Brian Freemantle: The Mary Celeste

By nine-thirty it had become almost oppressively hot, reminiscent of the thunderstorms of which they had first thought they were victims, before realising it was the cargo sounding. The cook had ladled from his ample supply of water, handing the cup first to the woman and child, next to the captain and then down through order of seniority. Sophia had complained of hunger and grimaced at the ship’s biscuit that was handed to her. She started to whimper, but Sarah quietened her and eventually she sat gnawing upon it, the activity taking her mind off having to be cramped constantly upon her mother’s lap.

‘The drift is away from land,’ Gilling reported. Towlines to the rafts were submerged beneath the water.

‘I know,’ said Briggs.

The sound from the vessel was taking a long time to clear, but increasingly Briggs was beginning to feel Richardson’s optimism. Had he kept them aboard for only a few minutes longer, to release the main hatch, the ship would have been safe by now, he realised. But there was no way he could have known that. So the decision to abandon had been the correct one.

‘Don’t reckon we’ll be needing a landfall,’ said Richardson.

‘I hope we don’t have to attempt that one,’ said Briggs, jerking over his shoulder. He stayed twisted around, looking at his wife. She smiled at him, a hopeful expression. She was still very frightened, he recognised. But not so much as when they had first had to leave the ship. He smiled back.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ he mouthed.

‘I know,’ she said back, silently.

‘Make a story to tell,’ said Richardson.

‘One I’d have gladly avoided,’ said Briggs, with feeling, turning back to stare at his empty ship.

The boat lifted suddenly, higher than it had been, and Briggs looked outboard curiously, wondering at the change of current.

‘Binnacle won’t take a moment to repair,’ said Richardson, who had seen the gaff knock it off its mountings. ‘The cleats have gone adrift, that’s all.’

‘Galley chimney might take a little longer,’ said Gilling.

Briggs knew that beneath the matter-of-factness of the conversation there was the need for them to convince themselves that they would soon be returning to the ship.

‘Work of an hour or more, that’s all,’ he said briskly. Hadn’t one of his father’s early teachings been the importance of instilling confidence?

‘Known this happen before, with a cargo of alcohol,’ said Martens. ‘Coaster I piloted in Hamburg. There’d been some rumbling, but they hadn’t realised what it was. When the explosion came, it blew the hatch right off, breaking the mate’s arm. There was so much dust and debris that they thought they were on fire and almost abandoned ship before they realised what had happened.’

‘They stayed aboard?’ demanded Volkert Lorensen.

‘It was a small cargo. And a shorter journey than ours. One blow and it was over.’

‘I wish to God this one would soon end,’ said Gilling. It was a sincere expression, not a blasphemy.

The Mary Celeste was growing quiet again. Only occasionally did anything reach them, a sound like the snoring of a grumpy old man.

‘It must be clear now,’ said Richardson.

‘We’ll give it a little longer,’ said Briggs cautiously. Having come so near to disaster, it would be ridiculous to take any further chances.

‘Anyone hungry?’ asked Head, from behind.

No one accepted.

‘We’ll repair your smoke-stack in time for dinner,’ promised Richardson. It was an attempt at lightness, but there was no laughter.

Water splashed over the side, no more than a few droplets, and Volkert Lorensen played the boat around with his oar, bringing it into the current.

‘Over two hours now,’ said Richardson, looking up professionally towards the sun. The sky wasn’t as clear as it had been. Flat, formless clouds were spreading lightly across, like a skein of muslin.

‘Seems much longer,’ said Gilling.

The Lorensen brothers looked towards Briggs, anticipating the order.

The eruption from the ship was the worst there had been. The whole vessel seemed to shiver under its force and small waves began rippling out from the hull, where it actually moved in the water. Sophia cried out, frightened. There was a second, slightly less violent than the first and the sails that were still set flickered under the outrush of gas. The Mary Celeste moved slightly, putting the boat a little to port of the stern. That time there hadn’t been any dunnage or debris thrown out, Briggs realised. Another like that and there would surely be an explosion in the hold; he wondered if the timbers had been stretched already, so that the ship would be taking water. Unless it were a bad breach, the pumps would be adequate, once they got back on board.

This time the sound did not diminish, but maintained an ugly, throat-clearing cough and the waves created by the explosion caught the boat, lifting it in a series of tiny jogging motions and more water was shipped. Unasked, Goodschall picked up the bail and began tossing the water from the craft.

‘Benjamin!’

Everyone turned, seized by the despair in Sarah’s voice. Sophia had demanded to go to the toilet and the woman was holding the child over the stern of the vessel, so that she was facing back towards the distant outline of Santa Maria. The landfall was almost concealed now, swamped by a great shroud of oil-black clouds that were seeping towards them, so low that in places they almost appeared to be touching the water. Ahead of the clouds came the rain, a fierce, scudding downpour so forceful that it was flattening the sea like metal under a tinsmith’s hammer. And then there was the first of the wind, feeling out for them like cold hands, fighting the rain for a chance to whip the water up.

‘Oh, my God!’ said Richardson, careless of any offence he might cause the captain.

Briggs turned as the first of the rain swept over them, with the suddenness of a swab bucket being thrown into the boat, gazing towards the ship. There was thunder with the squall, making it impossible to calculate which sound was coming from the atmosphere above and which emanated from the Mary Celeste.

‘She’s sails set,’ he said, quietly, in horrified realisation. ‘She’ll run from us.’

‘Oh, God!’ said Richardson, again. This time there was anguish in his voice.

‘Haul for the ship,’ ordered Briggs urgently.

The Lorensen brothers started rowing immediately, aware of what could happen.

The wind was stronger now, churning the waves. Gilling snatched the cup from where the cook was sitting and began scooping the water from beneath their feet in almost timed motion with Goodschall, the movement becoming raster as the sea started gushing over the gunwales. The baby was crying and when Briggs looked back he saw that Sarah had at last broken down, clamping her lips against the sound but with her shoulders pumping with her tears.

‘The line, Mr Richardson,’ he said to the mate. ‘See if you can haul us with the line,’

Richardson clambered to the bow, the movement bringing in more sea, and tried to help the rowers by dragging the boat along its own towline. The rope was wet and heavy and to have given it a chance to work, he would have had to stand with his feet braced against the prow, so that the stem would have been actually forced beneath the water.

They were still about two hundred and fifty feet from the Mary Celeste, completely engulfed in the storm, when the first wind reached the ship. She seemed to start, like a nervous horse suddenly surprised by the approach of a rider. The jib and fore-topmost staysail responded first, slapping and cracking against the yards.

‘Row!’ urged Briggs, leaning forward to encourage the men. ‘The sails are filling. Row!’