The Ghost of the Mary Celeste by Valerie Martin

for miles down the river. On another occasion, the captain had seen a human skull protruding from a giant anthill, a fate, he learned, reserved by one tribe for its enemies in another. White men couldn’t survive for long in Africa, he opined. Its malignancy infected their souls, no matter how much liquor they took, and they took a lot.
    Doyle, startled by these horrors, spoke of the more wholesome oddities of the Arctic, of a captain who, seeing it was light for twenty-four hours a day, decided to change day for night, and of the massive white bears, stretched out full length on their stomachs, wrapping their great paws around an ice hole, waiting patiently for a seal to come up for a breath of air, and when it did—whack, lunch was served.
    “Clever creatures,” chuckled Wallace, amused by this image.
    At length the two men, in companionable spirits, agreed to take a turn on the quarterdeck, where passengers were strictly forbidden to roam. Wallace swept a sharp eye over his vessel, to the bow, the waist, the strolling passengers on the saloon deck, and at last, to the horizon, which was shrouded in a damp mist. The fresh air of the morning had given way to an oppressive humidity and the doctor would have shed his coat had he not thought it an impropriety to do so. As they contemplated the lazily lapping waves, the dog watch went down and the first watch came on, saluting their fellows as they passed with mild humor. “Wasn’t Mither right?” said one cheerily. “Sell the farm and go to sea.”
    “They’ll sleep tonight,” Wallace observed. “And dry for a change.”
    “Was the fo’c’sle flooded?” asked the doctor.
    “Was it, indeed? Their beds were awash and the cook got up the stove, so it was a veritable steam bath, I’m told, and they could hardly find their way about their slops.”
    “They are stalwart fellows,” Doyle opined.
    Again, Wallace fixed upon his medical officer a stern look. Thenhe turned away and positioned himself at the rail, gazing out over the water as it streamed away behind them. Dr. Doyle, unflustered, joined him there.
    “I say, what’s that?” said the captain, pointing to the air off the starboard bow.
    The doctor followed the line indicated by the captain’s raised arm. “I don’t see anything,” he said.
    “Don’t you?” Wallace replied. “Look again.”
    Obediently, the doctor surveyed the sea. It was dark, and the heavy mist confused him, but he thought he did see something, a triangle of brighter white than the mist. He saw it, then it was gone, then he saw it again. “What is it?” he asked.
    “It’s a ship,” Wallace replied.
    “Is it? Is it coming our way?”
    The captain had his binoculars out and for several moments he stood at the rail peering through the glasses. The doctor could only try to see, unassisted, what his commander saw, but he made nothing out, if he ever had. A feeling of helplessness and lethargy—it was really so much warmer than one might expect an open deck could be—came upon him and he coughed, trying to clear his head. The evening cocktail ritual might prove a mistake.
    “No,” Wallace spoke at last. “No, she’s gone on. She’s on an odd course.” He pulled the glasses down, and grinned at his companion. “She must be the ghost of the
Mary Celeste
.”
    Doyle recognized the name, as who would not? He was a boy at school when he read about it. It must be ten years, he thought, since that ship was hauled into Gibraltar for a salvage hearing that quickly became international front-page news. A ghost ship she’d been, but was she still? The doctor felt the fine hairs at the nape of his neck stir infinitesimally. “The
Mary Celeste
,” he repeated.
    “She was picked up in these waters, and it was this time of year.”
    “And you think the ship itself is a ghost?”
    The captain grinned again, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “No, Doyle, I don’t, man. But you’re such an impressionable lad, I thought