On November 3, 1872, two days before the Mary Celeste slipped her moorings at Pier 50 on New York’s East River, Captain Briggs wrote to his mother: ‘Our vessel is in beautiful trim and I hope we shall have a fine passage.’
Despite fierce storms, it was so until November 25. At eight o’clock that morning, the half-brig was within six miles of Santa Maria, most easterly of the Azores group of islands, and in sight of Ponta Castello, its most easterly point.
Then disaster struck.
Four hours later, the Mary Celeste was a ghost ship.
Winchester, 1979
Already it had been officially recognised as the worst winter for centuries and the storms and gales that had scoured the Atlantic for months were even affecting Gibraltar. It was colder than normal for January and the familiar mist clung stubbornly to the Peak, like a tuft of sheep’s wool on a hedgerow thistle.
Despite the coolness of the weather, Attorney-General Frederick Solly Flood drove with the carriage hood down. He liked to be seen and his position within the tiny community to be marked with the respectful smiles and occasional head-nod of greeting, particularly since his additional appointment as Admiralty Proctor.
Speed was rarely possible anyway along the narrow, cluttered streets, but his coachman proceeded in the knowledge that there was no hurry.
Today the attention was greater than normal, because everyone knew where he was going. The Gibraltar Chronicle and Commercial Intelligencer had announced the commencement of the enquiry and even published a review of everything so far known about the American half-brig Mary Celeste since she had been brought in by the salvage crew.
Where the highway suddenly climbed, between the Fortress and the Governor’s residence, he strained up, to catch sight of the tiny vessel far below in the bay, secure under its order of Admiralty arrest. Before he had finished with the witnesses who had been assembling during the past weeks, there would be available a great deal more information than that recorded by the Intelligencer. It wouldn’t be easy, because Flood recognised that much effort had been devoted to destroying the evidence. But some still remained; more than the culprits suspected, he believed. Upon that evidence he was going to prove that a dreadful crime had been committed. And the Board of Trade in London were going to appreciate the advantage of having as their representative a lawyer of his ability.
The far-away mist had merged with the rainclouds and as the carriage reached the Supreme Court building the shower began. There was already a crowd waiting for the doors to open and they began shifting impatiently at the prospect of being kept in the wet. The smiles of recognition were more obvious as the Attorney-General’s carriage passed through the gate and pulled up in front. He saw among the spectators several foreign journalists, some even from as far away as New York, who had arrived to report the proceedings. He had already been interviewed by most of them and consented to having his picture taken to accompany the articles; he hoped they used the one of him in his official robes.
Flood responded to their greetings, remaining seated in the carriage until the door was opened for him. He hurried inside, a diminutive, portly man who held his head high in an effort to attain the height he didn’t possess. He was aware but unworried that his critics called him ‘pouter pigeon’. Some thought it an apt description; he had a jerky, bird-like habit of moving his head during conversations or court appearances and walked in abrupt, thrusting movements. Had he had any say in the appellation, Flood would have preferred being called a hawk. After all, a hawk was a wary, sharp-sighted bird. And that’s how the enquiry was going to find him.
His clerk had already preceded him with his document case, so Flood went immediately to the robing room. He had almost finished dressing when the door tentatively opened behind him and Edward Baumgartner, the court registrar, entered.
‘Morning, Attorney-General,’ he said formally.
Flood nodded, but didn’t speak.
‘So at last everything is to become clear?’
Baumgartner spoke hopefully, anxious to convey the belief that the elucidation would come from the cleverness of Flood’s questioning.
‘That’s my intention,’ said Flood. He had been so long in Gibraltar that there was hardly a trace of his Irish accent. Only when he was excited or angry did it become pronounced.
‘Quite a number of witnesses,’ said Baumgartner.
‘There’s no hurry,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘I’ll keep the court convened for a year if necessary.’
‘Sure it won’t be,’ said Baumgartner, again intending the remark as admiration for the Attorney-General’s ability to get to the truth. He waited, but when Flood failed to respond, said, ‘Sir James would like to see you before we begin.’
Flood nodded again, as if he had anticipated the invitation, and followed the official out into the corridor and along to the Commissary’s rooms.
Flood was glad it was Sir James Cochrane who was to preside at the hearing. Although it would have been an exaggeration for him to regard Sir James as a friend, the Attorney-General felt they understood each other. He was confident there would be no interference from Sir James if he extended the questioning beyond that which might have normally been regarded as necessary for the purpose of a salvage enquiry. With so little positive evidence, he was going to need such allowance. Would he succeed in obtaining a blurted confession? he wondered. They were probably simple men, even if they were criminals. It might be possible.
Sir James was at his window, staring out at the bay and Algeciras and La Linea beyond when Flood entered. He turned at the sound, smiling.
‘A little madeira, for a cold day?’ he asked.
‘Thank you,’ said Flood.
The judge poured from a decanter alongside the desk and then handed the Attorney-General his drink. ‘Anticipating difficulties?’ Sir James indicated the room beyond the closed door where the enquiry was assembling.
‘If there’s a guilty man there, he’ll be evasive,’ predicted Flood.
‘ Is there a guilty man?’
‘There’s been murder committed.’
‘Murder!’ The judge’s astonishment showed in his voice.
‘That’s my belief.’
‘It’s a salvage claim we’ll be considering,’ said Sir James gently.
‘Which makes the circumstances leading up to that salvaging very pertinent to the proceedings,’ replied Flood.
‘Quite,’ said the judge. ‘I’d just welcome a little more positive evidence than that which I’ve so far seen in the reports and affidavits. Murder’s a strong accusation.’
‘The evidence will be forthcoming.’ Flood was confident. ‘We’ve encountered a devilish clever scheme but I’m determined to upset the whole affair.’
‘If there’s been a crime, you’ll get every support from me,’ promised Sir James.
‘I knew I would,’ said Flood.
The judge finished his drink, replacing the glass on the decanter stand, and Flood took the lead to do the same. The man’s assurance encouraged him.
‘Consul Sprague tells me there’s great interest in Washington over the whole affair,’ said Sir James. ‘I gather some well-known American journals have even sent special correspondents to report the enquiry.’
A look of irritation settled upon the Attorney-General’s face.
‘It’s a pity the American Consul doesn’t see fit to pursue his position here more rigorously,’ he said.
It was accepted within the tiny British colony that there was antipathy between the two men but to Sir James it appeared that the Attorney-General’s remark indicated more than their usual reserve towards each other.
‘How so?’ he said.
‘He feels there might be a normal explanation for the affair,’ disclosed Flood.