‘I checked the pumps this morning and they’re as sound as anyone could want, so I don’t anticipate problems no matter how much sea we ship.’
‘And according to the log of Captain Spates, there’s very little leakage.’
Wind suddenly gusted over the deck and Briggs shivered in the winter cold.
‘Let’s move to my cabin,’ he said.
Before following the captain towards the accommodation door, Richardson told Boz Lorensen to batten the hatchway through which they had just emerged and replace the boat upon its fenders.
Briggs was already at his desk when Richardson entered. The man made no move to sit until invited to do so by the other man.
‘Any annoyance about drink?’ Briggs asked, as soon as the man was seated. The day before they had left the pier, Briggs had mustered the crew and told them he would not allow alcohol during the voyage.
‘No disgruntlement at all,’ said Richardson immediately. ‘I was a little surprised.’
‘So am I,’ admitted the captain.
‘It’s too early to say, of course, but I don’t think we’re going to get any trouble with them. They all seem good seamen.’
‘Let’s hope you’re not proved wrong.’
‘Aye.’
‘Frorn our other voyages together, Mr Richardson, you’ll know I’m a man who likes a ship tidy run.’
‘I know.’
‘I accept it’ll sometimes be unavoidable, but I want no cursing, certainly not in the presence of Mrs Briggs.’
‘I’ve already made that clear.’
‘And I want it impressed upon them that I meant what I said during muster — I’ll not allow gambling. On a vessel this size, it can only lead to dispute.’
‘The men understand your order,’ Richardson assured Briggs.
‘There’ll be prayers on Sundays, to which all will be welcome in my day cabin.’
‘I’ll let it be known,’ said Richardson. ‘The Germans are Catholic, but they may care to attend.’
‘It’ll be more to worship God than denominational.’
Richardson nodded. He sat respectfully with his cap upon his knee.
‘I’ll make Sundays the day for crew quarter inspection, too,’ decided Briggs. ‘I know it’ll be difficult, particularly if the weather stays dirty, but I shall expect the men to take sea showers, of course.’
‘They give the appearance of cleanliness.’
‘First impressions can sometimes be misleading.’
‘True enough,’ accepted Richardson.
Briggs sat wondering if the first mate regarded as unduly restrictive the regulations he had imposed for the voyage. He hoped not. In his father, Briggs recognised, he had had a diligent tutor. Not that he had followed the old man’s disciplinarianism to the degree that he had practised. Briggs had never heard his father give an order directly to a member of the crew, but always through the mates. And that had applied to any of his sons, when they had sailed under him. Afloat, his family might have been strangers to him.
At sea, no sailor had ever thought of passing him on the weather side when he had been walking the quarter-deck. Going to or from the wheel they always had to go on the lee side and, if there were work to be done on the weather side, no sailor had ever passed the man without touching his cap and always to leeward, never intruding themselves between the old man and the sea.
‘The proper etiquette of the sea,’ the man had called it. While Briggs felt it important to run an orderly ship, he considered it impractical to be quite so autocratic upon a vessel such as the Mary Celeste.
He rose, going to a small chart table beneath the cabin window.
‘I’m making a southerly course for Gibraltar,’ he said. ‘We might find better weather there.’
Realising the invitation, Richardson rose, following him to look down on the charts, upon which Briggs had already pencilled a route.
‘What if the weather improves?’
‘I might change northerly, but I’ll let it set first. I’m not going to alter course at every change of wind.’
‘What about a return cargo?’ asked Richardson, as they went back to their seats.
‘Fruit in Messina,’ said Briggs. ‘We’ll sail as soon as we discharge at Genoa.’
Briggs recalled Richardson’s recent marriage to the niece of Captain Winchester and recognised a point to the question.
‘When have you set your mind for returning?’ he said.
‘February or thereabouts,’ said the first mate.
‘Could even be before, if things run smoothly. Hoping for your own command?’
Richardson nodded. ‘Something small, to begin with,’ he said. ‘Ply around the coast here, perhaps.’
‘Wife intend sailing with you?’
‘As much as possible.’
‘Wise decision,’ said Briggs. ‘It’s a lonely life for a woman, being a sailor’s wife. Mrs Briggs has sailed with me often.’
‘Not easy with children, though.’
‘True enough,’ accepted Briggs. ‘It’ll be more difficult when Sophia starts her schooling.’
As if reminded, Richardson looked towards the cabin door.
‘Line should be up by now,’ he said.
Briggs rose, leading the way from the cabin. As they emerged on deck, Briggs saw Arien Martens, the German whom he knew to hold a mate’s certificate, helping the baby into a halter. As he got closer, he saw it had been carefully made from thin rope plaited and then fashioned into a tiny bodice that fitted over Sophia’s shoulders, looped criss-cross over her back and then connected with a tiny belt. From the belt another plaited line had been spliced around a metal ring, the other end connected to another metal ring that could run freely along a length of rope that had been strung between the two masts.
Sarah, who was crouched alongside the child, looked up at her husband’s approach.
‘Look what Mr Martens has made,’ said the woman, her delight obvious.
A great deal of care had gone into the construction of the safety line and harness, Briggs realised. He nodded to the sailor.
‘It’s first-class,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
The man jerked his head, almost the beginning of a bowing motion and then clipped the harness into place on the line. Pandering to the attention, Sophia ran the full length between the two masts and then turned, coming back. Briggs frowned, then saw that the connecting line against the bodice ran free along the belt, so that the child could move in both directions instead of having to call for assistance every time she got to the end of the line and wanted to return.
‘ Really first-class,’ he said again, to the man. ‘Mrs Briggs and I are most grateful.’
Richardson and the sailor moved forwards, towards the hatch over which Boz Lorensen was still hunched, straining to get the boat properly secured. Sophia continued to scuttle about the deck, looking around anxiously to ensure that the attention was still upon her.
‘I shall have no fear of Sophia being on deck in that,’ said Sarah.
‘No,’ agreed Briggs.
‘I regret not being able to attend church before we sailed,’ said Sarah suddenly.
‘So do I,’ said Briggs, recalling his decision that day on the way to the shipping office. ‘But it couldn’t be avoided.’
The time he had intended spending in worship had been passed instead in the attempt to find a replacement longboat. He looked to the stern; a holding stay had been looped through the empty davits. Beyond the vessel, he was suddenly aware of the increasing lightness in the sky. He could detect the skyline now.
‘Weather’s lifting,’ he said.
His wife moved close to his side.
‘I’ve got a feeling, Benjamin,’ she said.
He looked down to her curiously.
‘I’ve got a feeling that we have got an excellent crew, an excellent boat and that we are going to have an excellent voyage.’
He smiled, enjoying her extravagance.
‘This is going to be the beginning of a fine time for us,’ insisted the woman. ‘It won’t be long before it will be “Winchester amp; Briggs”.’
He laughed openly at her.
‘I fear there’s some way to go before that,’ he said. ‘We’ve not one voyage completed yet.’