‘With my agreeing to see Captain Morehouse when he returned from his voyage to Gibraltar.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Winchester, ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘What was so important about the voyage to Gibraltar?’
Winchester extended his hands, still indicating lack of comprehension.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Who suggested there was?’
‘The decision to meet after the conclusion of the current voyage had about it nothing of a test for Captain Morehouse … for you to obtain some indication of his determination for captaincy?’
‘This is the most preposterous innuendo,’ interrupted Cornwell, lurching up in protest from the lawyers’ bench. ‘There must be a limit to what is admissible in this court, surely?’
Cochrane looked irritably at the lawyer, then at the Attorney-General. The irritation, realised Flood, was that the judge had to agree with the objection.
‘I think we might contain ourselves a little more to the point, Mr Flood,’ he said, making the admonition as gentle as possible.
The Attorney-General lowered his head in acceptance, almost a pecking gesture, then went back to Winchester.
‘I am struck by an oddness about what I have heard at this enquiry,’ he began quietly. ‘During your evidence to this court, you imagine a sword discovered beneath Captain Briggs’s bunk to be a souvenir and hazard a guess that some bizarre freak weather condition caused the abandonment of the Mary Celeste. Bad weather is the explanation from Captain Morehouse for whatever occurred near the Azores … And also of the chief mate Deveau, whom we heard this morning also suggest that the sword was a casually bought memento of a previous voyage …’
He paused, building to his point.
‘Sitting here, day after day, listening as carefully as I have, I have been struck by the similarity of view expressed by everyone so far … a similarity which almost indicates a rehearsal –’
Winchester stood at the witness stand, alternately gripping and ungripping the rail at the top of the carved surround. Fear? wondered Flood. Or anger?
‘I protest to this hearing against the type of questioning to which I am being subjected,’ the owner burst out. ‘Captain Briggs was a man I liked and respected. As I made clear when I first gave evidence, I regarded him as someone with whom I was proud to be associated. I consider as the most outrageous calumny the attempt being made at this enquiry to make it appear that I was in some way involved in collusion to do away with the captain and crew for some paltry sum that could be claimed against insurance for the salvage of the vessel …’
He halted, out of breath and words, staring at the Attorney-General as if demanding a challenge. A much-worried man, judged Flood.
‘So the fact that three witnesses at this enquiry all offer the same conclusion is nothing more than coincidence?’ said Flood.
Winchester tried to answer, but the Attorney-General refused him, wanting to drive the accusation home.
‘Yet another coincidence,’ he said. ‘Like that of the abandoned Mary Celeste being found by the very man who had dined with Captain Briggs the night before her New York sailing … yet another coincidence, like the derelict, drifting vessel being on course for the passage she was supposed to be keeping?’
Winchester made a gesture of weariness:
‘I do not consider it surprising that three witnesses come independently to the same view of the cause of the tragedy. We have all of us had a long and varied experience of the sea. From that experience, some unknown weather condition must be the likeliest explanation.’
‘So you and everyone else from whom we have heard so far are at great pains to have this enquiry believe,’ said Flood.
‘It is as logical and more based upon likelihood than those which you have so far attempted to advance,’ said Winchester irritably.
‘A decision not to be made by you, Captain Winchester, but by a judge far more versed in selecting truth from falsehoods than any other man here today …’
He paused, imagining that Winchester was about to say something and wanting to give the man every opportunity to overreach and hopefully condemn himself from his own mouth. But the American ship-owner appeared to change his mind, lowering his head and avoiding the Attorney-General’s examination.
‘Do you ever expect to see Captain Briggs, his family or any of the Mary Celeste crew alive again?’ said Flood suddenly.
‘Sir?’ frowned Winchester.
‘From the witness Deveau you have heard this morning that a boat was missing from the deck, indicating some escape. Do you think it is possible someone at least might still be rescued?’
‘I suppose it is a possibility,’ conceded Winchester
‘I detect a note of doubt in your attitude.’
‘Were there to be survivors from whatever happened, I would have expected word of them by now. The Mary Celeste was sailing a much-used route.’
‘So you’ve personally little hope?’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘Sadly, Captain Winchester?’
‘Of course,’ said the owner immediately, his renewed anger obvious.
‘I wonder, Captain Winchester, if there were survivors found even at this late stage and they were able to give evidence before this enquiry, what account they would give of what happened?’
The American took his time with the answer, belatedly recognising the futility of temper:
‘Whatever it might be, I am sure the solution would be far different from that which you are attempting to thrust upon this hearing,’ he said.
Because it was closest to the enquiry chamber, Consul Sprague’s house had continued to be the venue for the daily meetings after the court had risen.
Inevitably it was Winchester who assumed the role of chairman, better able among those who sympathised to express his outrage.
‘Anyone any doubts left now?’ he said, hunched forward in his chair.
‘He’s determined upon a conspiracy,’ agreed Captain Morehouse, who had become part of the group.
‘With me the centre of it,’ protested the owner.
‘And me the agent,’ said Morehouse, feeling as powerless as the other man.
‘I’ve attempted a private meeting with the judge,’ said Sprague, aware that his conduct as American Consul might be questioned if these men complained to Washington. ‘I’ve received a formal note telling me that it would be improper for there to be any discussion between us in chambers until the conclusion of the hearing.’
‘I’ll not be railroaded,’ insisted Winchester, mouthing the familiar determination more to himself than to the others in the room. ‘I’m damned if I’ll just sit around and become enmeshed in whatever conclusion that confounded man is intent upon.’
‘He’s made good use of the circumstantial evidence,’ said the cargo owners’ lawyer, Martin Stokes, in reluctant praise.
‘But that’s all it is,’ argued Pisani. ‘Completely circumstantial, without a shred of anything positive to prove the crime upon which he’s obviously intent.’
‘That axe mark was evidence, surely?’ disputed Cornwell. ‘Sailors don’t go around slashing their own vessels.’
‘There’s no proof it’s an axe mark,’ said Winchester, irritated now at the lawyers’ attitude. ‘It’s just obvious that the rail has been cut, nothing more. There’s certainly no proof that the mark came from the blade of an axe.’
‘Let’s not get embroiled again in hypothesis,’ protested Corn-well. He looked directly at Winchester and Morehouse.
‘It doesn’t look good for either of you,’ he said honestly.
‘What the hell are Washington doing about it all?’ the owner demanded of Sprague. ‘Isn’t your function here to protect American citizens?’
The Consul had been afraid of such an open question.
‘I’ve been asked by the Secretary of the Treasury to provide daily transcripts of the evidence,’ he said.
‘And
?’ persisted Winchester.
Sprague, shifted, embarrassed.
‘There has been nothing official, of course,’ he said, ‘but I get the impression from some of the communications I am receiving that they seem to accept the belief of the Attorney-General.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Winchester.
Sprague nodded. ‘They seem to believe some sort of crime has been committed.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Winchester softly.
A wave, unseen but big to judge by the effect it had, twisted into the side of the Mary Celeste and the whole vessel shuddered into a crab-like slide before the man at the wheel corrected, righting her on course again. Captain Briggs, who had almost completed the log, looked down at the near-finished entry, then added, ‘Squally, rising frequently to gales.’
He closed the book, sitting back. It had been a rough voyage. Not the worst he had ever known. But rough, nevertheless. As if in confirmation of this thoughts, the ship pitched into a trough, stretching the timbers, which creaked and strained around him. The log slid away, coming to rest against the protective fender which edged his desk, and the lamp rocked on its pivots.
There would be no need to check for damage. Days before he had given the order to batten down and secure everything movable and by now he was sufficiently confident of the crew to know that the instructions had been obeyed to the letter. Not even the deckhouse planking or pitch caulking had been cracked by the sea, so well was the ship being handled. The galley was the only area where things might have been lying loose, but the cook-steward, William Head, had proved himself as good a seaman as he was a victualler. Briggs decided he might enquire about the galley later; it would show the sort of consideration that the men appreciated.
There was another sound, like a sudden hammering, and Briggs realised they had been swamped by a wave. Momentarily the vessel seemed to squat in the water, then there was a visible sensation of her rising again. It was nothing to worry about, he knew. A less seaworthy vessel would be taking more water than the Mary Celeste, although even she was certainly awash, as she had been ever since the voyage began.
At first he had expected it, having the pumps checked sometimes as frequently as every hour. When they had registered no more than an inch averaged over a twenty-four-hour period he had suspected them of malfunctioning, even having Arien Martens strip one down, to check. But the pumps were in perfect working order; just as the Mary Celeste was in perfect sailing order. He looked around the cabin, self-conscious in his admiration. His proprietorial expression, Sarah called it. Briggs was aware that his feelings went far beyond any pride of ownership. It was a seaman’s appreciation of a good ship, the emotion he would have known even if he had had no part in her.
Whatever doubts he might have had about his investment those last few days before leaving New York had been blown away by the gales they had encountered daily. The Mary Celeste had behaved magnificently, worked by a crew who had come up to his highest expectations. Once they entered the Mediterranean, it would become more like a pleasure cruise than a working voyage; with luck, the weather might improve before they passed the Straits of Gibraltar.
He turned as his wife came from the child’s sleeping area:
‘How is she?’
‘Asleep, for the moment. She’s exhausted.’
Sarah’s face was pinched with fatigue and worry. Sophia’s seasickness had begun almost from the time they had left the Staten Island anchorage and worsened with every day. Only in the last twenty-four hours had they managed to get her to take the porridge which the cook had had constantly ready, hoping for an improvement, and so for several days the baby had been retching on an empty stomach and Sarah had been fearful of some internal injury or strain.
‘It should get better soon.’
‘I’ve been hoping that for days,’ said the woman.
There was another side wave, jarring the ship, and Sarah staggered. Briggs snatched out, supporting her.
‘We are no more than three or four days’ sailing from the Azores,’ said Briggs. ‘We’re in the Gulf Stream already.’
‘I thought I’d go out on deck for a moment, while she’s resting. It’s almost claustrophobic in here.’
So bad had the weather been that the child had only once used the brace that Arien Martens had constructed and then she had been thrown over by a sudden movement of the ship, bruising her arm. Martens had made a harness for Sarah’s infrequent deck visits and she began fitting it into place over the top of her oilskins. Briggs helped her, ensuring that the ropes were properly secured, and then got into his own protective clothing.
The wind snatched at them immediately they opened the companion-way door, so forcefully that Sarah gasped as the breath was taken from her. Briggs got to windward of his wife, trying to shield her, arm around her shoulders as he guided her towards the safety rope stretched between the two masts. The vessel was on the shortest canvas, just topsail and jib, yet it was still heeled over, with the starboard rail awash. She clung to him, struggling to get a footing against the wet, sloping deck. He tethered the line from her harness to the safety rope, then cupped his mouth to her ear:
‘Do you want me to remain with you?’
She shook her head, positively.
‘Sure?’
There was another head shake, more of irritation this time. Sarah was always annoyed when his concern for her threatened any interference with his work.
Briggs clutched at the rope himself, grateful for the support as he made his way to the wheel. The fourth German member of the crew, Gottlieb Goodschall, was at the helm, a rope looped around his waist and tying him to a wheel brace.
At twenty-three, Goodschall was the youngest of the Germans and spoke the least English. He stood legs splayed, hands tight against the wheel spokes, forcing the vessel on course. He was drenched with spray, the water funnelling from the brim of his sou’wester and down the back of his oilskin cover.
Knowing conversation was almost impossible, Briggs nodded to the man, staring over his shoulder to determine the cause for the sideways buffeting. They had encountered a freak current, he recognised, seeing the build-up of the water, so that the sea was being driven in two directions. To stay windward, as they must to retain any control, meant that occasionally they were struck amidships by the current.
Such a wave came now and Briggs tensed himself against it, turning to gesture to Sarah. She saw it in time, hauling herself in along her safety line and grabbing the larger rope before it hit the ship, head bent against the wall of spray-tipped water which spumed over the deck. Briggs stayed watching her until he saw that she had suffered no more than a wetting, then turned back to the helm. Aware that the captain had seen what was happening, the young German made to speak and Briggs bent close to him.
‘Won’t last,’ said Goodschall, indicating the side current.
‘Hope you’re right,’ said Briggs.
‘Lessening this past hour,’ the man assured him.
For the first time Briggs noticed that there were other crewmen on deck. The Lorensen brothers were to starboard, checking the ties on the furled sails. There was always a danger in such weather that the hastily secured sails might be ripped open and then either blown overboard or, worse, trail in the water to snarl the steering gear and even endanger the ship. Briggs had sailed in many vessels where the crew would have waited until the weather abated.
He moved on, to the fo’c’sle head. Richardson and the second mate, Andrew Gilling, were hunched in its protection.
‘Helmsman says it’s lessening,’ said Briggs.
‘About time,’ said Gilling. His Danish parentage showed in his accent, despite the time he had lived in America.
‘How’s the baby?’ asked Richardson. From the first mate’s concern over the preceding week, it would have been easy to imagine the child was his.
‘Took some porridge today. Now she’s sleeping,’ said Briggs. He indicated the brothers straddling the spars on the port side now.
‘Seem to have nearly all the crew aloft,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t there be a watch in their bunks?’
‘There’s time enough for rest,’ said Richardson. ‘Better to ensure the ship safe.’
‘Any damage?’ Despite his conviction in the cabin, it was an instinctive question.
Richardson gestured to the bow of the vessel.
‘Martens was checking the bowsprit and found some odd splintering.’
‘Splintering?’ said Briggs, immediately concerned.
‘Not deep, as far as we can see,’ reported Richardson, ‘although I’ll be happier when this weather drops and we can maybe examine it from a boat. Runs for six or seven feet on either side and looks to be cut as clean as with a knife.’
‘Either side?’ queried Briggs. ‘That’s unusual.’
‘I’m minded it’s the corkscrewing caused by getting the sea on two quarters at once,’ said Richardson. ‘There’s been a lot of strain on the timbers.’
‘I’d have expected them to sustain it better than that, though.’
‘Could have been faulty planking.’
‘How close to the water?’
‘High enough,’ assured the first mate. ‘When the sea comes down it’ll be a good three to four feet above the waterline.’
‘Checked for’ard leakage?’ asked Briggs.
‘None at all,’ said Richardson.
‘Let’s examine it, at the first opportunity,’ said Briggs.
‘I’d like to get the hatches open, too,’ said Richardson. ‘Temperature has gone up since we got into the Gulf Stream. Must be three to four degrees’ difference since we left New York.’
‘How is it?’ asked Briggs.
‘Smelly,’ said Richardson. ‘I checked through the for’ard hatch,’
‘Leaking then?’
‘Almost inevitable, through red oak.’
‘Breathable?’
‘Yes,’ said Richardson.
‘So no immediate problem?’
‘Still like to get some air circulating down there. It’s unpredictable stuff.’
‘No risk of any shifting?’
Richardson shook his head confidently. ‘We double-lashed in New York,’ he reminded the captain.
The Mary Celeste Page 10