The Ghost of the Mary Celeste (41 page)

Read The Ghost of the Mary Celeste Online

Authors: Valerie Martin

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Retail

At last Mr. Richardson left us, asking again about the battened windows as he went out.

“I don’t care,” I said. My indifference displeased him, but I was indifferent to that too.

NOVEMBER 25

I will never speak of this.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. The moon was bright and the cabin warm, so when I put Sophy down for the night, I opened the door between the bedroom and the main cabin. I paced about, talking to myself, trying to calm myself, but what I felt was rising panic. For an hour or so I dozed on the settee, waking to hear Mr. Richardson come in from his watch. I dozed again. When I woke, Sophy was standing in the doorway between the cabins, wide-eyed and with the determined look her father had when he knew exactly what he wanted, and would brook no obstacle. “Can’t you sleep, darling?” I said.

Her answer stopped my heart. “Papa,” she said. She ran across the carpet to the door and struggled to reach the latch. “Papa,” she said again.

I went to her, kneeled beside her. “He’s not here, love,” I said.
“Come back to bed. Mother will come with you.” But she was having none of my promises. She slapped the door with the flat of her hand, her voice rising and insistent. “Papa, Papa,” she said.

“Do you want to go up on the deck?” I asked, to which she nodded her head forcefully and added, “Papa.”

It was strange and it gave me a chill, but I thought I’d best give in and take her up to see for herself that her dear papa was not at the helm. If I refused, neither of us would sleep anytime soon. “All right,” I said. “I’ll take you. But you must hold my hand. Will you hold my hand while we go up?”

Again she nodded, thrusting her hand out to take mine. She’s such a reasonable child. I opened the door and she pulled me along the companionway, and up the stairs to the open hatch. Together we stepped out into the wondrous dome of stars in which the full moon, suspended like a porcelain disk, drew a slender skein of white across the softly rustling blue-black meadow of the sea.

Oh you trickster, I thought, addressing the ocean. You cruel goddess, addressing the moon. Calling me out of my sorrow to break my heart with beauty. Sophy too was moved to awe by the serenity of the night. “See the moon,” I said, to make it only a word, to make it expressible. She raised her face as if to bathe in the magical light and said softly “Moon.”

Together, hand in hand, we stepped to the rail and stood looking out to sea. There was no clear horizon. The sky, a deep blue-green, blended into a darker hue of the same color. Nothing was black in this world of tender light, of undulating waves stirring up flashes of phosphorescence. Above us a few full sails pulled us smoothly through the placid water. I glanced to the stern and made out the figure of Mr. Gilling at the helm, holding the wheel steady. Near the mainmast one of the Germans was sitting with his back to the house working over a mass of rope. The only sound was the continual whoosh of water rushing back from the prow.

I had witnessed such a night at sea only once before, long ago, on the
Arthur
, when we sailed along the East Coast, bound for New
Orleans. We had come into the Gulf Stream and the air, though not sultry, was warm. Benjamin came below after his watch was done and leaned over me in the bed, whispering, “Sallie, are you awake?”

“Yes,” I said. “I can’t sleep.”

“I know why,” he said. “Come up with me.” I got out of bed and went to put on my pattens, but he said, “You can come out in your bare feet. No one cares.” And I did. He took my hand and we went up together and it was like this, a moon, bright and heatless, like a sun made of chalk, a sea put to sleep by its own repetitive tides, moist air that caressed and opened the pores so that my whole body seemed to breathe through my skin. We stood at the rail and Benjamin said, “This is heaven, don’t you think, Sallie?”

And I said, “It may be like this.” I didn’t know it then, but I was pregnant with Arthur. When we found out, Benjamin said it was thanks to that ship bunk, which was hardly big enough for two. Whenever we woke with our limbs in a tangle, he stroked my back, or my hair, or whatever part of me was close to his hand and said, “How I love these close quarters.”

This came back to me, standing with Sophy, last night. She pulled my hand and said, “Cumup,” which meant she wanted me to hold her. I came to myself and bent over her, lifting her onto my hip. She rested one arm on my shoulder, turned toward the sea, pointed to the middle distance, and said, “Papa.”

Tears burst from my eyes, my mouth went dry, and I struggled for breath. “Oh don’t,” I sobbed. “Please don’t.” She looked at me, touched my cheek with her fingertips, turned back to the sea and pointed again, but this time she didn’t speak. My knees were rubbery and I had the sense that I must fall, but also that something was holding me up. Sophy closed her hand in a fist and rubbed it into her eye. Then she turned to me, nestling her face against my shoulder, wrapping both arms loosely around my neck. “You’re ready for sleep, now,” I said softly.

I couldn’t turn away. A combination of fear and fascination kept me there. The sensation that something was holding me up mutated into the conviction that someone was standing behind me.
I bent my head over Sophy, pressing a kiss into her temple, then I fixed my gaze on the moon, conscious that I was afraid to look at the water. I felt an intake of breath at my ear. I knew what it was, who it was. The warm breath whispered; it was his voice. “Sallie.”

“Don’t go,” I said, while the tears coursed down my face. “Stay with me.” But even as I spoke, I knew he was gone.

Somehow I got back to the cabin and laid Sophy in the bed; she was already asleep. Though I felt feverish, I was shivering and weak. I wrapped myself in my cloak on the settee and sat there, in a state between terror and ecstasy, until the translucent moonlight was driven out by the more substantial light of dawn.

This was no dream.

I know that, now, in the cold light of day. He was with me. He called Sophy in her sleep because he couldn’t reach me; I wouldn’t listen. He wanted me to stand with him in that otherworldly calm, that bliss that must be what calls sailors to the sea, the marvelous hush of the waves beneath the confounding silence of the stars, which he once told me was heaven. He wanted to remind me, as if I needed reminding, of our happiness, of our indissoluble bond. He only had to say my name to let me know; to let me go. It was so like him.

There, I hear the bells. Mr. Richardson will be going on deck, Mr. Head rattling his pots and pans in the galley. The Germans are rousing themselves from their slumbers, but for the one on deck, who will go down to rest. Sophy is awake; I hear her talking to herself.

I never believed that such things as I now know are possible were possible. I thought it a species of madness to believe so, but though my heart is broken, I know I’m not mad. I didn’t imagine my husband’s voice.

And I’m certainly not mad enough ever to speak of this night to a living soul. But how I will hold to it, my love. How it will sustain me, whatever comes.

There is such a strong odor of alcohol in this cabin. It must be coming from the hatch. Mr. Gilling has come down into the
companionway to talk to Mr. Richardson. They are arguing about something, Mr. Gilling’s voice is raised. One of the men is shouting on deck. Evidently something is amiss. Here comes my Sophy, dragging her doll, drowsy and sweet. When she passes Mr. Head’s owl, she points at it and says, “Whoo-whoo.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many friends and colleagues came to my aid as I navigated the course of this novel, and it is with pleasure that I take this opportunity to thank them.

Professor Christopher Pyle, Allen Meese, and Captain Walter Rybka all answered my questions about seagoing matters with a good will. Professor Pyle was particularly helpful and generous with clear and detailed comments. Whatever errors in sailing lore and terminology persist in this text are attributable to me; all accuracy is thanks to these three seagoing advisers.

My research assistant, Diana Gurske, spent a long, hot summer locating nineteenth-century records and newspapers, scrolling through mountains of microfiche and providing me with annotated printouts. Her help was invaluable, as was her good humor and comradeship throughout the process.

I am indebted to Mt. Holyoke College and to the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation for making it possible to take leave from teaching to finish this novel.

Thanks to the Phillips Library in Salem and especially to Pete Smith of the Marion Historical Society, who provided me with a copy of Oliver
Cobb’s memoir,
Rose Cottage
, a window into the daily lives of the Briggs family.

Joyce and Bob Abel, former Lake Pleasant residents, brought to my attention the summer camp meetings of the Spiritualists there and gave me a copy of
Spirit and Spa
, Louise Shattuck’s memoir of that world, for which assistance I remain truly grateful.

Thanks to Anthony Gerzina and Gretchen Gerzina, who provided on-the-ground reconnaissance in London during my search for the giant rat of Sumatra.

My fellow writers and friends, Ann Jones, Sabina Murray, Mary Morris, and Dara Wier, deserve thanks for their interest and willingness to talk about the mystery ship. Christopher Benfey, who looks under many of the same rocks I regularly lift, is a constant source of information, inspiration, and encouragement.

At the Friedrich agency, Molly Shulman gave this novel an early and thoughtful reading, and Lucy Carson, in a long phone conversation from the sickbed, patiently talked me to the right conclusion. Molly Friedrich, my agent, tireless in the pursuit of my interests, has been ever ready with sage advice, support, and wonderful humor. I am heartily indebted to this team.

Thanks also to Ronit Feldman and Dan Meyer at Random House, who read an early draft and offered thoughtful and helpful suggestions.

It is my privilege once again to express my deepest gratitude to my publisher and friend, Nan A. Talese.

A Note About the Author

Valerie Martin is the author of nine novels, including
The Confessions of Edward Day
,
Trespass
,
Mary Reilly
, and the 2003 Orange Prize-winning
Property
, as well as of three collections of short fiction and a biography of St. Francis of Assisi titled
Salvation
.

Other titles by Valerie Martin available in eBook format

The Confessions of Edward Day
• 978-0-307-80941-4

The Great Divorce
• 978-0-307-83384-6

Italian Fever
• 978-0-307-83385-3

Mary Reilly
• 978-0-307-83387-7

Property
• 978-0-307-42734-2

Salvation
• 978-0-307-42758-8

Trespass
• 978-0-385-52418-6

The Unfinished Novel and Other Stories
• 978-0-307-42953-7

Visit:
www.valeriemartinonline.com

For more information, please visit
www.nanatalese.com

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