Brian Freemantle: The Mary Celeste

He recognised suddenly the reason for the completeness of the pride he had experienced earlier at the top-gallant rail. Perhaps the sensation had not even been pride. Rather, it had been the satisfaction of knowing that the purchase of the vessel had filled the one vacuum in an otherwise perfect life. He had a perfect wife and a perfect family and a perfect career and now he was a man of substance, an owner-captain. Part-owner, he thought again. But hardly a qualification. Definitely not one that Captain Winchester, the principal shareholder, was invoking.

‘Your ship’, the man had said during their dinner the previous night. And meant it, Briggs knew. He decided he liked Captain Winchester. A blunt speaker, almost to the point of curtness. But a no-nonsense man, the sort of person with whom Briggs preferred to deal. He had left every encounter with Winchester knowing exactly where he stood, without any half-doubts about anything the man might have intended but held back from conveying in case there were need to alter his opinion at some later stage. And about that he was lucky, he knew, thinking back to involvements with other shipping men.

A man who noticed details, Briggs attached importance to Winchester’s action when the man had learned that he intended taking Sarah and Sophia on the voyage to Genoa. By noon the following day, a second boat had arrived to supplement the longboat already aboard.

‘Hardly necessary on a ship as sound as this,’ Winchester had said. ‘Just regarded it as a sensible precaution.’

It had shown a consideration far beyond that which Briggs would have expected most owners to show, even though the man must have known from the care he was taking with the selection of the crew that Briggs was fully aware of the added responsibility of being accompanied by all but one of his family.

As if in reminder, Sophia’s close-curled golden head jerked over the lip of the companion-way she was noisily insisting upon clambering up herself, without the assistance of the cook-steward who followed.

Sarah went immediately to the child, looking beyond her into the galley area.

‘Sorry you were bothered, Mr Head,’ she apologised.

‘No bother, ma’am,’ said the man.

Sarah returned, the baby cupped in the crook of her arm. The child leaned away from its mother, reaching for the rail from which she could watch the activity on the quayside below.

‘Before this voyage is over, there’s a risk of her becoming spoiled by the crew,’ said Sarah. ‘They all seem to love her.’

‘Pity Arthur can’t come as well,’ said Briggs.

‘At seven, his need is for schooling,’ replied Sarah immediately.

‘I’ll still miss him.’

‘No more than I. But were you allowed to sacrifice lessons to sail with your father?’

‘No.’

‘Then neither will Arthur be permitted.’

‘He’ll not be permitted much,’ predicted Briggs. During the voyage, their son was to live with his grandmother; Briggs knew the boy would receive the same strict discipline he and his brothers had been given.

To ease the child’s weight, Sarah lifted Sophia up on to the top of the rail, standing with her arms protectively around her.

Briggs patted a supporting stanchion reflectively.

‘Pity there aren’t bulwarks,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Proper bulwarks,’ repeated Briggs. ‘If a sea runs, these open rails can be dangerous for an experienced seaman, let alone a woman and a two-year-old child.’

‘If it’s too bad, we can stay in the cabin, as I have before,’ said Sarah. ‘And when we’re at sea, we’ll have Sophia on a safety line whenever she’s on deck.’

Briggs nodded at the recollection of his wife’s previous trips with him. Ten years before they had spent their honeymoon on a Mediterranean voyage, when he had commanded the schooner Forest King. She had enjoyed it so much that there had been other voyages during his captaincy of the Arthur and the Sea Foam. There was no danger in having a woman like Sarah aboard ship; rather, it was almost like having an extra crew member.

‘I must work,’ he said, excusing himself and moving forward to where the chief mate was supervising the loading.

Briggs felt the greatest satisfaction at the crew he had assembled, at signing Albert Richardson as first mate. They had sailed together before and Richardson was as complete a seaman as any Briggs had ever encountered: indeed, he had been surprised that Richardson had taken the voyage, qualified as he now was to be master of his own vessel. Briggs regarded it as a compliment, aware without conceit that Richardson thought of him as a good master and seaman and saw the trip as a qualification voyage, the last he would undergo before applying for his own command. And that was in little doubt, newly married as he was to Captain Winchester’s niece, Frances Spates.

Nearer the cargo, Briggs could detect the odour of the commercial alcohol and brought his hand to his face in an instinctive gesture of revulsion.

Richardson smiled at the movement.

‘Stinks right enough, sir,’ he said.

‘Going well, Mr Richardson?’

‘We’ll be completed on time tomorrow,’ the first mate assured him.

‘Any problems?’

‘Certainly not in stowage.’

‘What then?’ asked Briggs, detecting the reservation in the man’s voice.

Richardson walked nearer the hoists, taking the captain with him, and gestured down into the hold.

‘Red oak barrels,’ identified Richardson. ‘Leaky stuff.’

‘We’ll have to be mindful of the danger,’ agreed Briggs.

‘Bad time of the year for weather,’ Richardson reminded him. ‘And there have been storms enough as it is.’

‘I’d considered as southerly a course as possible.’

‘Probably best.’

‘How much inboard?’ Briggs gestured into the hold.

‘One thousand, three hundred barrels,’ said Richardson, consulting the consignment board in his hand.

‘Another four hundred to come, then,’ said Briggs. ‘What about the ballast figure?’

‘Thirty tons of stone.’

‘Should be sufficient,’ said Briggs. He indicated the fo’c’sle: ‘What about the crew?’

‘Fine lot,’ judged Richardson. ‘We’ll have no trouble there.’

‘My thinking, too,’ said Briggs, pleased at the other man’s assessment.

‘I gather that the German, Arien Martens, is a qualified mate.’

‘Seems like we’ll have a very expert crew,’ said Briggs.

Richardson obviously appreciated the reference to his recently obtained master’s ticket.

‘Then it should be an easy voyage,’ he said.

‘One of the easiest I’ve undertaken, I hope,’ said Briggs. He moved away from the hold, towards the companion-way leading to the quayside. ‘I’ve to go ashore,’ he said, passing over command. ‘I’m minded it will take me about three hours.’

Because he was on official business and would therefore be reimbursed for the expense, Briggs had ordered a private carriage. Despite the ban on horse-cars, the streets of the city still shifted and heaved with movement; perhaps it was because there were so many immigrants, but Briggs always felt that, instead of being just one port, New York was a mixture of all he had ever visited, a kaleidoscope of cultures and sounds and accents.

To some, he knew, it was confusing, but Briggs always considered it exciting and vibrant, just like the whole land was now that the war was over. Increasingly, since the armistice and from the evidence he had seen from the American ports he visited, comparing them and their business efficiency against those he knew from foreign jetties, Briggs had determined that America would grow into an important country. And he would be a part of that growth. He relaxed easily against the worn leather of the seat, gazing out at the jostled, thronged streets and experiencing again the satisfaction that had first come at the rail of the Mary Celeste. There could be few people in this city or even this country as fortunate as he. Consciously he controlled the emotion, annoyed with himself for permitting it a second time. He’d make the opportunity before the Mary Celeste sailed to visit a church and thank God for his blessings.