Текст книги "The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Craig Dirgo
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

PART SEVEN
Mary Celeste

I
Mystery Ship 1872

When Mary Celesteedged away from pier 50 in the East River, there was no reason to think this voyage would be any different from others she had made. Tuesday, the fifth day of November 1872, was cold and gray, but not insufferably so. Just an early-winter New York day like hundreds before and hundreds since. Coats were worn, to be sure, but it was not so cold that a person would turn away from the wind. It was a normal day, with winter fast approaching.

Captain Benjamin Spooner Briggs tugged at his thick goatee, then adjusted the wheel slightly. The current in the East River was running strong and trying to push him back against the dock. He shouted to Albert Richardson of Stockton Springs, Maine, the first mate.

“Furl the main staysail,” Briggs shouted.

The wind caught in the fabric and pulled the ship farther into the river.

Briggs nodded slightly, as if he approved of Mary Celeste’smotion. Briggs was the son of a sea captain from Wareham, Massachusetts. Benjamin was the second of five sons, and all but one of his brothers would make their careers on the sea. His was a childhood of sea tales and letters from faraway ports. In Sippican Village, where the Briggs clan eventually settled, it is said that if you cut a Briggs boy, salt water would flow from the veins. Captain Briggs was as at home on the sea as he was sitting in front of a fireplace in a fine mansion. As part owner of the Mary Celeste,he was anxious to start the voyage.

He sniffed the air and twisted the wheel slightly.

Belowdecks in the captain’s quarters, Sarah Elizabeth Briggs, Benjamin’s wife, was tending to their two-year-old daughter, Sophia Matilda. After feeding her and placing her in a small wood-framed playpen in the room, Sarah played a quiet tune on her melodeon until the child fell asleep.

This was not Mrs. Briggs’s first trip with her husband – but it would be her last.

The winds were not favorable.

Mary Celestewas a mile off Staten Island when Briggs gave the order.

“Heave to,” he shouted to the sailors. “We’ll anchor and await a change in winds.”

Once his ship was stationary, Briggs went belowdecks to check his cargo. Other than a few crates full of personal items going to a New York art student studying in Italy, his hold was filled with a single cargo: barrels of alcohol bound for Genoa, 1,700 in total, being shipped by Meisser, Ackerman & Company, of 48 Beaver Street, New York City.

Befitting his Yankee upbringing, Briggs was a cautious man. And although the barrels were tightly plugged and appeared intact, he worried about the possibility of fumes. More than one ship had exploded and burned when carrying such dangerous goods. With both his wife and baby daughter aboard, he wanted to be sure he averted an accident before it happened.

Satisfied that the cargo was safe, he climbed from the hold and made his way to his cabin. Sarah sat in front of her foot-operated sewing machine, hemming a baby dress. To one side, in a folding playpen made of lathe-turned walnut, Sophia was standing quietly. When Briggs entered, she cocked her head and stared quizzically.

“Da,” she squealed.

Captain Briggs made his way over to the playpen and rubbed his daughter’s hair. Then he turned to Sarah and smiled.

“The winds are against us,” he said. “We’ll wait here until they turn.”

“Any idea how long?” Sarah asked easily.

“The barometer shows changes,” Briggs admitted, “but there is really no way to know for sure.”

Early on the morning of Thursday, November 7, the winds began to cooperate.

A pilot guided Mary Celestefrom her anchorage into deeper water. Once clear of the shallows and in the Atlantic Ocean, a pilot boat came alongside to retrieve the pilot and take him back to New York City. As was the custom, when the pilot boarded his boat to shore, he carried letters from the ship to post.

The last communications from the captain and crew of Mary Celeste.

Benjamin Briggs stood behind the wheel and steered his ship east. There was an inky blackness to the sea that day, combined with an unyielding roughness. It was as if the water consisted of shards of black marble like that used to build a mausoleum. Mary Celestewas on a roller-coaster ride. In front of the bow, the waves rose in a building flood of righteous indignation; then, as the bow broke over the top, the ship headed down with such force that the captain could feel his stomach rising in protest. It was as if they were on a rocking chair that was hitting the wall.

Two thousand feet down was the bottom. Two thousand miles ahead were the Azores.

Briggs had faced harsh seas before and was not concerned. His ship was stout and strong, his crew handpicked and checked. There was First Mate Albert Richardson, twenty-eight years old, with a light complexion and brown hair. Richardson had served in the Maine Volunteers during the Civil War, so Briggs knew he was used to hardship. His pay was $50 a month. Second Mate Andrew Gilling, a twenty-five-year-old from New York City, was fair of skin and hair, a seasoned sailor from Denmark. His wages were $35 a month. The cook and steward, Edward William Head, was twenty-three and newly married. His pay was $40 a month.

And the deckhands and ordinary sailors received $30 monthly.

Brothers Boz and Volkert Lorenzen, ages twenty-five and twenty-nine, respectively. Thirty-five-year-old Arian Martens. Gottlieb Goodschaad, the youngest at twenty-three. All were from Germany – all were experienced. All of these men, along with Gilling, listed their address as 19 Thames Street, New York. The Seaman’s Hall.

Edward Head carefully made his way across the deck to Captain Briggs.

“Captain,” he shouted over the wind, “can I get you anything?”

“I’ll eat when the watch changes,” Briggs said, “in an hour and a half.”

“Coffee?” Head asked as he turned to leave.

“Hot tea with molasses,” Briggs said, “to settle my stomach.”

“I’ll bring it out shortly,” Head agreed.

At that instant, at the docks in New York City, another ship was being loaded.

* * *

Dei Gratiawas a British brigantine of 295 tons that hailed from Nova Scotia. Her captain, David Reed Moorhouse, was supervising the loading of oil from the fields of Pennsylvania. His first mate, Oliver Deveau, stood alongside as the casks were lowered by ropes into the hold.

“We are scheduled to leave on the fifteenth,” Moorhouse said. “Do you have any recommendations for the rest of the crew?”

“I talked to Augustus Anderson and John Johnson about coming aboard as ordinary seamen. I’ve worked with them before.”

“What do you think about John Wright as the second mate?”

“He’s a good hand,” Deveau agreed.

“I’ll make him an offer, then,” Moorhouse said.

“The wind is turning,” Deveau noted.

“Then we should leave on time,” Moorhouse said easily.

* * *

Most great civilizations have one thing in common: seapower. The Vikings, the Spanish, the British – all could trace their power and prestige to the fact that they ruled the oceans. And in the days before corporations, a captain of a ship at sea was a powerful man. Along with being the representative of the ship owners and his country of flag, he was tasked with a fiduciary duty to the owners of the cargo that his ship carried. But his duties were insured.

The hull of Mary Celestewas insured by four companies: Maine Lloyds, in the amount of $6,000; Orient Mutual Company, for $4,000; Mercantile Mutual Company, $2,500; and New England Mutual Insurance Company, with the smallest coverage at $1,500. The total coverage was $14,000, not an insignificant sum in 1872. The cargo was insured separately through Atlantic Mutual Insurance Company for $3,400. The companies were careful about the ships they insured – they insisted that they were fit to sail and properly crewed. Mary Celestefit all the criteria.

Halfway to the Azores, Captain Briggs was guiding Mary Celesteover the Rehoboth Seamount, an underwater plateau along the sixty-degree-longitude line. Turning the helm over to Richardson, he opened a polished cherrywood box, then carefully removed a sextant from a soft deerskin bag. Shooting a fix of the horizon, he determined their location.

Mary Celestewas on the proper course.

“Same heading,” he said to Richardson. “I’ll be below if you need me.”

“Very good, sir,” Richardson said.

The hatch leading below was halfway open, folded back on itself, and the ladder leading down was firmly secured to the bulkhead. Briggs had learned through experience to check such things, as early in his career he had descended a loose ladder and tumbled into the hold, badly wrenching his ankle. Nowadays he left nothing to chance.

Briggs was happy with his crew so far. The Lorenzen brothers spoke halting English with a thick German accent, but they seemed to understand his directions and complied quickly. Not only that, the brothers were hard workers. Every time Briggs looked around, they were tending to sails, swabbing the deck, or finding some other task to occupy their time. Good sailors.

Martens and Goodschaad seemed quiet and studious compared to the Lorenzens, but they worked hard and followed directions. Richardson was skilled enough to captain his own ship, and Gilling would be there soon. Only Edward Head worried Briggs. While he performed his duties with skill, he seemed sad.

Reaching the lower deck, Briggs headed down a companionway to the galley.

“Captain,” Head said, looking up from peeling potatoes.

“How are things, Edward?” Briggs asked.

“Salt beef, potatoes, and beets for dinner.”

“I’d say that sounds good,” Briggs said, smiling, “but I would be lying.”

“I have a barrel of dried apples,” Head offered, “and shall try to bake a pie.”

“Are you missing your wife?” Briggs asked.

“Very much so, sir,” Head offered. “After this trip, I may stay on shore.”

“The return has already been arranged,” Briggs said easily. “A load of fruit, so we should have only a short layover for loading. A month or so, and you will be back home and can decide.”

“I’m glad, sir,” Head said easily.

But in less than a month, Mary Celestewould be in Gibraltar, and the people now aboard would be gone.

* * *

Captain Moorhouse stood on the upper deck of Dei Gratia.His cargo was secured, and the last of the supplies were being loaded.

“Once the stores are secured, give the men a ration of rum,” Moorhouse said to Deveau.

“Yes, sir,” Deveau said.

The date was November 14, 1872. Dei Gratiawould leave New York the following morning. Moorhouse headed below to check his charts – a large expanse of ocean lay ahead, and he needed to be prepared for anything.

Far to the north, near the Arctic Circle, a storm was building. As the sky faded to black, the wind grew in intensity. Dry snow began forming, and it grew until it was a blinding blanket. A herd of musk ox knew the signs and formed into a protective circle, their faces to the outside and the young and sick on the interior. Huddled together to conserve heat, they began to wait out the storm.

No REST FOR the weary. Mary Celestewas facing rougher seas. Briggs knew that November was always fickle, but this trip was proving to be the exception, not the rule. He had thought that once they crossed the sixty-degree mark, the seas would be calm, but in fact they were building. The temperature had risen, so cold was no longer a problem, but the increasing battering to the hull worried Briggs. One of the barrels of alcohol had already split, spilling its contents into the bilge – a few more and Briggs would have a problem “How’s the baby?” Briggs asked, entering the captain’s cabin.

“She’s fine if she’s in the crib,” Sarah answered. “It rocks with the ship and comforts her. If she’s in the playpen, she’s tossed around.”

Briggs looked at his wife. Her skin had a grayish-green tinge.

“And you?”

“I’ve been sick,” Sarah admitted.

“I’ll get a few crackers from the cook,” Briggs said. “They usually comfort the stomach.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“We’re making good time,” Briggs said. “If this continues, we will pass into the Mediterranean within the week. It’s usually calmer there.”

“I hope,” Sarah said quietly.

* * *

Captain Moorhouse was dressed in a full leather raincoat and matching hat. Under his eyes were bags from lack of sleep, and he had not eaten a full meal since the morning they left New York. From day one of the trip, they had faced ugly weather. First it was snow and wind – now rain and wind. A nor’easter was sweeping Dei Gratiatoward a date with destiny. Whatever else was happening, they were making good time.

* * *

Briggs made an entry into the captain’s log. The log was a feature on every ship at sea. Notes on weather, location, ship’s condition, and unusual events were constantly recorded with date and time. The log went with the captain when he reached port; to new owners when a ship was sold. It was a record of triumph and tragedy, a visible sign of the passage of a journey. November 23, 1872. Eight evening sea time. Two more barrels split, hull leaking some, but pumps adequate. Weather still rough. Location 40 degrees 22 minutes North by 19 degrees 17 minutes West. Should see the first of the Azores tomorrow.

Handing the helm to Gilling, who had late watch, he climbed below, shook the water from his hat and coat, then made his way to his cabin to try to sleep. Astern of the captain’s cabin, divided by the storage hold, were the berths for the ordinary seamen. Boz Lorenzen whispered across the space in German to his brother Volkert.

“Volkie,” he said.

“Yes, Boz.”

“Are the fumes giving you a headache?”

“Not so much a headache,” V ^olkert said, “but I was dreaming a vivid dream.”

“What was it?”

“We were home in Germany and mother was still alive.”

“A good dream.”

“Not really,” Volkert said. “It was her head, but her body was a potato.”

“Mother did love the spatzel.”

“Why don’t you crack the porthole?” Volkert asked.

“Because water comes in,” Boz said, before turning over to try to sleep.

* * *

Dei Gratia’sSecond Mate, Oliver Deveau, stared up at the mainsail. The sail had been rigged six months before, on a layover in London, and while slightly weathered by time, it appeared unfrayed. The brass grommets, where the lines attached, showed no wear, and the hemmed edges had yet to unravel. That was a good thing. Since the start of the voyage from New York, Dei Gratiahad faced strong winds. And while the temperature had warmed as the ship had dropped into lower latitudes, the winds had not diminished.

Twin wakes flowed from the bow as Dei Gratiamade way, and the wind buffeted Deveau’s hair. To port, Deveau caught sight of a trio of bottlenose porpoises jumping the wake, and he smiled. The ship was making good time, and if it continued, there might be a bonus from the grateful owners upon completion.

Deveau did not know his bonus would come from an unexpected source.

* * *

On Mary Celeste,First Mate Albert Richardson was straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of Santa Cruz das Flores Island. The landmass and its sister island, Corvo, would be the first land to be passed since leaving New York. The date was November 24, 1872. The wind continued to blow.

Belowdecks in the captain’s cabin, Benjamin Briggs and his wife, Sarah, were enjoying the last of the fresh eggs. Captain Briggs liked his fried, Sarah poached; baby Sophia just liked them. Sarah slid an egg onto a piece of thick-sliced bread, then spoke to her husband.

“I saw a rat,” she said easily. “We should have a cat aboard.”

“I’ll have the men clean the hull when we off-load the alcohol,” Briggs said, “before the fruit is loaded.”

“Won’t the fruit have insects?” Sarah asked. “Scorpions and roaches?”

“Possibly, dear,” Briggs admitted, “but they won’t last once we reach the colder climates.”

“I think the fumes are affecting Sophia,” Sarah said.

“She seems fine,” Briggs said, reaching over and tickling Sophia, who sat in her mother’s lap.

“Well, they’re affecting me,” Sarah said. “I feel like I’ve been embalmed.”

“Two more barrels are leaking,” Briggs said. “I’m afraid since they were filled when it was cold that as we pass farther into warmer water they will expand more.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” Sarah said.

“No,” Briggs admitted, “it wouldn’t.”

* * *

Dei Gratiasailed east, and the sailors began a ritual as old as time. There was cleaning and tending to the sails. Scrubbing and soapstone on the decks. Brightwork needed to be attended to – rust had to be dealt with harshly. The weather was lifting, allowing more time on the open upper deck. The sun shone through the clouds on the faces of the sailors.

So far the voyage had been like many others, but that was about to change.

Off course from the fickle winds. This was not an unusual thing aboard a sailing ship, but one that did require an adjustment in plans. During the night, Mary Celestehad passed north of St. Mary’s Island, not south, as caution and ease would have indicated. For one thing, the Gibraltar Strait now lay south and east of their position and was more easily accessed by passing south of the Azores. For another, just twenty-one miles north of St. Mary’s, not many miles from where Mary Celestewas now passing, lay the dangerous group of rocks known as the Dollabarat Shoals. In bad weather, waves broke over the area with great force. In calm seas, they lay just below the surface, ready to rip the hull out from under unsuspecting vessels.

A good navigator could thread the needle through the danger, but most avoided the area. In the first place, there was little reason to pass to the north. St. Mary’s Island had no usable anchorages. No fresh water, towns, or help available. SHIP’S LOG – Mary CelesteNovember 25, 1872 Eight bells.At 8, Eastern Point bore SSW, 6 miles distant.

This was to be the last entry in the log under “Captain Benjamin Briggs.”

The ship.was passing the last of the Azores, and the eastern point was Ponta Castello, a high peak on the southeastern shore of the island.

Andrew Gilling wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

“Six hundred miles to Gibraltar,” he whispered to himself.

His watch was almost over, and Gilling was glad. All night he had felt a foreboding, a sense of unease without definition. It was strange. Mary Celestewas currently out of the clouds, but in the early-morning light Gilling had seen them to the south and east – a black wall that ebbed and flowed like a living organism. Twice during the night, waterspouts had sprung up near the ship but dissolved before fully forming. And squalls had come and gone quickly and mysteriously, like a knock on the door with no one there.

Albert Richardson walked along the deck unsteadily.

“Watch change,” he said when he reached Gilling.

Gilling stared at the first mate – his eyes were red and bloodshot and his words were slightly slurred. There was a palpable order of alcohol saturating his skin. If the Dane was to hazard a guess, he’d have to conclude that Richardson was drunk.

“Where’s Captain Briggs?” Gilling asked.

“Sick belowdecks,” Richardson said, “as is most of the crew. The fumes are wreaking havoc with everyone. Just before sunrise, I could hear Mrs. Briggs playing her melodeon and singing. The noise woke everyone.”

“Sir,” Gilling said slowly, “I’ve been in fresh air all night. Perhaps I should continue my watch.”

“I’ll be okay,” Richardson said, “once I air out.”

“Very good, sir,” Gilling said. “Just be careful – the area ahead is uncharted and might contain a few unrecorded shoals.”

“I will, Andrew,” Richardson said, as he assumed control of the helm.

Baby Sophia smiled at the black spot in front of her eyes. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, but the little dots remained. Benjamin Briggs was singing the Stephen Foster song “Beautiful Dreamer.” He and Sarah, who sat at the melodeon playing like a woman possessed, had slept little.

“More baritone,” she shouted.

Forward in the seaman’s cabin, the Germans were playing cards. Arian Harbens had dealt the hand nearly an hour ago – no one had yet screamed gin. Gottlieb Goodschaad tried to concentrate on the cards in his hand. The joker seemed to be talking. The nine looked like a six.

In the galley, Edward Head was trying to start the stove. Finally, after much effort, he gave up. Removing a side of preserved meat from storage, he reached for a knife to slice off chunks, but his hand refused to answer the signal from his brain. It was as if his brain were coated in molasses. But he didn’t care. A rat walked along a high shelf, and Head tried to communicate with the rodent telepathically. Strangely, he thought, he received no answer.

Volkert Lorenzen was packing tobacco in a pipe. Once filled, he handed it to his brother Boz and then packed another for himself. Maybe a smoke up on deck would clear their heads. Their heads needed clearing – Boz had just told him for the tenth time how much he loved him. Volkert knew Boz loved him – they were brothers. Even so, the two had never found the need to say it out loud.

Mary Celestewas a ship of fools under the influence of an invisible vapor.

* * *

Twelve feet below the surface of the water dead ahead was an underwater seamount, uncharted and without a name. A series of rocky plateaus with scattered pieces of volcanic rock formed hundreds of thousands of years in the past.

Mary Celestemight have barely passed over the hazard – she drew but eleven feet, seven inches – but the waves were ebbing and flowing, and the ship was pitching up and down a full four feet.

Wood was about to meet stone with disastrous result.

* * *

Albert Richardson stared to the south. The ship was passing lee of St. Mary’s, and only time and six hundred miles of water lay between them and Gibraltar. And then it happened. A lurch, a crash, a scraping along the length of the hull. Mary Celesteslowed as the keel ran along the rocks, but in seconds the forward momentum carried her free.

“Aground!” Richardson shouted.

Even in his befuddled state, Captain Benjamin Briggs knew that sound.

Racing from his cabin, he climbed the ladder on deck and ran to the helm. Staring astern, he could see that the sea in their wake was dirty from where the ship had scraped. He stared ahead and was reassured with what appeared to be deep water. Looking starboard, he could see St. Mary’s Island.

“Why are we north of the island?” he shouted to Richardson.

“The storm,” Richardson said, “carried us north in the night.”

The Lorenzen brothers, Goodschaad, and Harbens ran on deck, along with Gilling and even a slow-moving Edward Head. They all knew the sound, and they all feared the result.

“Stay at the wheel,” Briggs shouted. “Come with me,” he said to the sailors.

Water flooded into the hold between the spaces in the planking. Two feet lay inside the hull, and the depth was rising. Several more barrels of alcohol had burst, mixing with the sea mist into a toxic vapor.

Briggs surveyed the situation quickly.

“Volkie, Boz, man the pumps,” he shouted. “Arian, you and Gottlieb bring me the barrel of caulking.”

As the men ran off, he got on his knees and felt around – a steady flow of water pressure. He dipped his head under the water. The alcohol burned his eyes, but he could see through the dirty water. No broken planks, just a fast seepage through planks that had been dislodged. Pulling his head from the water, he tasted the alcohol. His head was spinning, and he was unable to restore his equilibrium. A churning grew in his stomach, and he vomited.

“Here you go, sir,” Harbens said, handing the cask filled with waxed rope to Briggs.

“Go to my cabin,” he said, taking the cask of rope. “Tell my wife to prepare to abandon ship if necessary.”

Harbens sloshed over to the ladder and climbed up a deck.

“Mrs. Briggs,” he shouted to the closed door, “the captain asks that you prepare to abandon ship.”

The door opened, and Sarah stood there, smiling. Her eyes were beet-red and her cheeks were flushed, as if she had spent the morning ice-skating on a windswept Kansas lake. Peering inside, Harbens could see baby Sophia. She was sitting listlessly in her playpen, a thin trickle of drool hanging from her chin.

“What about Sophia?” Sarah asked.

“Make her ready,” Harbens said quickly. “She’s coming with us.”

A tainted layer of vomit floated on top of the water, but Briggs did not care. He plunged his head below the surface and began to stuff the waxed rope into any crack he could feel. Pausing to take breaths of air, he went under the water time and time again.

“Pumps are going,” Boz shouted, once, when his head was above water.

“Gottlieb,” Briggs said, “tell Harbens to make sure he packs my chronometer, sextant, and navigation book, as well as the ship’s register. Then you and Arian launch the shore boat.”

Briggs looked at a mark on the side wall of the hull. The water was not receding, but neither was it quickly rising. They might have a chance. Briggs stood upright; his head was spinning, and he fought to regain control. The air at head level was thick with the fumes. He shouted down the length of the ship to the Lorenzen brothers. Just then, a sudden squall hit the boat.

“Come topside,” he said. “We’ll take to the boat and ride this out.”

At the wheel of Mary Celeste,Richardson watched in amazement as a pair of waterspouts formed to each side of the vessel. Seconds before, it had been relatively clear, a light mist, a few random gusts, a sprinkling of rain. Then, all at once, the fury had descended like a slap from an angry lover.

“Use the main peak halyard to tie to the painter,” he shouted to Harbens and Goodschaad, who were preparing to lower the boat over the side. “It’s already out.”

The line, three hundred feet in length and three inches in diameter, remained on deck at all times; to take out another line would require the men to go forward to the lazeret where the spares were stored.

“Okay,” Harbens shouted.

Goodschaad tied the line to the boat’s painter, then he and Martens hoisted the boat over the rail and into the water. They played out the line around a deck stanchion and let the boat float back to the stern.

Briggs appeared on deck, just as Sarah, who was carrying Sophia in her arms like a football, made her way to the ladder topside.

“Furl the main sails,” Briggs shouted to Harbens and Goodschaad, as Sarah stepped on deck.

“Honey, what is it?” Sarah asked.

“We scraped bottom,” Briggs said. “I think I have the flow stanched, but just to be safe, I want to take to the shore boat for a time.”

“I’m scared,” Sarah said, as Sophia began to whimper.

Just then a wall of rain washed across the deck and disappeared just as quickly. Briggs stared aft; a wooden box with the items he had ordered Harbens to secure sat on the deck awaiting loading.

“Open the main and lazeret hatches,” he shouted to Harbens, “then make your way aft to the stem.”

The Lorenzen brothers appeared on deck.

“Help Sarah and Sophia aboard the boat, then board yourself,” he told the brothers.

“Should I lash the wheel?” Richardson asked.

“Leave it free,” Briggs ordered.

In the last few minutes, Gilling had remained out of the fray – his mind was clearer than the others’, and he believed that Briggs was overreacting. Even so, he was in no place to question the captain’s decisions, so he had gone to the galley and, along with Edward Head, had prepared food and water to load on the boat. Steadying the boat alongside the stem ladder, he waited until Head loaded the stores. Next, steadied by the Lorenzen brothers on each side, Sarah and Sophia boarded.

“Go ahead and board,” he told the brothers, who entered and took a seat.

The loading was going quickly. Harbens and Goodschaad, then Head and Richardson. Briggs came alongside and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Climb on in,” Briggs told him. “I enter last.”

Ten people total, on a small boat attached to the mother by a thin line.

* * *

A whale breached near Dei Gratiaand blew water from its blowhole.

“Whale a port,” Deveau shouted.

Moorhouse made a note in the ship’s log, then shot the horizon with the sextant. They were on a true course and making time. The weather had moderated, and the sun was peeking through the clouds. All in all, it was an ordinary day at sea.

He had no way to know of the drama unfolding five hundred miles distant.

* * *

Pulled like the last child in a game of crack-the-whip, Briggs stared at Mary Celestein the distance ahead. An hour had passed, and the ship was riding the same – his caulking job must have worked. By now, with the hatches off the hold would be vented. The fresh air had cleared his head, and now he was doubting his decision. “I think it’s safe to pull in the line and board,” he said to the others on the boat.

The men nodded; their heads, too, had cleared. Although they were at home on the water, being crowded on a small boat far from land was disconcerting, to say the least. Everyone wanted to board Mary Celesteand return to their normal duties. It had been a scare and nothing more – a tale to tell their children. A lesson to be learned.

“Do you want me and Gilling to start pulling?” Richardson asked.

Right then, before Briggs could answer, another squall descended. Two hundred and seventy-five yards ahead, Mary Celestesurged forward like a greyhound leaving the starting gate. The line connecting them to their home at sea went slack, then pulled hard against the stanchion and snapped. Almost instantly, the small boat began to slow, as the brigantine loaded with alcohol continued on. Richardson raised the now-limp line and stared back at Briggs.

“Row, men, row,” he shouted.

* * *

Ten days adrift and they were dying. They lost sight of Mary Celestethe first day, and all efforts to row back to St. Mary’s Island had been in vain. There had been no food and water for a week, and now when they most needed it, there was no rain.

Baby Sophia was gone, committed to the sea with Sarah soon after.

Harbens, Gilling, and Richardson were gone as well. Goodschaad had died quietly in the night and lay in the bottom of the boat, while Head had died of a heart attack but three days adrift. A broken heart, Briggs had thought to himself as soon as he realized he would never again see his bride.