Most terrifying of all, he can see the delicate hand of his mother reaching upward from the deep abyss of the sea in one last desperate attempt to be saved… and to save him.
“My dear friends,” Reverend Starkweather is saying, “your bodies must experience your redemption just as surely as your souls, for your bodies will be taken upward to the bosom of Jesus on that great resurrection day. Ask God to wash away your sins and claim your body for his higher purpose.”
And then, in a grand demonstration of his command, the Reverend reaches skyward and begins to shudder, imploring God for a sign of his own redemption. His legs quake and his eyes roll back in his head. He chants an unintelligible string of syllables and tearfully falls to his knees. An elderly man near the tree-stump pulpit stands and yells “Glory!” then goes rigid and falls over stiff as a board. A few mothers begin to roll upon the ground as if writhing in pain. A frightened young girl foams at the mouth and shakes until her sharp bones nearly break through her skin. Others jump up and down hysterically with their eyes closed, babbling in some unknown tongue, or laugh giddily, or vomit into the grass, or sob heartbreakingly because the miracle of their redemption has for some reason been withheld and they fear the torment of being left behind. The cries and chants and shouts commingle and soar upward to buffet the clouds that one day will serve as Jesus’ throne.
A searing pain inside Ollie’s head has become unbearable. He scratches at his face and tears at his hair, trying to rip out the source of his misery. Then his entire frame begins to quake uncontrollably. His joints feel as though they will fly apart. His teeth chatter, bloodying his blasphemous tongue. He falls onto his back, gasping for air and struggling to beg God for redemption.
Terrified, Jonathon leaps onto his friend and tries to dampen the shaking with his own body, but finds himself pulsating wildly.
Between bone-jarring convulsions, strange words flow from Ollie’s lips. Jonathon believes them to be hysterical gibberish, but they are not. The language is Farsi, and to a Persian the words mean, “Dear God, forgive me and protect my mother.” And then Ollie passes out.
In the carriage on the way home, Jonathon is still too weak and frightened to talk about the events in the meadow. He had brought Ollie to this church half-jokingly to demonstrate the absurdity of religion, and now he feels responsible for his companion’s horrifying experience.
Ollie is speechless, too, but at peace.
The pain is gone. And his mother is safe.
He is sure of that.
Chapter 25
If the publishing district is the city’s brain, then the waterfront is clearly New York’s beating heart. There is more activity here, more racket and sweat and transport of wealth than Wall Street and Broadway will see in many years. Penniless immigrants and foreign dignitaries all enter the New World through the splendid tawdriness of the city’s piers.
Jonathon and Ollie walk along the waterfront, eyes searching the gray dusk that has settled over the jittery silver water. Jonathon carries a large satchel and a wooden box—his camera obscura; Ollie carries a tripod. They pick their way past a forest of barrels and crates and steamer trunks that will soon be harvested only to grow again within a few hours.
It is a loud, smelly and dangerous place. The crashing of wooden crates, the clamorous begging of gulls and the angry squawks of herons provide a raucous background chorus for the grating calls of the stevedores who spit their shrill curses in every direction like obscene versions of Hallelujias! and Glories! Scummy water slaps the shore beneath the docks with rhythmic hisses, heaving up its stinking cargo of dead fish and slimy weeds. Rowdies and thieves nervously pace the quays eyeing treasures to be looted, pockets to be picked, or purses to be snatched when fine ladies dance across the slippery boards to their carriages.
Ollie spots a young scamp on the pier, and the boy’s mop of hair and cocksure posture brings back painful memories of little Tim Shaw in the dark alleys of London. The scrawny lad is slyly hawking newspapers on the pier while he surreptitiously inspects a row of trunks, mentally cataloging their probable contents and value. Suddenly the boy finds one he likes, turns coyly to a bearded man on the periphery, and nods.
Within minutes, Ollie guesses, the trunk will be gone, pilfered during some kind of stevedore distraction.
Ollie ignores the unfolding plot; it is not his battle. Instead he stops and surveys the harbor. Coming into view is a three-masted steamship, powered by wind when available and an enormous paddlewheel when the air is stagnant.
Jonathon removes a mariner’s telescope from his coat pocket and focuses on the incoming ship. “It’s the Surrey,” he says, identifying the ship that is transporting Ollie’s mother to New York. Jonathon’s tone, though, is less enthusiastic than Ollie had expected.
“Belching a lot of smoke, isn’t it?” Ollie asks. “Give me a look.”
Jonathon hands the telescope to Ollie, who jerks it over the horizon until he finds the ship. The Surrey is in sorry shape. The front mast is broken and the sails are in tatters, hanging like rags on a clothesline. A mob is gathered on deck, frantically waving as a towering column of smoke rises behind them into the October sky. Ollie turns to Jonathon with a fearful look.
“There were powerful storms in the Atlantic this week,” Jonathon says. “Heard that two fishing boats were lost in a squall. I’m glad to see the Surrey made it—have to admit I was a little concerned.”
“All that smoke,” Ollie says. “Where is it coming from?”
“Could be the boilers are a bit bruised up. Still, she’s making it in all right, though with a limp.”
Ollie puts his eye to the glass again. “They’re waving their arms,” he says, “Too far away to be recognizing loved ones on the shore. They look frightened, Jonathon.”
“They’re in the mouth of the harbor. What could happen here?”
As Ollie continues to study the excitement on the Surrey’s deck, an explosion from behind startles him. He jumps, drops the telescope into the nervous water, and wheels suddenly to see a cloud of thick gray smoke rising from the dock. Stevedores are racing to the source of it.
“My God!” Ollie says to Jonathon. “I thought for a moment the ship was blowing up. Sorry about the telescope.”
“Never mind. Let me set up the camera to get a shot of the Surrey as she comes in. There may be just enough light.”
As Jonathon begins to assemble his apparatus, Ollie turns back to the dock and sees the boy slowly meandering through the stacks of crates.
Of course. A diversion!
Ollie scans the pier and finds the fancy steamer trunk that had attracted the newsboy’s interest. Just then two men, hauling what looks like a large piece of carpet, race up to the trunk and groaningly lift it onto their makeshift skid. Off they go, dragging their treasure behind, the carpet and its freight sliding easily over the slick boards. Ollie smiles at the thieves’ gall, thankful that his mother’s trunk was not among the tantalizing selections on the quay.
As the two men reach the end of the pier and begin to pull the trunk behind a large bush, three leatherheads—waterfront police—swarm around the thieves with drawn pistols and clubs. The exhausted hooligans abandon their prize and try to run, but are easily caught and wrestled to the ground.
Ollie turns his gaze back to the urchin, who watches dispassionately for a moment, then begins to wave his papers in the air, grandly playing the part of a legitimate news hawker. Suddenly one of the leatherheads races down the wharf and with a huge hand seizes the boy’s arm.
“You best come with me, lad,” the leatherhead says.
On an impulse, Ollie strides over to the pair and says, “What seems to be the trouble here?”
“This boy is a known acquaintance of the two we just arrested over there,” the leatherhead says, pointing to the scruffy duo now seated on the wet boards. “Lootin’ the waterfront, they were. A sorry lot.”
“Yes, I did see those two making off with a trunk just now. But I think
you must be mistaken about the boy—I had quite a conversation with him just moments ago, and I’ve been watching him for some time. Can’t say he’s behaved in any suspicious way, certainly not as concerns the trunk in question. If he’s a friend of those thieves, than it’s bad luck for him, indeed, but I’m sure you won’t arrest him for the mere misfortune of his acquaintances.”
“You’ll vouch for him, then?”
“Most certainly.”
“And you are—?”
“Oliver Chadwick of the London Times, at your service sir. And your name, if I may ask? For my story, of course, about your diligent protection of the waterfront.”
“Edward McClanahan,” the leatherhead says proudly, releasing his tight grip on the boy’s shoulder. The boy rubs the spot painfully. “You be watchin’ yer step, lad. Keep yer nose clean if you wanna stay outta the Tombs.”
The leatherhead lumbers away and the boy looks up at Ollie apprehensively. “What’s the price, then?” he asks.
“The price? Oh, you mean for my act of kindness.”
The boy continues to stare at him suspiciously. “No one does nothin’ on the docks ‘less he wants somethin’ in return,” the boy says.
“Ah, yes,” Ollie replies with a smile. “One of your newspapers, please.”
Surprised, the boy hands over one of the papers and Ollie gives him a silver dollar. The boy’s eyes brighten. “Got no change,” he says.
“And I need none,” Ollie says. “But if I were you, I’d find another line of work. The ‘Tombs’ don’t sound like a very nice place.”
“Oh, they don’t put kids like me in the Tombs. He was jus’ tryin’ to scare me’s all. If they get their mitts on me, it’s the orphanage. Been there before.”
Jonathon hollers from the edge of the dock, his camera pointed at the Surrey. “I’m going to make a picture now!”
Ollie smiles benignly and looks down at the newspaper he has just purchased. It is last week’s edition.
And just then a terrible blast rolls across the water. Ollie turns to see the Surrey engulfed in flames, its varnished wood feeding the fire like dry tinder. Great billows of smoke pour out from its ruptured boiler. Bits and pieces of the ship are still flying through the air. A few people leap into the cold water, which itself is ablaze with burning scraps of wood. Ollie can hear the hysterical screams of those still alive. A woman, her dress in flames, jumps overboard and bounces limply off a large floating plank.
There is another terrible blast—then still another—and many more in rapid succession, like a thousand muskets firing across the water. The ship is suddenly surrounded by a colorful halo of sparks and whistling rockets as a store of Chinese fireworks in the hold suddenly detonates. The ghastly shrieks of the dying passengers and crew are drowned out by thunderous explosions. The awful tragedy is eerily beautified by the dazzling spectacle of shooting stars, sparkling crowns of red and green, booming concussions, and delicate sprinkles of sputtering embers. The dancing lights haunt the gray water, making it appear strangely alluring.
A huge crowd has gathered on the docks—stevedores and rowdies and people who had been cheerfully awaiting the arrival of loved ones. They are strangely hushed by the almost holy splendor of the aerial display. They stand there watching, motionless, mouths agape, as if in a trance. The newsboy has dropped his papers and stares.
So awestruck is Jonathon by the thrilling exhibition that he has not yet appreciated the likely fate of Ollie’s mother. Almost instinctively he replaces the dark slide into the frame holder. He has recorded the event.
Then the fireworks are gone. Smoke smears the horizon. After such a furious outburst of sound and color, the sudden silence and gloom are unbearably fearsome. Almost in unison, the crowd gasps as the full import of the catastrophe sweeps over them. Women wail and frightened children sob. Men curse and scream for God’s mercy.
The Surrey tilts, its aft rising in the water until the entire ship slowly submerges head-first like a diver into a pond.
Now the tragedy strikes Ollie, too, and he begins to moan. The newsboy looks at him quizzically.
Jonathon approaches Ollie and says, “I’m sure there will be some survivors. Your mother is probably among them.”
“Is it possible?” Ollie asks.
The newsboy speaks up. “I saw people jumpin’ off the ship.”
“Yes,” Ollie says, “it’s possible I suppose. If they can make it to shore.”
“Come on then,” the urchin shouts. “They’ll wash up over here!”
Just ahead three men push a bumboat into the waves and jump in, trying to row out to assist any survivors. The wind starts to swirl and the waves now carry bits of wreckage onto the shore—boxes and broken boards, smashed crates, dresses and bed linens, burned baskets, a violin case, framed paintings, steamer trunks… and a human leg. Then more flotsam sweeps ashore, and several bodies. First a child of three in a woolen suit, shirt and tie. Then a grandmother in a flowing red dress fanned out on the rippling water like a blood stain. And following her so many others. One by one they are pushed out of the water, given back by the generous sea, but too late. Only one moves, a young man of twenty or so, and he flops like a dying fish before shuddering into stillness.
More cargo and bodies wash ashore with astonishing speed, and a teeming mob of scavengers descends upon every morsel as if it were a juicy steak, rifling through each crate, fighting over every sodden article of clothing, searching the corpses for silver and jewelry. A wretched hag strips a dead woman naked then waves the victim’s undergarments overhead like a flag of victory.
Ollie and Jonathon wade through the frigid water looking for Anne Chadwick. Ollie prays for a miracle, and still expects one.
Splashing behind them is the newsboy, who catches up to Ollie and says, “How’ll I know yer mother?”
“Find the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen—that’ll be her. And she’ll be alive,” Ollie says bravely. His legs are numb from the cold.
The three of them move solemnly along the shore, inspecting every female body that has washed up from the cold water. So many!
The tide is efficient.
“Over here!” the newsboy yells. “She’s alive!”
Ollie and Jonathon sprint to a body the newsboy has discovered. The woman’s face is covered by damp stringy hair, but the woman moves her arm and coughs. Ollie sweeps back the hair and looks hopefully at the pale face.
“Not her,” he says. Then he yells, “Someone—over here! A live one!”
Two fishermen rush to the woman and begin to pull her further up on the shore.
Ollie and Jonathon continue their search. Bodies like beached whales lie everywhere. Later they will learn that over one hundred and twenty people perished in the catastrophe.
It is Jonathon who finds her. Though he has never seen Anne Chadwick’s likeness, he knows it is her. She lies serenely on her back. The foaming water cradles her like fine lace. Her hair, as if slowly blowing in a desert breeze, floats gently about her exquisite face. Jonathon becomes choked with emotion. He stares at this peaceful countenance for a moment and recognizes that Ollie’s mother bears a striking resemblance to another beautiful though younger woman found in the cold water only a few weeks ago—Mary Rogers.
“Ollie,” Jonathon calls, but he has lost his voice and Ollie cannot hear him. He shouts this time: “Ollie, over here!”
Ollie and the newsboy turn to see Jonathon tenderly holding a woman’s body in the lapping water. The incoming waves move the woman’s arms, creating the illusion of life. With a burst of hope and thankfulness to God, Ollie rushes to the woman. Approaching her, his heart swells as he recognizes his mother, but as he kneels beside her in the bone-chilling water he can see tears streaming from Jonathon’s eyes.
At that moment Ollie knows he has both found and lost his mother.
A dagger of pain slices through Ollie’s chest and he sobs.
The newsboy kneels down beside Ollie and says, “She’s so pr
etty. Why does God take the pretty ones and leave so many of the ugly and mean?”
Ollie realizes that he knows the answer to this question. The pain in his chest mercifully vanishes, transformed into rage by the truth of that answer. This entire charade, this travesty played out apparently for the amusement of a chimerical God, Ollie sees as an act of Divine Betrayal. Ollie had prayed for his mother’s protection. He had received forgiveness and redemption. But what good is redemption if it is followed by more punishment? This ghoulish spectacle of death is God’s way of dramatically thumbing His nose at Ollie.
Looking up at the smoke-filled sky, Ollie faces into the wind and shouts, “Damn you!”
Chapter 26
How he had lucked into such a pleasant circumstance he cannot begin to fathom, but six years of living on garbage, sharing cold and filthy quarters with ravenous rats, and suffering the abuse of “employers” such as the scumbags arrested on the pier—these life experiences have taught the newsboy not to question any good fortune. And here he is, sleeping on a plump mattress with fresh linens, embraced by the lusty fragrance of fresh-baked bread. The spectacular tragedy of the harbor, which now seems like a century ago, curiously has become his bounty, as if there has been a sudden warp in life’s system of balance that allows his startling good fortune to have been paid in advance by the misfortune of others. Kind of like Jesus paying for the sins of humankind by dying on the cross.
The newsboy feels untethered from his old fate. Born again!
He remembers the Bible stories that the somber evangelicals in the Five Points Gospel Mission forced him to endure before ladling out their thin soup into chipped bowls. One of these tales, the story of God asking Abraham to sacrifice his son, had seemed silly at the time. But now the newsboy can relate to Abraham’s son, Isaac, for whom he was undoubtedly named, and the tremendous relief that Abraham’s son must have felt when God decided that His thirst for blood could be slaked by a slaughtered ram. Had not everything changed for Isaac in that quirky moment? Why should it not also change for Isaac the urchin?
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