the long run, six were encouraged to fill the void, and I went with them. As soon as they were on board, my new companions decided to drink to banish all worry. They were sitting in a circle, and within an hour most of them were already singing.

Noon came and the nap passed. At four o’clock the breeze died and the sails fell. A sailor approached the railing and looked at the oily sea. Everyone had gotten up, walking around, no longer wanting to talk. One sat on a coiled rope and took off his shirt to mend it. He sewed for a while in silence. Suddenly he stood up and gave a long whistle. His companions turned around. He looked at them vaguely, surprised too, and sat down again. A moment later he left the shirt on the roll, walked to the side and jumped into the water. Hearing the noise, the others turned their heads, frowning slightly. But they immediately seemed to forget about the incident, returning to common apathy.

After a while another stretched, rubbed his eyes while walking, and jumped into the water. Half an hour passed; the sun was going down. Suddenly I felt someone touch me on the shoulder.

-What time is it?

“Five,” I answered.

The old sailor who had asked me the question looked at me suspiciously, with his hands in his pockets. He looked at my pants for a long time, distracted. Finally he jumped into the water.

The three that remained quickly approached and observed the whirlpool. They sat on the railing, whistling slowly, looking into the distance. One got off and lay down on the bridge, tired. The others disappeared one after another. At six o’clock, the last of everyone got up, straightened his clothes, brushed his hair from his forehead, walked sleepily, and jumped into the water.

Then I was alone, looking like an idiot at the deserted sea. All of them, without knowing what they were doing, had thrown themselves into the sea, wrapped in the morose somnambulism that floated on the ship. When one jumped into the water, the others became momentarily worried, as if they remembered something, only to immediately forget it. Thus they had all disappeared, and I suppose the same as those from the previous day, and the others and those from the other ships. This is all.

We stared at the strange man with understandable curiosity.

—And you didn’t feel anything?

-Yeah; a great reluctance and obstinacy of the same ideas, but nothing more. I don’t know why I didn’t feel anything else. I presume the reason is this: instead of exhausting myself in an anguished defense at all costs against what I felt, as everyone must have done, and even the sailors without realizing it, I simply accepted that hypnotic death, as if it were already annulled. Something very similar has undoubtedly happened to the sentinels of that famous guard, who hanged themselves night after night.

Since the comment was quite complicated, no one responded. Shortly after, the narrator retired to his cabin. The captain followed him out of the corner of his eye for a while.

-Faker! —She murmured.

“On the contrary,” said a sick passenger, who was going to die in his own country. If he were a fake he wouldn’t have stopped thinking about it, and he would have jumped into the water too.

Horacio Quiroga (1878-1937)

Gothic stories. I Stories of Horacio Quiroga.

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