‘It doesn’t look good for either of you,’ he said honestly.
‘What the hell are Washington doing about it all?’ the owner demanded of Sprague. ‘Isn’t your function here to protect American citizens?’
The Consul had been afraid of such an open question.
‘I’ve been asked by the Secretary of the Treasury to provide daily transcripts of the evidence,’ he said.
‘And?’ persisted Winchester.
Sprague, shifted, embarrassed.
‘There has been nothing official, of course,’ he said, ‘but I get the impression from some of the communications I am receiving that they seem to accept the belief of the Attorney-General.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Winchester.
Sprague nodded. ‘They seem to believe some sort of crime has been committed.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Winchester softly.
A wave, unseen but big to judge by the effect it had, twisted into the side of the Mary Celeste and the whole vessel shuddered into a crab-like slide before the man at the wheel corrected, righting her on course again. Captain Briggs, who had almost completed the log, looked down at the near-finished entry, then added, ‘Squally, rising frequently to gales.’
He closed the book, sitting back. It had been a rough voyage. Not the worst he had ever known. But rough, nevertheless. As if in confirmation of this thoughts, the ship pitched into a trough, stretching the timbers, which creaked and strained around him. The log slid away, coming to rest against the protective fender which edged his desk, and the lamp rocked on its pivots.
There would be no need to check for damage. Days before he had given the order to batten down and secure everything movable and by now he was sufficiently confident of the crew to know that the instructions had been obeyed to the letter. Not even the deckhouse planking or pitch caulking had been cracked by the sea, so well was the ship being handled. The galley was the only area where things might have been lying loose, but the cook-steward, William Head, had proved himself as good a seaman as he was a victualler. Briggs decided he might enquire about the galley later; it would show the sort of consideration that the men appreciated.
There was another sound, like a sudden hammering, and Briggs realised they had been swamped by a wave. Momentarily the vessel seemed to squat in the water, then there was a visible sensation of her rising again. It was nothing to worry about, he knew. A less seaworthy vessel would be taking more water than the Mary Celeste, although even she was certainly awash, as she had been ever since the voyage began.
At first he had expected it, having the pumps checked sometimes as frequently as every hour. When they had registered no more than an inch averaged over a twenty-four-hour period he had suspected them of malfunctioning, even having Arien Martens strip one down, to check. But the pumps were in perfect working order; just as the Mary Celeste was in perfect sailing order. He looked around the cabin, self-conscious in his admiration. His proprietorial expression, Sarah called it. Briggs was aware that his feelings went far beyond any pride of ownership. It was a seaman’s appreciation of a good ship, the emotion he would have known even if he had had no part in her.
Whatever doubts he might have had about his investment those last few days before leaving New York had been blown away by the gales they had encountered daily. The Mary Celeste had behaved magnificently, worked by a crew who had come up to his highest expectations. Once they entered the Mediterranean, it would become more like a pleasure cruise than a working voyage; with luck, the weather might improve before they passed the Straits of Gibraltar.
He turned as his wife came from the child’s sleeping area:
‘How is she?’
‘Asleep, for the moment. She’s exhausted.’
Sarah’s face was pinched with fatigue and worry. Sophia’s seasickness had begun almost from the time they had left the Staten Island anchorage and worsened with every day. Only in the last twenty-four hours had they managed to get her to take the porridge which the cook had had constantly ready, hoping for an improvement, and so for several days the baby had been retching on an empty stomach and Sarah had been fearful of some internal injury or strain.
‘It should get better soon.’
‘I’ve been hoping that for days,’ said the woman.
There was another side wave, jarring the ship, and Sarah staggered. Briggs snatched out, supporting her.
‘We are no more than three or four days’ sailing from the Azores,’ said Briggs. ‘We’re in the Gulf Stream already.’
‘I thought I’d go out on deck for a moment, while she’s resting. It’s almost claustrophobic in here.’
So bad had the weather been that the child had only once used the brace that Arien Martens had constructed and then she had been thrown over by a sudden movement of the ship, bruising her arm. Martens had made a harness for Sarah’s infrequent deck visits and she began fitting it into place over the top of her oilskins. Briggs helped her, ensuring that the ropes were properly secured, and then got into his own protective clothing.
The wind snatched at them immediately they opened the companion-way door, so forcefully that Sarah gasped as the breath was taken from her. Briggs got to windward of his wife, trying to shield her, arm around her shoulders as he guided her towards the safety rope stretched between the two masts. The vessel was on the shortest canvas, just topsail and jib, yet it was still heeled over, with the starboard rail awash. She clung to him, struggling to get a footing against the wet, sloping deck. He tethered the line from her harness to the safety rope, then cupped his mouth to her ear:
‘Do you want me to remain with you?’
She shook her head, positively.
‘Sure?’
There was another head shake, more of irritation this time. Sarah was always annoyed when his concern for her threatened any interference with his work.
Briggs clutched at the rope himself, grateful for the support as he made his way to the wheel. The fourth German member of the crew, Gottlieb Goodschall, was at the helm, a rope looped around his waist and tying him to a wheel brace.
At twenty-three, Goodschall was the youngest of the Germans and spoke the least English. He stood legs splayed, hands tight against the wheel spokes, forcing the vessel on course. He was drenched with spray, the water funnelling from the brim of his sou’wester and down the back of his oilskin cover.
Knowing conversation was almost impossible, Briggs nodded to the man, staring over his shoulder to determine the cause for the sideways buffeting. They had encountered a freak current, he recognised, seeing the build-up of the water, so that the sea was being driven in two directions. To stay windward, as they must to retain any control, meant that occasionally they were struck amidships by the current.
Such a wave came now and Briggs tensed himself against it, turning to gesture to Sarah. She saw it in time, hauling herself in along her safety line and grabbing the larger rope before it hit the ship, head bent against the wall of spray-tipped water which spumed over the deck. Briggs stayed watching her until he saw that she had suffered no more than a wetting, then turned back to the helm. Aware that the captain had seen what was happening, the young German made to speak and Briggs bent close to him.
‘Won’t last,’ said Goodschall, indicating the side current.
‘Hope you’re right,’ said Briggs.
‘Lessening this past hour,’ the man assured him.
For the first time Briggs noticed that there were other crewmen on deck. The Lorensen brothers were to starboard, checking the ties on the furled sails. There was always a danger in such weather that the hastily secured sails might be ripped open and then either blown overboard or, worse, trail in the water to snarl the steering gear and even endanger the ship. Briggs had sailed in many vessels where the crew would have waited until the weather abated.