She heard a rumble, seemingly very close, and frowned at the prospect of yet another thunderstorm. Sophia had been remarkably good, decided Sarah, only complaining when she had been sick, which any child would have done. Once her stomach had settled, she had recognised almost without protest that she had to remain within the confines of the cabin, with the few toys they had brought. It was fortunate that his schooling had kept Arthur in Massachusetts. It would have been far more difficult occupying an active seven-year-old than it had been entertaining the baby.
She would be glad to get some sun upon Sophia’s face. And feed her up, not just on the fresh meat and fish which would be available in Gibraltar and along the Mediterranean ports, but upon the fruit that she remembered from her previous trips heaped in profusion in every market place.
There was another rumble, more muffled than before, but Sarah was only half aware of the sound, an idea forming in her mind. After such a crossing, the child would benefit from a brief vacation ashore. It would be very easy for them to be set down in one of the French ports on the way to Genoa and then be picked up as the Mary Celeste returned. If there were any delays with the return cargo, it would be easy enough for them to make their way overland to rejoin the vessel in port. Monte Carlo or Menton would be pleasant. Or maybe San Remo. If the Mary Celeste were detained, it would be quite simple to get to Genoa from any of them.
A spell ashore, no matter how brief, would mean Sophia could get the exercise that hadn’t been possible on the cramped, storm-battered ship. They would be able to explore inland villages. And paddle and splash in the sea that had been so cruel to them.
Sarah went slowly back to her bunk, pausing to stare down at her sleeping husband, feeling the warmth of affection. She regarded herself as a fortunate woman; Benjamin Briggs was a good man. And a fine, practising Christian, too. She remembered fondly his discomfort at her recognition of his pride in the Mary Celeste that day in New York, the expression on her face similar to that minutes before as she had gazed down at the baby. There was every reason for the feeling, yet her husband would always remain modest, she knew.
She was careful climbing back into her sleeping area, not wanting to disturb him. She was sure he would accept her idea of a holiday as a good one. And, as the pursekeeper, she knew they could afford it easily enough. She would mention it at breakfast.
Briggs had been aware of his wife standing over him, just as he had been aware of her getting up from her bunk and going to the child, but had purposely feigned sleep, not wanting the whispered conversation he knew would ensue if she realised he was awake.
His thoughts were entirely upon the ship. Sarah couldn’t help him with that and, adept as she was in recognising his feelings, she would discern his anxiety if they talked. And he did not want to frighten her.
Like her, he had heard the thunder apparently very near and his worry that he might have changed course too late had increased at the prospect of continuing bad weather. Regardless of the conditions at daybreak, he would open the holds, he decided. The barrels were securely enough stowed, even if they shipped heavy seas. And the pumps would be adequate, providing they kept a careful check.
Despite the decision, the fear that he had waited too long kept intruding itself into his mind. He attempted to recall a long-ago conversation with his father about a shipment of commercial alcohol. He was sure the man had told him there were warning signs before the cargo became volatile, but no matter how he concentrated, he could not bring the recollection to mind.
There was the sound of more thunder and Briggs shifted in his sleeping space, irritated at the memory lapse. Perhaps Richardson would know of it; he would have to ask the first mate early in the morning.
He turned his face towards his wife in the darkness, hearing the deepening breathing and happy that she was getting some rest. Half-sleep came to him at last, while a part of his consciousness lingered over the danger of the ship’s cargo and the severity of the weather, so that he was almost immediately aware of the change.
On deck the dropping of the wind which was later to result in a becalming was noticed first around dawn. The sky was streaked with yellow and red when they made the island of Santa Maria, on an east-by-south-easterly bearing. First mate Richardson was actually awakened by the lack of motion in the vessel and got on deck around six. Goodschall, at the helm, gestured ahead and Richardson looked towards the island, jutting up blackly from the water. From his knowledge of the charts, he knew the sighting to be Ponta Cabrastente, on the north-western extremity of Santa Maria.
He went back to the conn.
‘What’s happening to the weather now?’ he said.
‘Wind has been dropping the past hour,’ said the young German.
‘Like to be a little closer, to get all the protection we can from the island,’ said Richardson reflectively. He turned as the Lorensen brothers came on deck, to change the watch.
‘Let’s raise the main staysail, to get what wind there is to take us nearer…’
He looked out at the hardly moving sea.
‘Another hour and there won’t be any wind at all,’ he said, staring back at the sails. Already the upper and lower fore-topsails were sagging and the jib was empty.
‘What are we making?’ he asked Goodschall.
‘Little more than three or four knots,’ judged the helmsman. ‘It’s come right down. During the night, we were managing an almost constant eight or nine.’
Once they were near the protection of Santa Maria, it would be a welcome change, thought Richardson. There was still cloud around the island, which was to be expected. But it was breaking up fairly swiftly over the water; near the horizon there was actually more blue sky than cumulus. It gave an odd effect, like a child’s drawing.
Briggs was aloft by seven, brought on deck as much by his decision about the holds as by the changed weather conditions.
‘At last,’ said Richardson gratefully, as the captain joined him.
‘Don’t think I’ll ever be surprised how quickly things can alter at sea,’ said Briggs. The weather meant there was no longer any danger. There was almost a physical feeling, like the easing of a weight upon him, at the realisation.
‘I raised the main staysail,’ said Richardson. ‘To get us as near as possible.’
Briggs nodded approval at the rigging.
‘Aye,’ he said, looking out to sea. There was little more than a swell running and the Mary Celeste rose and fell upon it, scarcely making any way.
‘Don’t think it’s going to achieve much,’ he said.
‘Knew it would improve, at the island. But I didn’t expect this,’ said Richardson.
‘Nor I,’ said Briggs. ‘Particularly after the thunder during the night. Thought at one time we were sailing right into it.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Richardson. ‘It really seemed to be building up.’
He turned to Goodschall. ‘What time did the storm pass?’ he asked casually.
‘Wind dropped maybe three hours ago,’ said the German.
‘How far away was the thunderstorm?’
The younger man frowned at the question.
‘There was a blow on,’ he said. ‘But no thunder.’
‘I heard it,’ insisted Richardson.
‘It was very loud,’ supported Briggs, suddenly concentrating upon what had begun as a half-considered conversation.
‘There was no thunder,’ repeated Goodschall. ‘Not at any time.’
For the moment the three men remained unspeaking at the conn. Then Richardson said, ‘There’s always a rumbling, before an actual explosion. It’s something like the gases all coming up to the boil.’
And Briggs remembered at last what his father had said, all those years ago.
As if on cue, like some awesome theatre, it came again, louder now than at any time before, a grumbling, belching sound from beneath them. It seemed to echo through the entire vessel and there was the impression that the timbers actually vibrated, as they would have done had they been struck repeatedly by something heavy.