Brian Freemantle - The Mary Celeste

‘Boiled beef and excellent greens,’ said Briggs. ‘Morehouse has got a good cook aboard.’

He looked at Sophia’s dress that his wife was mending, then at her sewing machine in the comer.

‘Why by hand?’

She nodded towards the tiny cot from which came faint stirrings of the baby girl.

‘I thought the noise might disturb her.’

‘She’ll have to get used to noise, during the voyage,’ he said.

‘Let’s wait until the voyage,’ said his wife. She watched him go to his desk and take out his writing case.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I promised Morehouse I would write him a letter of introduction to Captain Winchester. I’ll send a letter to Winchester as well, warning him to expect an approach.’

‘Why?’

‘Morehouse is keen to buy into a company, like us. I thought Winchester might enjoy meeting him.’

‘Does he have any money?’

‘No, but Captain Winchester might know a way.’

Sarah bent over her mending and Briggs settled at his desk to write his letters. Almost ten minutes passed before the woman spoke again.

‘Do you like Morehouse?’ she asked suddenly.

Briggs looked up from his correspondence, frowning.

‘Like him?’ he echoed. ‘That’s an odd question.’

‘Do you?’ she persisted.

‘Of course,’ said Briggs. ‘He’s a friend of mine. We’ve known each other almost since we went to sea. Why do you ask?’

She went back to her mending, considering her reply.

‘There have been times,’ she said, ‘when I felt he was jealous of you.’

He laughed, a disbelieving sound:

‘David Morehouse, jealous of me! Shame on you for harbouring such thoughts, Sarah. He’s our friend.’

‘I’ve my reservations,’ said the woman stubbornly.

‘If there’s any envy, it’s my marriage to you.’

She made a movement of irritation.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Trust me at least to be able to recognise that. It’s not our marriage he covets. It’s your success.’

Now it was Briggs’s turn to show annoyance.

‘I consider David Morehouse to be my friend,’ he repeated warningly.

‘I felt you should know my feelings,’ she said, aware she had gone too far.

‘And now you must know mine. I never want this discussion to arise between us again.’

She remained with her head lowered over her mending.

‘Further,’ continued Briggs, ‘there’s a strong chance of our encountering the Dei Gratia in Gibraltar. If we are in port at the same time, I’ve invited him to dine with us. I want him made welcome at our table.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Properly welcome, Sarah,’ he insisted.

She looked up at him.

‘I’m sorry I’ve annoyed you, husband,’ she said. ‘You know I’ll make your friend properly welcome. And never doubt him again.’

‘ Our friend,’ Briggs corrected her.

‘As you say,’ accepted Sarah. ‘Our friend.’

Frederick Solly Flood knew himself to be a man of some confidence (although he would have angrily disdained conceit) but prided himself, too, that it was an attitude always tempered with the proper objectivity.

And objectively he accepted that the previous day he had been bested. Not worryingly so. Nor to a degree to affect the final outcome of the enquiry. Indeed, few people present would have recognised it with the honesty he was showing. But by the standards he set himself — and by which he was known and respected within the community of Gibraltar — the Attorney-General did not consider he had sufficiently controlled Captain Winchester as a witness.

Still objective, he realised the fault was none but his own. He had insufficiently anticipated the deviousness of the man, which was a grave mistake. He should have appreciated that a mind capable of evolving a scheme the true extent of which they still had to learn — and he was increasingly convinced that Captain Winchester was involved — would not be easily upset no matter how probing the questions.

Continuing his self-analysis, Flood knew that he was a man to learn from his mistakes. And he was determined not to repeat the errors of the previous day.

And they would be easy to avoid, he decided, looking up from his table as Captain Morehouse came to the end of the evidence through which he had been guided by his counsel, Henry Pisani. Captain Winchester was a different cut from this man: Morehouse was a sailor, more used to a quarter-deck than a boardroom.

At the invitation from Cochrane, Flood rose more purposefully this time, without the pantomime of unpreparedness. Morehouse was a man to be influenced by determination rather than lulled by vagueness.

‘You knew the destination of the Mary Celeste?’ he demanded abruptly.

‘Yes.’

‘From your night-before-sailing dinner with Captain Briggs?’

‘Yes.’

‘And had even arranged a convivial evening, here in Gibraltar?’

‘I have already given evidence as such.’

‘Indeed you have, Captain Morehouse. And to that dinner party, the night before the Mary Celeste was to sail upon this now infamous voyage, we will return later, but for the moment I want you to assist me on some technical matters.’

Morehouse was regarding him uncertainly, the Attorney-General realised. Almost as if he were frightened.

‘I will assist as best I can.’

‘An assurance for which I am sure this court is grateful, Captain Morehouse. From that dinner party, as you have attested, you knew the destination of the Mary Celeste?’

‘Captain Briggs told me Genoa.’

‘Quite so. And before that, Gibraltar?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you could estimate, from your expertise as a master-mariner, his likely course?’

‘We discussed it,’ said Morehouse. ‘In view of the continued gales and storms of which we were getting reports before we left New York and the fact that he had his family aboard, Captain Briggs intended to set a southerly course.’

‘Remind the court, if you will, of your setting when you came upon the Mary Celeste on December 5.’

‘I’ve already given that.’

‘I asked you to remind the court again, Captain Morehouse.’

‘Latitude 38.20 N. by longitude 17.15 W.,’ said Morehouse.

Despite the man’s full, almost theatrical beard, Flood recognised the slight burst of colour to Morehouse’s face at the reminder of who was conducting the questioning. And his eyes seemed to be staring more obviously from his face. Flood judged Morehouse to be a man of violent temper.

‘You are a master of some experience?’

‘I have been qualified for the past thirteen years,’ said Morehouse, the pride obvious.

‘A fine record,’ said Flood genially. ‘Now, from the experience of those thirteen years, advise the enquiry of a likely setting for a vessel taking a southerly course from New York, en route for Gibraltar, some eighteen days after departure.’

Morehouse frowned, looking to Pisani. Flood was aware of the other lawyer’s unhelpful shrug.

‘Roughly that upon which I came upon the vessel,’ said Morehouse. ‘Although when we closed to the Mary Celeste she was sailing back upon herself, westwards, not eastwards as she should have been if the Straits of Gibraltar were her heading.’

‘Remind the court again, if you will, Captain Morehouse, of the date inscribed upon the slate-log found by one of your men after boarding.’

‘Eight in the morning of November 25,’ said the captain.

‘Ten days before, according to the evidence that you have presented to this court, you came upon the vessel?’

‘Yes.’

‘How was she set?’

‘Her rigging and sheets were in great disarray,’ said Morehouse, his face creased with the effort of recollection. ‘What I first took upon the sighting through my glass to be a distress signal subsequently turned out to be a flapping sail, torn from its mast. What first struck me as peculiar was that although her jib and fore-topmast staysail were set upon the starboard tack, she was sailing upon the port tack, yawing as she came into the wind and then falling off again. I watched her doing that for two hours.’