America’s Mysteries: Last Voyage of the Mary Celeste

Image of The Mary Celeste, a doomed ship at sea. Photo: Cumberland County Museum. and Archives, Amherst, Nova Scotia Canada.

It was one disaster after another. One voyage was little different from the last. The black cloud hung low and draped across her mast like a funeral shroud.

The Mary Celeste was doomed from the first time that wind ever ruffled her sails. Death followed everywhere she sailed.

The ship was hammered together in 1861 at the village of Spencer’s Island in Nova Scotia. She was christened the Amazon, and on her maiden voyage, the captain of the brigantine merchant ship, Robert McLellan, found himself caught in the unrelenting grip of pneumonia, and he died at sea.

He was the first.

He would not be the last.

For the Amazon, it was one disaster after another. One voyage was little different from the last. The black cloud hung low and draped across her mast like a funeral shroud. She struck a fishing boat during one seafaring excursion. A fire broke out during another.

And on her first trans-Atlantic crossing, she collided with a vessel in the English Channel, and the captain was dismissed with shame hanging like an albatross around his neck. In 1867, rocked and blinded by a heavy storm, the ship ran aground off Glace Bay in Nova Scotia. She was salvaged and sold for $1,750.

New owners gave her a new name.

New owners called her the Mary Celeste.

Maybe her fortune would change as well.

That was the hope anyway.

Caleb Pirtle

The Mary Celeste sailed from Staten Island in New York, bound for Genoa, Italy, with 1,701 barrels of commercial alcohol aboard. The cargo was valued at $35,000 and destined to fortify fine Italian wines.

She carried a crew of seven, along with Captain Benjamin Briggs, his wife, and his two-year-old daughter, Sophia. All was well. The seas were calm. The skies were bright. It made a man feel good to be a captain with a gentle wind in his face. There were a few storms, of course. There always were. But it was clear sailing, and no one expressed any worry or concern at all.

On December 4, 1872, at 13:00, not quite a month after leaving New York, the Mary Celeste was observed in the distance by a helmsman on the Dei Gratia. He caught glimpse of the ship through his spyglass, and she was probably five miles away off the port bow.

There was something dreadfully wrong. The Mary Celeste was adrift, yawing slightly, and wandering aimlessly at sea, somewhat off course, and heading slowly toward the Strait of Gibraltar. No one stood at the helm. There was no flag of distress flying overhead.

The captain of the Dei Gratia sent a man on board.

He found a ship of silence.

The vessel was still seaworthy, he reported. However, the forehatch and the lazaretto were both open even though the main hatch was sealed. The cargo of alcohol was intact, but nine of the barrels were empty. A six-month supply of food and fresh water were still in place.

The clock wouldn’t function properly. The compass had been destroyed, and the sextant was nowhere to be found. The crew’s personal possessions were untouched. All of the ship’s papers were missing with one exception. The captain’s logbook remained, and it was devoid of any fears, frights, or dismay.

No one was on board.

The crew, the captain, his baby daughter were all gone.

They had vanished without a trace.

The peak halyard, used to hoist the mainsail, had disappeared, and a lifeboat was missing. The frayed end of a rope trailed in the sea behind the ship, and there were even rumors that plates around the table still held hot food.

There was no sign of a struggle.

No sign of violence.

But someone had obviously left in a terrible hurry.

One investigator thought he found a trace of blood. Another said it was only rust.

And that was all that remained on the Mary Celeste.

Silence.

There was an inquiry to be sure. Some blamed piracy. Some claimed the alcohol had exploded, ignited a fire, and the captain hastily abandoned a burning ship, but no one could find any burnt embers or charred fragments anywhere onboard.

A few stepped forward to explain that a seaquake had rocked the ocean, and the shock waves persuaded the captain to abandon ship. It was even theorized that the crew had mutinied, thrown the captain and his family into the deep blue sea, and was hiding out until someone offered a reward if they would come forward and explain the mystery.

No reward was offered.

No one ever caught even a faint glimpse of the missing crew.

What happened?

Did the crew simply leave the ship and step into the hereafter?

Please click HERE to find Confessions from the Road, my collection of stories about real places, real people, real mysteries.

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