by Lisa Berne
It was quiet and dark inside. The dogs came to meet her in the entry hall and softly she greeted them, then went back upstairs where she got into bed again. But not to fall asleep once more. No, she was wide awake. She lit her candles and took up her manuscript. Scattered throughout Will’s notebook were a dozen or so sketches of various types of anchors, which she thought would make a very interesting section all to itself.
On her little table was her inkpot and quill. She dipped her quill into the ink and began to write, and in her deep concentration the shadowy hours before sunrise passed quickly away. When she looked up again, it was a new day.
Katherine blew out her candles and gave a last satisfied glance at what she had written, then got up and went to the windows. She looked out at the vast white-capped ocean. Somewhere out there was Hugo. She wasn’t afraid for him precisely. He was so capable, so clever. It was just that—
It was just that she wished she had said to him what she wanted to say.
The three days until he came home seemed, all at once, to stretch ahead into eternity.
But then she gave herself a little shake, sent a last lingering glance upon the sea, and went downstairs to help with breakfast.
The Arcadia sailed smoothly west, out into the open waters of the Solway Firth. The winds had picked up, of course, and the ship rolled more noticeably, but the sky overhead was a bright blue, practically cloudless, benignant.
Oblivious to the sea-spray being dashed against him, Will stood next to Hugo on the quarterdeck, feet braced wide apart and his fluid stance easily accommodating the ship’s rolls and lurches. “Couldn’t have asked for better weather,” he said to Hugo. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get a glimpse of the Isle of Man before we turn about.”
Hugo nodded, smiling. Everything about the day seemed lucky to him. Everything about his life seemed lucky.
It was late in the afternoon of that same day, and Katherine was coming downstairs with a bowl that had been in Céleste’s room, but paused on her way to the kitchen when somebody banged hard on the front door’s old iron knocker. As she put the bowl onto the entry hall’s console table, the dogs came tearing in, barking ferociously.
“Quiet,” she said to them, and was gratified to see how quickly they obeyed her. Smiling, she opened the door. There on the porch stood Christopher Beck, holding the arm of his sister Diana in a firm and possibly painful grip. Diana, for her part, was so white that her freckles stood out in sharp relief and she looked extremely scared.
Katherine felt her smile fading and she said, “Are you all right? Has something happened to your father? Please come in.” She opened the door to them, and Christopher shoved Diana in ahead of himself. He said, his brusque, rough way of speaking more in evidence than usual:
“Father’s fine. He’s in Blackpool on business, else he’d be here too. Diana has something to tell you.”
“Oh, Christopher, must I?” faltered Diana. “I swore on my life I wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”
He scowled with such savagery that Diana flinched away from him. “You’ve already told me, you silly little fool,” he said harshly. “I knew something was wrong just by looking at you. And now you’re to tell Mrs. Penhallow if I have to thrash it out of you.”
Diana swallowed, and fearfully raised her eyes to Katherine, who waited, trying to control her own ripple of fear. Christopher gave Diana a push, and finally Diana said, in a small and trembling voice:
“Oh, ma’am, it was only for a lark—”
On the second morning of their voyage, Hugo was woken up by a hand on his shoulder. It was young Dombley, one of the sailors who had taken the night-watch, his face seeming pale, blanched, in the light of earliest dawn coming in through the small porthole of Hugo’s little cabin.
“Sir,” he said, his voice urgent and rather frightened, and Hugo sat bolt upright.
“What is it, Dombley, what’s amiss?”
“Bent and me, we—we didn’t know what to do, sir, and Bent said—Bent said to go and get you.”
“What is it?”
But Dombley only shook his head, as if robbed of his full powers of speech. “Come see, sir,” he said, still stammering. “Hurry, sir.”
Rapidly Hugo dressed, his mind racing. Had the Arcadia struck something, or was there a leak after all? He’d have sworn on his life there wasn’t. He took the companionway steps four at a time and emerged onto a deck damp with sea-spray and into a soft blue cloudless morning. The green and gray-white waves all around them were higher today, with deeper troughs, and the ship rocked more strongly from side to side.
“Well, Dombley?” he said, scanning the decks for any irregularity. But there was only Bent, who stood clutching the halyard, looking just as scared as Dombley.
“Look up, sir,” Bent said, and Hugo did.
And there was Gwendolyn, high above him in the rigging, nearly up to the topmast. She was dressed like a sailor in wide canvas trousers and rough linen shirt, her hair in a golden braid that flapped wildly in the wind.
For a single beat of his heart, Hugo felt a rush of admiration for his adventurous little sister, recalling Mama’s remark about the hold, its many compartments, and being a stowaway. Just as quickly, after that, came such a deluge of fury at Gwendolyn’s recklessness that everything seemed to be blotted out in a crimson haze. But then, as he stared up at her, he saw that she was terrified. And she had to be freezing. If she’d been up there for any length of time her hands would be stiff with the cold. How long could she maintain her grip, with her soft small hands, on those painfully rough ropes?
Just then the Arcadia slipped into a deep trough and tilted hard to leeward.
Gwendolyn screamed his name.
Hugo leaped up onto the ratlines, shouting over his shoulder, “One of you get Will, the other keep your eyes on my sister,” and began to haul himself upward. “Hold on, Gwennie,” he shouted up as he reached the futtock shroud—he was halfway there now—and then the Arcadia tilted herself upright and just as promptly lurched into another trough and swung even more sharply leeward—
And Hugo watched as Gwendolyn fell—
Fell, like a little wounded bird, and plummeted into the ocean.
In some lightning-quick, analytical part of his mind he knew that it was only by the grace of God that she’d let go of the ropes as the ship rolled, for if she’d fallen onto the mercilessly hard wood of the deck she’d have snapped her neck and died.
But now she was in the cold, roiling, gray-white waters below, and there was no certainty at all that she would survive that.
He remembered her saying, once, in a sulky voice, It’s dreadfully unfair that girls aren’t supposed to swim in the ocean.
It took the merest pulse of time for these thoughts to flash through Hugo’s brain and then without hesitation he leaped after Gwendolyn into the sea.
The shock of being submerged in the frigid waters paralyzed him for a moment, but with three, four, five strong kicks of his legs, with forceful sweeps of his arms, he brought himself up to the surface, gasped for air, looked around for Gwennie. There. Fifteen feet away, there she was, flailing her arms, on her face such a look of abject terror that Hugo had to school himself not to think about that, but only about reaching her.
He swam, hating how the ocean seemed to fight him.
Christ in heaven, but the water was cold.
Faster, go faster. Hurry—
Vaguely to his ears came shouts from high above him, from the ship.
He got to Gwendolyn just as her head was sinking under the surface. He grabbed her shirt and shoved her up so she could take in a sobbing, choking breath, then wrapped an arm around her, kicking hard to keep them both above the water. She clutched at him, shrieking as a cold wave crashed over their heads.
“Don’t let go, oh, Hugo, don’t let go,” she pleaded in a jerky little voice, gasping, her lips blue and her bright hair plastered, sodden, about her face.
“I won’t.” He kicked hard with his
legs, used his free arm, too, to keep them afloat, pushing against the roiling water, and looked up to the ship, searching with his eyes for the rope that would save them.
Another shout. He saw Dombley, then—thanks be to God—Will Studdart, still in his nightshirt, and then Bent and some of the others. It was Will, he hoped—he trusted—who was knotting the rope, quickly but carefully, with the strong unerring skill born of years of experience—
Another wave hit them. They both swallowed water and Gwendolyn gave a keening cry of despair. He could feel her grip on him loosening and he tightened his arm around her slim frame, trying to ignore how his own limbs were weakening in the churning, icy-cold sea, how his teeth had begun to chatter, too.
“Hugo,” he heard Will shout, and then he saw the rope that Will flung out to him. Its knotted end splashed into the water only a few feet away, but it seemed like miles to Hugo as ploddingly he brought himself and Gwendolyn to it. Damn, damn, he was weak, he could barely feel his arms or legs now, but with every particle of his being—his strength, his will, his absolute determination—he fixed his mind on the rope.
He kicked again.
And again.
And got to the rope, which danced in the rough water almost as if it were alive.
With his free hand Hugo grabbed it, just above one of the knots. Felt with his feet for the knots at the bottom. God damn it, where were they? Yet another wave sent Gwendolyn and himself bobbing helplessly. No—not helplessly, for he didn’t let go of the rope. Would never let go of the rope, no matter what.
At last his feet connected with the knots below him. They gave him a little, much-needed purchase. He looked up at Will, shouted, “Now,” and with a gratitude more intense than he’d ever felt in his life he registered the upward movement of the rope.
“Hang on, Gwennie,” he said in her ear, “just a little longer,” and saw with relief that she managed to weakly nod.
The men above hauled them up.
Hugo concentrated. The rope. His hand on the rope. His arm around Gwendolyn. Never mind the cold, the numbness everywhere. His hand on the rope, that was all that mattered, his arm around Gwennie. The rope.
Bit by bit, they were drawn upwards at a speed that felt to Hugo like tortuous slowness. He fixed his mind. The important thing was that they were going up. The rope, the rope, the rope—
They must have been nine or ten feet short of the ship’s railing when the Arcadia slid into a trough and rolled. Hugo and Gwendolyn swung wide, in a dreadful mockery of that giddy sensation children feel when playing on a swing, and as they flew back toward the hull Hugo had just enough presence of mind left to jerk his body in a way that brought him, and not Gwendolyn, against the inflexible hull.
He slammed hard. His body felt as if it exploded with pain, most acutely in his head and the whole left side of him. Everything started to go black. But grimly he hung onto the rope, hung onto Gwendolyn—only five feet now, only four feet now—
Then: hands grabbing at them, hauling them over the railing and onto the deck. Voices. Will Studdart: “Thank God.”
Pain exploding everywhere within him.
He managed to say, “Gwennie?” in a voice so weak and ragged he hardly recognized it as his own.
“Alive, Hugo, alive,” said Will, and Hugo, satisfied that he had kept his promise, let himself sink into darkness.
Katherine was afraid to tell Mrs. Penhallow where Gwendolyn was, but of course it had to be done. But first she went to Bertram in his attic. He listened without comment, said, “I’ll go get Mama’s smelling-salts, just in case,” and together they made their way to the sunny little parlor where Mrs. Penhallow, exhausted from her long hours at the parsonage, had sat down for a moment and ended up falling asleep.
They woke her, and when she heard the news her face went so white that Bertram held out to her the little vinaigrette, but gently she waved it aside. “Thank you, darling Bertram, but I don’t need it,” she said. “Oh, my poor, brave, foolish little Gwendolyn. Will Hugo be very angry when he finds her, do you think, Katherine?”
“Oh, Mama, I don’t know,” said Katherine, then blushed furiously. “I’m sorry—I have no right to call you that, ma’am.”
Mrs. Penhallow reached out her hand, and drew Katherine down next to her on the little sofa. She gripped Katherine’s fingers tightly in her own. “But you do, you do, my dear,” she said. “You’re my own dear daughter, too.” Her big blue eyes were shining with tears. “And now, what’s to be done?”
“There’s nothing,” said Katherine. “Nothing to do but wait. Bertram, could you bring Mrs.—Mama a cup of tea, please?”
“Of course,” said Bertram, and went away to the kitchen. But it was Cook who came following after him when he returned, carrying a tray with three cups and a plate heaped with little iced cakes. She put the tray down on a table and stood looking gloomily at Mrs. Penhallow.
“Mr. Bertram’s told me, madam. What was Miss Gwendolyn thinking? Oh, madam, do you remember poor Tom, the custom officer’s son, who—”
“Cook,” said Katherine, with the tiniest shake of her head, “would you give Mrs. Penhallow her tea, please?”
For a moment Cook looked startled, then comprehension came into her big round face and she picked up one of the cups.
“Here, madam, it’s nice and hot,” she said. “Fresh-made. I’ve put a cake on the saucer, too. With my good butter icing on it, there was fresh vanilla at the grocer. Here, Mrs. Katherine, here’s your cup, and yours, Mr. Bertram. Madam, do drink your tea, it’ll do you good.”
Obediently Mrs. Penhallow brought her cup to her lips, and sipped at it, but Katherine could see that her mind was elsewhere, stretching out toward the distant, dangerous ocean. Toward those two of her children, much loved, and so far away.
“Three days, Mama,” Katherine said. “Hugo said they’ll be back in three days. Which is tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” echoed Mrs. Penhallow, but her voice lacked conviction.
“Hugo will keep his promise,” Katherine said firmly. “He always keeps his promises.”
The day dragged on, and night came, and in the morning no one looked as if they had slept very well, if at all. Cook, whose health was markedly improved, prepared a breakfast more suitable for a crowd of twenty, but it was tacitly understood that it was a product of her own nervous energy and nobody remarked upon it.
Katherine drank her coffee and ate a muffin, then said to Mrs. Penhallow and Bertram:
“I’m going to the harbor.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Bertram.
“I’d like to go, too, but I’m needed at the parsonage.” Mrs. Penhallow looked between the two of them. “You’ll send word if—when the Arcadia arrives?”
“Of course,” Katherine said. “We’ll be in the Blue Dolphin, if that’s all right, Mama? It’s a tavern, but we’ll be able to keep warm and dry.”
Mrs. Penhallow smiled faintly. “Under ordinary circumstances I might be a little concerned, but . . .”
Half an hour later Katherine and Bertram were seated at table by a window which commanded a good view of the harbor. They had both brought their books, and Katherine her manuscript and Bertram an essay he was drafting on copper-extraction techniques. The hours ticked by. They went for a walk up and down the quays. They ate a nuncheon. They read their books; they wrote; they walked some more, occasionally glancing up at a lowering sky which had filled with heavy gray clouds. The afternoon light began to dim. They had dinner. Christopher Beck came, and sat with them. Once or twice a couple of men, a little drunk, approached them, but Christopher stood up and faced them with such ferocity that they backed away. Other than that, nobody said much. Twilight gave way to evening, and massing clouds obscured the stars. Silently they paced together along the quays.
Finally Bertram said, “Do you think they’ll come tonight?”
“Hugo said three days.” Katherine stared out into the Arcadia’s empty slip, and hugged herself against the chill
.
“Things happen,” said Christopher in his rough way.
“Hugo promised,” Katherine said, simply, and then they fell silent again, waiting, watching, walking, waiting.
It was a quarter to nine when they first caught sight of the Arcadia.
“There she is,” said Bertram, and Katherine couldn’t help it, she took hold of his hand and gripped it hard.
“Does it bother you, Katherine?”
“Does what bother me?”
“That you’re holding the hand that had some of the bits amputated.”
“No,” she said honestly, then added with concern, “Am I hurting you?”
“No. It’s rather comforting, holding hands.”
“I think so too.” For a moment Katherine wondered if she should reach out for Christopher’s hand also, but as if sensing her thought he twitched his whole self, like a restless horse, and took half a step away from her, and so she refrained, though she fancied that his profile showed him to be both sullen and deeply sad.
The three of them watched and waited, as slowly the Arcadia sailed into the harbor.
At exactly eleven-fifteen she inched her way into her slip. Hugo, bless him, had kept his promise. Katherine stared up at the deck, her eyes straining in the darkness. There was Will Studdart, she could hear his voice; there were some of the crew. Where was Hugo, where was Gwendolyn?
“Will!” she shouted.
She could, just barely, see him turn and look at her, then say something to his men. The anchor was lowered, and some crewmen jumped onto the quay and began to help secure the ship with their ropes. The gangplank came out. A deep, dark dread filled Katherine.
“Oh, Bertram,” she whispered, and convulsively gripped his hand yet harder.
Then she saw it. Saw them. Crewmen carrying two rough canvas stretchers, on them two blanket-swathed forms. The words were torn from her: “Oh God, oh God—”
