Fifteen minutes must have passed since the sound that had first alerted them, Briggs calculated as he entered his cabin. As he did so there was a further eruption beneath his feet, worse than all the others. The deck shuddered so violently that he had to grab out to his desk, to avoid falling.
The for’ard hatch wasn’t going to be sufficient, he thought. From the evidence of the build-up so far, there wasn’t much time before the eventual explosion and destruction of the vessel. So he would not have time to return again. He thrust the chronometer into his pocket, then snatched up a sextant and navigation book. From a drawer he took the Mary Celeste’s papers and register. He tried to pick up the log, but as he did so the sextant began slipping from his grasp, so he abandoned it, deciding that the sighting instrument was more important.
At the cabin door he paused, gazing back. At least his father’s failure had been with a shore venture, surroundings in which he was an admitted amateur and for whom sympathy could be felt. He was about to lose a fine ship after less than a month from causes which were well established with such cargo and against which he should have taken better precautions. He turned, peering up the stairs. But what could he have done, other than making for another island perhaps a few hours earlier? To have opened the for’ard hatch in the weather they had been experiencing would have been as much bad seamanship as that of which he would now be accused. Those who knew wouldn’t make the accusation. And he was sure the crew would support him at any subsequent enquiry.
He emerged on deck just as Head was completing the second supply-run from the galley, this time lowering water into the vessel. Goodschall was still at the wheel, obeying orders, although by now the vessel was so becalmed there was hardly any steerage. Boz Lorensen had got into the boat, to stow Head’s supplies, and his brother and Martens had led the boat away from amidships and its nearness to the escaping fumes, towards the stern from which they would attach the towline.
‘A rope from the lazarette hatch?’ queried Gilling, as Briggs hurried towards the boat.
‘Yes,’ he said, then immediately stopped. A new rope would be stiff and difficult to handle. He turned, seeking an alternative. The main peak halyard, a stout, three-inch-thick rope with one end already spliced to a mainsail gaff was about a foot away.
Gilling was already scrambling into the lazarette, the hatch hastily cast aside.
‘The halyard,’ called Briggs. ‘We’ll use the halyard.’
Gilling stopped, with just his head showing from the hatch, then climbed out, pulling the halyard through the tackle blocks and handing the free end to the older Lorensen to make fast to the painter.
The boat looked pitifully small to accommodate them all, thought Briggs, looking down.
‘The rafts,’ he ordered Gilling, as the man returned from the lazarette. ‘Secure them to the boat.’
Unquestioning, the second mate began to unfasten the stays and Volkert Lorensen momentarily let the painter trail while he heaved them over. The young Lorensen took the lines and began paying them out, so that the two rafts were spaced out astern of the lifeboats.
Briggs handed down the articles he had taken from his cabin, gesturing Martens into the boat.
‘Secured?’ he asked Lorensen.
‘Aye,’ said the man.
‘Into the boat,’ said Briggs.
Richardson was standing, holding the boat against the side of the Mary Celeste. He handed it back along the deck edge until it was nearly at the stern. The gas convulsions were now so persistent that there was a constant vibration through the vessel and the first mate’s hand shook against the decking.
‘Getting worse,’ said Gilling.
‘Into the boat,’ said Briggs again.
Fumes were still spurting from the opened hatch, like a volcano without lava. There would be flames and heat soon enough, thought Briggs. There was a sudden sound, not quite an explosion, and a piece of dunnage wood arced like a spear through the hatchway and then disappeared over the bow of the vessel.
‘Abandon the wheel,’ Briggs ordered Goodschall.
Head made his third return from the galley, with a final gunny sack, and the German stood aside for the cook to enter the boat first. For a moment alone in his ship, Briggs looked around, frowning at the shambles of collapsed sails and the hurry of their departure. The boat-launching had made a bad cut into the rail. Above, the sails still set hung limp and lifeless from the yards.
‘It’s building up,’ warned Richardson, hands still against the deck-edge. ‘It’s almost shaking me off.’
Reluctantly, Briggs climbed over the rail and got into the boat, giving the halyard a final pull to check its freedom over the pulley. The Lorensen brothers were already at the oars. Behind the boat, the rafts bobbed like chicks following the hen.
‘Pull away,’ said Briggs.
From the stern came a sob louder than that being made by the child and as he looked up Briggs saw that Sarah had bitten the sound off, lips tightly together, her face close to Sophia’s head.
There was another eruption and more stowage material was thrown up. A piece of matting, without the weight of the dunnage wood, drifted leaf-like slowly back and settled gently on the water.
Richardson was pulling constantly at the halyard line, to ensure that no snagging developed on the ship from which they were pulling away. A naturally tidy man, Briggs stacked the things he had taken from his cabin beneath his seat. Head had already stowed the provisions in the rear section, where Sarah sat.
Satisfied that the line was free, Richardson settled himself beside the captain.
‘Not a lot of freeboard,’ he said, hand against the gunwale.
Briggs looked to starboard. The slack water was less than a foot from the rail edge. He came back into the boat and realised that Richardson had already bailed the water that had been shipped when they had launched from the side of the Mary Celeste. He swivelled, looking over Sarah’s head. The outline of Santa Maria was smudged on the horizon.
‘Safe enough in this water,’ he said. ‘And the rafts are near to hand.’
Richardson nodded.
Briggs jerked his head towards the landfall.
‘Not a good coast,’ he said. ‘No anchorage worth talking of.’
Richardson frowned, as if the idea of making land had not occurred to him.
‘Don’t you think she’ll clear?’ he said, turning back to the half-brig.
‘It seemed to be getting worse,’ Briggs pointed out. ‘Might have been better if we’d got the main hatch off.’
‘I’m surprised at the concentration that was there,’ said the first mate.
‘Rest now,’ ordered Briggs.
The Germans stopped rowing, leaning forward against the oars. They were almost three hundred feet from the ship, which was the extent of the halyard, and it dipped only very slightly into the water. Everyone sat silently, waiting and watching the ship. Even Sophia had quietened, caught by the feeling in the boat. It rose very gently in the swell, tiny waves tapping at the hull. Across the water came the empty-belly echo from the deserted ship.
It was almost thirty minutes before Richardson broke the silence.
‘If it’s going to happen,’ he said, ‘it’s taking long enough.’
‘I don’t think it’s as loud as it was,’ said Gilling.
Richardson turned to Briggs, suddenly hopeful.
‘Perhaps it’s going to be all right,’ he said, smiling uncertainly. ‘Perhaps the for’ard hatch is going to be sufficient and it’s going to ventilate.’
Immediately he received it, the American Consul had considered it his duty to communicate the contents of Captain Winchester’s letter to both the Attorney-General and Sir James Cochrane, before the formal reconvening of the enquiry.