A NARRATIVE OF THE ZOMBIE CAPTIVITY OF MRS. SARAH JIMPSON,
Who was shipwrecked on Block Island near Rhode Island amongst its ravenous horde of revenant inhabitants, having subsequently escaped captivity upon the Lord’s merciful deliverance in the year 1738, giving testimony in the hearing of Mr. C. R. Abram of New York, whose notes were later transcribed by Mrs. Sarah Bellam, providing the source material for the narrative account that follows.
PREFACE
That the new lands of the Americas were once populated with savage hordes of flesh-eaters was a widely acknowledged fact in the days before the Conquest. Many a brine-crusted adventurer had returned to our sovereign shores – heavy-burdened, vacant-eyed, with chilling narratives populated by the shambling inhabitants of those far-off regions beyond the Western horizon. Such tales, shared ubiquitously in pubs over generous flagons of ale, were a source of endless allure, despite their oft-terrifying content and mortifying promise of danger. Generally such stories, while greatly sought for their entertainment value, bore trademark characteristics of sailors’ yarns and delightful folklore, effective stimulants to fertile imaginations, bored with the plowshare and market square. The veracity of such leisurely tales, told by the returned practitioners of failed enterprises in the distant lands, rarely served to discourage subsequent excursions there. While the details of the tales were often wrought with harrowing accounts of strife and carnage, few could be dissuaded from their pursuit of the possibilities in the New World. Its fertile and vacant lands were filled with promise and prosperity, which glistened in the hopeful eyes of those listeners. The dark mysteries of the New World were ultimately alluring, capturing the ambitious spirits of a people long-oppressed by want and the dominion of aristocratic convention. Thus it was that James W. Jimpson, husband to Sarah and a shimmering brood of lively progeny, boarded The Vorare Carne in Liverpool, bound for the northern coastal wilderness of New England with the ambitious goal of procuring a generous claim on the virgin soil of Rhode Island. The following account is that of Mrs. Sarah Jimpson which details the unfortunate outcomes of her family’s beleaguered emigration effort – an ill-fated ship and its misguided crew and her captivity on Block Island.
By the author.
THE ZOMBIE CAPTIVITY OF MRS. SARAH JIMPSON
O men and brothers! What sights were there!
White upturned faces, hands stretched in prayer!
Where waves had pity, could ye not spare?
Down swooped the wreckers, like birds of prey
Tearing the heart of the ship away,
And the dead had never a word to say.
v John Greenleaf Whittier, from The Palatine
December 1738
Our passage began upon departing Liverpool in late autumn of 1738. Despite the inclement seasonal conditions of our native England, we determined to make our passage on a ship bound for the colonies upon which James was able to barter his labor for our fare, his having been employed on a merchant vessel in his youth. The lateness of the season had also softened the captain’s disposition toward James’ offer to work for our passage, having lost much of his crew to the ravages of the fever that had recently wreaked upon them, leaving few who were willing or able to engage in strenuous labor of any kind, much less that on the arduous Atlantic passage. Among the few other travelers were a Spaniard, with whom none were able to converse due more to his disagreeable demeanor than to any lack of familiarity with our language, and divers holy English pilgrims in similar state to our own, poor and seeking the improved circumstances promised by our extant endeavor. The latter were a great comfort to me, who following the leading of my husband, knew not what trials we might face in our venture into the dark wilderness.
Well-supplied at the outset, two months’ voyage in a quickly thickening northern sea had exhausted much of what was palatable, and we Christians aboard the Vorare Carne had begun to encounter a diminishing agreeability in our captain’s crew, many of whom had fallen ill during the long duration of the journey. We had begun to suffer unspeakable abuses at their hands, which only strengthened our resolve to persist and trust in our Lord’s provision. To add to the present difficulties, the weather had taken a decidedly unpleasant turn, pressing our minds and bodies to the extremities of endurance. On the eve of Christmas, a violent wind arose which persisted in its utmost intensity until the late evening of December 27th, careering our embattled vessel up and down ocean swells of alpine proportions.
Amidst the crashing of tempestuous waves and fiercely whipping winds that obscured our view, a signal was apprehended over the port bow of the ship, inspiring the crew and all able hands to mightily assist in its being redirected there. As we approached the signal, we perceived an outcropping of land heretofore unseen, and progressed immediately in its direction in hope of finding some safe harbor in which to rest and retire from our seemingly endless sojourns.
Alas, our joy at reaching journey’s end was acutely short-lived. Our arrival at the first land in two months yielded greater sorrow than even that which we had lately experienced aboard the Vorare Carne. Our reception on land was far worse than any ill-treatment we had received. Following the direction of the signal fire, our ship, steered frantically by the desperate, half-starved crew, suddenly shuddered as its hull scraped against an invisible shoal. The vicious waves continued their bombardment, pushing our vessel forth until it struck a large protrusion of jagged rocks beneath a steep, stony ridge that jutted up from the water some fifty feet. Immediately, all aboard were violently cast to the deck in a most unflattering fashion, colliding with barrels and crates and persons equally and becoming quite bruised in the process. A tremendous crashing roar issued from below decks as the hull of the ship was dashed to tinder on the unforgiving rock jetty, leaving the vessel quite stranded on its rugged heights.
Beyond the jetty, stretching for some distance lay a smoothly sanded beach, now littered with maritime flotsam and boat timbers deposited by the storm. As we gathered our senses and family members, we began to peep over the tilting rails of the deck to observe this new land upon which we had been thrust so unceremoniously. The morning light was beginning to emerge from the eastern horizon, casting a pale light on the beach and up the grassy ledge beyond.
Each gathering as many provisions as possible, we began to disembark onto the slippery rocks upon which our ship had become stranded, goaded forth by the terse barking of the captain. Working slowly down toward the beach and the shelter of the rocks, the first of our disheartened numbers descended in a slow and awkward line. I stood momentarily, gazing out over the lightening beach, when a slight movement caught my vision. Partially submerged in the sand, an indistinct object I previously assumed to be a buried log of driftwood began to wriggle and twist in a struggle to release itself. In short order, I began to notice a multitude of similar shapes endeavoring to extract themselves from the clinging bonds of wet sand in which they were imprisoned.
Then to my ears came a frightful noise, one that chills my very blood presently to think on it. Emanating from the beach, we heard a sound drift over the crashing of the ocean surf that hearkened no earthly remembrance. It was a dark, mournful, moaning sound, unmistakably human in nature, yet from which sound-producing organ it was difficult to surmise. Soon the wriggling masses of darkness on the beach had freed themselves and begun to approach in a shambling gait, dragging forward, almost staggering, yet ever-progressing in our direction. Their appearance, though human, advertised a physical reality of which none present in our ill-fated company had ever witnessed. In the growing light of morning, features began to emerge describing a condition of decay – drawn, leathery skin riddled with rot, here and there torn away to reveal yellowed bone and blackened sinews underneath; ragged clothing, or none at all, sodden and stinking in the shifting breezes that wafted toward our suffering noses.
As they approached, the moaning sound intensified, penetrating our startled senses, inflicting a sort of paralysis in our party. Those just reaching the level of the beach had turned now to see the approaching group of monsters, arms outstretched, moaning horribly. Eyes wide and paralyzed with shock and terror, our brothers and sisters began shrieking as the creatures seemed to envelope them in a mass of flesh-rending teeth and clasping hands. Their screaming became muffled as they fell beneath the gathering horde, each focused on consuming them like a pack of ravenous predators. God’s own mercy prevented us from seeing the flesh being bitten and torn from their struggling bodies, their blood bubbling and mingling with the sand and frothing surf.
Thus seeing the revenants having satisfied their initial gustatory urges and begin ascending to our location, we remaining frantically began seeking an alternative route of escape from the escarpment upon which we were situated, scrambling back and forth in search of a second avenue of descent. Each path was becoming increasingly clustered with the hideous creatures, now freshly bloodied at the mouth, which fervently sought our flesh. The moaning continued to grow in volume, and I looked past the beach and up the grassy bank to see more of the revenants approaching, slouching clumsily over the sandy ledge, tumbling forward, driven by an insatiable appetite.
Lacking a proper weapon, my James, taking up a fishing gaff that had dislodged from the deck of the Vorare Carne, looked over to me instructively, saying, “Gather the children, Sarah! Keep them behind you and follow me!” Turning, he began to descend the rocks into the onslaught of squirming flesh struggling upwards.
I called to the children, saying, “Stay close! Follow Mother, dears!” My littlest, Elizabeth, was staring, wild-eyed at me, paralyzed with fear and unable to move, so I gathered her up in my arms and began to move forward, the other two following.
James was encountering the first of the monsters, swinging the fishing gaff wildly at them, piercing their flesh at the sides, tearing gaping holes in their skin, cracking bone. They fell easily, seeming to respond to the slightest touch of the improvised weapon, tumbling awkwardly down the rocks toward the surf. Once coming to rest out of their tumble, however, each would simply rise again to renew its assault on the living prey that we had become, their jaws opening and closing, white teeth and livid jawbones grinning, to emit the frightful moans. The army of ghouls was ever-increasing as the new arrivals continued to flood over the embankment bordering the beach, fumbling toward us, their prey; James and the other men, each now armed with all variety of staff and stick, continued to swing the weapons concertedly at their pulsing numbers. Suddenly, James thrust his gaff forward, striking and penetrating the forehead of one nearly naked, bearded revenant, which summarily collapsed in a heap and failed to rise, or even move, again.
With renewed hope, the men began striking at the heads, clubbing, thrusting, slashing, and the creatures began to fall. We made our way slowly down the steep rocks, stepping on and over the reclining corpses that had begun to accumulate in our path, lain low by the deathblows of the fighting men. Occasionally, a man would cry out as a creature grabbed his ankle or wrist and quickly brought his teeth to the soft flesh. Six or seven of the men fell this way, but my James continued to lead us forward, dropping a foe with every step.
At great length, we arrived at the beach to find ourselves almost entirely surrounded by the savage horror of our present crisis. Many of our number fell into the grasping clutches of the undead on that dismal morning. James and the two other remaining men, seeing the desperation of our plight, made an equally desperate to plunge into the horde, weapons raised, in a mad rush toward the hillside, which had now emptied of the creatures. I and the other women followed briskly, hindered slightly by our skirts and the burden of the children, each much smaller, or being carried. The mad plunge achieved measured success, as we were able to break through the crowd of ghouls, knocking them willy-nilly in our ambitious charge up the beach. The men had disappeared among the emaciated creatures thronging around us, and were nowhere in sight when we arrived finally at the top of the sandy ridge. The monsters pursued, but at a much slower pace, stumbling and tripping in the steep sand and over each other like larvae, allowing us precious time to escape up the hillock past the beach and into a series of low dunes, where we were able to pause briefly to assess our condition.
It was then that I realized my insurmountable loss and the desperation of our predicament! My James was gone, and with him my eldest son James, his father’s namesake – each sacrificed for our own wellbeing! Alas, what grief ensnares us on our journey to freedom! What despair! Our party’s numbers were now few, limited to myself and a snarling crewmember named Smith, who had treated all of us with vigorous contempt, particularly during the last weeks of our voyage, denying us all comfort and courtesy; and two of my beloved children, Elizabeth and Jeremiah. All others were gone, lost to the unholy embrace of the fiends who now relentlessly pursued us. I shudder now to think on their fate!
Unable to linger for fear of our pursuers, we quickly determined that some form of defensible shelter would provide our only hope of survival until a more permanent arrangement could be formulated, and that we would best succeed in finding some by continuing toward the interior of the land upon which we now rested. The children, already cold and frightened, wailed dreadfully as we proceeded into the dunes in the lightening morning, the moans of the ambulant corpses now muffled and distant. We trudged through the sand and sea-grass for what seemed hours, ever upward to a high promontory overlooking the beach we had recently fled. Reaching its summit, we again stopped to rest and observe our surroundings from its elevated vantage point. Scanning in every direction, we were chagrined to discover that we had wrecked upon an island with a clear swath of land to the northwest across a vast channel, indicating the mainland of the Rhode Island colonies, our desired destination. We were not certain whether to cheer in joy or cry in desperation! We had come so nigh to our intended destination, and yet, in considering our situation, we could garner no comfort from that realization.
Looking back down the ridge we had just ascended, we saw several members of our unfortunate party, walking slowly in our direction! My Elizabeth cried out, “Look, Mother – it’s Miss Jennifer! See, it’s her dress and apron!” It was indeed Miss Jennifer, Elizabeth’s dear young companion aboard the ship! And yet, altered somewhat. Though distant from us, observable in her countenance, thanks to the gaining brightness of the morning sunshine, was a gory splash of crimson and the absence of a lower jaw. Her abdomen, clothed in a torn white apron, displayed with great clarity, the violence that had been enacted upon it, as it appeared hollow and empty of viscera. Elizabeth gasped and brought her hand to her open mouth. Both of the children began screaming as we observed, emerging among the rotting troupe that approached, those formerly dear members of our ill-fated party, each in conditions similar to that of our beloved Miss Jennifer! The worst of the stories communicated by inebriated sailors in England was proving true, that the bite of the walking dead produced in its victim the same condition as that which animated its giver. Our friends and the ship’s crew had been transformed and were now stumbling in singular pursuit of us – to devour us! All that separated us from them now was an invisible agent contained within the walking horrors on the dunes. Our terror magnified, we commenced a mad rush in the opposite direction, blindly thrashing through the thickening underbrush of the interior of the island.
Our progress persisted for nearly an hour when we happened upon a high fence of iron, topped with fearsome spearheaded finials. We proceeded along the perimeter of the fence for several minutes until arriving at an equally formidable gate, locked with an enormous black chain and padlock. Within lay a cobbled path leading to a high wooden wall of bound timbers, which seemed to enclose an encampment from which emanated a small amount of rich smelling wood smoke. We began calling out in an endeavor to raise the attention of a guard or sentry. Immediately, shouts sounded from within the structure, and a general tumult ensued. Angry voices emitted from a number of well-armed men who were running, weapons raised, toward us from within the enclosure. I was hesitant to assess this as an improvement to our situation, as the aggressive countenances of our rescuers elicited a natural fear, owing to their warlike demeanor. Upon reaching the gate, however, and peering cautiously at us, paying particular attention to our eyes, they seemed to relax somewhat, and issued a terse command to an unseen sentry, resulting in the gates of the fortress being flung open, allowing our entry and succor.
Sadly, our joy was incredibly short-lived as we were met with continued suspicion. Our hands were bound, even the children, and course cloth gags were placed roughly in our mouths and secured behind our heads. We were briskly led to an area before a campfire around which was sitting a large number of men and women in animal skins and other crude frontier clothing. Our bound hands were tied together and then secured to an iron ring attached to a post, the remnant of a large tree in the middle of a small clearing. One man, at the center of the row of people directly before us, stood and approached slowly, looking carefully into each of our faces, as if attempting to discern our intentions.
“Have any of you been bitten?” he asked suddenly. None could respond for the gags tightly fixed to our mouths. We looked back and forth at each other, wide-eyed and silent.
“Remove their gags!” the man barked abruptly. Quickly, two or three men glided around behind us, hastily untying the cloths preventing our speech. Desperation bade my voice to cry out in outrage.
“Sir, we have suffered almost unendurable injustices this night and day, having shipwrecked on the eastern shore of this your island. Many are they that were lost to the ravenous fiends that swarm the beach there! What mean you, binding us here in such barbarous fashion?!” I exclaimed.
“I will repeat my question to you all,” the man responded indifferently. “Have any of you been bitten? Your life depends upon it!”
“Yea, I have a bit of a bite or scratch,” said Smith, after a lengthy pause. “It was painin’ me some at first, but it’s stopped hurtin’ now.”
“Where is it?”
“Me ankle,” he replied, looking down at a seeping dark wetness on the cuff of his trousers. “Must’ve caught me back at the beach when we made a run for it. But it’s fine now. Doesn’t even hurt.”
The man looked up quickly over to lean man at his side. “Take him outside,” he said quietly. The other man stepped quietly and swiftly to Smith, who appeared ashen, sweat glistening on his brow in the early afternoon sun. Grunting, he struggled to his feet under the assistance of the man, whom he allowed to lead him back through the gate through which we had recently come. We watched as Smith was led away until he disappeared from view around a corner. The man’s face darkened as he looked once again at my children and me.
“You do realize we cannot trust that you are not infected,” he said.
“Infected with what ailment, sir?” I replied, indignantly.
“At whatever it is creates them, Ma’m,” he replied. “We are very few in this compound. We can take no chances of letting that mess in here.”
“I assure you, we are not bitten, sir!” I cried. “We are good Puritan people. Lying is a sin we avoid. We are not infected, as you say!”
“All the same to you, we will have to quarantine you for a few days, just in case.”
“Quarantine?”
“Just to be sure,” he coaxed. “We have to be sure. Then we’ll let you go.” He rose and nodded to another man. “Gather up the children, Robert.”
“Please let my children stay with me,” I cried. “They have endured such loss this day.”
“We’ll take good care of them for you, ma’m. Not to worry.”
At this statement, he nodded to another lanky fellow standing behind us, joined the man named Robert, who came forward and untied Elizabeth and Jeremiah from the post. The children began to wail and struggle, attempting to run to me. Keeping their hands tied and ignoring their protests, the men led them into the camp beyond a small cluster of men and women who were standing quietly at the edge of the clearing. Their whimpering cries fading into the dissonant sounds of the employments of camp life. I looked at the man, desperation in my eyes.
“Please, let me go!” I wept. “I can’t be separated from my children.”
“They will be attended to humanely, I assure you. It’s happened before. Hard to avoid bites in the thick of the conflict. Our enemy is relentless.”
“But they weren’t bitten. I promise you. I have been with them the entire time!”
The man was unconvinced, and although the fancy of my mind has imagined innumerable fates for my dear children, I have never again seen them. I was left at the post for three days, given bread and fresh water to sustain my most basic needs. The man visited regularly, looking in my eyes and talking gently with me. At the end of three days, I was untied and released, allowed to join the other survivors in the camp, each of whom had arrived by similar circumstance, led by a common fate to this very place, where they had been somehow selected to endure the incomprehensible loss of their families and native homes to spend an indeterminate time in this frontier, locked behind an iron fence bordered by legions of the animate dead.
My captivity was a paradox in which the freedom from the oppressions of my homeland was endured within the narrow confines of a cage, safe from the indescribable horrors of the cannibalistic denizens of Block Island. It was not until the arrival of another English ship two years later, a warship bound for the colonies, that we were able to escape our prison of safety, securing passage to the mainland where we were allowed to disembark. By then, we were neither English nor American, but merely shadows of ourselves, devoid of identity, regarded as lunatics by both English and American. None in the colonies would believe our tales of the undead, thriving in isolation upon that forsaken isle. Not until the arrival of more boats from our beloved England would the threat be confronted and adequately suppressed. By then, alas! What innumerable scores of victims might be lured to a similar fate by the accursed light that directed our ship to its ultimate ruin, forever blighting our prospects in the new lands for which we had pined so fervently?
(c) 2010 Karl Becker
