‘It was a small cargo. And a shorter journey than ours. One blow and it was over.’
‘I wish to God this one would soon end,’ said Gilling. It was a sincere expression, not a blasphemy.
The Mary Celeste was growing quiet again. Only occasionally did anything reach them, a sound like the snoring of a grumpy old man.
‘It must be clear now,’ said Richardson.
‘We’ll give it a little longer,’ said Briggs cautiously. Having come so near to disaster, it would be ridiculous to take any further chances.
‘Anyone hungry?’ asked Head, from behind.
No one accepted.
‘We’ll repair your smoke-stack in time for dinner,’ promised Richardson. It was an attempt at lightness, but there was no laughter.
Water splashed over the side, no more than a few droplets, and Volkert Lorensen played the boat around with his oar, bringing it into the current.
‘Over two hours now,’ said Richardson, looking up professionally towards the sun. The sky wasn’t as clear as it had been. Flat, formless clouds were spreading lightly across, like a skein of muslin.
‘Seems much longer,’ said Gilling.
The Lorensen brothers looked towards Briggs, anticipating the order.
The eruption from the ship was the worst there had been. The whole vessel seemed to shiver under its force and small waves began rippling out from the hull, where it actually moved in the water. Sophia cried out, frightened. There was a second, slightly less violent than the first and the sails that were still set flickered under the outrush of gas. The Mary Celeste moved slightly, putting the boat a little to port of the stern. That time there hadn’t been any dunnage or debris thrown out, Briggs realised. Another like that and there would surely be an explosion in the hold; he wondered if the timbers had been stretched already, so that the ship would be taking water. Unless it were a bad breach, the pumps would be adequate, once they got back on board.
This time the sound did not diminish, but maintained an ugly, throat-clearing cough and the waves created by the explosion caught the boat, lifting it in a series of tiny jogging motions and more water was shipped. Unasked, Goodschall picked up the bail and began tossing the water from the craft.
‘Benjamin!’
Everyone turned, seized by the despair in Sarah’s voice. Sophia had demanded to go to the toilet and the woman was holding the child over the stern of the vessel, so that she was facing back towards the distant outline of Santa Maria. The landfall was almost concealed now, swamped by a great shroud of oil-black clouds that were seeping towards them, so low that in places they almost appeared to be touching the water. Ahead of the clouds came the rain, a fierce, scudding downpour so forceful that it was flattening the sea like metal under a tinsmith’s hammer. And then there was the first of the wind, feeling out for them like cold hands, fighting the rain for a chance to whip the water up.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Richardson, careless of any offence he might cause the captain.
Briggs turned as the first of the rain swept over them, with the suddenness of a swab bucket being thrown into the boat, gazing towards the ship. There was thunder with the squall, making it impossible to calculate which sound was coming from the atmosphere above and which emanated from the Mary Celeste.
‘She’s sails set,’ he said, quietly, in horrified realisation. ‘She’ll run from us.’
‘Oh, God!’ said Richardson, again. This time there was anguish in his voice.
‘Haul for the ship,’ ordered Briggs urgently.
The Lorensen brothers started rowing immediately, aware of what could happen.
The wind was stronger now, churning the waves. Gilling snatched the cup from where the cook was sitting and began scooping the water from beneath their feet in almost timed motion with Goodschall, the movement becoming raster as the sea started gushing over the gunwales. The baby was crying and when Briggs looked back he saw that Sarah had at last broken down, clamping her lips against the sound but with her shoulders pumping with her tears.
‘The line, Mr Richardson,’ he said to the mate. ‘See if you can haul us with the line,’
Richardson clambered to the bow, the movement bringing in more sea, and tried to help the rowers by dragging the boat along its own towline. The rope was wet and heavy and to have given it a chance to work, he would have had to stand with his feet braced against the prow, so that the stem would have been actually forced beneath the water.
They were still about two hundred and fifty feet from the Mary Celeste, completely engulfed in the storm, when the first wind reached the ship. She seemed to start, like a nervous horse suddenly surprised by the approach of a rider. The jib and fore-topmost staysail responded first, slapping and cracking against the yards.
‘Row!’ urged Briggs, leaning forward to encourage the men. ‘The sails are filling. Row!’
‘The rafts,’ shouted Gilling. ‘They are dragging at us,’
Briggs hesitated, realising the importance of the decision. Regaining the ship was the only consideration, he judged. And they still had a chance of doing that.
‘Cut them adrift,’ he said.
For the first time, there was a discernible hesitation at an order. Then Gilling untied the towline to the rafts. Almost immediately, the rowers appeared to achieve more speed.
Briggs strained through the storm-gloom, intent upon the other sails set upon the Mary Celeste.
The foresail still drooped but the upper and lower topsails were gradually moving.
‘Less than two hundred feet now, lads,’ encouraged Richardson.
The two Germans were straining at the oars, eyes bulged and the veins in their faces and necks knotted starkly against their skin. They had got into a regular metronome movement, breath grunting from them. Briggs could see that they were almost exhausted. To exchange with Goodschall and Martens would be time-wasting. The line was no longer taut between them and the boat. It was almost completely submerged, just occasionally visible, curled and flaccid, just below the surface.
The jib filled completely and the stem of the Mary Celeste came up, making the long bowsprit shift in a curious, seeking movement, like a dog sniffing a scent.
‘She’ll move soon,’ warned Richardson.
There was a great deal of water in the boat now. It lapped just below the seats, so that they sat with their feet and legs submerged almost to their knees. Sarah had the baby pulled protectively from her lap and clenched against her chest. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving in constant prayer.
The Lorensen brothers were flagging, their rowing going out of time, the boat so heavy it was hardly making any way. He would have to change, Briggs knew.
‘Goodschall, Martens,’ he said. There was immediate comprehension. The Lorensens stopped, in unison, and flopped backwards, eyes glazed with near-unconsciousness, just pulling their legs over the seat for the other two Germans to take their places. The new men started with renewed fervency and the boat appeared to move faster through the water.
‘She’s picking up,’ reported Richardson from the prow and for the briefest moment Briggs thought the mate was talking about the craft they were in. Then he looked towards the Mary Celeste.
The sails would never fill completely because she was moving without a helmsman, but the foresail was stretched, together with the upper and lower topsails. Slowly at first, almost as if unwilling, but then gradually with increasing speed the Mary Celeste began to pick up.
‘Row, damn you I Row I’ pleaded Richardson.
Goodschall and Martens were making an incredible effort, oar blades falling and rising, but the distance between them and the ship was becoming visibly greater.
Because he was in the prow, Richardson was the first to realise that the rope that had been lost to sight was gradually emerging from the water again as the gap lengthened, like an obscene taunt at how far away they still were.
‘She’ll drag us,’ shouted Briggs.
Almost immediately the tow rope twanged tight and there was a shudder through the boat. It surged forward, achieving the sort of speed the seamen had been trying to attain, and they stopped, twisting curiously around.
‘In the stern. Get the weight in the stern,’ ordered Briggs, foreseeing the fresh danger. The men scrambled
