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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 di
“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 Celeste would 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 Gratia would 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 Celeste was 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 Gratia toward 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,” Volkert 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’s Second 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 Gratia had 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 Gratia made 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 Gratia sailed 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 Celeste had 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 Celeste was 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.