Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Read online

  “Why are we north of the island?” he shouted to Richardson.

  “The storm,” Richardson said, “carried us north in the night.”

  The Lorenzen brothers, Goodschaad, and Harbens ran on deck, along with Gilling and even a slow-moving Edward Head. They all knew the sound, and they all feared the result.

  “Stay at the wheel,” Briggs shouted. “Come with me,” he said to the sailors.

  Water flooded into the hold between the spaces in the planking. Two feet lay inside the hull, and the depth was rising. Several more barrels of alcohol had burst, mixing with the sea mist into a toxic vapor.

  Briggs surveyed the situation quickly.

  “Volkie, Boz, man the pumps,” he shouted. “Arian, you and Gottlieb bring me the barrel of caulking.”

  As the men ran off, he got on his knees and felt around—a steady flow of water pressure. He dipped his head under the water. The alcohol burned his eyes, but he could see through the dirty water. No broken planks, just a fast seepage through planks that had been dislodged. Pulling his head from the water, he tasted the alcohol. His head was spinning, and he was unable to restore his equilibrium. A churning grew in his stomach, and he vomited.

  “Here you go, sir,” Harbens said, handing the cask filled with waxed rope to Briggs.

  “Go to my cabin,” he said, taking the cask of rope. “Tell my wife to prepare to abandon ship if necessary.”

  Harbens sloshed over to the ladder and climbed up a deck.

  “Mrs. Briggs,” he shouted to the closed door, “the captain asks that you prepare to abandon ship.”

  The door opened, and Sarah stood there, smiling. Her eyes were beet-red and her cheeks were flushed, as if she had spent the morning ice-skating on a windswept Kansas lake. Peering inside, Harbens could see baby Sophia. She was sitting listlessly in her playpen, a thin trickle of drool hanging from her chin.

  “What about Sophia?” Sarah asked.

  “Make her ready,” Harbens said quickly. “She’s coming with us.”

  A tainted layer of vomit floated on top of the water, but Briggs did not care. He plunged his head below the surface and began to stuff the waxed rope into any crack he could feel. Pausing to take breaths of air, he went under the water time and time again.

  “Pumps are going,” Boz shouted, once, when his head was above water.

  “Gottlieb,” Briggs said, “tell Harbens to make sure he packs my chronometer, sextant, and navigation book, as well as the ship’s register. Then you and Arian launch the shore boat.”

  Briggs looked at a mark on the side wall of the hull. The water was not receding, but neither was it quickly rising. They might have a chance. Briggs stood upright; his head was spinning, and he fought to regain control. The air at head level was thick with the fumes. He shouted down the length of the ship to the Lorenzen brothers. Just then, a sudden squall hit the boat.

  “Come topside,” he said. “We’ll take to the boat and ride this out.”

  At the wheel of Mary Celeste, Richardson watched in amazement as a pair of waterspouts formed to each side of the vessel. Seconds before, it had been relatively clear, a light mist, a few random gusts, a sprinkling of rain. Then, all at once, the fury had descended like a slap from an angry lover.

  “Use the main peak halyard to tie to the painter,” he shouted to Harbens and Goodschaad, who were preparing to lower the boat over the side. “It’s already out.”

  The line, three hundred feet in length and three inches in diameter, remained on deck at all times; to take out another line would require the men to go forward to the lazeret where the spares were stored.

  “Okay,” Harbens shouted.

  Goodschaad tied the line to the boat’s painter, then he and Martens hoisted the boat over the rail and into the water. They played out the line around a deck stanchion and let the boat float back to the stern.

  Briggs appeared on deck, just as Sarah, who was carrying Sophia in her arms like a football, made her way to the ladder topside.

  “Furl the main sails,” Briggs shouted to Harbens and Goodschaad, as Sarah stepped on deck.

  “Honey, what is it?” Sarah asked.

  “We scraped bottom,” Briggs said. “I think I have the flow stanched, but just to be safe, I want to take to the shore boat for a time.”

  “I’m scared,” Sarah said, as Sophia began to whimper.

  Just then a wall of rain washed across the deck and disappeared just as quickly. Briggs stared aft; a wooden box with the items he had ordered Harbens to secure sat on the deck awaiting loading.

  “Open the main and lazeret hatches,” he shouted to Harbens, “then make your way aft to the stem.”

  The Lorenzen brothers appeared on deck.

  “Help Sarah and Sophia aboard the boat, then board yourself,” he told the brothers.

  “Should I lash the wheel?” Richardson asked.

  “Leave it free,” Briggs ordered.

  In the last few minutes, Gilling had remained out of the fray—his mind was clearer than the others’, and he believed that Briggs was overreacting. Even so, he was in no place to question the captain’s decisions, so he had gone to the galley and, along with Edward Head, had prepared food and water to load on the boat. Steadying the boat alongside the stem ladder, he waited until Head loaded the stores. Next, steadied by the Lorenzen brothers on each side, Sarah and Sophia boarded.

  “Go ahead and board,” he told the brothers, who entered and took a seat.

  The loading was going quickly. Harbens and Goodschaad, then Head and Richardson. Briggs came alongside and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Climb on in,” Briggs told him. “I enter last.”

  Ten people total, on a small boat attached to the mother by a thin line.

  A WHALE BREACHED near Dei Gratia and blew water from its blowhole.

  “Whale a port,” Deveau shouted.

  Moorhouse made a note in the ship’s log, then shot the horizon with the sextant. They were on a true course and making time. The weather had moderated, and the sun was peeking through the clouds. All in all, it was an ordinary day at sea.

  He had no way to know of the drama unfolding five hundred miles distant.

  PULLED LIKE THE last child in a game of crack-the-whip, Briggs stared at Mary Celeste in the distance ahead. An hour had passed, and the ship was riding the same—his caulking job must have worked. By now, with the hatches off the hold would be vented. The fresh air had cleared his head, and now he was doubting his decision. “I think it’s safe to pull in the line and board,” he said to the others on the boat.

  The men nodded; their heads, too, had cleared. Although they were at home on the water, being crowded on a small boat far from land was disconcerting, to say the least. Everyone wanted to board Mary Celeste and return to their normal duties. It had been a scare and nothing more—a tale to tell their children. A lesson to be learned.

  “Do you want me and Gilling to start pulling?” Richardson asked.

  Right then, before Briggs could answer, another squall descended. Two hundred and seventy-five yards ahead, Mary Celeste surged forward like a greyhound leaving the starting gate. The line connecting them to their home at sea went slack, then pulled hard against the stanchion and snapped. Almost instantly, the small boat began to slow, as the brigantine loaded with alcohol continued on. Richardson raised the now-limp line and stared back at Briggs.

  “Row, men, row,” he shouted.

  TEN DAYS ADRIFT and they were dying. They lost sight of Mary Celeste the first day, and all efforts to row back to St. Mary’s Island had been in vain. There had been no food and water for a week, and now when they most needed it, there was no rain.

  Baby Sophia was gone, committed to the sea with Sarah soon after.

  Harbens, Gilling, and Richardson were gone as well. Goodschaad had died quietly in the night and lay in the bottom of the boat, while Head had died of a heart attack but three days adrift. A broken heart, Briggs had thought to himself as soon as he re
alized he would never again see his bride.

  “Help me with Goodschaad,” Briggs said near 10 A.M. when some strength returned.

  Boz and Volkert helped him over the side.

  Briggs stared at the Germans—it gave him an idea of his own condition. The skin on both men’s faces was peeling off in sheets. Their cracked and dried lips were as plump as sausages. Dried blood was below Volkert’s nose, while greenish pus was visible at the comer of Boz’s eyes.

  The French explorer La Salle’s L’Aimable

  (Arist : Richard DeRosset)

  Magnetic anomalies

  investigated by Ralph Wilbanks

  in the search for L’Aimable

  (Ralph Wilbanks)

  The New Orleans, the first steamboat on the Mississippi River (Artist: Richard DeRosset)

  Full-size replicas of the Twin Sisters at the San Jacinto Monument on the 150th anniversary of the battle (University of Houston College of Technology, and Gary C. Touchton)

  The first ironclad built in the United States, the C.S.S. Manassas (Artist: Daniel Dowdey)

  The Battle of Charleston. The Keokuk upper left, the Patupsco right, and the Weehawken center (Clive Cussler)

  The sinking of the Keokuk after she was struck by ninety-two Confederate shells (Clive Cussler)

  Photograph of the U.S.S. Mississippi taken the day before she burned and sank (Louisiana State University Library Special Collection)

  Painting of the Mississippi burning (Artist: Tom Freeman)

  The Mary Celeste, the ghost ship whose crew vanished (Cumberland County Museum and Archives)

  Rochelais Reef, now known as Conch Island. The remains of the Maf_v Celeste lie just off the white boat in the center. (ECO-NOVA Productions)

  The ECO-NOVA and NUMA team in Haiti after finding the Mary Celeste. Left to right: Robert Guertin. John Davis, Lawrence Taylor, Jean Claude Dicquemare. Allan Gardner, Clive Cussler, Mike Fletchec (ECO-NOVA Productions)

  The General Slocum turning into the East River just before the fire (Artist: Richard DeRosset)

  The burned hulk of the General Slocum after the tragedy (Mariners Museum)

  Magnetic signature of the General Slocum (Ralph Wilbanks)

  The steamer Waratah, which vanished without a trace (Artist: Richard DeRosset)

  The cargo ship Nailsea Meadow, sunk by a German U-boat off the east coast of South Africa (Emlyn Brown)

  Carpathia on her heroic dash through the icebergs to rescue Titanic survivors (Artist: Richard DeRosset)

  Carpathia picking up Titanic survivors, with California in the background (Artist: Richard DeRosset)

  Sonar reading of the wreck of the Carpathia (ECO-NOVA Productions)

  Charles Nungesser and François Coli before their attempt to fly from Paris to New York (Archires of William L. Nungesser)

  L’Oiseau Blanc (The White Bird) just before takeoff from Paris, May 1927 (Archives of William L. Nungesser)

  The NUMA team in Maine during the search for L’Oiseau Blanc. Left to right: Clive Cussler, Connie Young, Craig Dirgo, Ralph Wilbanks, Dirk Cussler (Cline Cussler)

  The U.S. Navy dirigible Akron flying into the storm that destroyed her (Artist: Richard DeRosset)

  The only known view of PT-109, as it was loaded on board the S.S. Joseph Stanton bound for the South Pacific, August 20, 1942 (Naval Historical Foundation)

  The PT-109 search crew in the Solomons. Left to right: Dirk Cussler, Danny Kennedy, Biuku Gasa (one of the men who rescued John F. Kennedy and his crew), Craig Dirgo (Dirk Cussler)

  Ralph Wilbanks, Jayne Hitchcock, and Sean McLean searching for Morey’s boat (Jayne Hitchcock)

  The NUMA team that discovered the C.S.S. Hunley, during the submarine’s raising and removal to the Warren Lasch Preservation Center. Left to right: Harry Pecorelli III, Wes Hall, Clive Cussler, Ralph Wilbanks (Carole Bortholomeaux)

  “Kill me,” he said to the brothers quietly.

  Boz looked at his brother and nodded. They were trained not to question orders from their captain. Volkert took one stiff wooden paddle, his brother another. Then, with what little strength they had left, they complied.

  Two hours passed before enough strength returned to put Briggs over the side.

  They died within minutes of each other the following morning.

  DECEMBER 4, 1872, was a sunny day. Captain Moorhouse was at the wheel of Dei Gratia. The British brigantine had passed far north of the Azores out of sight of the islands and was now tacking southeast by south oh a course to drop down into the Gibraltar Straits. Moorhouse had just taken his position, recording it as 38 degrees 20 minutes north by 17 degrees 15 minutes west, when he spotted another ship approaching six miles distant off the port bow. The time was 1:52 P.M.

  “Hand me the spyglass,” Moorhouse said to Second Officer Wright.

  Wright reached into a drawer and handed Moorhouse the telescoping spyglass.

  With a flick of the wrist, Moorhouse opened the telescope and stared at the vessel. The main sails were furled, and no one was visible on deck. Strange, but not overly so.

  “She seems to be laden, but just plodding along,” Moorhouse noted.

  “Our course will converge with her shortly,” Wright noted. “Should I signal her and find out the sea conditions?”

  “All right,” Moorhouse said easily.

  But the first and all subsequent signals went unanswered.

  A few hundred yards ahead, the ghost ship continued west at a speed of one and a half to two knots. Moorhouse had yet to see anyone come on deck, and he was beginning to worry that the entire crew of the vessel had taken ill.

  He stared at the vessel through the spyglass, then made a decision.

  “Down with the mainsails,” he shouted to Seamen Anderson and Johnson.

  Dei Gratia slowed until she was barely bobbing on the water.

  “What should we do?” Deveau, who had now come on deck, asked.

  “Ready the boat,” Moorhouse ordered. “I want you and Wright to board. Take Johnson with you to man the boat.”

  “Ahoy,” he shouted over a megaphone to Mary Celeste.

  There was no answer.

  Once in the shore boat with Johnson at the oars, the trio of men watched the hull of the ship as they rowed closer. Not a single sailor was on deck; not a single sound could be heard save the slap of water against the hull. The men felt an eerie gloom, a sense of foreboding. They read the name on the stem as they approached: Mary Celeste.

  “Stay here,” Deveau said to Johnson, as the shore boat came alongside. “Mr. Wright and I will investigate.”

  Tossing a hooked ladder over the gunwale, Deveau and Wright climbed aboard.

  “Ahoy,” Deveau shouted once he was on the main deck.

  No answer.

  He and Wright walked forward. The main and lazeret hatches were lying on deck, the forward one upside down—a bad sign. Sailors are superstitious, and an upside-down hatch spelled trouble. The main staysail lay across the forward hatch across the chimney for the galley cookstove. No sailor in his right mind would allow that. The jib and the fore topmast staysail were set on a starboard tack, while the foresail and upper foretopsail had been blown away. The lower foretopsail was hanging by threads at four comers. No shore boat was visible on deck.

  “Let’s go below,” Deveau said.

  Climbing down the ladder, Deveau reached the lower deck. He began to open the cabin doors but found not a single soul. He and Wright searched through the cabins. In the captain’s cabin, Deveau noted that the chronometer, sextant, ship’s register, and navigation book were missing. In the mate’s cabin, Wright found the logbook and log slate. In the galley, where both men converged, there was no prepared food nor was there any food or drink on the crew’s table.

  “I’ll check the stores,” Wright said.

  “I’m going to check the hold,” Deveau said.

  Wright found a six-month supply of food and water; Deveau a strong odor of alcohol and almost four feet of water in the hold.
He began to pump the hold dry, and that was where Wright found him a few moments later.

  “No one aboard,” Deveau said, “but no major problems, save this water.”

  “I don’t know if you noticed it earlier when we were on deck,” Wright said, “but the binnacle was knocked loose and the compass destroyed.”

  “That is most odd,” Deveau agreed. “Let’s pump out the hold, then report back to Mr. Moorhouse.”

  After lowering the remaining sails and tossing out the sea anchor, they did.

  “Sir,” Deveau reported, “she’s a ghost ship.”

  He and Wright had just explained what they had found, and now Moorhouse was puffing on his pipe and thinking. Less than a hundred yards away, Mary Celeste, the ship without a crew, sat awaiting a decision.

  “My first duty is to my ship and cargo,” Moorhouse said slowly.

  “I understand,” Deveau said, “and the choice is yours. However, if you give me two seamen and some food, I think we can make Gibraltar and claim salvage rights.”

  “Do you have your own navigation tools?”

  Deveau had been a commanding captain in the past.

  “Yes, sir,” Deveau said. “If you could spare a barometer, watch, another compass, and some food, I think we can make port.”