The Mary Celeste

by Brian Freemantle

  The for’ard hatch wasn’t going to be sufficient, he thought. From the evidence of the build-up so far, there wasn’t much time before the eventual explosion and destruction of the vessel. So he would not have time to return again. He thrust the chronometer into his pocket, then snatched up a sextant and navigation book. From a drawer he took the Mary Celeste’s papers and register. He tried to pick up the log, but as he did so the sextant began slipping from his grasp, so he abandoned it, deciding that the sighting instrument was more important.

  At the cabin door he paused, gazing back. At least his father’s failure had been with a shore venture, surroundings in which he was an admitted amateur and for whom sympathy could be felt. He was about to lose a fine ship after less than a month from causes which were well established with such cargo and against which he should have taken better precautions. He turned, peering up the stairs. But what could he have done, other than making for another island perhaps a few hours earlier? To have opened the for’ard hatch in the weather they had been experiencing would have been as much bad seamanship as that of which he would now be accused. Those who knew wouldn’t make the accusation. And he was sure the crew would support him at any subsequent enquiry.

  He emerged on deck just as Head was completing the second supply-run from the galley, this time lowering water into the vessel. Goodschall was still at the wheel, obeying orders, although by now the vessel was so becalmed there was hardly any steerage. Boz Lorensen had got into the boat, to stow Head’s supplies, and his brother and Martens had led the boat away from amidships and its nearness to the escaping fumes, towards the stern from which they would attach the towline.

  ‘A rope from the lazarette hatch?’ queried Gilling, as Briggs hurried towards the boat.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, then immediately stopped. A new rope would be stiff and difficult to handle. He turned, seeking an alternative. The main peak halyard, a stout, three-inch-thick rope with one end already spliced to a mainsail gaff was about a foot away.

  Gilling was already scrambling into the lazarette, the hatch hastily cast aside.

  ‘The halyard,’ called Briggs. ‘We’ll use the halyard.’

  Gilling stopped, with just his head showing from the hatch, then climbed out, pulling the halyard through the tackle blocks and handing the free end to the older Lorensen to make fast to the painter.

  The boat looked pitifully small to accommodate them all, thought Briggs, looking down.

  ‘The rafts,’ he ordered Gilling, as the man returned from the lazarette. ‘Secure them to the boat.’

  Unquestioning, the second mate began to unfasten the stays and Volkert Lorensen momentarily let the painter trail while he heaved them over. The young Lorensen took the lines and began paying them out, so that the two rafts were spaced out astern of the lifeboats.

  Briggs handed down the articles he had taken from his cabin, gesturing Martens into the boat.

  ‘Secured?’ he asked Lorensen.

  ‘Aye,’ said the man.

  ‘Into the boat,’ said Briggs.

  Richardson was standing, holding the boat against the side of the Mary Celeste. He handed it back along the deck edge until it was nearly at the stern. The gas convulsions were now so persistent that there was a constant vibration through the vessel and the first mate’s hand shook against the decking.

  ‘Getting worse,’ said Gilling.

  ‘Into the boat,’ said Briggs again.

  Fumes were still spurting from the opened hatch, like a volcano without lava. There would be flames and heat soon enough, thought Briggs. There was a sudden sound, not quite an explosion, and a piece of dunnage wood arced like a spear through the hatchway and then disappeared over the bow of the vessel.

  ‘Abandon the wheel,’ Briggs ordered Goodschall.

  Head made his third return from the galley, with a final gunny sack, and the German stood aside for the cook to enter the boat first. For a moment alone in his ship, Briggs looked around, frowning at the shambles of collapsed sails and the hurry of their departure. The boat-launching had made a bad cut into the rail. Above, the sails still set hung limp and lifeless from the yards.

  ‘It’s building up,’ warned Richardson, hands still against the deck-edge. ‘It’s almost shaking me off.’

  Reluctantly, Briggs climbed over the rail and got into the boat, giving the halyard a final pull to check its freedom over the pulley. The Lorensen brothers were already at the oars. Behind the boat, the rafts bobbed like chicks following the hen.

  ‘Pull away,’ said Briggs.

  From the stern came a sob louder than that being made by the child and as he looked up Briggs saw that Sarah had bitten the sound off, lips tightly together, her face close to Sophia’s head.

  There was another eruption and more stowage material was thrown up. A piece of matting, without the weight of the dunnage wood, drifted leaf-like slowly back and settled gently on the water.

  Richardson was pulling constantly at the halyard line, to ensure that no snagging developed on the ship from which they were pulling away. A naturally tidy man, Briggs stacked the things he had taken from his cabin beneath his seat. Head had already stowed the provisions in the rear section, where Sarah sat.

  Satisfied that the line was free, Richardson settled himself beside the captain.

  ‘Not a lot of freeboard,’ he said, hand against the gunwale.

  Briggs looked to starboard. The slack water was less than a foot from the rail edge. He came back into the boat and realised that Richardson had already bailed the water that had been shipped when they had launched from the side of the Mary Celeste. He swivelled, looking over Sarah’s head. The outline of Santa Maria was smudged on the horizon.

  ‘Safe enough in this water,’ he said. ‘And the rafts are near to hand.’

  Richardson nodded.

  Briggs jerked his head towards the landfall.

  ‘Not a good coast,’ he said. ‘No anchorage worth talking of.’

  Richardson frowned, as if the idea of making land had not occurred to him.

  ‘Don’t you think she’ll clear?’ he said, turning back to the half-brig.

  ‘It seemed to be getting worse,’ Briggs pointed out. ‘Might have been better if we’d got the main hatch off.’

  ‘I’m surprised at the concentration that was there,’ said the first mate.

  ‘Rest now,’ ordered Briggs.

  The Germans stopped rowing, leaning forward against the oars. They were almost three hundred feet from the ship, which was the extent of the halyard, and it dipped only very slightly into the water. Everyone sat silently, waiting and watching the ship. Even Sophia had quietened, caught by the feeling in the boat. It rose very gently in the swell, tiny waves tapping at the hull. Across the water came the empty-belly echo from the deserted ship.

  It was almost thirty minutes before Richardson broke the silence.

  ‘If it’s going to happen,’ he said, ‘it’s taking long enough.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as loud as it was,’ said Gilling.

  Richardson turned to Briggs, suddenly hopeful.

  ‘Perhaps it’s going to be all right,’ he said, smiling uncertainly. ‘Perhaps the for’ard hatch is going to be sufficient and it’s going to ventilate.’

  Immediately he received it, the American Consul had considered it his duty to communicate the contents of Captain Winchester’s letter to both the Attorney-General and Sir James Cochrane, before the formal reconvening of the enquiry.

  Sir James had ordered an adjournment, for Sprague to attempt contacting the New York owner in Cadiz, but the consul there reported that he had already left for Lisbon. It took over a week for a reply to be received from the American authorities in the Portuguese capital and by that time the Caledonia had already sailed for America.

  Flood had been kept informed of Sprague’s efforts to bring Winchester back into the jurisdiction of the court. He set out for the final hearing of the enquiry in greater anticipation than he had all t
hose weeks ago, when it had begun. It had been similar weather then, he remembered, with mist closing off the Peak and the threat of rain later in the day.

  Just as he had on that first morning, he strained up as the carriage got near the Governor’s residence, able after the almost daily routine to isolate the Mary Celeste in harbour.

  Flood decided that he had succeeded in the task he had set himself. It had been a devilish scheme, as he’d told Sir James that first day. And, to be completely truthful with himself, he had failed to confirm the reason for it. But he’d pointed to the motive clearly enough. The attempt to get Deveau from the court had been proof, had any more been needed, that the crew of the Dei Gratia were involved in the disappearance of Captain Briggs and his family. Now the departure of Captain Winchester showed where the guilt lay.

  He knew that the Board of Trade in London had already accepted his version of events and passed on to Washington the British government’s belief in mutiny and murder. Doubtless they would alert Washington to the owner’s flight, so that the authorities would be waiting when he arrived in New York.

  The Gibraltar Chronicle and Commercial Intelligencer had announced the conclusion of the enquiry and the crowd around the door was greater than it had been on the first day.

  Flood had become a celebrity through the hearing. To a degree, he had anticipated the interest that would be shown in British and American newspapers, but had never expected it to extend to the European journals. He had kept a file, containing every mention of the enquiry and the theories that had been advanced; in nearly every report, his name had been prominently mentioned. As he had hoped, the two American newspapers which had conducted personal interviews had accompanied their articles with photographs of him in his official robes.

  When his carriage arrived, he recognised four of the journalists who had covered the progress of the enquiry and nodded to them.

  ‘Available for comment afterwards, Mr Attorney-General?’

  Flood had not seen who shouted the remark. He looked back to them, nodding again.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. It would be wrong for him to appear to be courting the public interest.

  Baumgartner was waiting just outside the robing room and walked forward to meet the bustling Attorney-General.

  ‘Sir James is anxious to see you before the hearing.’

  ‘I’ll robe,’ said Flood.

  ‘He said it was urgent … that you should come immediately,’ said the registrar, stopping him.

  Shrugging, Flood put his briefcase in the room and then walked behind the court official to the judge’s chambers. There was none of the usual cordiality as he entered. Cochrane was at his desk, the ledger into which he had made his notes throughout the hearing open before him.

  Flood went to his accustomed chair, without waiting for the judge’s invitation.

  ‘I’ve received the decision of the constabulary,’ announced Cochrane.

  Flood smiled expectantly. The decision would make a very dramatic end to the enquiry; the newspaper coverage would be greater than ever. He would make a statement to the journalists. The decision would vindicate his beliefs, as they well knew.

  ‘They have decided that there is insufficient evidence to mount a prosecution,’ said the judge.

  ‘What!’

  Flood half-rose out of his chair, his face open with outrage.

  ‘Insufficient evidence,’ repeated the judge. ‘There’s agreement from every side that cause for suspicion is overwhelming. But the lack of positive evidence to link either Captain Winchester or the Dei Gratia crew directly with an attributable crime, even a premeditated motive, makes it too dangerous to mount a prosecution.’

  ‘I would have prosecuted,’ said Flood, still unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

  ‘I’m aware you would … so are the authorities.’

  ‘Then I should surely be allowed to proceed, in a criminal court.’

  ‘Not if the police here are unprepared to make a case. And counsel’s advice is that if we arraigned any one of the people who have appeared before us at the enquiry, then their defence lawyers would destroy any case we were able to bring.’

  ‘But what about the flight of Captain Winchester?’

  ‘It proves –’

  ‘Guilt,’ insisted Flood. ‘What other reason would he have had for fleeing, unless he were frightened of what was to be uncovered?’

  ‘It would make a very strong piece of circumstantial evidence, if only there were something positive to link the man with crime … insurance fraud, for instance. Just one thing – that’s all we need.’

  The full extent of what he was being told registered with Flood. He rose, walking to the window overlooking the bay. The disbelief numbed him.

  ‘It means that a crime has been committed … and that we are probably letting the guilty men escape justice.’

  ‘I’ve made that point,’ said Cochrane.

  ‘Is a full report being made to London?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They could overrule the decision here.’

  ‘The final decision came from London, because I protested against its being made locally.’

  ‘London say no proceedings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But they’ve accepted my view, of murder and mutiny. Alerted the American government, even.’

  ‘I know. And for good purpose. If there were mutiny and somewhere one of the crew is located, then we’ve got our positive proof. We’re not closing the door to prosecution by deciding against moving now.’

  But he’d wanted it pursued now, while everyone except Winchester was in the colony and easily apprehended. He’d wanted to be involved.

  ‘What chance will there be of bringing all these people together in six months’ time I’ he demanded, exasperated. ‘They’ll have disappeared to God knows where.’

  ‘I’m not unaware of the difficulties,’ said Cochrane, irritated at the apparent blame the Attorney-General was attaching to him for the decision.

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ said Flood, making angry patting gestures against the window sill. ‘Utterly unbelievable.’

  He turned into the room again:

  ‘The Mary Celeste crew were German, with families. I’m going to communicate the whole affair to the Prussian authorities and ask them to be on the look-out for anyone answering the descriptions we can provide. There’ll be a time when they will want to come out of hiding and return home …’

  ‘It could do no harm,’ said the judge doubtfully.

  Flood returned to his chair, sitting forward upon it and looking directly at the other man.

  ‘I regard this as a personal failure,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no reason why you should,’ said Cochrane immediately. ‘I know of no one else who would have worked as hard as you have.’

  ‘I’m convinced I’m right,’ said the Attorney-General, unwilling even now to concede that the affair was going to end without any action. ‘There are too many inconsistencies in the story for it to go unchallenged.’

  ‘I know the doubts, as well as you,’ said Cochrane sadly.

  ‘Then what are we to do?’

  ‘There’s little we can do,’ said the judge. ‘I intend making my feelings as dear as possible.’

  There was a hesitant sound at the door and Baumgartner appeared. Cochrane rose, dismissively, and the Attorney-General hurried back to his robing room. He felt robbed, as defiled as he would have been had he returned home to find his house forcibly entered and the objects he had accumulated over a lifetime stolen for ever. It was a preposterous decision not to institute proceedings. And even more preposterous that there was no one to whom he could appeal against it.

  He stumped into court, ignoring the formal greetings of acknowledgment from the lawyers who were already assembled. Sprague sat slightly apart and gave no awareness of the Attorney-General’s entry. In the first row of seats behind the lawyers the captain and first mate of the Dei Gratia
sat side by side.

  Cochrane entered almost immediately and like Flood ignored the customary greetings from the assembled lawyers:

  ‘Before making any pronouncement upon this claim, I wish to call before me the American Consul to this colony, Mr Horatio Sprague … and also Mr Cornwell.’

  The men rose immediately to their feet, as if in expectation of the summons. They moved with slight uncertainty towards the witness area, but the judge stopped them, indicating a position in the centre of the court, directly below where he sat.

  Looking beyond Sprague and Cornwell, to the lawyers, Cochrane said: ‘It is proper that you gentlemen should know the reason for the somewhat lengthier adjournment than you were first asked to accept because of the failure of Captain Winchester to provide either bail-bond or certificates of ownership of the Mary Celeste –’

  Reminded, the judge reached sideways, picking up a document. ‘A delay, incidentally, which has enabled the ownership document to arrive by steamer from New York.’

  He looked back to the court.

  ‘On the evening of the adjournment, it is known that Captain Winchester left this colony for Spain, ostensibly to raise funds from friends and acquaintances with whom he was in contact there. It was subsequently brought to my notice that this was not the only intention of Captain Winchester in leaving the jurisdiction of this court. From Spain, Captain Winchester, without the knowledge or permission of this court, travelled to Lisbon and from there took passage upon a steamer for New York.’

  It was obvious that the lawyers and the Dei Gratia crew knew of Winchester’s flight. There was not the slightest expression of surprise from anyone.

  Cochrane stared down at the two men before him.

  ‘I feel this court deserves some statement from you two gentlemen, closely involved as you were during his stay in Gibraltar with Captain Winchester –’

  ‘I must ask the court to accept my complete assurance that at no time was I aware of Captain Winchester’s intention not to return,’ responded Cornwell immediately. ‘In fact, I was unaware until several days afterwards that he had even gone into Spain. Had I had the slightest awareness of Captain Winchester’s plans, then I must assure Your Lordship and this court that I would have taken every effort to dissuade Captain Winchester from embarking upon the course he did.’