Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Read online

  Briggs had faced harsh seas before and was not concerned. His ship was stout and strong, his crew handpicked and checked. There was First Mate Albert Richardson, twenty-eight years old, with a light complexion and brown hair. Richardson had served in the Maine Volunteers during the Civil War, so Briggs knew he was used to hardship. His pay was $50 a month. Second Mate Andrew Gilling, a twenty-five-year-old from New York City, was fair of skin and hair, a seasoned sailor from Denmark. His wages were $35 a month. The cook and steward, Edward William Head, was twenty-three and newly married. His pay was $40 a month.

  And the deckhands and ordinary sailors received $30 monthly.

  Brothers Boz and Volkert Lorenzen, ages twenty-five and twenty-nine, respectively. Thirty-five-year-old Arian Martens. Gottlieb Goodschaad, the youngest at twenty-three. All were from Germany—all were experienced. All of these men, along with Gilling, listed their address as 19 Thames Street, New York. The Seaman’s Hall.

  Edward Head carefully made his way across the deck to Captain Briggs.

  “Captain,” he shouted over the wind, “can I get you anything?”

  “I’ll eat when the watch changes,” Briggs said, “in an hour and a half.”

  “Coffee?” Head asked as he turned to leave.

  “Hot tea with molasses,” Briggs said, “to settle my stomach.”

  “I’ll bring it out shortly,” Head agreed.

  At that instant, at the docks in New York City, another ship was being loaded.

  DEI GRATIA WAS a British brigantine of 295 tons that hailed from Nova Scotia. Her captain, David Reed Moorhouse, was supervising the loading of oil from the fields of Pennsylvania. His first mate, Oliver Deveau, stood alongside as the casks were lowered by ropes into the hold.

  “We are scheduled to leave on the fifteenth,” Moorhouse said. “Do you have any recommendations for the rest of the crew?”

  “I talked to Augustus Anderson and John Johnson about coming aboard as ordinary seamen. I’ve worked with them before.”

  “What do you think about John Wright as the second mate?”

  “He’s a good hand,” Deveau agreed.

  “I’ll make him an offer, then,” Moorhouse said.

  “The wind is turning,” Deveau noted.

  “Then we should leave on time,” Moorhouse said easily.

  MOST GREAT CIVILIZATIONS have one thing in common: seapower. The Vikings, the Spanish, the British—all could trace their power and prestige to the fact that they ruled the oceans. And in the days before corporations, a captain of a ship at sea was a powerful man. Along with being the representative of the ship owners and his country of flag, he was tasked with a fiduciary duty to the owners of the cargo that his ship carried. But his duties were insured.

  The hull of Mary Celeste was insured by four companies: Maine Lloyds, in the amount of $6,000; Orient Mutual Company, for $4,000; Mercantile Mutual Company, $2,500; and New England Mutual Insurance Company, with the smallest coverage at $1,500. The total coverage was $14,000, not an insignificant sum in 1872. The cargo was insured separately through Atlantic Mutual Insurance Company for $3,400. The companies were careful about the ships they insured—they insisted that they were fit to sail and properly crewed. Mary Celeste fit all the criteria.

  Halfway to the Azores, Captain Briggs was guiding Mary Celeste over the Rehoboth Seamount, an underwater plateau along the sixty-degree-longitude line. Turning the helm over to Richardson, he opened a polished cherrywood box, then carefully removed a sextant from a soft deerskin bag. Shooting a fix of the horizon, he determined their location.

  Mary Celeste was on the proper course.

  “Same heading,” he said to Richardson. “I’ll be below if you need me.”

  “Very good, sir,” Richardson said.

  The hatch leading below was halfway open, folded back on itself, and the ladder leading down was firmly secured to the bulkhead. Briggs had learned through experience to check such things, as early in his career he had descended a loose ladder and tumbled into the hold, badly wrenching his ankle. Nowadays he left nothing to chance.

  Briggs was happy with his crew so far. The Lorenzen brothers spoke halting English with a thick German accent, but they seemed to understand his directions and complied quickly. Not only that, the brothers were hard workers. Every time Briggs looked around, they were tending to sails, swabbing the deck, or finding some other task to occupy their time. Good sailors.

  Martens and Goodschaad seemed quiet and studious compared to the Lorenzens, but they worked hard and followed directions. Richardson was skilled enough to captain his own ship, and Gilling would be there soon. Only Edward Head worried Briggs. While he performed his duties with skill, he seemed sad.

  Reaching the lower deck, Briggs headed down a companionway to the galley.

  “Captain,” Head said, looking up from peeling potatoes.

  “How are things, Edward?” Briggs asked.

  “Salt beef, potatoes, and beets for dinner.”

  “I’d say that sounds good,” Briggs said, smiling, “but I would be lying.”

  “I have a barrel of dried apples,” Head offered, “and shall try to bake a pie.”

  “Are you missing your wife?” Briggs asked.

  “Very much so, sir,” Head offered. “After this trip, I may stay on shore.”

  “The return has already been arranged,” Briggs said easily. “A load of fruit, so we should have only a short layover for loading. A month or so, and you will be back home and can decide.”

  “I’m glad, sir,” Head said easily.

  But in less than a month, Mary Celeste would be in Gibraltar, and the people now aboard would be gone.

  CAPTAIN MOORHOUSE STOOD on the upper deck of Dei Gratia. His cargo was secured, and the last of the supplies were being loaded.

  “Once the stores are secured, give the men a ration of rum,” Moorhouse said to Deveau.

  “Yes, sir,” Deveau said.

  The date was November 14, 1872. Dei Gratia would leave New York the following morning. Moorhouse headed below to check his charts—a large expanse of ocean lay ahead, and he needed to be prepared for anything.

  Far to the north, near the Arctic Circle, a storm was building. As the sky faded to black, the wind grew in intensity. Dry snow began forming, and it grew until it was a blinding blanket. A herd of musk ox knew the signs and formed into a protective circle, their faces to the outside and the young and sick on the interior. Huddled together to conserve heat, they began to wait out the storm.

  No REST FOR the weary. Mary Celeste was facing rougher seas. Briggs knew that November was always fickle, but this trip was proving to be the exception, not the rule. He had thought that once they crossed the sixty-degree mark, the seas would be calm, but in fact they were building. The temperature had risen, so cold was no longer a problem, but the increasing battering to the hull worried Briggs. One of the barrels of alcohol had already split, spilling its contents into the bilge—a few more and Briggs would have a problem “How’s the baby?” Briggs asked, entering the captain’s cabin.

  “She’s fine if she’s in the crib,” Sarah answered. “It rocks with the ship and comforts her. If she’s in the playpen, she’s tossed around.”

  Briggs looked at his wife. Her skin had a grayish-green tinge.

  “And you?”

  “I’ve been sick,” Sarah admitted.

  “I’ll get a few crackers from the cook,” Briggs said. “They usually comfort the stomach.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “We’re making good time,” Briggs said. “If this continues, we will pass into the Mediterranean within the week. It’s usually calmer there.”

  “I hope,” Sarah said quietly.

  CAPTAIN MOORHOUSE WAS dressed in a full leather raincoat and matching hat. Under his eyes were bags from lack of sleep, and he had not eaten a full meal since the morning they left New York. From day one of the trip, they had faced ugly weather. First it was snow and wind—now rain and wind. A
nor’easter was sweeping Dei Gratia toward a date with destiny. Whatever else was happening, they were making good time.

  BRIGGS MADE AN entry into the captain’s log. The log was a feature on every ship at sea. Notes on weather, location, ship’s condition, and unusual events were constantly recorded with date and time. The log went with the captain when he reached port; to new owners when a ship was sold. It was a record of triumph and tragedy, a visible sign of the passage of a journey.

  November 23, 1872. Eight evening sea time. Two more barrels split, hull leaking some, but pumps adequate. Weather still rough. Location 40 degrees 22 minutes North by 19 degrees 17 minutes West. Should see the first of the Azores tomorrow.

  Handing the helm to Gilling, who had late watch, he climbed below, shook the water from his hat and coat, then made his way to his cabin to try to sleep. Astern of the captain’s cabin, divided by the storage hold, were the berths for the ordinary seamen. Boz Lorenzen whispered across the space in German to his brother Volkert.

  “Volkie,” he said.

  “Yes, Boz.”

  “Are the fumes giving you a headache?”

  “Not so much a headache,” Volkert said, “but I was dreaming a vivid dream.”

  “What was it?”

  “We were home in Germany and mother was still alive.”

  “A good dream.”

  “Not really,” Volkert said. “It was her head, but her body was a potato.”

  “Mother did love the spatzel.”

  “Why don’t you crack the porthole?” Volkert asked.

  “Because water comes in,” Boz said, before turning over to try to sleep.

  DEI GRATIA’S SECOND mate, Oliver Deveau, stared up at the mainsail. The sail had been rigged six months before, on a layover in London, and while slightly weathered by time, it appeared unfrayed. The brass grommets, where the lines attached, showed no wear, and the hemmed edges had yet to unravel. That was a good thing. Since the start of the voyage from New York, Dei Gratia had faced strong winds. And while the temperature had warmed as the ship had dropped into lower latitudes, the winds had not diminished.

  Twin wakes flowed from the bow as Dei Gratia made way, and the wind buffeted Deveau’s hair. To port, Deveau caught sight of a trio of bottlenose porpoises jumping the wake, and he smiled. The ship was making good time, and if it continued, there might be a bonus from the grateful owners upon completion.

  Deveau did not know his bonus would come from an unexpected source.

  ON MARY CELESTE, First Mate Albert Richardson was straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of Santa Cruz das Flores Island. The landmass and its sister island, Corvo, would be the first land to be passed since leaving New York. The date was November 24, 1872. The wind continued to blow.

  Belowdecks in the captain’s cabin, Benjamin Briggs and his wife, Sarah, were enjoying the last of the fresh eggs. Captain Briggs liked his fried, Sarah poached; baby Sophia just liked them. Sarah slid an egg onto a piece of thick-sliced bread, then spoke to her husband.

  “I saw a rat,” she said easily. “We should have a cat aboard.”

  “I’ll have the men clean the hull when we off-load the alcohol,” Briggs said, “before the fruit is loaded.”

  “Won’t the fruit have insects?” Sarah asked. “Scorpions and roaches?”

  “Possibly, dear,” Briggs admitted, “but they won’t last once we reach the colder climates.”

  “I think the fumes are affecting Sophia,” Sarah said.

  “She seems fine,” Briggs said, reaching over and tickling Sophia, who sat in her mother’s lap.

  “Well, they’re affecting me,” Sarah said. “I feel like I’ve been embalmed.”

  “Two more barrels are leaking,” Briggs said. “I’m afraid since they were filled when it was cold that as we pass farther into warmer water they will expand more.”

  “That wouldn’t be good,” Sarah said.

  “No,” Briggs admitted, “it wouldn’t.”

  DEI GRATIA SAILED east, and the sailors began a ritual as old as time. There was cleaning and tending to the sails. Scrubbing and soapstone on the decks. Brightwork needed to be attended to—rust had to be dealt with harshly. The weather was lifting, allowing more time on the open upper deck. The sun shone through the clouds on the faces of the sailors.

  So far the voyage had been like many others, but that was about to change.

  Off course from the fickle winds. This was not an unusual thing aboard a sailing ship, but one that did require an adjustment in plans. During the night, Mary Celeste had passed north of St. Mary’s Island, not south, as caution and ease would have indicated. For one thing, the Gibraltar Strait now lay south and east of their position and was more easily accessed by passing south of the Azores. For another, just twenty-one miles north of St. Mary’s, not many miles from where Mary Celeste was now passing, lay the dangerous group of rocks known as the Dollabarat Shoals. In bad weather, waves broke over the area with great force. In calm seas, they lay just below the surface, ready to rip the hull out from under unsuspecting vessels.

  A good navigator could thread the needle through the danger, but most avoided the area. In the first place, there was little reason to pass to the north. St. Mary’s Island had no usable anchorages. No fresh water, towns, or help available.

  SHIP’S LOG—Mary Celeste

  November 25, 1872 Eight bells.

  At 8, Eastern Point bore SSW, 6 miles distant.

  This was to be the last entry in the log under “Captain Benjamin Briggs.”

  The ship.was passing the last of the Azores, and the eastern point was Ponta Castello, a high peak on the southeastern shore of the island.

  Andrew Gilling wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

  “Six hundred miles to Gibraltar,” he whispered to himself.

  His watch was almost over, and Gilling was glad. All night he had felt a foreboding, a sense of unease without definition. It was strange. Mary Celeste was currently out of the clouds, but in the early-morning light Gilling had seen them to the south and east—a black wall that ebbed and flowed like a living organism. Twice during the night, waterspouts had sprung up near the ship but dissolved before fully forming. And squalls had come and gone quickly and mysteriously, like a knock on the door with no one there.

  Albert Richardson walked along the deck unsteadily.

  “Watch change,” he said when he reached Gilling.

  Gilling stared at the first mate—his eyes were red and bloodshot and his words were slightly slurred. There was a palpable order of alcohol saturating his skin. If the Dane was to hazard a guess, he’d have to conclude that Richardson was drunk.

  “Where’s Captain Briggs?” Gilling asked.

  “Sick belowdecks,” Richardson said, “as is most of the crew. The fumes are wreaking havoc with everyone. Just before sunrise, I could hear Mrs. Briggs playing her melodeon and singing. The noise woke everyone.”

  “Sir,” Gilling said slowly, “I’ve been in fresh air all night. Perhaps I should continue my watch.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Richardson said, “once I air out.”

  “Very good, sir,” Gilling said. “Just be careful—the area ahead is uncharted and might contain a few unrecorded shoals.”

  “I will, Andrew,” Richardson said, as he assumed control of the helm.

  Baby Sophia smiled at the black spot in front of her eyes. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, but the little dots remained. Benjamin Briggs was singing the Stephen Foster song “Beautiful Dreamer.” He and Sarah, who sat at the melodeon playing like a woman possessed, had slept little.

  “More baritone,” she shouted.

  Forward in the seaman’s cabin, the Germans were playing cards. Arian Harbens had dealt the hand nearly an hour ago—no one had yet screamed gin. Gottlieb Goodschaad tried to concentrate on the cards in his hand. The joker seemed to be talking. The nine looked like a six.

  In the galley, Edward Head was trying to start the stove. Finally
, after much effort, he gave up. Removing a side of preserved meat from storage, he reached for a knife to slice off chunks, but his hand refused to answer the signal from his brain. It was as if his brain were coated in molasses. But he didn’t care. A rat walked along a high shelf, and Head tried to communicate with the rodent telepathically. Strangely, he thought, he received no answer.

  Volkert Lorenzen was packing tobacco in a pipe. Once filled, he handed it to his brother Boz and then packed another for himself. Maybe a smoke up on deck would clear their heads. Their heads needed clearing—Boz had just told him for the tenth time how much he loved him. Volkert knew Boz loved him—they were brothers. Even so, the two had never found the need to say it out loud.

  Mary Celeste was a ship of fools under the influence of an invisible vapor.

  TWELVE FEET BELOW the surface of the water dead ahead was an underwater seamount, uncharted and without a name. A series of rocky plateaus with scattered pieces of volcanic rock formed hundreds of thousands of years in the past.

  Mary Celeste might have barely passed over the hazard—she drew but eleven feet, seven inches—but the waves were ebbing and flowing, and the ship was pitching up and down a full four feet.

  Wood was about to meet stone with disastrous result.

  ALBERT RICHARDSON STARED to the south. The ship was passing lee of St. Mary’s, and only time and six hundred miles of water lay between them and Gibraltar. And then it happened. A lurch, a crash, a scraping along the length of the hull. Mary Celeste slowed as the keel ran along the rocks, but in seconds the forward momentum carried her free.

  “Aground!” Richardson shouted.

  Even in his befuddled state, Captain Benjamin Briggs knew that sound.

  Racing from his cabin, he climbed the ladder on deck and ran to the helm. Staring astern, he could see that the sea in their wake was dirty from where the ship had scraped. He stared ahead and was reassured with what appeared to be deep water. Looking starboard, he could see St. Mary’s Island.