Eventually, the two nations agreed to share the costs, such as they were, of documenting Somers. This was no mean feat for Mexico, as it had far less money than the United States. The Armada de Mexico provided a patrol boat, Margarita Maza de Juarez, its crew, their SEAL team (the Commandos Subacuaticos) and a team of underwater archeologists from the National Institute of Anthropology and History, headed by Dr. Pilar Luna Erreguereña. I led the U.S. team, loaned by the National Park Service’s Submerged Cultural Resources Unit, with archeologists and wreck mappers Jerry Livingston and Larry Nordby, and photographer John Brooks. George Belcher and his brother Joel, the discoverers of the wreck, came as our guests but paying their own way. In July 1990, we gathered in Veracruz. It had been three years since I had last dived Somers, and, like George, I was both excited and uneasy about what we would find.

The thoughts of Billy Budd as he waits in the ship’s brig for his execution come to mind as I perch on the edge of the patrol boat, preparing to drop “fathoms down, fathoms down” to where “oozy weeds” do twist, not around a dead boy, but amidst the bones of Somers, the ship that inspired Herman Melville’s haunting tale:

I turn to George Belcher and nod. Together, we roll off backward, splashing into the warm blue water. Other splashes follow us, and soon a cluster of divers is hanging on the anchor line. A final check of the gear, then we let the air out of our buoyancy vests and drop into the murky depths. Sixty feet down, I’m in a cloudy haze of grayish-green water, my dive partner a blurry form. Ninety feet, and the blur clears as I switch on my dive light. The bottom is approaching, so I give the buoyancy vest a quick hit of air. My descent slows and stops, and I’m hovering over a large iron anchor, nearly no feet below the surface. In front of me, the curving form of a ship’s bow rises up out of the silt, sweeping sharply back like the edge of a knife blade.

Sleeping in her grave, the clipper brig Somers, perhaps the most notorious ship in the history of the United States Navy, lies before me at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. Canted on her side, the wooden hull largely consumed by marine organisms, Somers is now truly a ghost ship, her form outlined by the copper sheathing that once protected her hull from the voracious appetite of marine creatures. Impervious to the attack of the teredo worms that eat wooden ships’ hulls, the copper has leached its metallic salts into a thin layer of wood so that this fragile remnant of Somers still holds her form perfectly more than 140 years after she went down. A slow and steady decay, this, and as a result, everything lies on the seabed exactly as it once did on the decks and in the holds: iron cannon, anchor chain, the ship’s stove and other gear, even the iron fittings and blocks from the masts. Everything inside Somers, after she sank, lay trapped in the hull as it deteriorated and collapsed over the decades, and presumably much of it should still be here, buried in layers of rotten wood, sand, silt and thick masses of corroded iron. Indications of what was once inside the ship, and of lives interrupted and lost, include a small white plate, an oval serving platter from the officers’ wardroom and a small black glass bottle.

I drift past the iron davits for the port quarter boat. Lying flat on the sand, they are a reminder of the only boat to get away from the sinking Somers. It ferried several men to the safety of the nearby island of Isla Verde. Many others never made it, trapped below by the rushing water or drowned in the open sea as their heavy boots and uniforms pulled them under. I also recall, as I float for a moment over this spot, that this is where young Philip Spencer lay manacled to the deck on that long-ago night of November 26, 1842, in the first of a chain of events that cost three lives and ruined others. Spencer, Cromwell and Small were all chained at the stern, Small next to the aftermost 32-pounder carronade on the port side. That gun lies here now, and I swim up to take a look at it.

As I continue my tour of the wreck, I see that three of the four carronades on the starboard side lie buried muzzle down in the sand, showing that Somers sank sideways, never righting as she dropped into the depths, and landed on the starboard side. I stop and carefully run a small iron probe up inside the barrel of one of the guns. The probe stops 24 inches into the 4-foot bore of the carronade. I turn to another gun and try it. It, too, is blocked. I smile and turn to Pilar Luna, who is shining a light on the gun to help me guide the probe. These guns are loaded, as we expected. After all, Somers was ready for action, in the middle of a chase, when the squall hit.

A long metal tube, topped by what looks like an open trough, is the brig’s pump, once used to remove water from the hold, but useless on that fateful morning. Lying on the bottom, it is now being mapped by Larry Nordby and Jerry Livingston. Their tape measure indicates it is just over u feet long — a perfect match for the depth of the hold. A metal flange, almost halfway up the iron tube, would not be noticed by most people, but Larry instantly recognizes that it means the area below decks was divided into a berth deck, where the men lived, and a lower hold. This flange marks the location of that divide, a feature not recorded in the few surviving plans of the brig. It is also an indicator of just how small and crowded this vessel was, particularly on that winter voyage in 1842, with 120 men and boys packed on these decks and in these berths. Confronted by the small size of Somers, we gain a new perspective on how just a handful of men, suspected of plotting a mutiny, could inspire the near-panic that led to three hasty hangings.

We find more reminders of the crew as we swim forward. Lying on its side is the huge cast-iron galley stove of the brig, its flue still attached. The hinged opening of the stove has fallen away, and when I flash my light into the stove, I can see that the drip pan and range grates are still in place. My light startles a small fish, which darts out of the stove, and I chuckle at the thought of its making a home where once it would have been cooked. A scatter of bottles and a ceramic jug are all that remain of the ship’s provisions, including a bottle with a lead foil cap from “Wells Miller & Provost, 217 Front St., New York.” That New York merchant was the nation’s leading manufacturer of preserved foods and condiments in its day, and finding the bottle is the sort of human connection across time that makes history special. This bottle probably held a popular condiment, a special touch to make a sailor’s meal just a little tastier. I like making discoveries like this.

As we turn to leave, I look down, and my heart stops. There are bones scattered in the wreckage, yellow and mottled. Thirty-two men died on Somers, and the wreck is a war grave. Have we found the remains of some of the crew? We’ve been told to respectfully collect any human remains and return them home for analysis and reburial, so I take a closer look. There are three vertebra and a short, small bone that could be from a radius or ulna. But I can tell that they’re not human. These are from a large hog or a small cow, part of the rations of salted meat packed in barrels and carried as provisions. Somers’s log shows she had nine barrels of what sailors liked to complain was “salt horse” when she sank. This is what’s left of some of it.