{"product_id":"the-ghost-of-the-mary-celeste-isbn-9780307739544","title":"The Ghost of the Mary Celeste","description":"\u003cb\u003eBased on actual events about an American merchant vessel discovered off the coast of Spain in 1872, this novel—from the prize-winning author of \u003ci\u003eProperty\u003c\/i\u003e—is a spellbinding exploration of love, nature, and the fictions that pass as truth. • “A sly and masterly historical novel, written with intelligence and flair.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1872: the American merchant vessel \u003ci\u003eMary Celeste \u003c\/i\u003eis discovered adrift off the coast of Spain. Her cargo is intact and there is no sign of struggle, but her crew has disappeared, never to be found. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs news of the derelict ghost ship spreads, the \u003ci\u003eMary Celeste\u003c\/i\u003e captures imaginations around the world—from a Philadelphia spiritualist medium named Violet Petra to an unknown young writer named Arthur Conan Doyle. In a haunted, death-obsessed age, the \u003ci\u003eMary Celeste\u003c\/i\u003e is by turns a provocative mystery, an inspiration to creativity, and the tragic story of a family doomed by the sea.“A sly and masterly historical novel, written with intelligence and flair.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A wonderfully ingenious novel, compelling, convincing, and exciting.” —John Banville \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Powerful. . . . Superb. . . . [Martin] slips into the nineteenth century with the ease of a time traveler.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Fact and fiction meld so neatly that it seems as if every character is drawn from real life. . . .  The novel—unlike the Mary Celeste—sails home with flying colors.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A masterpiece of fine detail and intense reimagining. . . . Martin evokes a world suspended between faith and reason, in which ‘the other side’ is quite real—and always beckoning.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Based on reality, this artful tale of ghost ships, mystery writers and seances is dripping with atmosphere.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Starkly beautiful. . . . Emotionally rewarding. . . . Circl[es] that idea of a loss that can’t be explained or even understood, a grief that swallows the self as surely as the sea swallows whole ships.” —\u003ci\u003eThe A.V. Club\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Brilliantly done—fluently written, vividly imagined, really moving and genuinely, chillingly spooky.” —\u003ci\u003eDaily Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Superb. . . . A tour de force. . . . A beautiful, affecting literary tapestry. . . . An exquisite and intricately layered ghost story.” —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Truly fascinating. . . . The seemingly disparate plotlines are skillfully woven together to create a novel that is well crafted, intriguing, and suspenseful, perhaps as a homage to Sir Conan Doyle himself. Martin’s seafaring story contains history, suspense, and heartbreak in equal measures as it slowly builds to an enigmatic conclusion. Highly recommended for all readers who appreciate quality historical fiction.” —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Melancholic and moving.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A complex, imaginative version of historical fiction. . . . Martin has wound the disparate threads of her novel into a haunting personal drama.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “First-rate. . . . Haunting.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003eVALERIE MARTIN is the author of nine previous novels, including \u003ci\u003eTrespass\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eItalian Fever\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Great Divorce\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMary Reilly\u003c\/i\u003e, and the 2003 Orange Prize-winning \u003ci\u003eProperty\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as three collections of short fiction and a biography of St. Francis of Assisi titled \u003ci\u003eSalvation\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003ci\u003eExcerpted from the Hardcover Edition\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Disaster at Sea\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Brig Early Dawn Off the Coast of Cape Fear, 1859\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  captain and his wife were asleep in each other's arms. She, new to the  watery world, slept lightly; her husband, seasoned and driven to  exhaustion the last two days and nights by the perils of a gale that  shipped sea after sea over the bow of his heavily loaded vessel, had  plunged into a slumber as profound as the now tranquil ocean beneath  him. As his wife turned in her sleep, wrapping her arm loosely about his  waist and resting her cheek against the warm flesh of his shoulder, in  some half-conscious chamber of her dreaming brain she heard the ship's  clock strike six bells. The cook would be stirring, the night watch  rubbing their eyes and turning their noses toward the forecastle,  testing the air for the first scent of their morning coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor  four days the captain's wife had hardly seen the sky, not since the  chilly morning when their ship, the Early Dawn, set sail from Nantasket  Roads. Wrapped in her woolen cloak, she had stood on the deck peering up  at the men clambering in the rigging, confident as boys at play, though  a few among them were not young. The towboat turned the prow into the  wind and the mate called out, \"Stand by for a starboard tack.\" A sailor  released the towline, and as the tug pulled away, the ship creaked,  heeling over lightly, and the captain's wife steadied herself by bending  her knees. Then, with a thrill she had not anticipated, she watched as  one by one the enormous sails unfurled, high up, fore and aft. A shout  went up among the men, so cheerful it made her smile, and for a moment  she almost felt a part of the uproarious bustle. We are under way, she  thought--that was what they called setting out. A line from a poem she  loved crossed her thoughts, \"And I the while, the sole, unbusy thing.\"  Her smile faded. She had left her little son, Natie, with her mother and  now she felt, like a blow, his absence. How had she been persuaded to  leave him behind?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the year since their son's birth, the  captain's wife had not passed two consecutive months in her husband's  company and she was sick of missing him, of writing letters that might  never find him, of following his progress on a map. Her mother had urged  her to go. Her father, another captain, retired now, home for the  duration, avowed that he would have his grandson riding the pony by the  time she returned. Her mother offered reassuring stories of her own  first trip as the captain's wife, long years ago, and of the wonders she  had seen on the voyage to Callao and the Chincha Islands. \"There's  nothing like the open deck on a warm, calm night at sea,\" she said. \"The  vastness of the heavens, the sense of being truly in God's hand.\" And  her father chimed in with the time-honored chestnut, \"There are no  atheists at sea.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe captain's wife lowered her hood and turned  to gaze at her husband, who stood nearby, his legs apart, his face  lifted, his eyes roving the stretched canvas, which talked to him about  the wind. He was a young man, but he had been at sea since he was  scarcely more than a boy and had about him an older man's gravity. His  dark eyes, accustomed to taking in much at a glance, were piercing. He  was lean, strong, and steady. His frown could stop a conversation; his  laughter lifted the spirits of all who heard him. After his first visit  to the rambling house they called Rose Cottage, her father had  announced, \"Joseph Gibbs is as solid a seaman as I know. He keeps his  wits about him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now he kept his wife about him. She studied  the sailors, absorbed in their labors, each one different from the  others, one skittish, one bullying, another diffident, a shirker, a  bawler, a rapscallion, and a fool, yet each at his task harkened to the  voice of the Master. Doubtless her mother was right--they were all of  them in God's hands, but should the Almighty turn away for a moment,  every soul on this ship would shift his faith to the person of Captain  Joseph Gibbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm going below,\" she said to him, and his eyes  lowered and settled upon her. He smiled, nodded, turned to speak to the  mate who was striding briskly toward them. Clutching the ladder rails,  she backed down into the companionway, where she paused a moment,  patting down her hair, before entering the cabin. There was, of course,  no one there. For an hour she busied herself with sewing, for another in  reading a volume of poems. The ship moved around her, above, beneath,  rising and settling, picking up speed. A sensation of nausea, no more  than a twinge at first, gradually announced its claim on her attention.  She stood up, dropping the book on the couch, anxiously looking about  the neat little room. She spied a pot hanging from a hook near the  table. As she staggered to it, her stomach turned menacingly, and no  sooner had she taken up the vessel than she emptied her breakfast into  it. \"Oh Lord,\" she said, pulling out her handkerchief to wipe the  perspiration from her brow. She carried the pot through to the cabin and  poured the noxious contents into the bucket, then closed the lid and  sat down upon it. The sailors, when so afflicted, had the option of  vomiting over the side, but it wouldn't do for the captain's wife, who  wasn't allowed anywhere near the main deck on her own. She pressed the  handkerchief to her lips. Another eruption threatened. Best not stray  far from this place, she counseled herself. She wondered how long it  would last. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt lasted three days, but during that time her  stomach was the least of her problems. When at last the captain  descended to find his wife flat on her back in the bunk, fully clothed,  with a wet cloth draped across her forehead, it was to tell her that he  didn't like the look of the western sky. For another hour she slept  fitfully and woke to hear the officers talking in the wardroom. Her  husband came in to ask if she wouldn't have a cup of tea, which she  declined. The ship was pitching bow to stern and he held on to the  bedframe as he bent over to press his cool hand against her cheek. \"My  poor darling,\" he said. \"You're pea-green. What a way to begin your  maiden voyage.\" At the word \"maiden,\" she smiled; it was a joke between  them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't worry about me,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a shout  from the deck, a clatter of boots in the companionway. The captain made  for the door. \"Here it comes,\" he announced as he went out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt  was a squall out of the northwest, which shifted to the southwest and  blew a hard gale for eighteen hours. A jib and a topgallant were carried  away, as well as a rooster, last seen wings outspread riding backward  on a blast of spray. Gradually the wind abated, though the sea was still  high, kneading the ship like bread dough between the waves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  captain's wife didn't witness the storm. When it seemed the bunk was  determined to dump her on the carpet, she turned on her side, gripping  the frame. All she could hear was the wind howling, the timbers  creaking, and the men shouting. At last it grew calmer; she lifted her  head and glanced about the cabin. Her small collection of books had been  scattered widely, as if an impatient reader, pacing the carpet in  search of some vital information, had thrown down volume after volume.  There was a knock at the door and to her query \"Who is it?\" the nasal  voice of the steward Ah-Sam replied, \"Mrs. Gibbs. I have tea for you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  scrambled from the bed, relieved to find, as she sat on the chest next  to her empty bookshelf, that her stomach, though decidedly tender, was  calm. \"Come in,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCautiously, his head bowed and his  legs wide apart to keep himself steady, Ah-Sam came in holding a mug  between his hands. \"This beef tea,\" he said. \"Good for stomach.\" She  reached out, taking the cup, but before she had time to speak, the man  had backed out the door. \"Thank you,\" she said, as the latch clicked  behind him. The broth was dark, clear, fragrant, revitalizing. She  sipped it, swaying lightly as the ship swayed, and planned her next  appearance above deck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut by the time she had washed and changed  her clothes, the wind had turned to the east, the heavens crackled with  lightning, the rain came on in torrents, and darkness closed over the  ship like an ebony lid. The captain, his face gray with exhaustion and  care, descended to invite his wife to the wardroom, where he and his  first officer sat down to a hurried meal. Ah-Sam rushed in with the  coffeepot and a slab of hard cheese wrapped in a cloth, and then  disappeared in his self-effacing fashion. The captain's wife poured out  the coffee, declining the mate's offering of tinned meat and soft tack.  \"Ah-Sam brought me some lovely broth,\" she told her husband. \"Did you  tell him to do that?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I just told him you were green,\" he said. \"He knows everything there is to know about seasickness.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well, he must, for he has cured me,\" she agreed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen  the men were gone, the captain's wife sat at the table for some time,  listening to the fury of the storm and comparing the sensation of being  in a ship to that of lying in her bed at home on a tempestuous night. No  wonder the sailors were sometimes so contemptuous of landsmen. As the  night wore on, she persuaded herself that it was only a matter of time  before the storm must abate and she might as well go to bed, as it was  impossible to hold a needle, or a pencil, or even a book. She undressed  and crawled back into the bunk. After what seemed a long time, but was  barely an hour, she slipped into a dreamless sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen she  awoke, the room was dark and to her surprise her husband lay by her  side, one arm draped across her waist, sleeping soundly. She moved close  to him and kissed his cheek. His hand strayed to her thigh, grasped the  flesh just above her knee, and pulled her leg over his hip. He  whispered her name, nuzzling his mouth against her breasts. The noise of  the ship was hushed; the violent pitching and rolling had resolved to a  soporific churning that made her think of a child, her child, rocking  in his cradle. He was too big for that now. She wandered into sleep  again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer husband turned over and she did too, so that she faced  his back. Now, distantly she heard the clock strike six bells. She  opened her eyes to find the room bathed in a shimmering aqueous light.  The storm had passed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was wide awake, brimming with vitality,  but she didn't move, unwilling to disturb her husband, who had slept so  little and had only an hour before he must take up his duties again.  She pressed her lips against his back; her drifting thoughts settled on  breakfast. Brown bread, plum jam--she'd brought seven jars on board  herself--and butter. Oat porridge, hot coffee with heavy cream. I'm  starving, she thought, amused by that. How good to be safe, warm,  hungry, alive. Her husband groaned in his sleep and a shudder ran down  his spine. \"Are you awake?\" he asked softly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I am,\" she said. \"You've got another hour. Go back to sleep.\" She eased her leg from his hip as he turned heavily to face her. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No,\" he said. \"I'll get up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey  were washed and dressed when the steward arrived with the coffeepot,  the porridge, and the bread. The captain went on deck to look at his  ship, his crew, the sky, and the sea. When he returned she had the table  laid with bread, the leftover cheese, her homemade jam and butter, the  pot of coffee, the cream, and the squat ewer of porridge wrapped in a  towel. \"Is all well?\" she asked as she poured his coffee, resting her  fingers on his neck before turning to her own cup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"For the present,\" he said. \"It's squally to the southeast and we're headed for it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Can't we stop?\" she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  smiled at his wife's naïveté, then, sensing that she spoke in jest,  turned and swatted her skirt with the back of his hand. \"No, miss. We  can't stop. It's not a horse you're riding.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I want to get out of this cabin,\" she said. \"I'm dying for fresh air.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  captain went up first, while his wife put on her cloak and laced her  boots. She passed through the wardroom to the hatch, humming to herself,  curious to see how the ship would look now, how the sea would look, as  they skimmed across it. As she stepped onto the deck, a blast of frigid  air blocked her so forcefully she stumbled back, clinging to the ladder  rail. Her husband strode toward the mainmast, in conversation with the  mate, who gesticulated at something going on in the bow. A wet, white  mist, mingling in the sails, obscured her view. She pulled her hood in  close, took a few steps from the hatch, and there it was, the sight she  had long imagined--at once she lamented the paucity of her  imagination--the sea. Slate-blue peaks studded with white foamy caps,  line after line, each wave preceded by another and every one followed by  another, as wide as the world was wide, and above it the sky, which was  white, flat, and cold, the sun a brighter patch hovering in the  distance. There was no visible horizon. She turned to face the bow and  there she saw a different sky, the one that worried her husband, a  rolling gray above and black below with a band of sickish yellow in  between. She couldn't tell how far off it was, but sky and sea appeared  all one, moving rapidly, like a wall of lead, toward the ship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  breathed in the chilly, salt-laden air, gazing up at the sailors who  were occupied in shortening sail. When she looked back at the deck, her  eyes were drawn to a man crouched behind the main hatch, his hands  resting on his thighs, his face turned up to her, his eyes narrowed, as  if trying to draw a bead on a target. His beard and hair were all black  and wild, as were his eyes. In a sudden grimace, he bared a line of  fierce white teeth. The captain's wife stepped back, unnerved, conscious  of her accelerating heart rate and a cautionary weakness in her knees.  She looked aft, where the helmsman gripped the wheel, his attention  fixed on the binnacle. The mist obscured his face. The sea was scarcely  visible but made its disposition known; as the hull shifted, the  starboard side dropped down and a mass of water rose up, clubbing the  side. A tremor of anxiety scuttled up her neck and she felt her upper  teeth pressing into her lower lip. There was a new sound, a chugging,  pulsing sound, rhythmical and increasing in volume, but she couldn't  tell which direction it came from. Was it belowdecks, or in the dark  water below that?A Novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300566651109,"sku":"NP9780307739544","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307739544.jpg?v=1767739501","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-ghost-of-the-mary-celeste-isbn-9780307739544","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}