lived in a pastor’s house for four years.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘The common sense of my father.’
‘He talked you out of it?’
Briggs smiled. ‘He was far too wise for that. He just let the infatuation run its course. I served as altar boy and general helper in my grandfather’s church and then realised like everyone else what my feelings really were. I don’t think I would have had the courage to become a priest.’
Morehouse put his head to one side, considering the statement. Most would have thought that being a sea captain required more bravery than being a country pastor. Briggs was a wise man as well as a pious one.
‘I never had any doubts,’ said Morehouse. ‘In Nova Scotia there seemed no other career but that of the sea and I first shipped out when I was sixteen. Discovered I had a natural aptitude and got my master’s certificate when I was twenty-one.’
Briggs added coffee to his cup from a pot the steward had left upon the table.
‘Like to buy into ownership one day?’ he asked.
‘It’s my dearest ambition,’ confessed Morehouse. ‘But establishing the initial capital is the difficulty. There’s enough ways of raising money along this and any other coast if you are prepared to load at dusk and dawn, but to do it honestly requires more luck.’
‘I had the benefit of a good pursekeeper behind me,’ said Briggs.
‘Which gives you the advantage over me,’ said Morehouse.
Briggs stared down into his coffee cup, apparently in thought, then looked up again. ‘Would you like to make the acquaintance of Captain Winchester?’ he said. ‘I could easily provide a letter of introduction.’
‘It’s a considerate thought,’ said Morehouse. ‘But to little purpose, unless I’m backed by money.’
‘You’ve nothing to lose,’ argued Briggs. ‘Captain Winchester is wiser than either of us in the ways of commerce. Perhaps he’ll have a suggestion as to how you could establish capital. I know from my meetings with him that he’s keen to meet trustworthy men.’
‘I appreciate the compliment,’ said Morehouse.
‘Will you take the letter then?’ demanded Briggs.
Morehouse considered it for several moments.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘It’ll be a contact made, if nothing else.’
Unhappy with the taste of his pipe after their meal of boiled beef, Morehouse tapped the dottle against the ashtray edge and returned it to his pocket.
‘Finished loading?’ he asked.
‘Everything inboard,’ said Briggs. ‘There’s only the final stowage check before sailing.’
‘How’s your crew?’
‘Excellent,’ said Briggs. ‘I’ve known Richardson from previous voyages. Andrew Gilling, the second mate, is New York born although of Danish parentage and a good man, already with his first mate’s ticket. And one of the Germans has a mate’s ticket, too.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Arien Martens.’
Morehouse nodded. ‘He’s sailed under me. A first-rate man.’
‘Then if the weather improves,’ said Briggs, ‘it should be an uneventful voyage.’
Morehouse glanced towards the porthole against which the rain was slapping in a constant patter.
‘Showing little sign of that,’ he said. ‘Encountered a schooner captain yesterday who said he’d never known the Atlantic like it. Had to cut their deck cargo adrift and cast it overboard for risk of shifting within days of leaving Plymouth. Now he’s involved in an insurance dispute.’
‘I’m grateful to have got everything inboard and below decks,’ said Briggs. ‘What’s your shipment?’
‘Petroleum, bound for Gibraltar for further orders,’ said Morehouse. ‘Yours?’
‘Commercial alcohol,’ said Briggs. ‘Genoa and then back with fruit.’
‘Any difficulties?’
‘Not with the cargo,’ said Briggs.
‘What then?’
‘Holed the main lifeboat a couple of days ago. No way of getting it repaired before we sail. And I can’t get a replacement in time.’
Morehouse looked up at his friend curiously.
‘You’re not sailing without a boat!’ he exclaimed.
‘Of course not. Captain Winchester had already provided a second, when he learned I was taking Sarah and the baby. And there are the rafts, of course.’
‘Worried?’
‘No cause to be. I’m charting as southerly a route as possible. It might add a little to our time, but I might miss some of the worst weather.’
‘You sail tomorrow?’
‘Hopefully,’ agreed Briggs.
‘I’m heading northerly, which should give me some time over you,’ said Morehouse. ‘Even though I’m sailing after you we might make Gibraltar around about the same time.’
‘I’m estimating the last week of November, maybe the first week of December,’ said Briggs.
‘Then we should meet,’ said Morehouse.
Briggs pulled the pocket watch from his waistcoat. He had promised his wife he would not be late.
‘I know Sarah would delight in repaying your hospitality,’ he said.
‘It was a pity she couldn’t come as well.’
‘She was sorry, too. But with the strangeness of being aboard ship, we felt it best she remained with Sophia.’
‘Arthur sad he couldn’t accompany you?’
‘Very,’ said Briggs. ‘And so are we. We don’t like the family split. But his education is obviously more important.’
‘Does he want to follow the family tradition and take to the sea?’
‘At the moment,’ smiled Briggs, ‘his only ambition is to become an Indian fighter.’
Morehouse joined in the amusement: ‘What’s your reaction to that?’
Briggs’s smile slipped away. ‘“Thou shalt not kill”,’ he quoted. He smiled again, before his friend had time to become discomfited: ‘Not even if someone is chasing you with a tomahawk.’
He pushed his chair from the table, rising.
‘Sarah will be waiting,’ he said. He extended his hand.
‘I’ll despatch the letter to you before we sail and write to Captain Winchester, telling him to expect a call upon him.’
‘You’re very kind, Benjamin,’ said Morehouse.
In such weather, it was too far to walk from the Erie Basin, where the Dei Gratia was moored, to Pier 50 and so Captain Briggs took a carriage. Even so, he got very wet during the short run from the dockside to the Mary Celeste.
Sarah was waiting for him, bent over her needle, the lamp casting a yellow glow over her auburn hair. She was very beautiful, decided Briggs, recognising the near-constant thought. Sarah would be embarrassed if she knew how frequently he thought of her; just as he would have been embarrassed to tell her. But she knew, he suspected. Just as he was sure of her feelings about him.
‘I don’t think the rain will ever stop,’ she said, as he stripped off his overcoat and hat. ‘Was it a good evening?’
‘Boiled beef and excellent greens,’ said Briggs. ‘Morehouse has got a good cook aboard.’
He looked at Sophia’s dress that his wife was mending, then at her sewing machine in the comer.
‘Why by hand?’
She nodded towards the tiny cot from which came faint stirrings of the baby girl.
‘I thought the noise might disturb her.’
‘She’ll have to get used to noise, during the voyage,’ he said.
