NOVEMBER 1, 1872

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.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 557