The Ghost of the Mary Celeste

by Valerie Martin

  Mr. Head brought us some nice apples baked with honey and a walnut inside. He makes an excellent hash, which Sophy adores.

  B. says he believes we will get outside tomorrow.

  NOVEMBER 6

  Another day spent lolling about at anchor, while the wind and rain have evidently agreed to blow us back to the city to find if we have any mail. It makes me groggy not to walk about, but it makes Sophy more energetic, and she has one fixed idea, which is to get out of our cabin and explore the ship. After dinner I thought to let her wear herself out running the length of the companionway and climbing up and down the steps to the hatch, which she can do handily now. As I opened the door, she shot out past me, and as Mr. Richardson was lying in his bunk with the door open, she burst in upon him, crowing at her own cleverness.

  I followed, calling after her, but of course she didn’t answer. When I looked in, Mr. R. was sitting up, having laid his book aside, and Sophy was attempting to crawl up on the chair at his desk. He was smiling at her, somewhat bemusedly, and when I apologized for her intrusion, he said, “Not at all. She’s a welcome visitor,” which I thought a nice bit of politesse. I went in and picked her up, rather hoping she wouldn’t make a fuss about being carried away. “Shall we go and play on the steps?” I said. She knows the word “steps” and nodded in the vigorous way she has, reaching her arms out toward the door, so I set her down and out she ran.

  “She’s easily distracted,” observed Mr. R., and I said something to the effect that this was true. I, too, was distracted, because I was looking about the cabin, taking in various bits of information. There was a letter addressed to Fanny Richardson on the desk. He’d laid the book with its spine turned away so I couldn’t read the title, he had a hole in one of his socks, but most interestingly, as I turned to follow my wayward child, I noticed a round clock screwed to the wall—the oddity of it was that it had no hands and was hanging upside down.

  I looked out the door to find Sophy up the steps and trying to shove the hatch open, so I bolted out, waving gaily to Mr. R., who lifted a few fingers from his knee in reply.

  Why would anyone hang a clock upside down, even one with no hands? Was it some sort of joke?

  NOVEMBER 7

  At last we have set sail. The Sandy Hook pilot came on early this morning. I scratched off a quick letter to Mother B. and another to Arthur, just to say we were finally off, and the pilot took them when he left us. I should have written to Hannah, but hadn’t time. Mother B. will tell her we are outside. We have a steady breeze and are plowing along nicely. Only two thousand miles to go! B. is in fine spirits, as he always is at the commencement of a voyage, and I noted at dinner that even Mr. Gilling had a bit of color spanked into his cheeks by the fresh air above deck.

  The usual duties of the captain’s wife at the beginning of a trip include a thorough scrubbing of the cabin, but that won’t be necessary as this one is as clean as a whistle. I bless the previous owner, who outfitted our quarters with his own family in mind, sparing no expense. The carpet is thick, the windows are tight, the skylight is large and lets in a nice slab of sunlight—Sophy never wearies of looking up at it. The bed is wide enough for us all, and the settee deep enough for a nap.

  B. and I are all in all to each other at sea, crammed in a small space with little privacy. It suits us, for if ever two were one, we are one. We grew up almost as brother and sister; in fact, until I was three Benjamin’s family lived in our house. He held me in his arms when I was a baby. Much that I loved as a child, B. taught me to love, the woods at the back of the cemetery, the walk to the old wharf, the picnics to Ram Island. He was my earliest confidant, and I was conscious that he looked out for me and was always willing to talk with me and calm my babyish fears. When we were older, we were separated. Captain Nathan built Rose Cottage, and B. went to sea when he was twelve. I remember how empty my world was without him, how poorly everyone, save possibly Olie, who loved him as I did, compared to him.

  The world intervened, the sea kept us apart, and when we met again, we were shy of each other. He brought me presents from his travels—he brought everyone presents—a silver thimble, the one I still use, a sandalwood tray, a cashmere shawl, a red leather box—for my treasures, he said—a roll of fine French lace to trim my collars. When he was at home, I found excuses to go to Rose Cottage, and many an evening B. strolled over to the parsonage with some message from his mother, which, Father observed, was seldom news to him. Yet, beyond the familial, I wasn’t sure of his affection. He liked to tease me, but never cruelly, and he grew so handsome, so much a man, while I was still a girl, that I was awed by him. When he was twenty, his brother Nathan died at sea and four years later his sister Maria was lost at sea, along with her husband, and then a year after that their little son Natie left this world in his sleep. So B. had that sadness and loss sobering him just as he came of age.

  Then, how did it happen? He was at sea. He sent me a drawing; I wrote a foolish poem. When he came home from that trip, my heart was in my throat and his, God bless him, was frankly on his sleeve. How well I remember that first kiss at the garden gate. I raised up on my toes to receive it. I felt his arm about my waist and I shivered. I thought, he loves me; he has always loved me.

  Once he told Arthur, “I fell in love with Mother when she was born.”

  We were innocents in love, ready to be tested by the world. I had no mother to tell me what to expect on my wedding night, and I certainly had no wish to consult Benjamin’s, though my poor father—his face crimson with embarrassment—recommended I might. I trusted Benjamin to show me the way. And he did, and so amusingly. How vividly I recall that night.

  We faced each other in the bridal chamber, next to the bed neatly made by his mother, covered by the quilt Hannah and I spent the summer finishing. The embroidered pillowcases were Hannah’s wedding present. The long-sleeved cotton gown folded at the foot of the bed was of Mother Briggs’s manufacture.

  Benjamin fixed me with his penetrating eyes, carefully unfastening his necktie. “Thus saith the Lord,” he said sententiously. “Remove the diadem and take off the crown.” His expression made me giggle. I pulled the pins from my veil and let it slide to the floor.

  “God loveth a cheerful giver,” he said, solemnly removing his shirt.

  “Does he?” I said, unfastening the buttons of my bodice.

  He pulled off his belt and began removing his trousers with one hand, holding the other before him with the index finger pointing up, in just the way Father does on the pulpit. “Let thine eyes look right on, and let thine eyelids look straight before thee.”

  This bent me over with laughter. “Have you been scouring the Good Book in preparation for this night?” I asked, setting to work on my skirt buttons. When I looked up he was in his woolens.

  “Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.”

  I dropped my dress to my ankles and stood up in my chemise and crinoline, struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness.” He pulled his woolen shirt briskly over his head.

  “So will I stand,” I said, feeling confident, even saucy. I unlaced the ties on the crinoline and stepped out of it, smiling up at him. Then I unfastened the hooks down the front of my corset and pulled it away.

  My husband put his hands on my shoulders, gently pushing down the straps of my chemise, leaning over to whisper close to my ear, “Let love be without dissimulation.” And then he lifted me up, laid me upon the quilt, and climbed in beside me. “At last, Sallie,” he said, turning to me. “Wedded bliss.”

  How many brides, I wonder now, pass their wedding nights convulsed in laughter.

  NOVEMBER 8

  Sophy and I like to walk around the skylight on the house deck, or run around in her case. I could wish the rail were less appealing to those with climbing instincts. I have to watch her every second. If she could, she’d be
up in the rigging with the Germans. The wind is brisk and B. says we’re running along nicely at eight knots. I know nothing about the daily business of sailing, though there are some captain’s wives who make quite a point of fiddling with the sextant, taking positions, or offering their views on the trimming of sails. In Havre we met a lady whose husband encouraged her to plot the course, and at Messina we encountered a portly British dame who insisted on pulling lines. My interests do not that way lie, and B. allows that he finds such carrying on repugnant. I can keep pretty busy with looking after Sophy, supervising the pantry, sewing, and playing songs.

  Mr. Head is an excellent young man, and I discovered yesterday, when the main cabin and hatches were all open, that he has a fine voice. He sings as he crosses the deck with our dinner. His song was one of Olie’s favorites, “Beware,” and so it made me think of him and wonder where he is—perhaps just behind that last wave aft of us for all we know. We had planned to meet in New York, but his ship was delayed. We kept a lookout for him when we were stuck near Staten Island, but to no avail. We are to meet in Messina, God willing, and have a fine meal at one of the restaurants in that sunny port. It’s a lovely town. We had Arthur with us when last we put in there, and I recall his hooting with joy at a lady carrying a basket of fish on her head. He thought it was a hat!

  In the afternoon I played on the melodeon and Sophy sat next to me on the bench, trying to make her doll pick out a tune. She understands a great many more words than she can say and has started to put two or three together, to her own delight. At supper she reached out for the potato bowl as it was going the rounds and announced “pass ’tatoes.”

  Here is B., coming in from his watch, looking mischievous, I must say.

  NOVEMBER 9

  The sea was rough today and all were occupied with trying to get the best of the capricious wind. Lots of pitching bow to stern, which makes Sophy fall when she wants to run. At first she wailed and I tried to comfort her, but after a while she started bending her knees, attempting to roll with the ship, and seemed to think it funny when she landed on her bottom.

  We had to put the rack on the table for dinner, to keep the dishes from sliding away, which interested her greatly. Mr. Richardson opined that the Germans do well enough, but he thinks one of them is hard of hearing, as he turns one ear toward anyone who speaks to him. Mr. R. tried speaking softly to his back and got no response. So, having scientifically tested his theory, he feels willing to advance it—the man has poor hearing. Mr. Gilling, who was with us, as B. had the watch, said he believed the fellow was lazy and didn’t want to take orders, so pretended not to hear them. They had all four aloft trimming sails and Mr. R. said he thought they pitched in well and worked together smoothly. Two are brothers, traveling the world together with one sea chest between them.

  And so forth. Mr. R. and Mr. G., I note, are not fond of each other, and contradiction is something of a sport with them. When I related this conversation to B., he said Mr. G. is a bit of a hard driver and likes to give orders in confusing bundles, so that the sailor is uncertain which task is to be done first.

  Life at sea. Men watching each other for signs of weakness. I believe Mr. G. is of the type who must resist those set above him and dominate all below. Mr. R. is more sanguine, and like many a sailor preoccupied with orderliness.

  And my darling husband, the captain of my heart, takes it all in and chuckles with me under the bedclothes. “Did you see how many dumplings Gilling ate?” he said. “I had to spear one quick to save for Sophy.”

  Last night we lay awake in stitches of laughter because Sophy was snoring to beat the band. “God help us,” said B. “She sounds just like my father.”

  NOVEMBER 10

  A blustery day, though we did get some sun and I took Sophy up to have the benefit of fresh air. I dislike just about everything at sea, but one does dress more comfortably. I wear a short wash dress and an apron with a big pocket, and an old sun hat I use at home for the garden, and wooden pattens over my slippers. At night I wear a silk wrapper, which B. calls an “unwrapper” as it is easy of access. It’s pleasant not having a skirt dragging the floor and easier to keep clean.

  On our house deck we are mostly private unless the sailors are in the mainmast rigging. I can look down on the helmsman and see forward as far as the forecastle house, which is all above deck, so it blocks the view beyond. The boom is enormous and squeaks like a bat. Sophy is content to go round and round the skylight and so it is exercise just to keep up with her. It was chilly and I’d not put on my cloak, so I came down feeling headachy, but she was exhilarated and it took several songs and a patient going over of the album, while she pointed out “Otter,” and “Grama,” and “Ha-han,” until she started rubbing her eyes and agreed to be put down for a nap.

  As I was repairing a hole in B.’s stocking, there was a tap at the cabin door. When I opened it, there was Mr. Head, with a steaming pot of tea. “I saw you come in and thought you might be chilled,” he said. I took the pot gratefully while he dug in his pocket and brought out a toy he’d made for Sophy. It was an owl fashioned from a walnut shell with tiny chicken feathers stuck on and wire feet. “She’ll love this,” I said. “She knows how to say the sound owls make. You are so artistic.” This sent him away beaming. So I put the owl on the bookshelf and sat down at the table with my pot of tea and this book to chronicle yet another dull day at sea for the captain’s wife.

  NOVEMBER 13

  For three days I haven’t been able to hold a pen to the page. Our ship has been so pitched and batted and rolled about, and so much water washed over her decks and down every opening, including into our cabin, bursting in with such force it lifted the sewing machine and deposited it on the settee where Sophy and I sat clutching each other while I said our prayers. Before we could heave-to, one of the Germans, going aloft to shorten sail, was swept by a wave hard into the deckhouse, and from thence out to the rail, where he was nearly washed overboard, but Mr. Gilling got hold of him until the deck rolled the other way and they were both knocked back into the house. In the tumult the German’s arm was broken between the wrist and elbow, a bad break; the bone came through the skin. Mr. Gilling got him to the main cabin and we put him on the table, as there was water standing knee deep on the floor. B. set the arm—it took nearly an hour and the German was in agony throughout and probably swore fierce oaths—I’ll never know—but he trusted B. and when I gave him some coffee laced with laudanum from the medicine chest he drank it down and said “Danke” between gasps of pain, handing back the cup with his good hand.

  After the arm was set, Mr. Head came in to help Mr. Gilling get the injured man back to his berth. Poor fellow, he was pale as a ghost, even his ruddy lips lost their color. And now we will be shorthanded, as he won’t be able to go aloft or even take the helm until he’s up and about. I learned his name, he is Mr. Lorenzen, and now I can tell him apart from the others, though I doubt I’ll see much of him. B. said he’s the best sailor of the four, which is a pity.

  Once we had the proper heading there was nothing to do but hold on to something solidly attached to the ship and wait. I got Sophy in the bed with me and B. brought a board to fasten across the opening and there we lay, gazing up at the skylight, which appeared to be under the sea.

  NOVEMBER 14

  At last we are in calmer waters, though there’s still a strong headwind making things difficult on deck. When I woke this morning, I was nauseated and had to rush to the water closet. This seemed odd, as the ship is running along without much pitching about and I haven’t eaten anything unusual, but then it dawned on me that it is two months since last I employed a grandy rag. I packed a store thinking I was only late, but, after another bout of retching, I did the calculation, putting one and one together to equal three. When I came out, B. was on the settee with Sophy on his lap—she likes to cuddle with him when she wakes up if he’s near—crooning, “I see a ship a-sailing.”

  I stood in the doorway smiling at them; t
hey are so sweet together. B. finished the verse—“and the captain says quack, quack.” Sophy quacked along with him; she knows that song well and waits for the ending with rising excitement. Her father looked up at me and said, “Mother, are you well?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “But you might ask Sophy if she’d like a little sister, or would she prefer another brother.”

  Sophy caught the word “brother” and said “Otter.” B. set her down on the carpet, which was still wet from the flood and crunchy with salt, and came to me, passing his arm round my waist. “Sweetheart,” he said. “Is it true?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  Then he looked anxious. I lost a babe three years ago, early on, but there was no trouble with Sophy, so I feel confident this time. “I’m fine,” I said.

  “When will it be, do you think?”

  “May or June. I can’t be very far along.”

  Sophy picked up one of her blocks and brought it to us, holding it up high, wanting to know the sound for the letter. “It’s a G,” I said. “Gh, gh. Good. Good girl.” She followed my lips, as she does, and made a very respectable g sound.

  “Won’t she be a fine big sister?” her papa said.

  Later, after his watch, B. came in looking thoughtful. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “We should have enough saved after this trip for me to stay home until this new baby is safe among us. With the interest I’ve got in this ship, I’ll have a little coming in, and if I can find a good investment, I won’t let it slip away this time. With any luck this will be my last voyage.”