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.
At their various positions throughout the deck, everyone stopped what they were doing, straightening and then becoming motionless. Instinctively they were looking to where the captain stood, seeking guidance.
The first movement came from the deckhouse. Sarah appeared, clutching Sophia to her.
‘What was it?’ she demanded. ‘What was that peculiar noise?’
‘Dear God,’ said Richardson, distantly and to no one, ‘don’t say we’re too late.’
Knowing how little time they had, Briggs jerked forward, calling to the transfixed men around him. Probably there would never again be such a test as this of his qualities as a master-mariner, he thought.
And unless he correctly assessed the situation, there wouldn’t be the need, anyway. They were only minutes from being blown to oblivion.
The Attorney-General decided it had unquestionably been the best day since the enquiry began. He looked around the hushed chamber, contentedly aware of the effect of the expert witnesses whose affidavits he had produced.
Captain Fitzroy, master of H.M.S. Minotaur, had been the first; then Captain Adeane, commanding the Agincourt; then Captain Dowell, from the Hercules; and finally Captain Vansittart, in command of H.M.S. Sultan. There had been no challenge from any of the lawyers because the testimony had been virtually unchallengeable. One after the other the Royal Navy officers had asserted their unequivocal belief that the damage to the Mary Celeste’s bows had been caused intentionally, during some act of violence. And they had not limited themselves to the hull marks. They had identified the bloodstaining and unanimously agreed that it was an axe mark on the rail.
Flood looked away from the advocates’ bench, towards Sir James Cochrane. They had all wanted evidence and now he had produced it; he had little doubt now that the police would recommend proceedings.
There was a stir from behind and he turned to see the first mate of the Dei Gratia, Oliver Deveau, fluster into court. The man’s lack of composure was immediately obvious. His usually slicked-down hair was in disarray and even his beard was unkempt.
Pisani rose at his client’s entry, beckoning him immediately towards the witness area, turning to the judge as he did so.
‘My Lord will see,’ he said, in formal apology, ‘that we have returned from Genoa the witness whom it was desired to recall.’
‘An exercise which would have been unnecessary had the barest minimum of attention been paid to the needs of this court by the majority of participants,’ retorted Cochrane, unmollified.
The Attorney-General concealed any satisfaction at the remark. The judge had obviously been impressed by the evidence of the sea captains.
He rose, determined to attack immediately, gesturing as he did so for Baumgartner to hand the witness the evidence of the captains.
‘Having waited for so long, I’m sure the court can spare you for a little further time,’ said Flood sarcastically. ‘I would like you to read the evidence that has been produced in this court by four expert witnesses.’
Deveau took the affidavits, frowning down. He read slowly, head moving along each page, and the very silence in court was to his advantage, decided the Attorney-General. Cochrane was fidgeting in his seat by the time Deveau looked up.
