The Ghost of the Mary Celeste (39 page)

In the afternoon I played on the melodeon and Sophy sat next to me on the bench, trying to make her doll pick out a tune. She understands a great many more words than she can say and has started to put two or three together, to her own delight. At supper she reached out for the potato bowl as it was going the rounds and announced “pass ’tatoes.”

Here is B., coming in from his watch, looking mischievous, I must say.

The sea was rough today and all were occupied with trying to get the best of the capricious wind. Lots of pitching bow to stern, which makes Sophy fall when she wants to run. At first she wailed and I tried to comfort her, but after a while she started bending her knees, attempting to roll with the ship, and seemed to think it funny when she landed on her bottom.

We had to put the rack on the table for dinner, to keep the dishes from sliding away, which interested her greatly. Mr. Richardson opined that the Germans do well enough, but he thinks one of them is hard of hearing, as he turns one ear toward anyone who speaks to him. Mr. R. tried speaking softly to his back and got no response. So, having scientifically tested his theory, he feels willing to advance it—the man has poor hearing. Mr. Gilling, who was with us, as B. had the watch, said he believed the fellow was lazy and didn’t want to take orders, so pretended not to hear them. They had all four aloft trimming sails and Mr. R. said he thought they pitched in well and worked together smoothly. Two are brothers, traveling the world together with one sea chest between them.

And so forth. Mr. R. and Mr. G., I note, are not fond of each other, and contradiction is something of a sport with them. When I
related this conversation to B., he said Mr. G. is a bit of a hard driver and likes to give orders in confusing bundles, so that the sailor is uncertain which task is to be done first.

Life at sea. Men watching each other for signs of weakness. I believe Mr. G. is of the type who must resist those set above him and dominate all below. Mr. R. is more sanguine, and like many a sailor preoccupied with orderliness.

And my darling husband, the captain of my heart, takes it all in and chuckles with me under the bedclothes. “Did you see how many dumplings Gilling ate?” he said. “I had to spear one quick to save for Sophy.”

Last night we lay awake in stitches of laughter because Sophy was snoring to beat the band. “God help us,” said B. “She sounds just like my father.”

A blustery day, though we did get some sun and I took Sophy up to have the benefit of fresh air. I dislike just about everything at sea, but one does dress more comfortably. I wear a short wash dress and an apron with a big pocket, and an old sun hat I use at home for the garden, and wooden pattens over my slippers. At night I wear a silk wrapper, which B. calls an “unwrapper” as it is easy of access. It’s pleasant not having a skirt dragging the floor and easier to keep clean.

On our house deck we are mostly private unless the sailors are in the mainmast rigging. I can look down on the helmsman and see forward as far as the forecastle house, which is all above deck, so it blocks the view beyond. The boom is enormous and squeaks like a bat. Sophy is content to go round and round the skylight and so it is exercise just to keep up with her. It was chilly and I’d not put on my cloak, so I came down feeling headachy, but she was exhilarated and it took several songs and a patient going over of the album, while she
pointed out “Otter,” and “Grama,” and “Ha-han,” until she started rubbing her eyes and agreed to be put down for a nap.

As I was repairing a hole in B.’s stocking, there was a tap at the cabin door. When I opened it, there was Mr. Head, with a steaming pot of tea. “I saw you come in and thought you might be chilled,” he said. I took the pot gratefully while he dug in his pocket and brought out a toy he’d made for Sophy. It was an owl fashioned from a walnut shell with tiny chicken feathers stuck on and wire feet. “She’ll love this,” I said. “She knows how to say the sound owls make. You are so artistic.” This sent him away beaming. So I put the owl on the bookshelf and sat down at the table with my pot of tea and this book to chronicle yet another dull day at sea for the captain’s wife.

For three days I haven’t been able to hold a pen to the page. Our ship has been so pitched and batted and rolled about, and so much water washed over her decks and down every opening, including into our cabin, bursting in with such force it lifted the sewing machine and deposited it on the settee where Sophy and I sat clutching each other while I said our prayers. Before we could heave-to, one of the Germans, going aloft to shorten sail, was swept by a wave hard into the deckhouse, and from thence out to the rail, where he was nearly washed overboard, but Mr. Gilling got hold of him until the deck rolled the other way and they were both knocked back into the house. In the tumult the German’s arm was broken between the wrist and elbow, a bad break; the bone came through the skin. Mr. Gilling got him to the main cabin and we put him on the table, as there was water standing knee deep on the floor. B. set the arm—it took nearly an hour and the German was in agony throughout and probably swore fierce oaths—I’ll never know—but he trusted B. and when I gave him some coffee laced with laudanum
from the medicine chest he drank it down and said
“Danke”
between gasps of pain, handing back the cup with his good hand.

After the arm was set, Mr. Head came in to help Mr. Gilling get the injured man back to his berth. Poor fellow, he was pale as a ghost, even his ruddy lips lost their color. And now we will be shorthanded, as he won’t be able to go aloft or even take the helm until he’s up and about. I learned his name, he is Mr. Lorenzen, and now I can tell him apart from the others, though I doubt I’ll see much of him. B. said he’s the best sailor of the four, which is a pity.

Once we had the proper heading there was nothing to do but hold on to something solidly attached to the ship and wait. I got Sophy in the bed with me and B. brought a board to fasten across the opening and there we lay, gazing up at the skylight, which appeared to be under the sea.

At last we are in calmer waters, though there’s still a strong headwind making things difficult on deck. When I woke this morning, I was nauseated and had to rush to the water closet. This seemed odd, as the ship is running along without much pitching about and I haven’t eaten anything unusual, but then it dawned on me that it is two months since last I employed a grandy rag. I packed a store thinking I was only late, but, after another bout of retching, I did the calculation, putting one and one together to equal three. When I came out, B. was on the settee with Sophy on his lap—she likes to cuddle with him when she wakes up if he’s near—crooning, “I see a ship a-sailing.”

I stood in the doorway smiling at them; they are so sweet together. B. finished the verse—“and the captain says quack, quack.” Sophy quacked along with him; she knows that song well and waits for the ending with rising excitement. Her father looked up at me and said, “Mother, are you well?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “But you might ask Sophy if she’d like a little sister, or would she prefer another brother.”

Sophy caught the word “brother” and said “Otter.” B. set her down on the carpet, which was still wet from the flood and crunchy with salt, and came to me, passing his arm round my waist. “Sweetheart,” he said. “Is it true?”

“I think so,” I said.

Then he looked anxious. I lost a babe three years ago, early on, but there was no trouble with Sophy, so I feel confident this time. “I’m fine,” I said.

“When will it be, do you think?”

“May or June. I can’t be very far along.”

Sophy picked up one of her blocks and brought it to us, holding it up high, wanting to know the sound for the letter. “It’s a G,” I said. “Gh, gh. Good. Good girl.” She followed my lips, as she does, and made a very respectable
g
sound.

“Won’t she be a fine big sister?” her papa said.

Later, after his watch, B. came in looking thoughtful. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “We should have enough saved after this trip for me to stay home until this new baby is safe among us. With the interest I’ve got in this ship, I’ll have a little coming in, and if I can find a good investment, I won’t let it slip away this time. With any luck this will be my last voyage.”

Well, this is good news, of course, and I breathed a sigh of relief, but my poor darling has made this vow before and been forced by circumstances to break it. He and Olie were set to take over Mr. Hardy’s store, but they hesitated when it came down to it and the chance eluded them. Olie is of the same mind. They are both sick of going to sea and want to be home. Olie bought the land abutting his father’s house last year and before he left, he built a wall around it. Hopefully, between them, they can make a go of some shore concern and we can raise a passel of glorious landlubbers and do our sailing on a ferry.

At supper Mr. Head reported that Mr. Lorenzen has a fever
and is delirious. B. went forward and dosed him with laudanum for the pain and bathed his forehead with vinegar. B. said the other Mr. Lorenzen stood by, murmuring to his brother in German, trying to comfort him. B. was reminded of Olie and the time when they shipped together—Olie was just a boy—and B. felt he was growing a third eye that kept a lookout for his brother. Then we both wished we’d not missed Olie in New York before we sailed, and we said a prayer that we find him, hale and hearty, in Messina.

Have I mentioned that I dislike going to sea? And here is the reason: if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Today it is fog, all day, socked in over us like—well—like a sock! A heavy, sodden, white woolen sock. It even smells a little like sheep. And as we can’t see a thing and as the sea is wide and plied by ships, we must ring a bell constantly and hang out lamps, and creep along with every sailor squinting into the mist and every officer taking a turn at the scope to see if he can detect a sail in time to get out of its way. They are rotating the sick German’s watch and B. did two in a row, because he said he wouldn’t sleep anyway, and came in tired to death, but of course, he still couldn’t sleep. I took Sophy up to have a look and she said, “Clouds.” “Fog,” I said, and she gave a nod, though she didn’t try to say it. Gloom is universal, as it is common knowledge that these fog banks on the Atlantic presage a storm.

Mr. Head and I got together in the pantry and decided to cheer everyone up with a plum dessert, as I’ve got two dozen jars put up and we may as well eat them. He only knows duff, but I suggested something more elegant, since there are only nine of us plus Sophy, so I amused myself in mixing up a cake in the cabin and Mr. Head came later to take it off to his oven. It came out well, with the plums all knit into the top in a pattern, and B. smiled to see it for the first time today. Mr. Head said the Germans wolfed it down. Mr. Lorenzen is still suffering, but B. said his fever is down. It is revealed
that he has brought thirteen books on board, two of which B. recognized as navigation texts. Well, he will have plenty of time for reading, though I doubt he’ll navigate much beyond the galley for the near future.

After supper Sophy wanted singing, so I played and sang the old tunes I know she likes, and B. joined in on the ones he knows. I always end with “There Is a Happy Land,” which is soporific, and also a favorite of Olie’s. It made me think of home and of Arthur, who is, God willing, asleep in his bed. He’s afraid of the dark. It gets dark so early now, and he has to go out to do the evening chores. I used to go with him to get the milk, but I doubt Mother B. will indulge his childish anxiety. She’ll advise him to pray.

Here’s a conundrum. I sit in the dying light though it’s not yet noon. All I can hear is pounding hammers.

B. came in, looking serious and stern, to tell me that the men will be battening the windows, as we are already shipping seas over the bow, and the barometrical instruments, including the one B. has in his head, prognosticate rough weather ahead. There. They have fit the canvas over the first one and hammered the boards into the frame.

“Must we?” I wanted to say, but of course, I know we must. Sophy is sitting among her blocks gazing up curiously. “Legs,” she shouted when the two sailors arrived, hauling their lumber, for that was all she could see of them. B. says we’ll have the skylight, so we won’t be in utter darkness—though of course we will be, once whatever is coming for us comes for us.

Because this sea is dark, though sometimes it sparkles gaily, and it is often angry.

And we are nothing to it.

This morning before it got so choppy, the fog lifted and I took Sophy up. B., coming off his watch, escorted us for a stroll along the deck. He keeps the same rule his father did—no sailor may stand
between the captain and the wind—so it’s amusing to watch the Germans, who have somehow been informed of this rule, which, being Germans, they embrace wholeheartedly, being careful to stay on the lee side of the “old man.” B. says of our ship that she is only a fair sailer. He would like to open the hatches to ventilate the cargo, which is volatile, but now is not the time.

We are barreling along before a west wind, very choppy sea now. Our ship’s bow thwacks the waves as she rams through them. Now they have the canvas on the second window and are hammering away. I can hear their voices, but, of course, don’t understand what they are saying.

We’ll have to light the paraffin lamps at dinner. B. is in a confab with Mr. Richardson in the main cabin. They are anxious because, with Mr. Lorenzen down, we are shorthanded.

And now I must lay down my pen, as Sophy is weepy and the dimly lit cabin in which I am sitting has commenced to roll.

How can I write these words? Benjamin. My life. My love.

I’ll try to write what I can. But why should I? I hardly know who I am. I haven’t eaten, washed, left this room for three days, except that first night when I opened the cabin door and found Mr. Head on the settee. I was angry. What are you doing here? I cried, and he sat up looking flustered. He explained that Mr. Richardson had the watch and he didn’t want Sophy and me to be left alone in the stern in case we might need something.