Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

  I write this sitting in Greenwich Village, not far from the Meatpacking District. At least the cafes have coffee even if I’m served a mediocre Brazilian and Columbian blend. The time prior I was here, the thoroughfares hustled and bustled with mare transporting goods around the city from the port. The traffic was thick in equal measure of both directions. A baker’s dozen of horse multiplied could be witnessed tethered to the railings, the air sweet with manure. Young Irish boys could be seen following carriages, scooping up the horse droppings as they fell. The clatter of hooves resonated around ones head until you could no longer hear yourself think. Now the only horses one sees seldom pass by and those that do hang their heads in hopelessness and make the occasional hacking sound doubtless trying to dislodge catarrh from their sinuses. The smell of manure is replaced by the smell of one’s own sweat which I can assure you, is choking in its intensity.

  What is a most queer site is that of men pulling carriages by hand. It takes many men to match the strength of a single horse and so it’s not uncommon to see a dozen Irish boys pulling a single cart laden down with crippling coal, agony etched upon their countenances whilst bystanders point, laugh and throw things at them. Travel by Irish now appears to be the only means of getting around and so our over reliance on the horse has exposed us. It makes me wonder just how the human race could continue without the horse, that magnificent beast we all take for granted so. I dearly hope my saddle horse Betsy is holding out back at the farm, but I don’t hold out much hope for her. I shall write my wife after this diary entry and enquire upon her constitution.

  There is little else to do whilst I wait, so I think I’ll draw a nice little picture.

  I assume they were dragging liquor in those barrels. At least the important things are still given priority.

  I’m clearly getting bored. I’d just dearly love be back on board the Mary Celeste and set sail but there’s no telling when that will be. Each day I remain here, I spend away my future simply to sustain a full belly.

  2

  November 6th 1872

  I sat and observed the strangeness to the city whilst enjoying my morning coffee, this time an even more inferior Brazilian and African blend.

  Large groups of people, mainly women gather routinely at the tram stops and even now they await the cars that never arrive. What surprises me is that in this modern age where we can build vast cities and sail around the world in our ships, people still act on impulse and instinct rather than on logic and common sense. These will doubtless be the first people to starve, those who are unable to adapt to the new world. If coal cannot be hauled from the mines to run the locomotives, if farmers cannot market their produce, if boats cannot reach their destination along the canals then our way of life will change beyond which any of us can envisage at this moment in time. One must be ready to adapt to whatever the world throws at us, and those who don’t will perish. Sure, we will mourn for these people, but in the long run of things, this is nature’s way of weeding out the weak. Yesterday I may have chuckled to myself and drawn a sketch of those Irish pulling vast carts as though they were a group of horse, but in harsh times, these are the men who will thrive while those who wait for the tram that will never arrive are the ones who will die.

  Indeed the country is falling apart. I read this morning that in Boston, over 700 buildings were lost in a fire. If there are no horses then there is nothing to pull the fire engines. Again, people had to be used to pull them, which lost precious time and then because there was no coal for the engines, the steam pumps could not be used which rendered the water hoses with a negligible quantity of pressure.

  This equine flu, or whatever it is these poor horses have been struck by is truly a life changing epidemic. However, in a world such as ours, it would seem that if one has the funds, one can still travel. And so this morning I met briefly with Captain Briggs, who’d managed to commandeer a coach with a few of the last remaining healthy horses in the city. This was doubtless at great expense to the Captain. He was flustered, having seemingly been through quite an ordeal, stranded in Yonkers. But for us thankfully, things are moving.

  He informs me that Meissner Ackermann & Co had paid some Irish boys to transport our cargo from the warehouse to the Mary Celeste docked in Staten Island. We will be transporting 1700 barrels of raw alcohol. Good thing the Captain is a teetotaller and has impressed upon me the need to recruit a likeminded crew tomorrow. Our destination is Genoa, Italy. I’ve always wanted to visit Florence, hopefully I’ll get the opportunity. Looks like we’ll be deserting this sinking ship just in the nick of time. The Lord only knows what state this country will be in upon our return.

  3

  November 7th 1872

  What a day today turned out to be. I arrived at dawn at St George with the intention of recruiting some boys for the voyage to Genoa. Imagine arriving and finding several hundred hungry and able bodied young men all straining at the bit to be enlisted. They crowded and jostled me and it was incredibly hard to hear my own voice above the crowd. There were some large Irish boys who caught my eye and so I pulled them to one side in an attempt to ascertain their seafaring experience. It was the wily looking one with hair of fire who spoke for his friends and assured me they’d just returned from a trip to Portugal on the Windflower. We agreed terms, which included my paying for their breakfast and then we left, with full bellies, for Mariners Harbor.

  We arrived and approached our ship having a full day’s work ahead with our supplies and cargo awaiting on the dock, needing to be stored in the hold, all 1700 barrels. I set the four Irish boys to the task when the wily one approached me and declared he would not set foot on that ship.

  Why, says I, and he said the ship was cursed. He knew all about our ship’s history and feared stepping aboard lest something evil happen. He spat and blamed the many horse deaths on our presence in the city. That the deaths had been occurring for long before our arrival didn’t appease or matter to the man. He knew all about the ship’s first skipper, Captain McLellan, who perished of pneumonia nine days into his first voyage. He knew about Captain Parker who, in a fit of madness, steered her into a fishing boat and needed to take her back to port for repairs where the ship was partially destroyed in a fire. He knew about Captain Smith who ran her into another fishing boat near Dover. He knew about Captain Jones running her aground off Nova Scotia. He knew she used to be named the Amazon and accused me of attempting to cover up for her cursed luck by renaming her the Mary Celeste. I assured him I had nothing to do with that decision and that Captain Briggs must answer for that. I have no time for such superstitious claptrap, said I, and a living must be earned.

  Far from dismissing the crew for refusing to work, they effectively dismissed themselves having already received a full belly of breakfast on my goodwill. He spat once more on the floor, some green catarrh that narrowly missed my boot, before turning tail, taking his boys and scarpering.

  I was then left alone on the dock with 1700 barrels of raw alcohol. However, it was the proximity to countless scores of foul smelling and drunken Irish which worried me the most. After standing with the barrels for some thirty minutes and five, I then decided to risk the barrels and find a new crew, fully expecting them to have been pinched upon my return.

  I walked the five miles back to St George where I hired on the spot, the first non-Irish group of men I found. On this occasion I hired a group of strong, stoic Germans, only one of whom spoke with an English tongue.

  We arrived back at Mariners Harbor where miraculously our cargo had not been pillaged and pilfered. I set my new Kraut friends to the task of loading the cargo, which they took to without a single utterance of objection.

  It was just getting dark when arrived Captain Briggs with his entourage consisting of our American cook Ed Head and to my surprise his wife Mrs. Briggs and two year old daughter Sophia. The Captain was incensed the cargo had not yet been sent down to the hold and proceeded to stamp his feet like he’d taken some kind of illegal opium
. In all my voyages with he, not once have I witnessed such a shameful display of lost temperament and my regaling him with the events of my day did little to lessen his outrage.

  He then proceeded to line the crew up against the railings for inspection. I thought this strange since he’d never bothered with such matters in the past. He then looked each man up and down, paying particular attention to their teeth like one would a horse. Good teeth, said he, were an overall sign of one’s good health. He then informed the men that his family would be sailing with us and that he expected each and every one of them to be gentlemanly. That only Volkert Lorenzen could understand him did not occur to the Captain. The men then proceeded to introduce themselves to the skipper, and I’m ashamed to say, to myself also.

  First there was Volkert our English speaker. Then we were introduced to the next man who went by the name of Boy. Boy, said Volkert was his younger brother. Arian was next, who was the oldest and largest of the four, perhaps in his mid-thirties and a man I would not care to meet in a dark alley, or in any social setting. Finally Gottlieb looked positively seasick despite not having yet embarked. I have severe doubts as to his seafaring experience and abilities. However, I’ll take him any day over an Irish.

  After the formalities of introductions had taken place, Captain Briggs then informed us that due to the nature of our cargo, he was confiscating all pipes and tobacco. There were groans and angry mutterings in German whilst the Captain thrust the seized tobacco into a knapsack attached to his person.

  Captain Briggs finally left us to the task of loading the rest of the cargo for he had to tend to his family in the Captain’s cabin. Apparently his daughter is not in full spirits.

  4

  November 8th 1872

  It was very late last night when we finally set sail, but the going has been good, the wind strong, waves moderate. It feels good to finally be back at sea. Genoa cannot though come soon enough. It always feels invigorating to return to dry land after a voyage and I can’t help but feel my time in New York was not spent as well as it could have been. I was dearly hoping for a few days in Montana with the family, but with the trains not running, it just wasn’t possible. Now I have no idea how long it will be before I’m able to see my family again.

  But when at sea, there are always matters to take one’s mind off things. Volkert has expressed his wish to have the tobacco reinstated to the crew. I told him this was not possible. Thankfully the thought of stray sparks igniting the alcohol and blowing us all to kingdom come seemed to pacify his thoughts and I told him it would be a good idea to inform the rest of the crew as to the consequences of naked flame on the Mary Celeste during this particular voyage.

  Volkert then expressed the desire to crack into one of the barrels of alcohol as compensation and as a gesture of goodwill. I then informed him that this was not possible, as Captain Briggs was an avid teetotaler and Methodist and he had dismissed seamen in the past for drinking on board. I told him none of this would matter, for I would keep them all busy enough to entertain their minds away from errant thoughts of drink and other such frivolities. I expressed my compliments to his countrymen and would they please scrub the decks before the Captain awoke.

  It was mid-morning when Cook Head finally brought us our breakfast of bread and cheese. Thankfully the coffee was of a one hundred percent Arabian blend. Head told me he’d been unable to access the Captain’s cabin and could I please enquire upon his family’s need for sustenance.

  After knocking on his door for several minutes, the Captain finally permitted me entrance to his reception room. Would you desire breakfast, said I. We have no need for a seaman’s breakfast, said he, unless we have meat. There was no meat, said I to he, due to the situation in New York. The Captain then proceeded to scream at me. I thought this rather odd since the Captain is always a very calm man and has never suffered from sea ailments either physically or of the emotional sort. He then apologised for screaming and begged that I would catch for his family some fish. Although it will always be a common occurrence for sea farers to live off the fruits of the oceans, I had never once known Captain Briggs to request a fish breakfast. Having thought about it, I reconciled that his wife, whom I had never sailed with must have a penchant for fish.

  I walked along the bridge where Gottlieb was busy throwing up his morning’s sustenance. I berated the man for not doing so overboard. I then put the sallow fellow to the task of fishing for the Captain’s breakfast which he took to with a surprising zeal.

  Cook Head finally brought a breakfast of mackerel to the Captain, which he left in the reception room. After ten minutes he was summoned back. Cook Head reported to me that the Captain, in a fit of rage, had thrown the fish at him. “I demand my fish be brought raw,” had said the Captain, “and preferably living!”

  I thought this odd behaviour since the Captain usually liked his meals brought piping hot.

  His wife, I thought, had very odd tastes.

  5

  November 9th 1872

  After one full day at sea, the waves are thankfully still of the manageable kind. The temperature however is rather cold, even for a November. It’s a good job our Kraut friends are of the tough and hard sort for mercifully the temperature is not affecting them greatly. For the most part, they’re good natured fellows who sing songs of the fatherland in their mother tongue. If not for their sudden withdrawal from tobacco and alcohol, they would doubtless be even more jovial.

  The Captain though is another matter entirely for I fear he is neglecting his duties in favour of tending his family. However I realise a Captain is God on his ship and in this case even more so, for Captain Briggs is a major shareholder of the Mary Celeste.

  There was a time when I would have liked to have been a shareholder myself, alas now I fear I’m growing tired of the shipping business. I think that when this voyage is over, I shall take that trip to Florence. When I finally return to the United States I shall seek a new career, perhaps in farming back in Montana. I long to be there with my Daisy and to watch our boy Conrad grow strong. It’s approaching one year since I saw my family and not a day goes by when I don’t regret these long days apart. But an earning must be made and I hope they understand. I think of my Kraut friends and how they must miss their families and loved ones back in the fatherland and however I’m suffering, they must feel it even more so. I suppose now I’m beginning to understand the Captain and why he is keeping his family so close. But it would be appreciated if he would at least make an appearance on deck, if only for a few minutes, for morale if for nothing else.

  The Captain had insisted his family ate before the crew and so we all watched with rumbling bellies while Gottlieb netted a brace of kipper. Cook Head took the pair and we watched them wriggle around on the plate.

  While breakfasting, I was then interrupted from my bread and cheese by Cook Head who summoned me over to the corner of the room and away from the hungry Krauts. Cook Head told me the Captain had taken the kippers and enjoyed them. But could we please catch something a little larger for tomorrow. Large like what, said I, perhaps he would desire a whale? Cook Head did not find amusement in my jest but did ask that I ensure the young Kraut understood that he was to catch something substantial for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  Today has been another day in which the Captain has not emerged on deck and I’m beginning to grow concerned. There were times gone by when we would sing together during those long cold nights and it was never beyond the Captain to mingle with the crew.

  On another note, the stench of alcohol is starting to seep up through the floorboards. This is only slightly abated by the cold Atlantic breeze and brings with it two potential problems; that of an increased risk of explosion, and perhaps most worryingly, it serves as a reminder to the nature of the cargo to our thirsty and potentially mutinous crew.

  6

  November 10th 1872

  I awoke with a slight intoxication and a harsh rasping feeling in my throat. The smell of alcohol was extr
eme to say the least. I had the inclination there was some sort of a problem with the cargo so I ventured down there and opened the door to the hold only to be immediately struck by the force of the smell and by several rats that ran by my feet. I took the decision there and then to keep the door open to air the place out. I would have liked to have had a detailed look inside for signs of damage to the barrels but for obvious reasons, I dared not turn on the lantern. I must remember to inform Captain Briggs about my decision to open the doors. I must also keep a close eye on the Krauts who’ll now have easy access to an unlimited supply of alcohol, raw as it may be, I know such a detail would never stop a drunkard. The smell is overpowering to such an extent I worry about the prospect of being blown sky high along with everybody else. Maybe this ship really is cursed.

  When I emerged from the hold, my path was blocked by Volkert. He loomed down on me, big, frightening and German. Get out of my way, said I, or I’ll have you on a charge. To my relief he backed away and stated he’d been sent by his compatriots to ask about the nature of the stench. There I had a split second decision to make. Did I tell him there was a problem with the cargo and I had locked the door and risk him threatening to knock the door down? Did I tell him there was a problem with the cargo, that I had opened the door to air the place out and risk him ransacking the place? Or did I tell him to mind his own business and that his job was not to concern himself with matters of running the ship but to do what he was told? I wish now I had been man enough to have said the latter. But understand that when four angry sailors are bearing down on you and you’re stuck with their company for a whole month with nowhere to hide, sometimes you make the choice you later on regret. Volkert glared at me, my face doubtless contorting while I struggled with my decision. There’s a problem with the cargo, said I, and I’ve left the door open to air the stinking place out. I stood and watched a wry smile slowly emerge upon his countenance, which revealed a set of stained yellow teeth. He looked at me victorious and I knew what he was thinking. I felt utterly defeated and ashamed - Thank God my son wasn’t there to see it.