‘Yes.’
‘How was she set?’
‘Her rigging and sheets were in great disarray,’ said Morehouse, his face creased with the effort of recollection. ‘What I first took upon the sighting through my glass to be a distress signal subsequently turned out to be a flapping sail, torn from its mast. What first struck me as peculiar was that although her jib and fore-topmast staysail were set upon the starboard tack, she was sailing upon the port tack, yawing as she came into the wind and then falling off again. I watched her doing that for two hours.’
‘What about the other sails?’
‘When we got close enough, I could see that her mainsail, gaff-topsail, middle staysail, topmast staysail, top-gallant sail, royal and flying jib were all furled.’
‘So what remained?’
‘Her main staysail appeared to have been hurriedly collapsed. The foresail and upper fore-topsail had been blown away. And the lower fore-topsail was hanging by the four corners. It was that which I had first taken to be the distress signal.’
‘A squall weather setting, in fact?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Morehouse doubtfully. ‘It could be described as such.’
‘What were the weather conditions on December 5 and the days immediately prior to that?’
‘Squally.’
‘How far had the Mary Celeste sailed from the slate-log entry of November 25 until December 5, when you came upon her?’
‘It’s impossible to know the distance,’ said Morehouse, ‘but I would estimate some 378 miles.’
For the first time during his cross-examination, Flood bent over his papers, creating a pause for what he was going to say. He actually waited until he could detect shufflings of impatience from those behind him in the chamber before looking up again:
‘Help me further, Captain Morehouse, if you will, over something I find quite remarkable. Indeed, utterly and completely inexplicable…’
Flood allowed another break, to unsettle the man he was questioning.
‘Utilising all the experience and expertise that you have amassed during the thirteen years you have been a master-mariner, tell me how the Mary Celeste, more or less properly set for the prevailing conditions, came to be more or less precisely on course when, if the evidence you have presented to this enquiry is correct, the last log entry of any kind had been some ten days earlier, on November 25?’ Flood smiled up, ingenuously, content with the trap into which he had manoeuvred the witness. ‘How had the Mary Celeste sailed, unmanned, for 378 miles and remained on course, Captain Morehouse?’ he completed, his voice hardening.
‘I don’t know,’ said Morehouse abruptly.
‘You don’t know!’ demanded Flood, pushing the incredulity into his voice.
‘How can I?’ protested the man.
‘A point we might later attempt to elucidate,’ said the Attorney-General, and before Morehouse could respond, added: ‘Have you ever before heard of an unmanned vessel, with sails set for the prevailing weather, cover nearly four hundred miles and remain on course?’
‘No.’
Flood bent over his papers, for his own benefit on this occasion. Whatever the faults of the previous day’s examination, he had recovered now, he decided. With the major — and in his view the most devastating — part of his cross-examination still to come he had already proved Morehouse’s evidence illogical to the point of falsity. The satisfaction warmed through him.
‘I seek further assistance, Captain Morehouse,’ he started again, smiling up. ‘The prevailing currents in this part of the Atlantic, to my amateur eye, appear to be southwards.’
‘That is so,’ agreed Morehouse uncomfortably.
‘Cast your mind back to your recent crossing, if you will,’ Flood invited him. ‘What was the prevailing wind?’
‘Predominantly from the north,’ conceded Morehouse, frowning in his awareness of the point of Flood’s questioning.
‘So the mystery deepens,’ gloated Flood. ‘Not only does the unmanned Mary Celeste remain on course for ten days, but she does so against the prevailing currents and winds.’
‘I made allowances for that in calculating the distance she might have covered,’ said Morehouse. ‘And it is not necessarily surprising that such a thing could have happened.’
‘Ah,’ exclaimed the Attorney-General, completely sure of his control, ‘you have an answer to this conundrum!’
‘Not an answer,’ conceded Morehouse. ‘A possible explanation.’
‘Then let’s have it, Captain Morehouse. Let’s have it.’
‘Dismasted, a vessel might expect to be carried in the direction of the tide and the wind,’ said Morehouse. ‘But, as I have already given evidence, some of the Mary Celeste’s sails were still set.’
‘So?’ prompted Flood.
‘When I came upon her,’ said Morehouse, ‘she was yawing as she came into the wind and then falling off again. It is a recognised fact that whether there is anyone at the helm or not, a sailing ship, under some sail, will hold up into the wind and not drift with the wind or current. The setting of the fore-topmast staysail and jib would have had the effect of preventing her coming into the wind, keeping her more steadily on course.’
‘Are you seriously inviting this enquiry to accept that, almost by some divine intervention, the setting of the sails was such that they actually kept the Mary Celeste against prevailing wind and sea conditions!’ said Flood, turning as he asked the question from the judge to the court, as if inviting them to share his amazement.
‘It has been known,’ insisted Morehouse doggedly.
‘You can give the court an example?’
‘Sir?’
‘You can quote to Sir James and the rest of this enquiry an actual stated case of an abandoned, rigged vessel completing the manoeuvre you suggest in this part of the Atlantic?’
‘No,’ admitted Morehouse, face burning with discomfort. ‘I was speaking in the most general terms about conditions that have been experienced by sailors.’
‘This enquiry, Captain Morehouse, is not interested in the most general terms about what might or might not have befallen unnamed ships on unnamed oceans. It is concerned about what befell the Mary Celeste when she was but six miles from the island of Santa Maria on the morning of November 25.’
‘I am aware of that, sir,’ said Morehouse, attempting to regain his dignity.
‘Then let us apply ourselves a little more diligently to uncovering the truth of the matter,’ said the Attorney- General. He had discredited Morehouse, he decided confidently. He could more or less dictate the responses now, just as the British soldiers trained the apes to perform for the tourists high above on the mist-shrouded Peak.
‘Let us cast ourselves back to the meal you enjoyed with Captain Briggs the night before his sailing,’ said Flood. ‘It was a convivial evening between two old friends?’
‘That’s how I think of it,’ said Morehouse.
‘There was no point for the meeting, apart from that of conviviality?’
‘No,’ said Morehouse. ‘We had been friends for many years. Whenever we were in port together, we always attempted a meeting. At that dinner in New York, we arranged a meal here.’
‘So you have already informed us. Be more forthcoming, if you would. What else was discussed that night?’
Morehouse did not immediately respond, head cast down in the effort of recall.
‘As I remember,’ he said, ‘a great deal of the talk was of Captain Briggs becoming part-owner of the Mary Celeste.’
‘He was rightfully proud?’
‘He was. I owned that I envied him his success.’
‘Envied him!’ snatched Flood. Here it was, he thought. The first slip.
Imagining a mistake, Morehouse looked to his counsel, who stared back curiously.
‘He asked me if I sought to be in the same position as he was. And I admitted I did.’
