Cornwell returned to the judge.
‘My client informs me that, so anxious was he to assist this court and establish his claim to the vessel, he left New York at extremely short notice, omitting unfortunately to arm himself with the particulars of registration and ownership which, of course, his company undoubtedly possesses. He informs me that he will take immediate steps to have those documents forwarded from America and furnished to you …’
Cornwell hesitated, uncertainly, then continued: ‘It is also my duty to acquaint the court of the fact that, so hasty was Captain Winchester’s departure, he did not have sufficient time to equip himself with sufficient funds or documents of credit to lay before this court a substantial sum against a claim for salvage. Aware of this oversight, he hopes to arrange a loan from a friend who happens to be in Spain, to enable him to post bond in this court …’
Cochrane sighed, noisily, looking from Cornwell to the other lawyers and then back again.
‘A less patient man than myself might feel his court had been particularly ill-served by the claimants appearing before it …’
He stopped, looking to the Attorney-General.
‘I express myself grateful for the efforts of some to bring cohesion and order to the proceedings. It would seem to me, Mr Cornwell, that your client has some way to go to discharge his duties before there can be any question of restitution.’
He rose, ending the session, and Flood hurried from the court as soon as propriety permitted.
The judge received him fifteen minutes later, hunched reflectively over his desk.
‘Confusing business,’ he said, as the Attorney-General sat in his usual chair.
‘I’ve brought out everything I can,’ said Flood.
‘You’ve done well,’ said Cochrane, immediately anxious to deflect any inference of criticism. ‘It’s still messily unresolved, though.’
The Attorney-General looked curiously at the other man, surprised at the reservation.
‘I thought the sea captains were convincing,’ he said. ‘The surveyor, too.’
‘Remarkably so. I’m as convinced as them that something violent took place upon the Mary Celeste. The question that I cannot answer is: what?’
‘Any news from the constabulary?’
‘I gather there’s an intention to seek the advice of counsel.’
‘I might have expected an approach,’ said Flood.
‘The feeling was that to obtain such an opinion from you might be embarrassing, engaged as you were in the conduct of the civil proceedings.’
‘How long will the opinion take?’
‘Not long, I hope,’ said the judge. ‘There’s a limit to the time I can allow before pronouncing upon the decree for restitution. And suspicious though we may be, there is no way I can hold back upon that once we obtain the formal proof of ownership.’
Once again Captain Winchester let the after-court meeting swirl around him, a decision settling in his mind.
‘I don’t accept that the absence of an ownership certificate is the sole cause for delaying restitution,’ said Cornwell. ‘Any more than some apparent unhappiness over the mistake with the Dei Gratia crew.’
‘I wonder if they’re attempting another investigation?’ said Pisani, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
‘There can’t be a spar or timber of the Mary Celeste that hasn’t been scrutinised a dozen times,’ said Morehouse wearily.
‘There’s been no one around the ship for days,’ said Winchester. ‘I’ve had Captain Blatchford standing by, ever since he arrived from New York.’
‘Another examination of the facts, perhaps,’ suggested Pisani, unwilling to give up his idea.
‘Criminal?’ took up Stokes.
Pisani shrugged, letting the speculation grow.
‘It would please the Attorney-General right enough,’ said Cornwell. ‘He’s been conducting a trial for days now.’
‘Do you seriously consider there would be grounds for any investigation?’ said Stokes, moving against the idea. ‘It doesn’t seem logical to me.’
‘There has been precious little logic at the hearing for a long time,’ pointed out Pisani. He looked sadly at the New York owner: ‘I’m afraid they’re going to keep you on a string for days yet.’
It was a further hour before the meeting broke up. Captain Winchester was the last person to leave the Consul’s house.
‘As there is a weekend intervening, I thought I’d take a trip to Cadiz to obtain the bail-bond money,’ he said. He looked directly at Sprague, intent upon any reaction.
‘Probably a good idea,’ accepted the American official immediately. ‘The court seems minded to inflict upon you whatever delay it can.’
‘Is it a lengthy journey?’
‘Some seventy-five miles or thereabouts,’ said Sprague. ‘It’s a fair road.’
‘Then I’ll set out at first light,’ said the owner.
He ordered a carriage for six but was awake long before dawn. By the time the transport had arrived, he had already packed. He supervised the loading, ensuring that his luggage was out of sight, then sat back in his seat for the slow, winding descent to the peninsula. As they crossed towards the border with the mainland, he looked to his left, trying to isolate the spars and masts of the Mary Celeste. He thought he could detect them, but was unsure among so many craft.
The formalities were very brief and Winchester had cleared the colony long before most people were awake. As he began the journey through the gradually widening landscape of Spain, he felt the sense of claustrophobia lift from him; imprisonment must be terrifying, he decided.
The road was better than he had expected and they reached Cadiz by nightfall, Winchester having allowed only the minimum of rest at midday and then paying for an extra set of horses so that they could drive on through the heat.
The brig Daisy Boynton was berthed at a sailing jetty, having discharged her cargo. Captain Appleby was aboard, waiting, when Winchester arrived.
‘I expected you earlier,’ said the younger man.
‘I’d have welcomed it being earlier, believe me,’ said Winchester.
Appleby put a bottle of local wine at hand for Winchester to replenish his glass when he wanted to, listening without interruption as the owner outlined the enquiry he had been attending.
‘Arraign you?’ queried the captain, when the older man had come to the end of his account and explained his fears.
‘I’ve little doubt of it.’
‘But for what reason?’
‘The authorities here are convinced of crime. And seem determined to find a culprit.’
‘That’s monstrous.’
‘It’s all of that,’ agreed the ship-owner. ‘But there appears no appeal.’
‘What’s your intention?’
‘To seek a favour from you,’ said Winchester immediately. ‘I remembered your destination and hoped you would have discharged. You know me well enough to accept my word as a gentleman, against my paper. I’m asking you to lend me your freight money, so that I can post bond in Gibraltar against the Mary Celeste being released. I intend returning it to my agent in the colony by messenger and making my own way to Lisbon, for passage back to America.’
‘You’re not returning for the conclusion of the hearing?’ asked Appleby. The question went beyond surprise, to astonishment.
‘I’m convinced they intend to arrest me,’ he said. ‘There are no grounds, but it will take months to obtain a fair hearing and by that time God knows what will have happened to the business in New York. I’m well aware of how bad it will look, but I feel the slur upon my name is a lesser evil than false imprisonment.’
The young man shook his head, doubtfully. Winchester knew he was asking a lot from one so young: Appleby could be little more than twenty-two years of age.
‘If you’re not inclined to assist, which I shall completely understand, I shall journey on to London and seek protection from the American Ambassador there. It’ll
need someone in authority to break through the walls they’ve built for themselves in Gibraltar.’
‘You’ll provide a Note against the loan?’
‘This instant,’ said Winchester eagerly. ‘Our families have been acquainted for many years. You know well enough there’s no risk of my word not being kept.’
Appleby rose and went to a small safe against the bulkhead, near his desk. From it he took a cash box and put it unopened on the table at which Winchester was sitting.
‘You’re welcome to whatever is there,’ he said. ‘I’ll not sit idly by while a fellow American is hounded by petty officials.’
Winchester counted out the bail-bond money, then wrote out a formal letter of debt and signed it, not putting it into the box but handing it to Appleby. The young man glanced briefly at it, then put it in with the cash that remained.
‘You’re welcome to passage home aboard the Daisy Boynton,’ said Appleby.
‘It’s a generous offer,’ said Winchester gratefully. ‘But you’ll have occasion in the future to call at Gibraltar and ‘I’ll do nothing further to involve you with the authorities there. Before I left Gibraltar I took a note of available steamers from the Maritime Journal. The Caledonia sails from Lisbon on the 6th.’
‘Will you raise the matter with Washington when you return?’
‘I’ll raise it right enough,’ vowed the owner. ‘And I’ll make damned sure there’s action taken.’
Winchester dined with Appleby before quitting the Daisy Boynton. At the hotel he wrote a long letter to Sprague, informing him of his decision not to return and the following morning had the bail-bond money and the letter put under the seal of the American Consul in Cadiz for transfer to Gibraltar.
By noon he had already taken carriage for the overland route to Portugal. Appleby had been right to be astonished that he was running rather than returning to the colony, reflected Winchester. But only someone who had actually sat in at the hearing day after day and felt the atmosphere build up could appreciate how proper the decision was. Once the ownership certificates arrived it could not affect the eventual release of the Mary Celeste. It would cause annoyance, of course, particularly coming so soon after the Dei Gratia’s trip to Genoa. But Winchester decided that he couldn’t give a damn about annoying Sir James Cochrane or Attorney-General Frederick Solly Flood. He’d asked Consul Sprague to make the contents of his letter dear to both of them, setting out his annoyance at the unfounded accusations and his fear of wrongful arrest. He wanted that to be a warning, an indication that, once back in America, he intended taking every offidal course open to him to prove them both incompetents and bigots.
He closed his eyes, letting his body move with the motion of the carriage and trying to doze away the fatigue of the previous thirty-six hours.
The enquiry had been a frightening experience, he decided. It would undoubtedly find in favour of the Dei Gratia’s salvage claim. But it had failed in the other purpose it had set itself. Despite all the evidence and all the supposition, they were still no nearer learning what had happened to Briggs, his family and crew.
The carriage lurched over an unexpected pot-hole and the owner jerked awake.
And probably, he decided, no one would ever know.
More fervently than during any prayers he had uttered since the voyage began, Benjamin Briggs thanked God for the excellence of his crew. Their response was immediate, without the hesitation of bewilderment or the over-haste that would be the prelude to panic. No one shouted. No one ran. What fear there was – and they were all frightened – they hid, not with the self-consciousness that had shown after the sinking of the unknown ship, but because now it would have been a hindrance. It was fortunate that he hadn’t adhered absolutely to his father’s teaching and given orders only through the mate; there wasn’t time for that. Any more than there would have been time to repeat an order; only people who had complete confidence and respect in their captain would have reacted unquestioningly, as these men were doing.
‘Abandon ship,’ he ordered. He took care to modulate his voice. It was an order no seaman ever wished to hear; the one most likely to affect the control they were all so far showing. So there must be nothing in his voice to increase their anxiety.
‘Attempt to ventilate, Mr Richardson.’
‘Aye, sir.’
The first mate had already been moving in the direction of the for’ard hatch, anticipating the effort to prevent the explosion that was threatening beneath their feet.
‘Fast by the wheel,’ he ordered Goodschall.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Unship the boat, Mr Gilling.’
Richardson had taken the Lorensen brothers with him to the forward hatch, so the second mate called to Martens as the German emerged from the fo’c’sle, the last to be roused by the activity on deck and the strange rumbling beneath it. Briggs looked apprehensively towards the man. The German paused momentarily at the fo’c’sle head, then moved towards the boat strapped upon its fenders above the main hatch; he walked, not ran, noted the captain.
Briggs turned to the galley mouth, aware of William Head.
‘Evacuation supplies,’ he said crisply. ‘Water, biscuits. As much as you can assemble.’
The steward-cook disappeared without a word into his workplace.
Briggs continued his movement, looking towards the companion-way leading into his cabin. Sarah stood quite calmly at the entrance, waiting her turn to be told what to do. Strange, thought Briggs fleetingly, how his fears of panic had been of the crew, not of his wife. He knew her absolutely, he realised. Sophia had been snatched from her bed and was whimpering at the shocked awakening. His wife had not lingered to dress the child. She had wrapped her first in a shawl, then a coat. Her own hair hung uncollected down her back, but she had hurriedly dressed. It was not until she began to walk towards him that he realised she had forgotten her shoes.
‘How serious is it?’ she asked. Her voice was almost unnaturally calm; she might have been discussing a rain shower spoiling a Sunday afternoon picnic.
‘Bad,’ said Briggs, sure of the woman and therefore confident there was no need for false reassurance. ‘The cargo is exploding –’
He was stopped by a noise louder than all the others, a screeching, tearing sound like the sort that children sometimes make squeezing the neck of a balloon and then allowing the air to escape. The gas belched up from the hold and, even though he was the farthest away, Briggs recoiled at the smell. Boz Lorensen, who had been standing in front of the hatch, staggered to the rail, retching. He was violently sick before he reached it, his shoulders jerking in spasms. Now there was an opening, the rumblings from the hold were clearer. Even though there was an escape for the gas, there was no lessening of its activity. It continued without a break, a continuous roar, like that of a steam-engine gradually approaching a station.
Richardson and the other Lorensen brother were already at the main hatch, uncoupling the boat.
‘No time for block and tackle,’ said Richardson. ‘We’ll manhandle her over.’
The four men strained the boat upright, then edged it forward on the fender bar towards the port rail. Boz Lorensen walked unsteadily from the stem of the ship, looking apologetically towards the master. He wedged himself alongside his brother and began shoving.
‘Lift on three,’ ordered Richardson, beginning to count.
The boat rose up as the men heaved, but Boz Lorensen, still weak, stumbled, upsetting the balance and the metal-edged keel spar sliced down into the rail. The men staggered, but managed to prevent it from falling completely on to the deck.
‘Again,’ said Richardson, re-counting.
Boz Lorensen got better footing this time and on the second attempt the boat cleared the rail.
‘Let it slide,’ said Richardson, utilising the axe-like cleft that had been cut into the rail by the boat’s bottom.
Richardson held the boat at the rail edge until he was satisfied it would enter the water square, the
n ordered it in. Volkert Lorensen had the painter and Martens a rope around the stern stay, so that it was held tightly alongside as it splashed down. It was a long drop and there was a surge of water as the boat shipped before rising again.
Briggs had been moving his wife and child towards the boat as his men prepared to cast it over.
‘Control of the boat, Mr Richardson,’ he said.
The first mate vaulted the rail, then stood to seaward to lift the split rail through which the companion-way was entered when the ship was in port. He took the protesting Sophia from her mother, for the woman to have her hands free to enter the boat, then lowered the child back to her. Sarah sat in the rear, Sophia’s head cupped into her shoulder to try to stifle the cries.
Briggs turned inboard, looking at the main hatch they had been prevented from opening by the presence of the boat. It was lashed down, as well as being secured by the fenders upon which the boat had rested. At the very moment he was mentally debating whether he should risk the delay of attempting to remove the hatch, to increase the ventilation, there was another shuddering rumble and a gout of gas, visible because of the dust and debris it carried from the hold, erupted through the already open hatch.
‘Collapse the main staysail,’ he ordered Gilling and the older Lorensen.
As he hurried to his cabin, fighting against the desire to run, he passed William Head. The cook had joined the handles of two gunny sacks and was tottering along with them over his shoulders, pannier-style.
At the companion-way leading into the cabin, there was a crash and Briggs jerked around, tensed against the edge of the doorway. Gilling and Lorensen had just knocked the shackles free, not bothering to control the descent of the staysail and it had fallen against the stovepipe on the galley roof, splintering it sideways. As the captain watched, the gaff swung from the momentum of the collapse, striking the binnacle. The cleats which had supported it from the decking gave under the blow and the compass smashed out sideways.
Fifteen minutes must have passed since the sound that had first alerted them, Briggs calculated as he entered his cabin. As he did so there was a further eruption beneath his feet, worse than all the others. The deck shuddered so violently that he had to grab out to his desk, to avoid falling.
The Mary Celeste Page 17
