The Ghost of the Mary Celeste

by Valerie Martin

  “Will you meet him again when you get to London?”

  Her jaw clenched and she touched two fingers to her forehead, as if warding off some pulse of pain. “If I get to London.”

  “Now who’s taking a dim view?”

  Her mood had darkened again and she ignored my chiding. “I have a terror of the sea,” she said. “It has taken everyone I loved.”

  “You mean the Briggs family.”

  “I think of them so often now. I was too young to know what a paradise we were in. I felt no one understood me; that I was trapped and must escape. And then they were all gone, just gone. They sailed away …” She lifted her hand, looking up as if she saw a ship in the air. The impression was so strong that I seemed to hear the sound of the oceanic whisper that mysteriously calls from the convoluted depths of seashells, and an image of a ship’s sharp prow slicing through dark water and of enormous wind-filled sails developed in my mind’s eye. It occurred to me that Violet could have been an actress—she had the ability to make her audience see what she saw.

  “They sailed away,” she said again. Then she coughed, clearing away the apparition. “And I was left on the shore in this charade of a life.”

  I said nothing, reluctant to leave the spell of that marvelous vessel, plowing the waves, sailing into the unknown.

  “You remind me of her,” Violet said.

  This brought me round. “Of Sarah Briggs?”

  She nodded.

  “Was she tall?”

  “No.” She scrutinized me for the point of comparison. “You don’t look like her; it’s something in your manner.”

  “The way I talk?”

  “Perhaps it’s only that you don’t entirely approve of me.”

  “I don’t disapprove of you,” I lied.

  “Of course you do,” she said. “How could you not? I’m a nonentity. I do nothing. I create nothing. I’m a parasite feeding on the blood of fools who haven’t the sense to swat me.”

  “That’s going too far,” I objected.

  “No. It’s true. It’s the truth. I know what I am, though I’m not exactly sure how I got to be what I am.” This conundrum held her attention and she furrowed her brow, her eyes settling on the package in my hands. “But something is changing in me; I can feel it. I have the sense that even I may have my little moment of courage.”

  “I hope you will,” I said.

  “Do you?” she replied. “The idea terrifies me.”

  THE WHITE CROW

  S.S. Campania, 1894

  I shall not see thee. Dare I say

  No spirit ever brake the band

  That stays him from the native land

  Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay?

  No visual shade of some one lost,

  But he, the Spirit himself, may come

  Where all the nerve of sense is numb;

  Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost.

  TENNYSON, “IN MEMORIAM”

  Mrs. Millicent Atlas of Brooklyn had come to Spiritualism by way of the suffragist movement, and though she had no doubts about the continuity of life, her chief interest was the struggle for justice on this side of the veil. William, her husband, had made his fortune in the shipping industry. He and her four exuberant daughters all supported her in every cause. Their home, a spacious brown-stone set well back from the muddy street behind an iron fence, was a continual hubbub of visitors, meals, and heated conversations. One didn’t visit the Atlas residence; one was enfolded into it. For Violet Petra, who had spent so much of her time with the desperately bereaved, the atmosphere was unnerving and fraught with peril. She wasn’t sure what to expect or what was expected, and so, during her brief visit, she stayed in the cluttered, chintz-festooned guest room as much as she politely could. The sound of talking, laughter, singing, guests or daughters trooping up and down the stairs in groups, shouts from room to room, the clatter of dishes in the dining room, where it seemed some version of a meal was continually under way, all rose up to Violet, tempting her. Join us, the voices seemed to say. This is life; this is joy. Let us meet and talk and strive. Let us change the world.

  Mrs. Atlas, a stately matron with a large nose, close-set brown eyes, and black hair cut short and curled in the Titus style, had the efficient manner of an aristocrat turned politician, which, indeed, she was. She knew who Violet was, why she had come, and where she was going, but she showed no interest in any of this, beyond commending the Society for Psychical Research for debunking “that dreadful Blavatsky woman.” Surely Mrs. Atlas knew Miss Petra was crossing the ocean to court the same fate as the disgraced Russian. “Do you know,” Mrs. Atlas continued, “she had actually hired an assistant to push spirit messages on slips of paper through a crack in the ceiling?” Violet acquiesced in her hostess’s condemnation of such fraudulent practices.

  “And then poor Margaret Fox,” Mrs. Atlas concluded. “Such a confusing spectacle.”

  “Indeed,” Violet concurred.

  Mr. Atlas, a small, stout, explosive personage, with bulging eyes, tumid lips, and moist hands that he rubbed together when waiting for the opportunity to make a point, was most interested in Miss Petra’s ship, the Campania, which he declared to be as fine a vessel as one could hope for a crossing, with all manner of luxury and captained by one of the ablest men on the seas. He would escort his guest on her departure, and if Captain Hains was aboard, introduce her to him, thereby guaranteeing that she might want for nothing on her voyage. At lunch, the day before her departure, it was revealed that Violet’s ticket was for the second class, which news caused a distinct cooling in the general excitement about her trip. Though no one said it, she understood that Captain Hains was unlikely to take a “special” interest in a passenger who would never promenade on the saloon deck and must dine by the bugle, and not, as was the new fashion, à la carte. “I understand all the accommodations are excellent,” Mrs. Atlas assured her. “You’ll have a comfortable crossing, and really, it’s all the same food.”

  When the hour came for her departure, Mr. Atlas was engaged at his offices and it was Mrs. Atlas, unacquainted with the estimable Captain Hains, who delivered their guest to the pier. A house servant loaded Violet’s luggage into the back of a phaeton drawn up to the gate. To Violet’s surprise, her hostess, having pulled on a cloak and a pair of sturdy boots at the door, strode across the slush beyond the curb and leaped onto the bench, taking the reins into her gloved hands with practiced confidence. Violet followed, careful of her skirts, and climbed into the space beside her indomitable hostess. The enforced zeal and energy of Mrs. Atlas irritated her, but she knew what she was expected to say and she said it. “You drive your own carriage!”

  Mrs. Atlas’s dark eyes flashed combatively. “Don’t ladies drive in Philadelphia?” she asked. However, she evidenced no interest in the answer to this question, tightening the reins and snapping her horse’s head to attention.

  It was a cold, damp morning with a sky as close and smoke-stained as a tenement ceiling. The phaeton whirled along the narrow streets toward the waterfront and up the ramp to the bridge where the traffic was heavy but brisk. Mrs. Atlas occupied herself with her driving, and Violet was left to look out over the river, which was dotted with ferries, barques, brigs, schooners, barges, and steamers, all meandering upstream and -down in an orchestrated dance choreographed by some unseen, all-knowing god of wind, water, and commerce. It made her head ache to look at it. She had slept poorly—the Atlas home was teetotal—and her nerves were frayed and raw. As the phaeton cleared the bridge and steered toward the wharf, the traffic thickened, and finally ground to a halt. Violet gazed listlessly at the pressed confusion of cabs, private carriages, men in caps pushing all manner of barrows and carts, men in top hats, and ladies wrapped in fur descending from the vehicles, clots of ragged children and clusters of gibbering foreigners, sharp young men in uniforms pulling luggage down from cabs, horses stamping their hooves and tossing their heads, or standing patiently while their drivers shou
ted at one another. “There she is,” Mrs. Atlas said, pointing over her right shoulder. “I’ll try to get you as close as I can.”

  Violet turned to see what Mrs. Atlas pointed at, what everyone in this whirlpool of shouting, maddening humanity packed between a row of dreary warehouses and a behemoth was pushing toward. Indeed, there she was, her great black hulk topped by two gleaming white decks and towering above that, as tall as a lighthouse and raked at an angle that made them look already windswept, two great red smokestacks.

  Scattered passengers and a few sailors were already aboard, leaning on the rail of the upper deck, breathing the better air above the mob. The steepest gangway was dotted with passengers, who were being admitted a few at a time. Another, lower ramp was manned by the sharp young men, passing in luggage from the carts. Mrs. Atlas maneuvered the horse a few steps closer and turned the phaeton to face the ship. She hailed one of the uniformed porters, who leaped a cordoned area piled with luggage and rushed to the carriage, pulling Violet’s bags from the back. Having accomplished this task, he came to the phaeton door and stood staring expectantly at the two ladies within. “He’ll need to see your ticket, my dear,” Mrs. Atlas said pleasantly. Violet handed down the ticket, which the porter examined momentarily, then returned to the luggage, slapped a white label on each piece, and wrote a few numbers across it with a thick crayon. “I wish I could get closer,” Mrs. Atlas assured Violet. “Can you make your way through this awful mob?” The porter turned back, holding out his hand to Violet with his cheerful, noncommittal expression. She cast the most fleeting glance at Mrs. Atlas, who was clearly eager to take up her reins and trot back to the world of those who needed and adored her. “I’ll be fine,” Violet said, but as her foot reached the ground she stumbled, and the porter, with a mumbled “Steady there,” caught her elbow to right her. “Thank you,” she said, but he had already turned away to whistle at a lad with a barrow.

  “Bon voyage, Miss Petra,” Mrs. Atlas called out cheerfully. She clucked to her horse and the phaeton’s big wheels creaked against the wharf as it pulled away.

  “I’ll be fine,” Violet said again, but no one heard her.

  The journey through the crowded pier to the door of stateroom 144 on the second deck of the S.S. Campania took more than an hour, during which, Violet assured herself, she rubbed shoulders with every station of society. When she had turned the key, pushed open the heavy metal door, and stepped inside, she viewed the interior with a palpable sense of relief. Though the ceiling was necessarily low and the cabin small, everything in it was pristine, tasteful, and designed to take advantage of the limited space. Bouquets of violets were stenciled in a pattern above a creamy yellow wainscot that matched the two built-in drawers and the cabinet beneath the commode. Every modern convenience was available: electric lights, a sink with two faucets, adequate ventilation, and a water closet. A pillow and a clean towel were laid out on the neatly made bunk. Another bunk attached to the wall above had been folded up and latched in place, as the management knew Miss Petra was traveling alone. Her luggage—how had they achieved it?—was already there, stacked on the long sofa that occupied one end of the room. There was no window, save a small curtained square that opened into the corridor—it was an interior cabin—but a view was provided by a painting of a pastoral scene, complete with two cows grazing in the background, full of light and serenity. This picture would be her daylight for the next week.

  She sat down on the sofa next to her trunk, her hat box and the bulky travel bag containing a few books, writing tablets, fountain pens, and toilet articles. She leaned her arm upon the trunk and closed her eyes. She might, she thought, never leave this room. She wouldn’t be required to, though of course she would have to eat.

  But for that she had only to present herself three times a day, or four if she took tea, at the dining room where, surrounded by strangers, she might contrive to be virtually invisible. She dreaded the condescending looks, the polite smiles that would greet the announcement that she was a medium en route to be investigated by the Society for Psychical Research. She had spent most of her adult life among believers—this would be different. Occasional intrusions, scoffers at public sittings, skeptical relatives or curiosity seekers, and, of course, Phoebe Grant, had operated upon her not as threats but as diversions. But here, the materialists, the unbelievers, would be in the majority, and since the Fox sisters’ recantation, they were sometimes bitter and vengeful.

  There were upwards of fifteen hundred people on the ship, all settling into their respective places, the wealthy above her, out of reach, the poor below, and among them, at all levels, there were doubtless a few who might defend her, or even seek her out, but she wouldn’t risk it. She was out of her element here, in more ways than one, and she had no desire to become an object of interest and possibly derision to her fellow voyagers.

  She opened her eyes and busied herself with pulling the pins out of her hat, removing it from the nest of her hair. She would have to come up with a story. She was traveling for her health, to visit family abroad, to take up a position of some kind, a governess perhaps, or she was going out to be married and then follow her new husband to India or Africa. A rich uncle had passed on and she was an heiress to his grand estate. Or small estate—hence the second-class dining room. Why, why would a middle-aged American woman be traveling to England alone?

  Considering the amount of human activity that must be going forth all over the ship, the stateroom was remarkably quiet. She could hear a distant shout, the sound of the opposite door opening and closing, muffled footsteps moving away, then nothing. Warm air drifted in through the ventilation system; she could hear a faint hum. She stood up, removed her coat, went to the basin, and turned on the tap, lowering her hands into the stream of cool water. She would need one credible story with not much elaboration, a straightforward mission. Best not to include a death. A visit to a relative, a sister, living where? London? No, too vast. Bath. Yes. She had never been to Bath but had read Jane Austen and so had some idea what the atmosphere was like. Her sister was a widow or a spinster, like herself, living in Bath and she was going out to visit her. They had not seen each other in many years. How many?

  Twenty-two years.

  No. Too long. Five years. Four.

  The soap was of a good quality, lathering up thickly in her hands and leaving a faint fragrance of verbena as she rinsed it away. She raised her eyes to her reflection in the oval mirror affixed to the wall. Keep your chin up, she thought. Then she studied her face, which, she observed with conscious irony, was beginning to look unfamiliar. She gave her image a tentative smile. “Who do you think you are?” she said softly.

  Outside the visitors were advised to repair to the wharf, the tugs drew alongside, and the lines were secured to haul the great steaming hulk out of the harbor. Violet could hear the deep thrumming horn announcing the imminent departure of the vessel. When she looked outside, the corridor was empty, the other passengers having made their way to the deck. She pulled her coat back on and hurried along the plush carpet to the staircase, compelled by a confusing combination of excitement, fear, and curiosity.

  It was early evening and the lamps were glittering in the seedy establishments along the wharf, though there was enough light to make out the upturned faces of the gathered crowd, waving and calling out their farewells as the space between the dock and the ship’s hull gradually widened and the prow veered steadily away from the harbor. Steamer chairs were strewn on the deck nearest the house, and a handrail separated the lounging from the promenading area nearer the sea, where her fellow passengers were gathered in groups, chatting, leaning over the rail, pointing out the various features of the ship to each other. The intermittent fire of champagne corks and the lilting strains of a violin on the upper deck suggested that a ship’s departure was a joyful occasion, though, Violet thought, the crew must look on it as the commencement of responsibility and labor. The strip of dark water widened, but she had no sensation of motion;
it was as if the dock was being pulled away from the ship. A mother and her teenage son, standing nearby, burst into laughter at some droll remark from the father. Violet smiled, turning to look at them, and catching, momentarily, the father’s gratified eye. She looked back at the wharf, where the crowd had begun to thin.

  She had no special consciousness of being alone. She had spent much of her life among strangers and was accustomed to fitting herself to the habits and whims of her various patrons. She had a public identity that shielded her from their occasional thoughtlessness and cruelty. She kept up with the world—it was important to do so and indeed she was interested in literature, music, painting, even science. Being informed and engaged deflected the disquietude people felt around her—her urbanity set them at ease. When she met a doctor or a lawyer, or a suffragette, she had no particular feelings about their professions, but she knew they were convinced of the necessity to take a stand about hers. And what a range of emotions the presence of Miss Petra provoked in those who doubted the continuity of life. A little distance had to be declared, a social desperation set in when she entered the room. It was as though she practiced some shameful art: black magic, voodoo, or poetry. She knew things she shouldn’t know; she was not of this world. She had powers—she was to be envied; she was sensitive and suffered—she was to be pitied; she had visions, the dead talked to her—she was to be shunned.

  When all she really was, she thought, as the night descended and the ship’s lights futilely stabbed at the darkness, was weary. The investigators had worn her down to a bundle of quivering nerves. They wanted her to tell them how she produced her effects, but it was like asking a composer to explain exactly how a sequence of musical notes appeared on the staff. Obviously he put them there. Did he hear them in his head? Well then, who put them there?