The Ghost of the Mary Celeste

THE LOG OF THE MARY CELESTE

Benjamin laughed when he saw the title I had pasted on the cover of this book. “Will you be needing the sextant,” he asked, “or are you set on dead reckoning?”

“No,” I replied. “I leave all that to you. This is the log of the little world belowdecks, where the sun never shines and no reckoning is of use.”

He looked up at the skylight, eight panes of pale gray interrupted by the slash of the boom. “Surely some light will filter into your principality.”

I followed his eyes. “It is to be hoped,” I agreed.

In fact, my principality, as he called it, is spacious compared to some quarters we’ve shared, especially on the Arthur, where we couldn’t both stand together in the space outside the berth and B. had to duck to pass into the wardroom. The previous owner of the Mary Celeste had her refitted from stem to stern. As he planned to take his wife and young son aboard, he expanded the captain’s quarters, which are raised above the deck. We have not only the skylight, but windows on three sides, through which we will have a fine view of sailors’ legs. She’s not a grand ship, but as B. observes, neat, in good trim, and her hull is fresh-clad. The Lord willing we will have a safe and speedy passage, though all agree November is not the best month for an Atlantic crossing.

It was fair when Sophy and I made the trip down on the steamer. She’s a good traveler, though she wants to climb over everything and everyone in sight. As the crew is not yet aboard, we spent this morning in a fine explore of the ship, which delighted her, as she was allowed to run up and down the decks and peer into every closet and cubby in the forecastle. It’s pleasant to stroll on the deck amidst the forest of masts in the harbor, a little town made of ships all coming, going, or, like us, waiting. In the afternoon B. helped me get my sewing machine and the melodeon set up so we will at least have some songs and I won’t die of boredom.

B. is off to the registry office this morning. Sophy’s teeth kept her (and us) awake half the night, but now she is napping peacefully. I had hopes of some shopping and visiting here, as the loading progresses and B. is less occupied with paperwork, but alas there is horse disease in the city and the horse cars aren’t running. One can hire a carriage but the price is prohibitive, so it looks as though Sophy and I shall be thoroughly familiar with our quarters well before we sail.

As the present is without event, I’m thinking of the past, and especially of my dear father, who passed away two months ago today, and also of B.’s father, Captain Nathan, who, having weathered a lifetime of perilous voyages at sea, departed this life in his own parlor, struck by a lightning bolt that came through the window. On past voyages we wrote letters to these progenitors, but now we are without them and the world feels smaller, and duller.

They were both proud, occasionally thunderous men, willing and eager to cast the pearls of their wisdom widely. They were solid friends and enjoyed each other’s company until the war came and they fell out for its duration. Captain Nathan thought all wars were a waste of daylight and energy, as well as human lives, and recommended that the government could save the nation untold grief if they would simply purchase all the slaves and set them free. My father advocated a complex blend of Old Testament justice and New Testament mercy. This “quarrel of the patriarchs,” as Olie called it, was resolved once the slaves were freed and the union reunited. One summer morning Father vowed he would no longer live in enmity with his brother-in-law. He marched over to Rose Cottage and knocked boldly on the door. Captain Nathan, who was standing on the piazza — which he calls the “quarterdeck”—saw him there. He came down, threw the door open, glowered at Father for a moment, and said commandingly, “Walk in, sir.” And that was that.

This afternoon our officers came aboard to settle in and be introduced to one another, and, most important, to the captain’s wife and daughter.

Mr. Albert Richardson, our chief mate, arrived first, followed by a rough-looking boy he’d enlisted to haul his sea chest to his quarters. Fortunately for him he is a man of small stature, as his berth is tight. He sailed with B. on the Sea Foam some years ago and proved a reliable officer, so B. was pleased to get him. I found him pleasant enough, respectful of B., very neat in his dress, even foppish. He was wearing a blue satin waistcoat embroidered with little green fish, which Sophy was mad to touch. Her enthusiasm clearly made Mr. R. anxious, though he tried mightily not to let on, as it wouldn’t do to slap away the sticky fingers of the captain’s daughter on first meeting. Poor Sophy has a head cold and is not at her most winning.

Mr. Richardson is recently married and very keen to mention “Fanny, my dear wife,” every other sentence. His father-in-law, the great Winchester, owns us all, and it’s doubtless through dear Fanny’s influence that her dapper bridegroom has got his post. Later, when I expressed my amusement at Mr. R.’s prudish manner and fancy attire, B. said, “He’ll loosen up, once we sail.”

He has an absurd, pencil-thin mustache, like a theater villain, and his hair pomade, generously applied, smells of lard.

Mr. Edward Head, our steward, came aboard next, followed closely by Mr. Andrew Gilling, our second mate, neither of whom could be accused of personal vanity.

Mr. Head is not taller than Mr. R., but has three times his girth, a rotundity of a man with wispy light hair and sparkling light eyes in a fleshy, florid face. His manner is respectful but not obsequious, frank, and open. He blinks rather more than seems necessary to refresh the eyes. Mr. Gilling is sallow and chinless, with flat, lifeless eyes and a mass of springy, mouse-colored hair that put me in mind of the Spanish moss we saw in the trees in New Orleans, which the citizens there use to stuff mattresses. Once this comparison came to me, I couldn’t look at him without conjuring silly names like Mate Mattress-Head, or Mr. Bedding, or Mate Mossy Top. He might wonder why I smile when I look at him, or perhaps he won’t, as he appears perfectly vacant, without interests or humor. B. has heard of him that he lacks ambition and will never rise above his present rank, which suits him, as he is at ease neither with the common sailors nor with the officers, but the sea has been his life and he wants no other.

Mr. Richardson will share space with us here in the stern. Mr. Gilling has a decent little room in the forecastle and Mr. Head has a berth of his own in the galley, where the stove will keep him warm while we are not.

Tomorrow the crew arrives — four Germans!

This morning B. was in the registry office again, signing the articles of agreement. In the afternoon our crew came on, four young German men, as like each other as painted wooden dolls; fresh complexions, mops of flaxen hair, bright blue eyes, and strong jaws. They stamp people out from molds in Europe, or so it seems to me. They are settling themselves in the forecastle as I write. They understand no English but officers’ orders. So I don’t envy Mr. Head, who will have to feed them and rouse them in shifts from their dreams of German girls and German beer and German songs to hot coffee and the call of duty. Oompah, Oompah, Oompah-pah.

The weather is ugly, rain and a chill wind, so we are stuck below. Sophy’s cold is better and she is eating well. She occupies herself with her doll and her blocks and in looking at the album, naming the absent. She asks for Arthur now and then, always with a note of anticipation in her voice, as if she expects him to come in at the door. The way she says his name sounds like “Otter.”

Otter must be missing her as well — he is fond of his little sister, who is as full of energy and joy as he is lacking in both. My poor, shy, serious boy. He wanted to come with us badly, and his father would have taken him, but he’s doing too poorly in school to miss a few months and, saddest of all reasons, there’s just no place to put him aboard ship. So he will stay with his grandmother at Rose Cottage, where there is perhaps too much room. B. insisted on paying his mother for her grandson’s board. I’ve no doubt she’ll soon have him doing chores, as Mother Briggs is great on chores, and perhaps that will give him an appetite and he’ll put on weight. He wept when we left and promised to write to me at least once a week. His grandmother will see that he does that too.

We haven’t left the harbor and already I am hoping for letters.

Our voyage begins by not beginning. We set out this morning in a freshening breeze, but it turned blustery, with such a strong head wind that B. determined we would only be beat about, so we anchored here, scarcely a mile from the city. Sophy is playing with her toys and talking to herself; she is a cheerful companion, and B. is writing a letter to his mother. I have written to Arthur and to my spendthrift brother William, who is squandering his small inheritance in Philadelphia, though it does sound as if he’s finally found a position at a firm there. We had words after Father died and I attempted to give him some useful advice about handling his finances. He has never much confided in me, but now he is distant, though he did write a sweet note when I sent him a few mementos of our mother, especially a little “eye” box Father left, which Mother had made for him when they were courting. It is a black lacquer box, about the size of a pillbox, containing a perfect painted likeness of our mother’s left eye. I might have given it to Hannah, as she was fascinated by it as a child, but I know Father would have wanted William to have it, and also Mother’s eye might prove too disturbing a subject of contemplation to a nature as fantastical as my sister’s. I am thinking of her much, and never with an easy heart. After Father’s death, she was set on going off to Boston. She had an invitation from one of those awful Spiritualist ladies, who have so much money that they buy themselves young women to use in peddling their vicious religion — which is filling the madhouses, Father believed, and so I told Hannah. I talked her into waiting until we return from this trip, and I begged her to come and live with us then. She agreed to wait, but I fear as soon as we sail she will be in touch with what I suppose must be her preferred companions, both the living and the dead.

When B. and I were on our wedding trip, she ran off — she was barely fifteen. Father, through his contacts, found her within a week — she was staying in a judge’s house, of all things, in upstate New York. Father got on a train, went over there, and brought her home. She had lied to the judge, saying she had no family. Father said, “You may want no family, but you have a family, and one that loves you dearly and prays that you will come to your senses and return our love and trust.” She stayed home then, but not because she’d come to her senses. She just knew our father would find her and bring her back.

This afternoon when I stepped out onto the poop for a breath of rather too fresh air, I thought I must have lost my wits, for I heard a pretty tune drifting toward me from the forecastle. I thought it must be a flute. When I mentioned it to Mr. Head, he said, yes, it was. One of the Germans had packed his flute in his sea chest and was practicing a few airs. It seems the fellow is bookish as well and has a stack of books in his chest. He plans to make a shelf for them at the end of his bunk.

Mr. Head brought us some nice apples baked with honey and a walnut inside. He makes an excellent hash, which Sophy adores.

B. says he believes we will get outside tomorrow.

Another day spent lolling about at anchor, while the wind and rain have evidently agreed to blow us back to the city to find if we have any mail. It makes me groggy not to walk about, but it makes Sophy more energetic, and she has one fixed idea, which is to get out of our cabin and explore the ship. After dinner I thought to let her wear herself out running the length of the companionway and climbing up and down the steps to the hatch, which she can do handily now. As I opened the door, she shot out past me, and as Mr. Richardson was lying in his bunk with the door open, she burst in upon him, crowing at her own cleverness.

I followed, calling after her, but of course she didn’t answer. When I looked in, Mr. R. was sitting up, having laid his book aside, and Sophy was attempting to crawl up on the chair at his desk. He was smiling at her, somewhat bemusedly, and when I apologized for her intrusion, he said, “Not at all. She’s a welcome visitor,” which I thought a nice bit of politesse. I went in and picked her up, rather hoping she wouldn’t make a fuss about being carried away. “Shall we go and play on the steps?” I said. She knows the word “steps” and nodded in the vigorous way she has, reaching her arms out toward the door, so I set her down and out she ran.

“She’s easily distracted,” observed Mr. R., and I said something to the effect that this was true. I, too, was distracted, because I was looking about the cabin, taking in various bits of information. There was a letter addressed to Fanny Richardson on the desk. He’d laid the book with its spine turned away so I couldn’t read the title, he had a hole in one of his socks, but most interestingly, as I turned to follow my wayward child, I noticed a round clock screwed to the wall — the oddity of it was that it had no hands and was hanging upside down.

I looked out the door to find Sophy up the steps and trying to shove the hatch open, so I bolted out, waving gaily to Mr. R., who lifted a few fingers from his knee in reply.

Why would anyone hang a clock upside down, even one with no hands? Was it some sort of joke?

At last we have set sail. The Sandy Hook pilot came on early this morning. I scratched off a quick letter to Mother B. and another to Arthur, just to say we were finally off, and the pilot took them when he left us. I should have written to Hannah, but hadn’t time. Mother B. will tell her we are outside. We have a steady breeze and are plowing along nicely. Only two thousand miles to go! B. is in fine spirits, as he always is at the commencement of a voyage, and I noted at dinner that even Mr. Gilling had a bit of color spanked into his cheeks by the fresh air above deck.

The usual duties of the captain’s wife at the beginning of a trip include a thorough scrubbing of the cabin, but that won’t be necessary as this one is as clean as a whistle. I bless the previous owner, who outfitted our quarters with his own family in mind, sparing no expense. The carpet is thick, the windows are tight, the skylight is large and lets in a nice slab of sunlight — Sophy never wearies of looking up at it. The bed is wide enough for us all, and the settee deep enough for a nap.

B. and I are all in all to each other at sea, crammed in a small space with little privacy. It suits us, for if ever two were one, we are one. We grew up almost as brother and sister; in fact, until I was three Benjamin’s family lived in our house. He held me in his arms when I was a baby. Much that I loved as a child, B. taught me to love, the woods at the back of the cemetery, the walk to the old wharf, the picnics to Ram Island. He was my earliest confidant, and I was conscious that he looked out for me and was always willing to talk with me and calm my babyish fears. When we were older, we were separated. Captain Nathan built Rose Cottage, and B. went to sea when he was twelve. I remember how empty my world was without him, how poorly everyone, save possibly Olie, who loved him as I did, compared to him.

The world intervened, the sea kept us apart, and when we met again, we were shy of each other. He brought me presents from his travels — he brought everyone presents — a silver thimble, the one I still use, a sandalwood tray, a cashmere shawl, a red leather box — for my treasures, he said — a roll of fine French lace to trim my collars. When he was at home, I found excuses to go to Rose Cottage, and many an evening B. strolled over to the parsonage with some message from his mother, which, Father observed, was seldom news to him. Yet, beyond the familial, I wasn’t sure of his affection. He liked to tease me, but never cruelly, and he grew so handsome, so much a man, while I was still a girl, that I was awed by him. When he was twenty, his brother Nathan died at sea and four years later his sister Maria was lost at sea, along with her husband, and then a year after that their little son Natie left this world in his sleep. So B. had that sadness and loss sobering him just as he came of age.

Then, how did it happen? He was at sea. He sent me a drawing; I wrote a foolish poem. When he came home from that trip, my heart was in my throat and his, God bless him, was frankly on his sleeve. How well I remember that first kiss at the garden gate. I raised up on my toes to receive it. I felt his arm about my waist and I shivered. I thought, he loves me; he has always loved me.

Once he told Arthur, “I fell in love with Mother when she was born.”

We were innocents in love, ready to be tested by the world. I had no mother to tell me what to expect on my wedding night, and I certainly had no wish to consult Benjamin’s, though my poor father — his face crimson with embarrassment — recommended I might. I trusted Benjamin to show me the way. And he did, and so amusingly. How vividly I recall that night.

We faced each other in the bridal chamber, next to the bed neatly made by his mother, covered by the quilt Hannah and I spent the summer finishing. The embroidered pillowcases were Hannah’s wedding present. The long-sleeved cotton gown folded at the foot of the bed was of Mother Briggs’s manufacture.

Benjamin fixed me with his penetrating eyes, carefully unfastening his necktie. “Thus saith the Lord,” he said sententiously. “Remove the diadem and take off the crown.” His expression made me giggle. I pulled the pins from my veil and let it slide to the floor.

“God loveth a cheerful giver,” he said, solemnly removing his shirt.

“Does he?” I said, unfastening the buttons of my bodice.

He pulled off his belt and began removing his trousers with one hand, holding the other before him with the index finger pointing up, in just the way Father does on the pulpit. “Let thine eyes look right on, and let thine eyelids look straight before thee.”

This bent me over with laughter. “Have you been scouring the Good Book in preparation for this night?” I asked, setting to work on my skirt buttons. When I looked up he was in his woolens.

“Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.”

I dropped my dress to my ankles and stood up in my chemise and crinoline, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness.” He pulled his woolen shirt briskly over his head.

“So will I stand,” I said, feeling confident, even saucy. I unlaced the ties on the crinoline and stepped out of it, smiling up at him. Then I unfastened the hooks down the front of my corset and pulled it away.

My husband put his hands on my shoulders, gently pushing down the straps of my chemise, leaning over to whisper close to my ear, “Let love be without dissimulation.” And then he lifted me up, laid me upon the quilt, and climbed in beside me. “At last, Sallie,” he said, turning to me. “Wedded bliss.”

How many brides, I wonder now, pass their wedding nights convulsed in laughter.

Sophy and I like to walk around the skylight on the house deck, or run around in her case. I could wish the rail were less appealing to those with climbing instincts. I have to watch her every second. If she could, she’d be up in the rigging with the Germans. The wind is brisk and B. says we’re running along nicely at eight knots. I know nothing about the daily business of sailing, though there are some captain’s wives who make quite a point of fiddling with the sextant, taking positions, or offering their views on the trimming of sails. In Havre we met a lady whose husband encouraged her to plot the course, and at Messina we encountered a portly British dame who insisted on pulling lines. My interests do not that way lie, and B. allows that he finds such carrying on repugnant. I can keep pretty busy with looking after Sophy, supervising the pantry, sewing, and playing songs.

Mr. Head is an excellent young man, and I discovered yesterday, when the main cabin and hatches were all open, that he has a fine voice. He sings as he crosses the deck with our dinner. His song was one of Olie’s favorites, “Beware,” and so it made me think of him and wonder where he is — perhaps just behind that last wave aft of us for all we know. We had planned to meet in New York, but his ship was delayed. We kept a lookout for him when we were stuck near Staten Island, but to no avail. We are to meet in Messina, God willing, and have a fine meal at one of the restaurants in that sunny port. It’s a lovely town. We had Arthur with us when last we put in there, and I recall his hooting with joy at a lady carrying a basket of fish on her head. He thought it was a hat!

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.

What could I possibly need? I said and closed the door. But the look on his face let me know they are afraid of me.

My poor Sophy. I frightened her as well, and she was terrified enough by the storm. The roar of the wind, the ship nearly vertical climbing each wave bow up, and then, the sea pouring over the deck, stern up, descending. We huddled in the bed together and I held her close to my heart singing the lullabies she likes, but her eyes were wild with terror and she sobbed until she fell asleep from exhaustion.

Benjamin said, Mr. Gilling is lashed to the helm.

And he was pulling on his boots to take the watch. He’d hardly slept at all.

And I said. What did I say?

Did I say, Be careful?

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t hear for the noise. We were sliding down a wave; the cabin floor was uphill.

He fell to his knees before he got to the door, then staggered to his feet and went out. He looked like a walking tent in his waterproofs.

I had Sophy tucked in the curve of my legs and I clung to the footboard as the bed rose up, pushing us steadily down, and then went down, driving us back up, like sands in an hourglass being turned over and over forever.

I heard the hatch open and close. No, what I heard was the bellow of the storm grow louder and then less. And I thought, He has gone out. I felt sick to my stomach and my head ached, but there was nothing to do but hold on.

I heard a shout. I couldn’t make it out. Mr. Richardson’s voice, his cabin door flung open, his rapid footsteps and again the hatch opening, the roar of the wind, and then the shout again, this time from him, and I heard it. I understood it. He had shouted — Man Overboard.

What did I do? My first thought was that it must be Mr. Gilling, because it couldn’t be Benjamin. But then I knew it must be. I leaped from the bed and fell headlong on the floor. Sophy plummeted out behind me and let out a wail. I gathered her in my arms and staggered through the cabin into the companionway, up the steps to the hatch. I struggled to open it.

The men were shouting. Where the sky should have been was a white cliff made of water, dark, yet strangely bright. From somewhere Mr. Richardson appeared, blocking me. Sophy was howling; his face was livid. “Go back down,” he shouted, “for God’s sake.”

“Who is it?” I said.

The stern dropped away and a great sea shipped over the bow, so that we both clung to the hatch rail while water surged over the deck and down the hatch around my legs.

“It’s the captain,” he shouted. “Please go back.”

“No!” I screamed. “Where is he? Let me out.” I tried to push past him but as the ship pitched, my feet went out from under me. I lost my grip on the rail and landed on my back in a foot of water with Sophy clinging to my neck. Mr. Richardson leaped down and lifted us up, counseling me as he helped me to my feet. “We’re trying to find him, Mrs. Sarah. You can help us best by staying below. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.” Then he rushed up the steps, closing the hatch behind him, and I found myself standing in water to my knees, clutching my terrified, wailing daughter in my arms.

I carried her back to the cabin. “We have to pray,” I said to her. “We have to pray so hard for Papa.” I remember saying that.

And I did pray. But God wasn’t listening.

I have lived now four days in this cruel world without my beloved. He is gone, without a word of farewell, without a grave, swallowed by the sea. I can’t realize it.

Last night I saw him in a dream, walking ahead of me. I woke, reached out for him. Sophy turned toward me in her sleep and said, “Papa.” And I thought, He’s here.

She keeps looking for him, not fearfully — she doesn’t understand that he’s gone — just expectantly, whenever one of the men passes outside the door or overhead on the deck.

It’s a nightmare from which I can’t awaken.

But wake I must. I must cast a line and hold on to life. I have my darling’s darling, the sweetest child I’ve ever known, and his poor, anxious son, waiting at home, bearing up as best he can, and this unknown, unborn child, whose mother is a widow.

I don’t think I have the strength to bear this test. I can’t say, as Mother Briggs never stops saying, God’s will be done. His will will be done.

Is this His will?

Mr. Head is saving his own soul by his great kindness to me. That first day, when I was simply raving — I have no idea what I said or did — he came and took Sophy away to the galley and looked after her, even put her down for a nap in his own berth. She came toddling back in the evening holding his hand. Now she calls him Ed-ded. That night he slept on the settee in the cabin again, insisting that when Mr. Richardson was on deck, he didn’t think it right that Sophy and I should be alone in the stern. He brought me food I couldn’t touch. He took it away without comment.

The storm went on for twenty-five hours: we ran before it. Running away from my beloved, leaving him behind. Mr. Richardson came to me as he promised, within an hour. Sophy and I were flat on the carpet, as it was the only location that couldn’t toss us down. I was praying; I actually had some mad hope that they would pull Benjamin out of the sea, though I’d seen that high white wedge of water, and I knew the only boat we had was lashed across the hatch, impossible to launch in such a fury, and even if they had tried, it would have been more men lost, for there could be no rowing about in the towering mountains of water bearing down on this little ship. Mr. Richardson looked like he’d been beaten near to death; he was pouring off water, his face was ashen. The floor pitched up and swatted him down onto the floor with us. When he got to his knees I saw tears streaming from his eyes. “Mrs. Sarah,” he said. “We couldn’t save him. He was gone so fast. The wave picked him up off the poop; it took him straight up. He was high above us. Then he was gone.”

I felt a hard fist of pain gathering in my gut. Sophy was screaming, clinging to my waist. “Leave me,” I managed to say. I have no clear memory of what happened next. Presumably he went out and left me howling on the floor.

This afternoon, as I lay on the settee trying to feel anything but dead, there was a knock at the door. Sophy was on the floor trying to teach her doll to talk. She looked up and said, “Papa.” Tears leaked from my eyes. I turned my face toward the cushion and croaked, “Come in.”

It was Mr. Head. He had a brown Betty in a covered pan warm from the oven. I knew what it was because the mouth-watering smell of apples and cinnamon preceded him into the cabin. Sophy got to her feet and rushed to him, saying “Ed-ded, Ed-ded,” joyfully. I turned to face him. He was bending over Sophy, patting her head and saying “Apples, Miss Sophy. I brought you a nice apple pudding.”

“Are you married, Mr. Head?” I asked through my tears.

He looked up, startled, I think, by both my haggard appearance and my evident lucidity.

“Just these six months, ma’am.”

“Ah,” I said. “Just six months.”

“I’ll leave this here,” he said, lowering the dish to the table. Sophy immediately began climbing onto the chair. I pulled myself up and shoved my feet into the pattens on the floor. Mr. Head’s eyes followed me, full of hope and as kind as a mother’s. He will make a dear father to his children, with his gentleness and his cooking. He just wants to see me eat something, I thought, and he won’t rest until I do. I patted my hair down, it felt moist and flat like a mouse’s nest, and wiped my eyes with my fingertips. “It smells delicious,” I said. “Sophy, say thank you to Mr. Head.” She looked from his face to mine and said “Anka.”

So, to please them both, I got to my feet and joined my daughter at the table, where we took up our spoons and ate brown Betty from a pan.

How can I bear it? I’m trying to bear it. I’ve washed my face and changed my dress. I’ve eaten apple pudding. I’ve answered Sophy’s questions about the album and her blocks. I’ve sounded out the letters P and K. K. K. Kitty. But I won’t go out of this cabin. I won’t go and look at the sea, which is calm now, a light wind moving us along at a good clip. Through the skylight I can see a patch of blue sky. It’s warmer than it’s been since we left New York. Sophy slept all night without a blanket. I don’t sleep but in snatches. When I do, I seem to hear Benjamin coming into the cabin, or I feel him standing by the bed, or I wake because I hear him calling my name.

They are busily running the ship around me. I am the cold, dead heart of it, which the sea has killed, and no one but Mr. Head cares whether I come back to life or not. Well, in truth, they are so shorthanded every man must be on double watches and taking orders from Mr. Gilling, who passes them on from Captain Richardson. I hear Mr. R. going in and out of his cabin. He’s taking his meals in the galley with the others, I presume so as not to disturb me here.

It’s still dark as a dungeon, as the crew hasn’t had time to uncover the windows, though once the sun rises, the skylight sheds a block of white light down the center of the room. Mr. Head opened the skylights yesterday so we are aired out. This morning he looked in and offered to take Sophy up for a walk. She is full of energy and I am a worn-out thing who prefers the gloom, so I agreed. Then he tried to get me to come as well. “It’s a bright, clear day, ma’am,” he said. “It would do you good to walk about. Mr. Richardson is on deck and he charged me to encourage you to come up.”

I was helping Sophy with her shoes. It all feels so automatic, this life. “No, thank you,” I said. “I have some letters to write. And I’d best do it while the desk isn’t pitching about and there’s enough light to see the page.”

“Of course,” he said.

Will everyone look at me with this indulgent pity now?

As soon as her laces were tied, Sophy ran to him, her Ed-ded. How easily her affections are transferred, lucky darling. It burdens me that she’ll grow to be a woman with no memory of her father. It’s unbearable, actually. He loved her so.

I did have it in my head to begin a letter to Olie, but all I do is write in this book. I am of two minds about what to do. The obvious choice is to cable Mother Briggs from Gibraltar, book a passage on whatever ship I can find, and head for home. But part of me wants to go on to Messina and meet Olie, as we planned — in our tragic innocence, I see that now — and sail back with him on the Julia A. Hallock. Or Sophy and I could wait at Gibraltar for Olie to pass through on his ship. Finally, I might simply stay on this ship for the duration. This last, I confess, has little appeal to me. Am I to sew and play our melodeon and interest myself in the rivalry between Captain Richardson and Mr. Gilling, which is in abeyance now, but how long will that last, as the days drag by and every one reminds me that five, six, ten, twenty days ago, I woke in the night to find my darling at my side? I hate this ship.

I will ask Mother Briggs — how does one compose a telegram to tell a mother her son is lost at sea? — I will ask her not to tell Arthur. I will write a letter to him — but how to tell him? He is such a serious child; it’s as if he knew there was a dark cloud upon his future. And he adores his father. I remember Benjamin’s expression, just exactly, the delight, the hesitancy, the pride, the sheer wonder, when he first held his red-faced baby son in his arms. He’d seen, he said, many babies, but none like this one.

How bright the sun is on my page.

I’m not going up there to stand on the deck and look out as far as I can see at the lightly dancing, sparkling waves, or feel the warm breeze rustling my hair, or gaze up into the blinding white of the sails, or receive kind condolences from Captain Richardson as he strides the deck of his first command. What madness. What vanity of men, to sail about in fragile wooden boxes tricked out with sails, putting their lives, their fortunes, their families at the mercy of this ravenous, murderous, heartless beast of a sea. No. I’m not going up until I can put my feet on land. The sea is my enemy, and it has defeated me.

Last night I dreamed Benjamin and I were running, holding hands and running in a field. It was a bright day, windy, with an October sun, low and confusing. I stumbled and fell. Benjamin let slip my hand, running ahead, not looking back. I called out, but still he didn’t turn. Why won’t he wait for me? I thought, and then I woke up in the dark. Sophy was breathing softly, her damp little hand resting on my shoulder. I could hear the dull thwack-thwack of the bow, slapping steadily into the waves. I said into the darkness, “Wait for me.”

Later, at breakfast, Mr. Richardson — Captain Richardson — knocked and asked permission to sit with us. “Of course,” I said. “Come in. There’s coffee in the pot.”

“I don’t want to disturb you, Mrs. Sarah,” he said. “But I thought I should speak with you.”

I felt calm in his presence, but the memory of my dream — it was so vivid — had left me disinterested and bereft of feeling. At once he told me something I didn’t know — where in this world we are. We are south of the Azores, he says; St. Mary’s is six miles distant. We are off course, but Captain Richardson will take advantage of the calm seas and relative shelter of the islands to open our hatches. The one over the hold, which has the boat lashed across it, will be opened in the morning. The crew will remove the battens from our windows then too, if I so wish it.

“How is Mr. Lorenzen?” I asked.

He looked pleased at this question. It showed I was capable of normal human discourse. “Much improved,” he said. “Up and about with his arm in a sling. It will be weeks before it’s healed enough to bear any weight, but he’s on the mend.”

If only, I thought, it was my husband on the mend and Mr. Lorenzen in the sea. This thought vexed me, as if I’d spoken it, though it wasn’t exactly shame I felt at having had it. “I’m pleased to hear it,” I said.

He sat, fidgeting a bit with his watch. Sophy was spooning in her porridge. She starts a bowl and works at it steadily until it’s empty, like an old woman.

He said a few more things, I don’t remember what. He would wire Mr. Winchester on arrival in Gibraltar. To tell him my husband is gone, I thought. Of course. To ask for further orders. “Why are sailors so eager for orders?” I asked Benjamin once. “How else will they know what to do?” he replied.

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.

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.”