by Lionel
In the course of their comprehensive studies of the Philadelphia Experiment, William Moore and Charles Berlitz were sent a curious document purporting to be an article from a 1943 Philadelphia newspaper. It expanded and modified the story of the brawling fighters being frozen in time and said that two sailors (presumably ex-crewmen of the Eldridge) had not merely been frozen in time but had totally vanished. The supposed press article, however, has been difficult, if not impossible, to trace back to any 1943 Philadelphia newspaper or magazine with any degree of certainty. It wasn’t dated, and it had no publication’s name on it.
Returning to the strange letters Morris Jessup received from the writer calling himself Carl M. Allen, claims were made that these residual effects were not limited to the ability to freeze time. Allen maintained that some of the survivors had acquired the ability to walk through walls. Differences of space-time and dimensional irregularities might conceivably make this possible, and it is particularly interesting to note that in the vast majority of reports of paranormal, psychic phenomena, the psychic entities described do glide through walls, locked doors, and other apparently solid matter. The mysterious Carl M. Allen — also known as Carlos Miguel Allende — claimed to have been on board a nearby ship and to have seen what happened to the Eldridge from there.
Three senior naval officers became interested in the mystery when they examined a copy of Jessup’s book The Case for the UFO, which had been heavily annotated with cryptic references to space, time, other dimensions, and invisibility. Jessup himself was dead by 1969, when the mysterious Carlos Miguel Allende was interviewed by the three keenly interested naval researchers. Allende made a number of odd statements to them, allegedly confessing that the whole thing was a hoax, that nothing had happened to the Eldridge or any of her crew. He said that he himself had become very frightened when he read Jessup’s ideas about invisibility and force fields and had made up the myth of the Eldridge ostensibly to scare Jessup and to prevent him from writing any more material about UFOs. As an argument, Allende’s reasoning seems about as sequential as an Escher staircase.
Opponents of the theory that something very curious happened to the Eldridge in 1943 allege that there was a reunion of former Eldridge personnel as recently as 1999 — most of them would then have been in their late seventies or early eighties — and that none of them recalled anything odd happening at any time. It was further postulated by opponents of the Philadelphia Experiment mystery that the Eldridge had not even been in Philadelphia in 1943. If there was, in fact, a massive cover-up at the highest level, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to alter the records of the ship’s whereabouts. If a conspiracy of silence and a cover-up really did take place, then the desired degree of secrecy could have been enhanced by denying that the ship was ever in the location where the so-called Philadelphia Experiment was said to have been conducted. The mystery of whether there was a conspiracy of silence is almost as great as the mystery of the invisibility and space-time distortion theory.
When the previously unimaginable is written in a clear, concise, matter-of-fact manner, backed up by a formidable array of logic and sequential, rational thought, it becomes imaginable. When that logic is backed by substantial scientific and historical knowledge, the imaginable starts edging its way towards the possible. The Montauk Project: Experiments in Time by Preston B. Nichols and Peter Moon was as epoch-making in its theories of time in 1992 as Dunne’s time theory books were seventy years earlier. Nichols and Moon’s hypotheses are both fascinating and challenging. When we were investigating on Long Island, New York, where the Montauk Project was based, we interviewed one of the team who worked with Nichols and Moon. His ideas on time, like theirs, were extremely interesting and innovative — but so far in advance of conventional thinking on the subject that they confronted orthodox science and metaphysics.
According to the evidence available to Nichols and Moon and their research associates, UFOs were sighted over the Eldridge shortly before the switch was thrown to energize the amazing invisibility experiment. According to this evidence, one of the UFOs was affected as well as the Eldridge herself and was hurled through hyperspace, ending up in Montauk, in a top secret research area well below the surface of Long Island.
The two engineers credited with actually throwing the fateful switch were named by these researchers as Edward and Duncan Cameron. The most amazing part of the account is that the brothers were dragged through a time tunnel and found themselves inside the Montauk Project on Long Island. They were then involved in a scenario that would do justice to a science fiction film. Several time journeys to and from 1943 to 1983 were undertaken, and delicate and complex equipment was retrieved for aliens they met on their travels through time and space. The mysteries become even more fantastic when a process of mind-body transfer is included.
What seems at first sight like a brilliantly imaginative episode from Sinbad, The Golden Fleece, or The Adventures of Baron Munchausen becomes challengingly real and factual when studied in more depth — threatening to overturn the comfortable, secure, commonsense world inside which we feel reasonably safe most of the time. In Fortean terms, we need to tread delicately on the thin crust called reality.
We, the jury, are left with three possible choices of verdict rather than the two traditional ones the law offers: first, nothing happened at all — the Philadelphia Experiment was just a wild rumour with no basis in fact whatsoever; second, there were some simple and clearly understood degaussing procedures that were subsequently mystified, coloured, and exaggerated out of all proportion; or third, it really happened, extraterrestrials were involved, time and hyperspace were used like the freeway between Montauk and Philadelphia — and the universe turns out to be unimaginably stranger than we thought.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Disappearance of the Crew of the Mary Celeste
Nova Scotian shipwrights still deservedly enjoy the highest professional reputation for their skill and expertise. The sturdy brigantines that were launched from Joshua Davis’s yard on Spencer’s Island, Nova Scotia, in the 1850s and 1860s were among the best in the world. The Mary Celeste was originally named Amazon when she was launched there in 1861 — the first of twenty-seven identical vessels Joshua built. The best Nova Scotian beech, birch, spruce, and maple had gone into her, and her cabins were pine-finished. Just under one hundred feet long, and approximately a quarter of that in width, her depth was approximately twelve feet and her displacement about two hundred tons.
A brigantine resembling Amazon, renamed Mary Celeste, 1861–1884.
A vessel can be either clinker-built, where the planks of her hull overlap one another, or corvel-built, where they fit tightly edge to edge. Amazon was corvel-built. She was a two-masted brigantine, although officially listed as a half-brig in the records of the Atlantic Mutual Insurance Company. Her official registration took place at Parrsboro — a very interesting and important Nova Scotia town, always well worth a visit. It stands at latitude 45°22’ and longitude 65°20’ on the coast of the Bay of Fundy with its astonishing, record-breaking tides that can vary by as much as 16.8 metres (54.6 feet).
In addition to its significant role in the story of the Mary Celeste, Parrsboro deserves to be cross-referenced with investigations into sea monsters: in 1985 the biggest fossil find in Canada was discovered on the North Shore of Minas Basin, close to Parrsboro — this find included a unique track of dinosaur footprints.
Parrsboro was known as Partridge Island in 1776 and was already an important settlement then. In 1784, it was given its present name in honour of Lieutenant Colonel John Parr, governor of Nova Scotia at that time.
When the authors were in Nova Scotia researching The Oak Island Mystery, they were fascinated by the accounts of the great Micmac hero Glooscap, who might have been one of the noble Sinclair family from the ancient Orkney Kingdom near Scotland. The Sinclairs were of Norse descent and were believed to have crossed the Atlantic long before Columbus. They were also beli
eved to have befriended the fearless Templars when that great and noble Order was treacherously attacked by Philip IV in 1307. If the Lost Fleet of the Templars reached Oak Island, it is possible that either one of their leaders — or Earl Sinclair of Orkney — became Glooscap, friend and guide of the Micmacs. Parrsboro is an ideal centre for tracing the Glooscap Trail. As well as the one off the coast of Chester on the Mahone Bay side of Nova Scotia, there was also another Oak Island on the Bay of Fundy not far from Parrsboro — a full account of that theory can be found in the authors’ The Oak Island Mystery.
So famous and successful was Parrsboro in the days of sail that stout ships like the Amazon, sturdily built of stout Nova Scotian timber and carrying the Parrsboro registration, were to be found in almost every port in the world.
Some experienced sailors — practical men with plenty of sound common sense — often wonder whether certain vessels carry a jinx, or curse. There were plenty of them in the late nineteenth century who had their doubts about the Amazon. Her first skipper was a Scotsman named Robert McLellan who died within two days of taking command of her — not exactly a promising start! On her maiden voyage she was badly gashed down one side when she collided with a fishing boat off the coast of Maine. While this was being repaired, fire broke out on board and inflicted further severe damage. John Nutting Parker, her skipper, was sacked.
The Amazon did manage to cross the Atlantic uneventfully, but collided with a similar brig near Dover, England, and sank it. This led to yet another change of skipper. In 1867, under her new captain’s command, she ran aground just off Cow Bay, part of Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, and was originally regarded as a total wreck. Haines and McBean tried unsuccessfully to salvage her, and went bankrupt in the process. The jinx seemed to extend to financial ventures as well as nautical ones. John Beatty of New York bought her next and passed her on to James H. Winchester and his associates, Sylvester Goodwin and Daniel Sampson.
By this time major structural changes had been made in her. Her length had been increased to 103 feet, and her width by only a few inches. Her displacement had been raised to 282 tons. She was now American owned and registered, and she flew the Stars and Stripes. Most significantly of all, her name had been changed: the old Amazon had been re-christened the Mary Celeste. Lloyds of London had once logged her as the Marie Celeste instead, and there were strange rumours that her new name had been intended to be Mary Sellers. Careful searching of genealogical records shows that there was a real Mary Sellers, daughter of John and Sarah Sellers. Mary was born in 1843 in Covington County, Mississippi, U.S. She was killed in a tragic accident involving a horse when she was only twenty-seven. Was the ill-fated Mary Celeste intended to have been re-christened Mary Sellers to honour her memory by a ship-owner who knew and loved her?
Winchester and his associates discovered that the ship had dry rot in her hull. The bottom was rebuilt and reinforced with a strong copper lining. In their capable hands, the Mary Celeste became as stout and seaworthy as any vessel of her size in the 1870s. Her first skipper after the rebuilding was Rufus Fowler, who was a co-owner of the vessel. On October 29, 1872, he was replaced by Captain Benjamin Spooner Briggs, who, like Fowler, was also a part-owner of the ship. Benjamin had been born at Wareham, a coastal town on Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, on April 24, 1835, making him just eight years older than the tragic Mary Sellers of Mississippi. Was it possible that this well-travelled seaman had met her on one of his voyages? Was that the connection between her and the changed name of the ship?
Ben was the product of a puritanical New England seafaring family. He was the second of the five sons of Captain Nathan Briggs and his wife, Sophia. His brothers also followed their father’s proud seagoing tradition. By the time Ben took over the Mary Celeste he had already successfully commanded three other ships: Forest King, Arthur, and Sea Foam.
Just before she sailed into history, the Mary Celeste had been anchored at Pier 44 in New York’s East River. On Saturday, November 2, 1872, she was loaded with over seventeen hundred red oak casks filled with commercial alcohol, and everything was made safe and secure in the hold. These casks were destined for H. Mascerenhas and Co. of Genoa in Italy. The shippers were a firm of New York merchants, Meissner Arckerman and Co.
The Sandy Hook pilot ship took the Mary Celeste from Pier 44 to Staten Island’s Lower Bay on November 5, but the Atlantic weather was so unwelcoming that Briggs wisely decided to wait a couple of days before taking his ship out into open waters on November 7.
In addition to his crew, Briggs was accompanied by his lovely thirty-year-old wife, Sarah Elizabeth, daughter of the Reverend Cobb, the Congregationalist minister in Marion, Massachusetts, and their toddler daughter, Sophia Matilda. Their son, seven-year-old Arthur Stanley, was being cared for by Nathan and Sophia Briggs, his paternal grandparents. Poignantly, in her last letter, posted from Staten Island, Sarah Briggs said how much she was looking forward to getting a letter from her young son.
Briggs’ first mate was Albert G. Richardson. He was twenty-eight years old and had served as a soldier in the American Civil War. His wife was the niece of James H. Winchester, principle shareholder in the Mary Celeste. He and Briggs had sailed together before, and Richardson was known to be a brave, honest, and reliable seaman — although there were rumours of a clandestine romance between him and the attractive Sarah Briggs.
Andrew Gilling, who was three years younger than Richardson, served as second mate and was also known as a loyal and reliable sailor. He was a New Yorker with Danish ancestors. Twenty-three-year-old Edward William Head served as the ship’s cook and steward. He was a Brooklyn man who enjoyed the same high reputation as the three officers. The remaining crew members were German. Volkert Lorensen and his brother, Boy, were in their twenties. Gottlieb Goodschall was in the same age range as the Lorensens. Arien Martens was the mystery man. At thirty-five years old — not much younger than Captain Briggs himself — Arien was a good sailor with a good reputation; furthermore, he was fully qualified as a mate — but he had signed on the Mary Celeste as an ordinary seaman. Why?
Before setting sail on what was to be their fateful last journey, Ben and Sarah had dinner with Captain and Mrs. Morehouse at Astor House. Morehouse was an old friend of the Briggs family and was in command of the Dei Gratia. They were bound for Gibraltar with a cargo of petroleum. His wife and Sarah Briggs were also good friends. By a strange, ironic twist of fate, it was the Dei Gratia that later discovered the empty Mary Celeste.
On November 7, 1872, the Mary Celeste duly set out from New York, heading for Genoa. Eight days later the Dei Gratia weighed anchor and set out for Gibraltar. Her log revealed that for ten days or so her voyage was uneventful and routine. Then, at one o’clock on the afternoon of December 5, helmsman John Johnson saw a ship approximately five miles off the Dei Gratia’s port bow. Their position at the time was 38°20’ north by 17°15’ west, approximately six hundred miles off the coast of Portugal. Johnson, an intelligent, experienced seaman, suspected almost immediately that there was something strangely wrong with the distant ship. She was yawing appreciably, and there was something odd about her sails.
Johnson called to Second Mate John Wright, who peered intently at the mysterious ship and then decided to report it to the skipper. Captain Morehouse trained his telescope on the distant ship and then decided that it definitely needed help. Accordingly, by three o’clock, the Dei Gratia was within four hundred metres of the enigmatic vessel. Morehouse hailed her several times but received no answer, so he sent a boat over to investigate. Oliver Deveau, the first mate of the Dei Gratia, went across with John Johnson and John Wright. As they drew closer, they saw that the ship they were trying to help was the Mary Celeste, which had left New York some eight days ahead of them. That alone was conclusive evidence that something was seriously wrong on board her. Johnson remained in charge of the dinghy, while Deveau and Wright clambered aboard the Mary Celeste. Deveau, who played a leading and heroic role in the mystery, was a big,
muscular man who feared nothing.
They searched the Mary Celeste from end to end but found no trace of anyone aboard — alive or dead. They sounded the pumps to see how much water she’d taken into her hold: one pump had already been withdrawn to let down a sounding rod, so the Dei Gratia’s officers used the other one. Not surprisingly, recent storms had left a significant amount of water between the Mary Celeste’s decks, but not enough to threaten the ship’s buoyancy and stability. Deveau and Wright took careful note of the sails. They found the main staysail lying across the forward housing, but the upper foresail and the foresail itself had apparently been torn away by the recent storms. They concluded that these sails must have been washed overboard since the Mary Celeste had been abandoned. The jib was set, and so were the fore-topmast staysails and the lower topsail; all the other sails were furled. The running rigging was in a chaotic mess: much of it was fouled, some was dangling forlornly over the side, and the rest had apparently been blown away and lost like the foresails.
The vitally important main peak halyard, which was almost one hundred metres long, had snapped off short — and the greater part of it simply wasn’t there. Its normal use was to hoist the outer end of the gaff sail. Did that missing halyard provide a major clue to the tragedy?
The binnacle had been blown over — or knocked over by storm-lashed debris — and the compass was smashed. The helm was spinning wildly as wind and tide moved the rudder at random.