Brian Freemantle: The Mary Celeste

The carriage lurched over an unexpected pot-hole and the owner jerked awake.

And probably, he decided, no one would ever know.

More fervently than during any prayers he had uttered since the voyage began, Benjamin Briggs thanked God for the excellence of his crew. Their response was immediate, without the hesitation of bewilderment or the over-haste that would be the prelude to panic. No one shouted. No one ran. What fear there was — and they were all frightened — they hid, not with the self-consciousness that had shown after the sinking of the unknown ship, but because now it would have been a hindrance. It was fortunate that he hadn’t adhered absolutely to his father’s teaching and given orders only through the mate; there wasn’t time for that. Any more than there would have been time to repeat an order; only people who had complete confidence and respect in their captain would have reacted unquestioningly, as these men were doing.

‘Abandon ship,’ he ordered. He took care to modulate his voice. It was an order no seaman ever wished to hear; the one most likely to affect the control they were all so far showing. So there must be nothing in his voice to increase their anxiety.

‘Attempt to ventilate, Mr Richardson.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The first mate had already been moving in the direction of the for’ard hatch, anticipating the effort to prevent the explosion that was threatening beneath their feet.

‘Fast by the wheel,’ he ordered Goodschall.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Unship the boat, Mr Gilling.’

Richardson had taken the Lorensen brothers with him to the forward hatch, so the second mate called to Martens as the German emerged from the fo’c’sle, the last to be roused by the activity on deck and the strange rumbling beneath it. Briggs looked apprehensively towards the man. The German paused momentarily at the fo’c’sle head, then moved towards the boat strapped upon its fenders above the main hatch; he walked, not ran, noted the captain.

Briggs turned to the galley mouth, aware of William Head.

‘Evacuation supplies,’ he said crisply. ‘Water, biscuits. As much as you can assemble.’

The steward-cook disappeared without a word into his workplace.

Briggs continued his movement, looking towards the companion-way leading into his cabin. Sarah stood quite calmly at the entrance, waiting her turn to be told what to do. Strange, thought Briggs fleetingly, how his fears of panic had been of the crew, not of his wife. He knew her absolutely, he realised. Sophia had been snatched from her bed and was whimpering at the shocked awakening. His wife had not lingered to dress the child. She had wrapped her first in a shawl, then a coat. Her own hair hung uncollected down her back, but she had hurriedly dressed. It was not until she began to walk towards him that he realised she had forgotten her shoes.

‘How serious is it?’ she asked. Her voice was almost unnaturally calm; she might have been discussing a rain shower spoiling a Sunday afternoon picnic.

‘Bad,’ said Briggs, sure of the woman and therefore confident there was no need for false reassurance. ‘The cargo is exploding — ’

He was stopped by a noise louder than all the others, a screeching, tearing sound like the sort that children sometimes make squeezing the neck of a balloon and then allowing the air to escape. The gas belched up from the hold and, even though he was the farthest away, Briggs recoiled at the smell. Boz Lorensen, who had been standing in front of the hatch, staggered to the rail, retching. He was violently sick before he reached it, his shoulders jerking in spasms. Now there was an opening, the rumblings from the hold were clearer. Even though there was an escape for the gas, there was no lessening of its activity. It continued without a break, a continuous roar, like that of a steam-engine gradually approaching a station.

Richardson and the other Lorensen brother were already at the main hatch, uncoupling the boat.

‘No time for block and tackle,’ said Richardson. ‘We’ll manhandle her over.’

The four men strained the boat upright, then edged it forward on the fender bar towards the port rail. Boz Lorensen walked unsteadily from the stem of the ship, looking apologetically towards the master. He wedged himself alongside his brother and began shoving.

‘Lift on three,’ ordered Richardson, beginning to count.

The boat rose up as the men heaved, but Boz Lorensen, still weak, stumbled, upsetting the balance and the metal-edged keel spar sliced down into the rail. The men staggered, but managed to prevent it from falling completely on to the deck.

‘Again,’ said Richardson, re-counting.

Boz Lorensen got better footing this time and on the second attempt the boat cleared the rail.

‘Let it slide,’ said Richardson, utilising the axe-like cleft that had been cut into the rail by the boat’s bottom.

Richardson held the boat at the rail edge until he was satisfied it would enter the water square, then ordered it in. Volkert Lorensen had the painter and Martens a rope around the stern stay, so that it was held tightly alongside as it splashed down. It was a long drop and there was a surge of water as the boat shipped before rising again.

Briggs had been moving his wife and child towards the boat as his men prepared to cast it over.

‘Control of the boat, Mr Richardson,’ he said.

The first mate vaulted the rail, then stood to seaward to lift the split rail through which the companion-way was entered when the ship was in port. He took the protesting Sophia from her mother, for the woman to have her hands free to enter the boat, then lowered the child back to her. Sarah sat in the rear, Sophia’s head cupped into her shoulder to try to stifle the cries.

Briggs turned inboard, looking at the main hatch they had been prevented from opening by the presence of the boat. It was lashed down, as well as being secured by the fenders upon which the boat had rested. At the very moment he was mentally debating whether he should risk the delay of attempting to remove the hatch, to increase the ventilation, there was another shuddering rumble and a gout of gas, visible because of the dust and debris it carried from the hold, erupted through the already open hatch.

‘Collapse the main staysail,’ he ordered Gilling and the older Lorensen.

As he hurried to his cabin, fighting against the desire to run, he passed William Head. The cook had joined the handles of two gunny sacks and was tottering along with them over his shoulders, pannier-style.

At the companion-way leading into the cabin, there was a crash and Briggs jerked around, tensed against the edge of the doorway. Gilling and Lorensen had just knocked the shackles free, not bothering to control the descent of the staysail and it had fallen against the stovepipe on the galley roof, splintering it sideways. As the captain watched, the gaff swung from the momentum of the collapse, striking the binnacle. The cleats which had supported it from the decking gave under the blow and the compass smashed out sideways.

Fifteen minutes must have passed since the sound that had first alerted them, Briggs calculated as he entered his cabin. As he did so there was a further eruption beneath his feet, worse than all the others. The deck shuddered so violently that he had to grab out to his desk, to avoid falling.

The for’ard hatch wasn’t going to be sufficient, he thought. From the evidence of the build-up so far, there wasn’t much time before the eventual explosion and destruction of the vessel. So he would not have time to return again. He thrust the chronometer into his pocket, then snatched up a sextant and navigation book. From a drawer he took the Mary Celeste’s papers and register. He tried to pick up the log, but as he did so the sextant began slipping from his grasp, so he abandoned it, deciding that the sighting instrument was more important.