On the morning of November 7, 1872, the 98-foot brig Marie Celeste, under Captain Benjamin S. Briggs, left New York bound for Genoa. On board besides the captain were his wife and child, mate, second mate, steward and cook, and four seamen. She carried a cargo of alcohol. About five weeks later, on December 5, Captain Boyce of the British barque [bark] Dei Gratia spied a brig on the port side. The brig seemed to be yawing strangely, and after watching awhile the captain called his mate; a boat was lowered and the captain and mate rowed out to what turned out to be the Marie Celeste. Receiving no response to their hail they boarded her.

Everything on deck was in apple-pie order; the ship’s sails were set; spars, rigging and deck furniture were in place; the ship’s boat still swung on its davits. Below deck, the silence was complete. They found in the fo’c’sle [forecastle] empty hammocks swaying gently to the motion of the ship; in the galley stood pans full of cooked food, ready to be dished up; on the table in one cabin was laid a substantial meal, half eaten. On a table they found a sewing machine, with a child’s unfinished pinafore under the needle, and a thimble close by. It was just as if the lady of the house had gone out for a little while and would return to finish her sewing at any moment.

Robbery could have played no part in this mystery as nothing had been disturbed. Watches and rings still lay on dressing chests where the owners had left them; no locks had been forced, and the captain’s cabin safe was intact. The chronometer and bills of lading were the only things missing. In the mate’s cabin was the logbook; the last entry, dated November 24 – eleven days earlier – gave no hint of impending tragedy. This staunch and seaworthy ship had not been exposed to stormy weather, her rigging was in perfect order, her seams showed no signs of strain, and her paint was fresh and unspoiled. Why was she abandoned in the middle of the Atlantic? Why did her crew leave suddenly? How did they get away without using the ship’s boat? Seventy-four years have gone by and these questions remain unanswered.

Perhaps no tragedy of the sea ever made a more painful impression or occasioned a greater sensation on both sides of the Atlantic than did the complete and mysterious disappearance of the steamship President, which left New York for Liverpool on March 11, 1841. Together with a crew of 94 under the command of Captain Roberts, a skilled and experienced seaman, she carried twenty-seven passengers, one of whom was Tyrone Power, a well-known London actor. Belonging to the Royal Mail Packet Service, the President was described at the time as "a magnificent steamship." In spite of the fact that a tremendous gale raged in the Atlantic on the 12th and 13th no anxiety seems to have been felt ashore concerning the ship until March 31 when an announcement appeared in the press that the President was considerably overdue.

Rumors flew thick and fast, and hope was aroused over and over again that the ship would turn up, but at length it was all too evident that the President had been lost with all aboard. Then there’s the entirely unexplained enigma of the City of Glasgow. In these days we should consider this 1087-ton ship a pigmy in size and strength, but at the time she was a real leviathan of the seas, thoroughly sound and seaworthy. Commanded by Captain Morrison, an old salt with many years’ experience in the Atlantic sea-lanes, she left Liverpool for Philadelphia on March 1, 1854, with 404 passengers and a crew of 76.

For some days after she left port there was a spell of exceptionally fine weather; it was not until she was several days overdue, and ships that had sailed later arrived at Philadelphia without having sighted her, that uneasiness was felt. Rumors again spread; the ship had been seen here and there; there were icebergs hundreds of feet high; a serious collision had occurred; a submerged derelict had crossed her path, etc. Could any of these stories be true? All agreed on one point, that the ship encountered no storm of a magnitude sufficient to warrant the foundering of a vessel so sturdily built and well equipped. Whatever happened, the City of Glasgow disappeared without trace, meeting her fate soon after leaving Liverpool that first day of March ninety-two years ago, for she was never seen again.

Two years later the Pacific, an up-to-the-minute American-built ship of 2800 tons, complete with every appliance her owners could devise, her captain and officers competent and first-rate seamen, left Liverpool for the homeward trip on January 23, 1856. The Pacific was one of the first mail steamers of the Collins Line, built to compete for the Liverpool-New York passenger trade. On this journey she carried a valuable cargo in addition to mail, and the insurance on her amounted to two million dollars. Her passenger list numbered 47, her crew 141. Those who waved to her from the shore as she pulled out for home were waving a long farewell, for she was neither seen nor heard from again.

The City of Boston, a 2278-ton mail-passenger ship of the first order, was built of iron and propelled by two engines of 300 horsepower. She was also ship-rigged, carrying a big spread of canvas to aid in securing steadiness and speed in sailing. When she left Halifax on January 28, 1870, with Captain J. J. Halcrow in command, she had three mates, a surgeon and other officers, a crew of 84, and 107 passengers. Her cargo was food, and she had provisions for at least fifty-eight days. Yet, although there were no severe storms in the Atlantic after she sailed, and in spite of the fact that her construction was as nearly perfect as possible, the City of Boston vanished from sight and sound.

Why, where, how and when did the Waratah disappear? She was a twin-screw ship of 16,800 tons displacement — a combined passenger-cargo vessel of the Blue Anchor line. Built in 1908, she completed her maiden voyage between London and Australian ports by way of the Cape of Good Hope, leaving London on her second trip on April 27, 1909. After calling at Australian ports she put out of Adelaide on July 7, reached Durban on the 25th, and put to sea again on the 26th with 92 passengers aboard. Next port of call, Capetown.

About six o’clock on the following morning she was sighted by the Clan MacIntyre. Having no wireless installations they signalled each other:

Clan MacIntyre: "What ship?"
Waratah: "Waratah, for London."
Clan Maclntyre: "Clan MacIntyre, for London. What weather did you have from Australia?"
Waratah: "Strong, south-westerly winds, across."
Clan MacIntyre: "Thanks. Goodbye. Pleasant passage."
Waratah: "Thanks. Same to you. Goodbye."

In a few hours the Waratah had left the smaller ship far behind. As her hull slipped beyond the horizon and the last thin trail of her smoke faded away she vanished not only from the sight of the Clan MacIntyre but from the sight of man for all time.

[Fireman’s Fund Archives: 4-1-3-4-59, 0411]