muzzle down in the sand, showing that Somers sank sideways, never righting as she dropped into the depths, and landed on the starboard side. I stop and carefully run a small iron probe up inside the barrel of one of the guns. The probe stops 24 inches into the 4-foot bore of the carronade. I turn to another gun and try it. It, too, is blocked. I smile and turn to Pilar Luna, who is shining a light on the gun to help me guide the probe. These guns are loaded, as we expected. After all, Somers was ready for action, in the middle of a chase, when the squall hit.
A long metal tube, topped by what looks like an open trough, is the brig’s pump, once used to remove water from the hold, but useless on that fateful morning. Lying on the bottom, it is now being mapped by Larry Nordby and Jerry Livingston. Their tape measure indicates it is just over u feet long — a perfect match for the depth of the hold. A metal flange, almost halfway up the iron tube, would not be noticed by most people, but Larry instantly recognizes that it means the area below decks was divided into a berth deck, where the men lived, and a lower hold. This flange marks the location of that divide, a feature not recorded in the few surviving plans of the brig. It is also an indicator of just how small and crowded this vessel was, particularly on that winter voyage in 1842, with 120 men and boys packed on these decks and in these berths. Confronted by the small size of Somers, we gain a new perspective on how just a handful of men, suspected of plotting a mutiny, could inspire the near-panic that led to three hasty hangings.
Captain Santos Gomez Leyva of the Armada de Mexico and Dr. Pilar Luna Erregueren a watch as Larry Nordby works on the map of the wreck of Somers aboard the patrol vessel Margarita Maza de Juarez, 1990. James P. Delgado We find more reminders of the crew as we swim forward. Lying on its side is the huge cast-iron galley stove of the brig, its flue still attached. The hinged opening of the stove has fallen away, and when I flash my light into the stove, I can see that the drip pan and range grates are still in place. My light startles a small fish, which darts out of the stove, and I chuckle at the thought of its making a home where once it would have been cooked. A scatter of bottles and a ceramic jug are all that remain of the ship’s provisions, including a bottle with a lead foil cap from “Wells Miller & Provost, 217 Front St., New York.” That New York merchant was the nation’s leading manufacturer of preserved foods and condiments in its day, and finding the bottle is the sort of human connection across time that makes history special. This bottle probably held a popular condiment, a special touch to make a sailor’s meal just a little tastier. I like making discoveries like this.
As we turn to leave, I look down, and my heart stops. There are bones scattered in the wreckage, yellow and mottled. Thirty-two men died on Somers, and the wreck is a war grave. Have we found the remains of some of the crew? We’ve been told to respectfully collect any human remains and return them home for analysis and reburial, so I take a closer look. There are three vertebra and a short, small bone that could be from a radius or ulna. But I can tell that they’re not human. These are from a large hog or a small cow, part of the rations of salted meat packed in barrels and carried as provisions. Somers’s log shows she had nine barrels of what sailors liked to complain was “salt horse” when she sank. This is what’s left of some of it.
As I begin my slow ascent to the surface, stopping to decompress, I think about Somers and the stories locked in her decaying timbers. Powerful events played out on those decks and changed the course of a navy. Our team never loses sight of that tragedy over the next few days as we continue our inspection, complete our chart and finally bid the wreck goodbye.
After our departure from Veracruz, the Armada de Mexico closes the site to all divers and vows to keep a close watch on the site. A return visit by the National Park Service a few years ago found Somers looking much as we had left her, but with more evidence of unauthorized visitors who have taken souvenirs. With the exception of these few illegal divers, Somers rests alone in the eternal darkness. If that broken hull could speak, I’d like to think that, just like Billy Budd, she would ask to be left in the solitude of the sea.
ABOVE THE ABYSS It’s 6:00 a.m., and the first hints of light on the horizon reveal scattered clouds in a gray sky and the flecks of whitecaps on the ocean’s dark surface. I’m aboard the Russian research vessel Akademik Mstislav Keldysh. We’re slowly steaming in a wide circle, barely making headway in the rolling sea. For the last week, we’ve kept the same course, 368 miles southeast of St. John’s, Newfoundland, constantly retracing our wake on this patch of ocean, far from sight of land.
Featureless it may be, but this area of ocean is famous because of what happened here on the late evening and early morning hours of April 14 and 15, 1912. Two and a quarter miles below us, at the bottom of the sea, lies the wreck of Titanic. And in a few hours, I will slowly descend to the ocean floor, sealed in a small deep-sea submersible, to visit the wreck in the freezing, pitch-black, crushing depths.
Ever since Titanic’s shattered hulk was discovered in 1985, only about a hundred people have made the risky dive into the abyss to visit it. That’s far fewer than the number of humans who have flown into space.
The name itself says it all: Titanic. The second of three enormous steamships designed and built to be the world’s largest, Titanic was the epitome of an age of confidence and achievement. The ship was 882 feet, 9 inches long, with a beam or width of 92 feet, 6 inches. From her keel to the top of her funnels, Titanic towered 175 feet, and the distance from the waterline to the boat deck was the same as a six-story building. The hull displaced or weighed 66,000 tons. Each steel plate that went into the hull was 30 feet long, 6 feet wide and an inch thick.
The wreck itself, deep down in the eternal darkness of the bottom of the North Atlantic, has continued, as author Susan Wels points out, “to fire and torment the public’s imagination.” “The location of her sinking,” said Wels, “an imprecisely known patch of the Atlantic, vacant and menacing… became part of the world’s geography. Unknown and unreachable, her abyssal grave and her fatal voyage obsessed dreamers and adventurers for more than seven decades.”
When the news of finding Titanic, by the joint French-U.S. team of Jean-Louis Michel and Robert Ballard, was announced in the early morning hours of September 1, 1985, the world’s press provided, at first in brief snippets, and then in more detail, images and information from the bottom of the Atlantic. From a few simple views of the bow and a single boiler to dozens of images of empty decks, empty lifeboat davits and scattered debris, the eerie scenes gave immediacy to what was, for a new generation, a distant and abstract tragedy. Robert Ballard himself felt it, just hours after his euphoria over finding the wreck faded. “It was one thing to have won — to have found the ship. It was another thing to be there. That was the spooky part. I could see the Titanic as she slipped nose first into the glassy water. Around me were the ghostly shapes of the lifeboats and the piercing shouts and screams of people freezing to death in the water.”
The wreck of Titanic, in all its twisted, rusting splendor, like many other historic sites — Pompeii, Tutankhamen’s tomb or other shipwrecks — gives people a “temporal touchstone.” In this case, it is a time machine that provides a physical link to the “night to remember.” I’ve joined other viewers of many television specials, the IMAX film Titanica and James Cameron’s movie Titanic to watch as submersibles and cameras pass various spots mentioned in the history books and survivors’ accounts. The crow’s nest where lookout Frederick Fleet picked up the telephone and gave warning of an iceberg. The boat deck with its empty lifeboat davits. The remains of the bridge, where Captain Edward John Smith was last seen. But being an archeologist who has spent two decades exploring the seabed and lost shipwrecks, I wanted to see this wreck for myself. Zegrahm DeepSea Voyages, a subsidiary of Zegrahm Expeditions in Seattle, Washington, has offered adventurers the opportunity to participate in Russian scientific dives to the wreck of Titanic since 1998. The price—$35,500 in 1999—was out of my range, but Zegrahm offered me the chance of a lifetime. As a lecturing archeologist and “team leader,” I could join the year 2000 scientific expedition and get a dive, if I would share my experiences and observations with my fellow
