Dragonwyck (49 page)

Nicholas stood beside Miranda on the deck. His dark blue suit, the same he had worn the night before, was wrinkled and one sleeve was torn. Across his hands were deep red gouges from the bonds tied by Jeff. The sun shone full on him and for the first time she saw gray in the blackness of the hair at his temples; his eyes were sunken and his mouth slack. Why, he's old, she thought with amazement.

'Miranda—' he said dully, without surprise, for he had withdrawn into a place which did not admit surprise. '—I had to—to get away—away from Dragonwyck.' His voice was slurred and uneven, not from the effects of opium, but from a far more deadly cause—the final realization of defeat. The hours he had spent helplessly bound, vanquished in his own house—by a man he hated, a man who was on his way now to the Governor bearing with him exposure and unbelievable humiliation—this had completed Azilde's work. It was only because a gardener working outside on the lawn had finally heard his master's despairing shouts that Nicholas had been released.

'Have you your gun with you?' said Miranda. 'Are you going to shoot me now?' she added with icy scorn.

He turned his head slowly from her. His eyes fixed themselves on the deck. 'I wouldn't have shot
you—'

She pulled her cloak tight around her, and moved away.

'You're still my wife, Miranda,' he said in that strangely muffled voice. 'When we get to New York, we can take a boat, go to Europe, together we can find—'

'Nicholas,' she said in cold, slow tones, 'I'm not afraid of you any more, and after we get to New York I shall never see you again. And what I feel for you now is loathing and—pity. Yes, pity,' she repeated inexorably.

His hand went out in a quickly checked motion, as of appeal. He turned violently and stared out across the water toward Dragonwyck, whose faint outline was still visible against the blue sky to the north.

Miranda looked, not at Dragonwyck, but at Nicholas' slumped silhouette against the mahogany rail. This was the man I loved, whose child I bore, she thought, and then a compelling exhaustion deadened all emotion.

Numbness overpowered her. Her limbs seemed boneless. She sank to a deck chair and shut her eyes.

After a while, Nicholas sat down near her. She felt his presence and drew away, moving her chair a little so that her back was toward him.

Around them on the boat excitement grew. People ran to and fro along the decks, shouting and waving at the other ship—the Utica, which was now but an eighth of a mile behind. From time to time a passenger stayed curiously ar those two who sat isolated in silence amongst the clamor.

Everyone by now knew who they were, and for a while they proved as interesting as the race. The ladies were disappointed in Miranda's clothes, which were remarkably plain and dull, and everyone agreed that they were not nearly as handsome a couple as report would have them; moreover, their lack of friendliness, their indifference to their fellow travelers, were condemned generally as evidences of a revolting snobbishness.

But as the Mary Clinton turned toward the Hudson landing, the Van Ryns were forgotten, for the Utica, instead of waiting for the pier, perpetrated a despicable trick. She skipped her scheduled stop entirely and glided triumphantly past in the far western channel.

The indignation of the Utica ticket-holders on the pier was as nothing to Captain Hall's fury. Even before the gangplank was raised, he gave orders to cast off and his boat leaped back into the river behind the Utica.

'May I fry in hell if I don't pay 'em back for that—' he muttered, and the consciousness of Nicholas' presence on board increased his anger. In deliberately cancelling her Hudson landing, the Utica had used the foulest of subterfuges, one never before attempted in these races.

And now the contest between the two boats passed the bounds of sport. Young Captain Hall hung over the wheel, his eyes never leaving the Utica's speeding stern except when he bent his head to shout through the speaking tube to the engine room.

Behind the pilot house the walking beam dipped madly like a frenzied seesaw. Green water roared through the paddle wheels. Downstream the Utica's gray stern grew more distinct.

'She's getting hot, man!' cried the pilot. 'I can smell it. You can't keep this up.'

'Won't have to for long,' retorted Hall. 'The Mary'll catch up all right. I know a trick or two.'

He hesitated; then his jaw set. He reached for the speaking tube.

Down in the stokehole the engineer received his orders. 'Skipper's in a lather, boys,' he said grimly to the sweating firemen. 'We've got to get more steam.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'Throw on the tar!'

The boiler room filled with a pungent smell. The engineer himself executed the other command and clamped down the safety valve.

Gradually the Mary Clinton responded and the excitement of racing seized many of the passengers who crowded the bow and cheered. But some of the ladies and the more level-headed gentlemen became alarmed. The decks vibrated so that the settees and stools set up a violent jiggling, and the whole ship pounded with a rhythmic banging.

A Mrs. Edwards from Vermont, who with her three-year-old Tommy was making a first trip to New York, grew increasingly upset. 'Oh,
why
are they trying to race that other boat!' she cried hysterically, clutching little Tommy tight. 'It's wicked—wicked!'

There were murmurs of assent around her, and a man named Davis went off rather sheepishly. He came back to report that he had talked to the clerk, who laughed and assured him that there was absolutely no danger. The other passengers accepted this and soothed Mrs. Edwards. She surged to the rail with the others as Captain Hall's revenge became clear, for the Mary Clinton caught up with her rival and then inched painfully past until the white bow extended some feet beyond the gray.

High on the bridge the Captain looked down at the startled faces which lined the decks on both boats. His clenched hands gripped the wheel with all his strength. The Mary Clinton swerved to starboard and plunged across the other's bow, stoving in a portion of the Utica's woodwork.

The impact of the collision threw Miranda from her chair. Nicholas was beside her on the instant helping her up. She shrank away from his touch. 'I'm all right,' she said coldly, 'but I don't understand what happened.'

'We've bested the Utica!' cried Nicholas, and she saw with astonishment that the apathy had left him. We'll shove her aground,' he added exultantly, 'unless she stops her engines and blows off steam.'

This conclusion had already been reached by the Utica. Captain Hall's triumph was complete. He grinned down at his crippled antagonist and snapped out new orders. His passengers were herded to the port side, the locked bows were thus freed, and with a hooting blast the victorious boat headed back into the center of the river.

Nicholas walked to the stern rail and gazed back at the Utica which was cumbersomely maneuvering into midstream.

Miranda seated herself again. Will this horrible trip never be over, she thought dully, shutting her eyes.

Captain Hall spoke once more to the engine room. With a relieved sigh, the engineer released the safety valve, but there were no orders to reduce steam. Not only did Hall mean to beat the Utica in, but he meant to beat her by hours if he could. So the quivering and pounding continued, and the smell of leaking steam grew stronger. On the hurricane deck cinders and sparks fell thick as tiny hailstones, and suffocating heat made the saloons nearly unbearable.

At one o'clock a delegation of five men approached Nicholas. Mr. Davis was again the spokesman. 'Mr. Van Ryn, we've just learned you're part owner of this boat, and we request you to tell the Captain to head off. He won't listen to reason.'

'If you're afraid, gentlemen,' answered Nicholas, smiling, 'you are at liberty to leave the boat at Poughkeepsie.' He made them a courteous bow of dismissal.

The gentlemen retreated, discomfited. Nicholas' manner had made them feel ridiculous.

A few passengers did disembark at the next stop, but Mrs. Edwards remained on board, and it was the sight of Miranda sitting so calmly in her chair on the after deck which had temporarily quieted her fears.

As they were passing Pollopel's Island in the lee of the Storm King, the Utica suddenly reappeared far upstream. Nicholas made a low exclamation and gripped the taffrail. From the bridge Captain Hall also saw the faint outline of the pursuing vessel. The Mary Clinton pounded and shook in yet faster tempo. The boat flung herself into the Tappan Zee.

Mrs. Edwards, leaning over to button her little boy's shoe, found the vibration so intense that she could not hold his foot still, and when her hand touched the deck, heat seared her fingers. She got up, dragging Tommy who began to whimper and ran to Miranda's secluded corner.

'Oh, ma'am—' she cried, 'are you sure there's no danger? They do say your husband laughed at the idea there might be, so I stayed on the boat. But I'm mighty nervous. It's so hot everywhere.'

Miranda raised her head. She looked at the woman's frightened face and then at the little boy. He had close dark curls and a sturdy body.

Mine would have been like that now, she thought.

'Answer me, ma'am!' cried Mrs. Edwards, her terror mounting at the dazed expression on Miranda's face. 'Is there danger?' She tugged at Miranda's cloak and the child imitating his mother put out his hand.

Miranda stared down at the little hand on her knee. 'I don't know,' she said.

'Look!' screamed Mrs. Edwards, pointing. A dense coil of smoke writhed through the door to the companionway, and a bright red glow flared suddenly from a near-by grating.

On the bridge Captain Hall stood petrified, looking down through the window at a scarlet tongue which licked up from the forward hatch.

'My God! She's on fire, you fool!' shouted the pilot, and he grabbed the wheel from Hall's flaccid fingers. The Mary Clinton veered sluggishly to port, then dashed full speed ahead for the Riverdale bank. The brisk south wind caught her amidships and the whole center section of the boat burst into flames.

The passengers were quiet during those moments when the blazing holocaust hurtled toward the shore. Then the crash came with a violence that flung over the smokestack. Some fortunate ones on the bow managed to pick themselves up after a stupefied instant and struggle to land. But the majority were aft as were Miranda and Nicholas. The stern lay over deep water. Between them and safety rose the advancing wall of fire.

Nicholas in those minutes on the burning boat was the only person untouched by panic. His calm voice rose above the screams. 'Throw the chairs and stools into the water!'

The men followed his example, hurling overboard everything movable which was not yet on fire. They hunted wildly for life preservers or small lifeboats. There were none.

'You must jump and take your chances!' shouted Nicholas. They all looked to him instinctively, and they obeyed his orders. As the last of the terrified passengers dropped to the water, he turned to Miranda, who stood numb with horror.

'Come, my love!' he cried, and his voice held the note of exultation, almost of gaiety.

'I can't,' she whispered.

Against the background of fire and smoke she saw only the violent blue of his eyes.

He tore off her cloak, which fell to the smouldering deck, and he picked her up in his arms running with her to the rail. In that second he spoke to her again, but it was to be many days before his words came back inro her consciousness.

The cold green waters of the river closed over her.

Jeff learned of the steamboat disaster the following morning in Albany. He had spent the night in a waterfront hotel, and was dressing for his visit to Governor Fish, when he heard the excited cries of newsboys on the street outside. He paid no attention until he heard the words 'Mary Clinton' and 'Utica,' when he flung on his coat and joined one of the murmuring white-faced groups around a newsboy.

He bought a paper, and from the garbled scareheads which the new electric telegraph had so quickly sent a hundred and forty miles from the scene of the tragedy, the name Van Ryn leaped up at him.

'Hope wanes for noble hero,' said a column heading. Jeff clenched the paper with whitening fingers. His uncomprehending eyes raced down the paragraphs of hysterical conjecture and panegyric. He began again.

'Few details of this stupendous tragedy are yet known, but amongst many deeds of heroism, one name in particular must stand out with glorious luster. We refer to Mr. Nicholas Van Ryn, who—'

'My God!' said Jeff under his breath. He pushed open the door at his elbow. It led to the hotel's taproom, which at this hour of the morning was deserted and quiet. He sat down at a table and spread the paper out before him.

He forced himself to read carefully and slowly, seeking for truth beneath the mass of verbiage under which the journalist had buried the few available facts. There were so far at least forty known dead, including Captain Hall and the pilot. Nicholas Van Ryn had rescued his wife and subsequently a Mrs. Edwards and her child, after which he had been seen entering the water for the third time, obviously with the intention of helping those who were still floundering there. He had not been seen since.

A train had conveyed the rescued and the bodies of such victims as had been identified to New York. That was all

Jeff wiped the sweat from his face. He went to his room, picked up his bag and hat. The New York boats had already left. He crossed the river by ferry and by hiring a horse and riding furiously he caught the train at Castleton on the recently completed shore road.

At eight in the evening his train passed the scene of the disaster. Not a hundred feet from the tracks the Mary Clinton's bow—all that was left of her—still smouldered on the bank. The peace of the river was repeatedly shattered by the booming of cannon fired to bring up the corpses of the drowned. The stench of charred wood and£esh hung like a miasma in the sweet May air.

Jeff's train stopped to pick up three more stiff, blanket-swathed bundles, and he took the opportunity to question the grim workers on the bank. They referred him to a pallid little man who stood gloomily by the smoking bow. It was Nicholas' agent, Bronck, who had remained on the scene of the wreck since the night before, after die first ghastly trainload had reached New York.