The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

by Clive Cussler

  By now, with lots of practice, I was immune to the misery and poverty. Watching people taking home garbage no longer offended me. That was simply their life and the way they had to live it. Perhaps someday, when their internal struggles are over, the country will return to the lovely paradise it once was.

  I burst into the Lynx shack two hours early. The attendant smiled and gave me a boarding pass. One hurdle down, immigration to go. There I sat in an unventilated shack in the middle of the day with eighteen Haitians, mostly women and children. They do like perfume and cologne. I passed the time reading a book on the battle of Gettysburg and realized I didn’t have it so bad after all.

  The scary part was coming up. I had been told the night before that if you didn’t have a valid passport, the airline pilots would not allow you to board. It seems they’re none too happy if American immigration officials won’t let you into the country. Not only were they liable for a hefty fine, but they had to transport you back to Haiti at their expense. I began to hope that being a hotshot author might carry an ounce of weight.

  At twelve noon on the dot, the plane’s engines could be heard through the cracks in the walls as it landed and taxied toward the shack. After a few minutes, a blond-haired pilot opened the door and stepped into the waiting room. He walked right up to me and handed me an envelope.

  “I hope to enjoy your book,” he said, smiling.

  I stared at the envelope and looked up questioningly. “Book?”

  “Yes, your friend gave me one of your books in Fort Lauderdale. He figured I’d know you by the author’s photo on the book jacket.”

  Craig Dirgo, bless his heart, had driven to the airport and given my passport to the pilot to give to me. The sun burst through the clouds. Then came the sound of trumpets, a drum-roll, and harp music. Home was just over the horizon at last.

  Haitian immigration whisked me through, and I ran, not walked, out to the airplane. Then there was a wait, while an official riffled through every passenger’s luggage. I’m sure he wished he had a different job when it came to my bag. It was filled with two-week-old laundry. We guys are like that. Why do laundry when you have someone waiting to do it at home?

  I don’t know if I was ever happier than when the wheels left the ground. For the next hour, I listened to the beat of the engines, making sure they were hitting on all cylinders. I couldn’t conceive of a mechanical problem that would force us to return to the bedlam of Cape Haitian.

  After a short hop, we landed on Caicos Island to refuel and were asked to leave the airplane and wait in the terminal as a safety precaution. Simple Simon Cussler, of course, walks through the wrong door into the heart of the terminal, finds the bar, and has a cold beer. Figuring it’s time to go back, I walked toward the exit door and was promptly stopped by a security guard the size of a redwood tree.

  “Can’t go out there,” he said sternly.

  “I have to get back to my airplane.”

  “You’ll have to go through immigration and customs.”

  The bile rose in my throat. Things just couldn’t go wrong now. Not after I’d been over the streets and roads of hell. My demon was a stubborn rascal. I was considering making a break for it, when the blond pilot walked by. A few words and he talked the guard into letting me accompany him to the plane. I wondered if my ordeal would ever end.

  I feel sorry for the people who never know the feeling of joy and bliss that comes from returning to the United States. You truly have to travel outside our borders to appreciate the advantages we all too often take for granted. We landed, and I smiled.

  Slapping my passport down with glee at the immigration booth, I was given a green light. “Welcome back to the United States, Mr. Cussler,” said the agent, with a friendly smile. “I read all your books.”

  It sure was nice to be home.

  Upon reaching the lobby of the terminal, I was surprised to see no Craig. A German like me, he prides himself on following schedules. I was sure he was supposed to meet me. I was looking around for a telephone when he strolled by, sipping a cup of coffee. He looked at me queerly.

  “You’re an hour early,” he said, taking a sip.

  I actually hugged him, I was so glad to see someone I knew.

  “Lynx Air has a fetish for departing and arriving early,” I explained.

  Craig stared at me. “Good God, boss,” he said slowly, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What in the hell did they do to you?”

  “I’ll explain it to you someday,” I said. “Right now, why don’t you take me to the hotel?”

  Craig grabbed my bags and started walking to his car. “We’ll go get you checked in,” he said slyly, “then there’s a Haitian restaurant I’ve been wanting to try — they say the jerked goat is tasty.”

  After checking into the hotel, we went to a good old American steak house. Craig had a sirloin, I had a chopped steak. Chopped steak just like my mother used to make.

  In a parting shot, before my guardian angel returned, the demon took away my first-class seat on the flight to Phoenix because I was a day late. I couldn’t have cared less. I was finally going home to my lovely wife and adobe home. That was all that mattered. Besides, coach was only partially full, and I had three seats to myself.

  We may never be able to prove 100 percent that the shipwreck we found was Mary Celeste. In a court of law, our evidence would be labeled circumstantial. Still, we are confident the shipwreck found in the coral is she, for a number of reasons.

  Alan Guffman of Geomarine Associates in Nova Scotia coordinated the scientific testing of the wood and ballast stones. The process of rock geochemistry and radiometric dating is complicated, but the results proved that the ballast showed the characteristic mineralogy and texture of the North Mountains basalt of Nova Scotia.

  The wood was identified as southern pine, often used in shipbuilding in New York, where Mary Celeste was rebuilt and enlarged. Some was white pine, which comes from the northeast United States and Canada. One piece of wood made everyone happy. It was yellow birch, which comes from the maritime provinces, including Nova Scotia.

  It was all coming together.

  James Delgado, noted marine archaeologist and director of the Vancouver Maritime Museum, identified the copper sheathing as Muntz metal, a yellow alloy of three parts copper, two parts zinc, a substance that came into general use as hull protection against shipworms after 1860.

  We were getting closer.

  While the artifacts were being analyzed, I tackled the job of researching other potential wrecks that might have run onto the coral of Rochelais Reef. We had to prove we hadn’t found the wrong wreck. I hired researchers here and in Europe to scour the archives. Insurance companies cooperated, particularly Lloyd’s of London. No stone was left unturned. No records of shipwrecks were ignored. The results came back positive.

  A ship named Vandalia had indeed met her end in Haiti a hundred years ago. But she had run aground at Port-de-Paix, a bay sixty miles from Rochelais Reef, and she was later pulled off and scrapped. The only other wreck that was recorded in the same time zone was a steamship that burned in the port of Miragoane twelve miles away. The extensive research project proved conclusively that Mary Celeste was the only ship known to have run aground on Rochelais Reef and stayed there.

  Allan Gardner, John Davis and his ECO-NOVA team, and I could now say with a great measure of confidence that the grave of Mary Celeste had been found. The ghost ship’s story has been drawn to a fitting end.

  PART EIGHT

  The Steamboat General Slocum

  I

  Never Again 1904

  “These damn corporations,” President Theodore Roosevelt thundered, “are just a means of hiding.”

  Attorney General Philander Knox contentedly puffed on his pipe while Roosevelt raged. He was used to the president’s mercurial temperament — in time he would calm and come to the point.

  “They have all the benefits of man without the guidance of a conscience,” Roosevelt not
ed. “Trusts and corporations — they’ll bring this country down.”

  Knox stared at the president. He was not a large man — five feet nine, 165 pounds — but he carried himself like a giant. At this instant, his face was flushed with anger, and the eyes behind his wire-framed spectacles were blazing. Roosevelt’s hair was dark and short and formed a small point near the center of his forehead. His hand was tugging the right side of his bushy mustache.

  “I agree, sir,” Knox said.

  “The Knickerbocker Steamboat Company,” Roosevelt said, “are just organized murderers.”

  “Uh-huh,” Knox said.

  “I want you and the secretary of commerce and labor to travel up to New York,” Roosevelt said, “and find the parties responsible for this disaster — then prosecute them.”

  Knox glanced at the president. The color was seeping from his cheeks as he calmed down. He watched as Roosevelt sipped from a glass of water.

  “Mr. President,” Knox said evenly, “I think that would fall under New York State jurisdiction.”

  Roosevelt spit a partial mouthful of water across the desk. “We are the federal government,” he said loudly. “We’re in charge here.”

  “Very good,” Knox said, rising from his seat in the Oval Office. “I’ll contact the secretary and make arrangements to leave tomorrow.”

  “Philander?” Roosevelt said, as the attorney general opened the door to the office.

  “Yes, sir,” Knox said easily.

  “Knock some heads up there for me,” Roosevelt said, smiling.

  “As you wish, sir,” Knox said.

  JUNE 15,1 904, THE PRIOR DAY

  Captain William Van Schaick leaned against the chart desk and scratched the date into General Slocum’s log. Thursday came with overcast skies and light rain, with the temperature hovering around eighty degrees. Toward Long Island, Van Schaick noticed the sun peering from the clouds — once the haze burned off, it should be a fine day.

  Van Schaick was tall and lanky, six feet tall, 170 pounds. His blue uniform was clean and pressed but faded some. The gold braid around his armpits was showing signs of tarnish. The fresh white flower stuck in his lapel appeared slightly out of place — like a new saddle on an aged horse.

  His employer, the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company, continued to cut costs, and lately Van Schaick had been thinking more and more about transferring to another line. Few, if any, of his deckhands had experience — in fact, their primary skill seemed to be the ability to work for slave wages — and General Slocum itself needed work that the company seemed unwilling or unable to afford.

  Turning on his heel to glance from the window, Van Schaick felt a softness in the deck that signified rot. He turned back and noted this in the log.

  * * *

  Reverend George Haas stood on the Third Street pier and stared up at the ship. The graceful twin-decked excursion boat was finished in white both above and below and seemed easily capable of carrying the thousand plus passengers that had signed up for the trip. As pastor of St. Mark’s Lutheran Church, Haas presided over a congregation of mainly German immigrants that numbered nearly two thousand. Today was to be an outing for the Sunday school students and whatever parents could attend. The trip was scheduled to take them from the Third Street pier to Locust Grove on Long Island for a day of picnicking and fun. Haas smiled as the band began to play Martin Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

  Haas had no way to know the horror he would soon experience.

  * * *

  Thirteen-year-old John Tischner stared at the coins in his hand as he stood in the line at the refreshment stand aboard ship. The fried clams smelled good, but Tischner’s mother had packed him a tin pail with a pair of liverwurst-and-onion sandwiches for the noon meal along with a slice of chocolate cake for dessert. The pulled taffy held his interest for a time, but by the time he reached the head of the line, he had settled on a scoop of strawberry ice cream. It was a strange choice at 9:25 in the morning, but it was a day of celebration. He handed the man at the counter a few coins, then received his change and the ice cream. Enough for another scoop on the return trip.

  Things were looking up.

  * * *

  Van Schaick ordered the whistle to blow, signaling five minutes until they shoved off, then called down to the engine room to order steam. General Slocum was built in Brooklyn in 1891 and measured 263 feet with a 38-foot beam.

  Powered by a single vertical-beam engine constructed by W. A. Fletcher Company, she was supplied steam by a pair of boilers fueled with coal. A pair of sidewheel paddles with the name of the vessel in ornamental letters on the outside propelled her. Twin stacks vented the smoke into the air. Strung along the upper deck on each side were a half-dozen lifeboats on davits. The paint on the lifeboats was chipped and flaking. Originally finished with a white hull and a hardwood finish on the upper decks, the ship had been repainted with a white-on-white motif that was now showing stains from hard use. Still, all in all, she was a graceful vessel.

  * * *

  “Hurry,” Henry Ida said to his sweetheart, Amelia Swartz, “they’re leaving.”

  Swartz increased her pace along the pier, but it was difficult-her dress boots were laced tight, and the boned corset pinching her waist made deep breaths almost impossible. Twirling her parasol, she made her way to the gangplank. Ida was overdressed for summer, but he had little choice — he owned only two suits, both wool. His only concession to the heat had been to leave the vest at home. Pushing‘the straw boater back on his forehead, he switched the wicker lunch hamper to his other hand and started up the ramp. In three minutes, General Slocum would pull from the pier. Forging through the crowd, he found a spot for them on deck.

  * * *

  Darrell Millet pried the top off a wooden barrel containing glasses packed in straw. The head steward needed the glassware at the aft refreshment stand immediately. Filling his fingers with the glasses, he made his way aft. Six trips later, the barrel was empty, and he dragged it to the forward storeroom. Finding a spot amid the paint pots and oil lamps, he balanced it on a couple of overturned pails, then shut the door. The straw was dry and smelled of the prairie.

  Captain Van Schaick blew the whistle one last time, then ordered the gangplank retracted. Calling down to the engine room for steam, he placed the drives in forward and steered General Slocum from the pier. More than one thousand passengers were now under his care. The band began to play “Nearer My God to Thee.”

  PORTER WALTER PAYNE entered the crowded storeroom. Making his way to a workbench, he began to fill a pair of oil lamps. Suddenly the ship rolled from side to side from the wake of a passing barge. Payne spilled some of the fuel onto the floor. After finishing the fueling, he twisted the metal caps back on the lamps. Carrying them over near the door, he paused to light a match out of the wind. Touching the match to the wicks, he tossed the match over his shoulder, then adjusted the flames. With a lit lamp in each hand, he walked onto the deck, then aft.

  Paint fumes and spilled fuel were the recipe for disaster. The burning ember from the tossed match was little more than the size of a pencil lead, but it was enough. The fumes from the paint hung low over the floor, mixing with the smell from the spilled fuel. The gas ignited with a fuzzy blue flame. At just that instant, General Slocum hit the second set of wakes from the barge. As the ship rocked from side to side, the precariously placed barrel tipped forward and spilled the straw into the almost extinguished fire. Red and yellow points of fire streaked skyward.

  * * *

  Captain Van Schaick was staring forward when he saw a puff of smoke from a porthole in the forward storeroom.

  “Fire,” he shouted.

  Then he ordered his second in command, Marcus Anthony, to round up a few sailors to man the hoses. They were five minutes from Hell’s Gate.

  Reverend Haas was ladling clam chowder into bowls for his young parishioners when a sailor ran past, tugging a rubber fire hose. He prayed the man was just going forwa
rd to wash the deck, but deep in his heart he knew different. Turning his head from side to side, he tried to locate where the life jackets were stored.

  “My command for an experienced sailor,” Van Schaick shouted.

  His employer had saddled him with a crew consisting of untrained day laborers and general miscreants, and it was little wonder. The economy was in high gear, and unemployment was at its lowest level in twenty years. To compound the problem, just two months before, the United States had taken possession of Panama, and many able-bodied seamen had headed south for the higher wages. Workers were hard to come by, and the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company was not noted for paying high wages. Van Schaick looked down to the deck — it was chaos. He watched as one of his deckhands strapped on a life vest and jumped over the side.

  “Turn on the water,” Anthony yelled back.

  The forward storeroom was completely ablaze. At that precise instant, the cans of paint exploded and blew the door to splinters. Deckhand Brad Creighton twisted the brass knob that fed water from the pumps in the lower hold to the fire hoses. He watched as the rubber hose expanded and filled. Halfway down the deck, along the outer walkway, the aged rubber burst. The broken end of the hose began to flail around the deck like the body of a severed snake.

  Henry Ida broke the rusted lock off the locker containing the life jackets and began to hand them but to the passengers. The canvas on the vests was old and moth-eaten, and several of the jackets burst open as soon as he grabbed them. Rotted cork littered the floor. Helping Amelia into a jacket, Ida tried to tie the straps to hold it tight. The straps broke off in his hands.

  “If we have to go into the water,” Ida shouted amid the growing pandemonium, “you will have to hold the vest on.”

  Amelia Swartz nodded. Her face plainly showed the fear she was feeling.