Wreck of the Gossamer

by Shawn McCarthy

  “Yup. Just like I said.” The survivor looks around the table. Several stone-hard faces look back at him. Maybe four or five more stand behind, waiting for his next word.

  He shakes his head.

  “I hear tell there was a demon on board. That the truth?”

  The sailor closes his eyes. When no one talks, rumors and silly speculation rush in to fill the void. Others murmur. He decides that maybe it is time to tell more. The story is in there. It has to come out sometime.

  “Okay then. Here it is. I was on the afternoon coal shovel, working with the fireman. Noon to four. That’s my time and it’s dusty duty. But it ain’t all that bad if ya’s in shape and you wears a kerchief over your mouth. So just after eight bells I had other cleaning duties, and then I was off duty until the late evening. So I was asleep in my bunk, waiting for chow, when things started to get bad.”

  Others at nearby tables stop to listen, turning around in their seats. News of the Gossamer, like any shipwreck, had made its way to ports up and down the coast. The loss of the Gossamer is particularly troublesome in Charlestown because of the ship’s frequent Boston visits. The regulars at The Rose Point had known some of the sailors on board.

  The man who emerged from the shadows several minutes before is Devlin Richards. He knows no one in this Yankee bar, but he’s managed to say few words and hide his Southern accent. He edges closer to Baines as the story unfolds. He doesn’t particularly care about the story. His eyes aren’t on the sailor, but on Baines. A few others notice the proximity, but say nothing. The Rose Point is the kind of place where you don’t officially notice things.

  “So how was it when the storm started? I mean … really?” Baines presses. His voice seems compassionate, but nervous eyes dart to the other listeners.

  “What? Just before it went down?”

  Nods all around the table.

  “Funny thing. When it happened, all I was worried about was my life. Now that it’s done, all I can think about is what I lost. I mean my own gear, you know? And friends. And some other stuff I wish I’d tried to save. But right then? It was only about me. And living.”

  “What do you mean, other stuff?”

  “Well, you know how it is. There are holds and pockets and places on ships where the ship’s officers fear to tread. Places harbormasters choose to ignore, fearful to climb down into the slime and brine that may lurk there. But for sailors who conquer this fear, places like that offer safe hiding and free passage for their own choice freight. The tiny crawlspaces hold the most secret imports and exports of the docks, unloaded after hours and out of sight.”

  “Like what?” someone asks.

  “Opium,” someone says with a laugh.

  “Bits of stolen gold.”

  “Aye,” the sailor agrees. “Maybe ivory or amber too, or the pelts of exotic animals. As long as something can be wrapped tight and protected from the bilge rats and the slime that settles to the bottom of a ship, things like that are often worth the risk of smuggling. I ain’t never been caught. I don’t know any sailor who has. It’s pretty damn easy.”

  The full-time sailors in the group nod in agreement. There are no manifests for the things sailors bring aboard. Small objects are quietly carried off in pockets and duffel bags. Larger items require a bit more creativity, but somehow they’re removed too. Secret cargo is sold quietly into the shadow commerce that surrounds a port. Every harbor city in the world has places like The Rose Point. Local governments tend to tolerate them because they provide a service. As long as the vice is contained, pubs like this one can be as important to the local economy as any customs house. Police only crack down every few years to keep things from getting too out of control.

  This afternoon the business of alcohol is brisk at the pub, but the business conducted in the shadows is not. The day’s arrivals in Boston and Charlestown brought nothing more extravagant than a half case of absinthe from a Portuguese steamer and some cheap gold-plated stickpins via a French sailor. To everyone’s surprise, an ancient English clipper that had visited The Philippines and then rounded South America carried practically nothing—no opium and nary a stolen vase or a piece of jade in the lot. Most of that had been sold during a stop in Florida.

  When business is slow, The Rose Point actually is at its most jovial. Conversations grow louder and the stories roll on. A man like Baines, orchestrating a conversation, looks only marginally suspicious. Devlin Richards, standing ever closer to Baines, doesn’t look suspicious at all.

  The Gossamer survivor very much looks the part of the story he tells. Terribly pale, his lifeless arm tucked to his side. A scar on his head has mostly healed, save its far reaches where the cut stubbornly refuses to close. He can see that all the men at the table are listening. In other days he’d listened to such stores himself with a certain morbid fascination.

  “Well, it was terrible. What else can I say?” He stares at the candle. Someone orders him a whiskey.

  “Not just the storm, you know, but the way you see everything fall away beneath you. The ship, your mates, all that you’ve worked for, everything. Like your whole world is gone. All of it except for you. That’s the strangest part. It’s been your world, and then suddenly it forgets all about you and leaves you out there on your own.”

  He drinks the whiskey straight down. A shudder and an angry look show on his face.

  “It didn’t take long, really. The ship tipped on its side, then went down just like that. Sometimes they go bow up. Sometimes stern. But a ship that lays over on its side, and then eventually sinks perfectly level like that? Well, it’s usually a good boat. Well-balanced and seaworthy. Nothing to blame really, just the luck of nature if a good ship gets knocked over or broke open.”

  Nods of agreement at the table. “Sometimes you don’t know until a ship hits trouble just how good it is.”

  The survivor’s voice drops to a whisper. The crowd leans forward, pressed tight around the table. Devlin Richards moves quietly with them and is now close enough to look into the breast pocket of Baines’ coat. He sees nothing but a fine silk handkerchief. Below that, a watch chain is visible on the man’s vest. Devlin stares at it, tongue pressed hard against the back of his teeth.

  Standing on the other side of the table is a man who has often been seen around the docks in recent weeks. Like most of the others in the room, he wears work clothes. But his shirt and pants are neatly tailored and clean. Almost new. His fingernails are clean too. Neatly trimmed, just like his hair. He had been listening closely to Baines, but now he starts to study Devlin Richards and the way the man’s eyes are drawn toward Baines’ vest pocket. He says nothing, but shifts just enough so that he can keep a clear view.

  “So tell us about the stuff you would have saved, if you had the chance.” Baines seems to be looking for details about missing cargo, but the survivor isn’t through yet with his tale of the wreck.

  “I woke up when she started heeling,” the sailor says, his good hand outstretched and rocking to show the motion. “Back and forth she went, over a bit more with each wave. I stayed in my bunk for most of it. Unless you’re on duty, or an official storm station, you risk getting in the way. You also end up getting tossed around like a sack of flour, so it’s best to just lay low.”

  He looks Baines in the eyes. “Comes a time when the sound changes though, you know?” His eyes travel on to meet the eyes of the other sailors around the table. “Time when the waves break, and you know they’s all getting far too tall and too dangerous. That was the toughest time for me. Just the waiting and wondering. Couldn’t wait anymore.”

  “How many were there on board?” This time the question comes from the workman with the clean clothes and neat hair. He’s stopped studying Devlin for the moment. Suspicious looks around the table hint that they barely recognize him. Even if they didn’t know him, they know his type. Probably knows a little about dock work and a lot about places like The Rose Point. Such men tend to arrive and depart quickly. Political bagg
age in tow. Labor trouble in their wake.

  The sailor looks up. “There was twenty-seven of us. Well, twenty-eight actually—crew and one extra passenger.”

  The man nods and asks, “One extra?”

  “Aye. Scientist of some type. Had a couple of crates of equipment with him. Doing some kind of test before we headed on to England. We all thought it was a waste of our time—just wanted to get where we was headed with no delays. But he paid for the time and trouble.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Never did find out. He never got to fully unpack them crates.”

  “How many survivors?”

  “Just me and the cook.”

  Baines interrupts, pulling the conversation back on track. His track. “So the ship, she just tipped over?”

  “Slammed over. She was fight’n it pretty good at first. Riding up and down like a damn cork. Like I said, good ship. But we started getting slapped instead of bobbing. Only a matter of time if they crest big and stay big like that. You all know it. You’re just waiting for one that comes in at an odd angle and catches you broadside and tears at ya.”

  “That what happened?”

  The survivor glowers. “Ain’t it just what always happens? Think back to your storm stories, boy. Back to your youth when you sat around listening to men like me telling stories just like mine. Stories always been the same, ain’t they? The crew fights. They keep bow to the waves, but there’s always one waiting out there and it slams ya. If you’re good like a cork, ya tip and then you slowly make right again. But once the water gets in, it slows you like a bloated fish. You come up so slow that you’re not ready for the next ones, and the ones after that. They do their foul deed on ya. Like hell’s suddenly grabbed you by your jewels. That’s what happened to us. Lost some ports. Lost a hatch just like God scraped it off with a razor. Water came in, and we were done.”

  Some nod. Some look at their beers.

  “When things got that bad, I came off my bunk faster than the devil. I put on my raincoat and boots and headed toward the engine room. Nothing I could do, but I had to do something. I had to be out there, fighting it along with them. I climbed up to the mid deck. Never got to the engine room though. I was in the main companionway when we went over. I think that’s why I made it. Hatch came off right above me and suddenly I was tumbling into a waterfall. Coldest damn water I’ve ever felt. Slammed me around once, twice. I’m not really sure. … Found myself floating, and I could see right out the hatch, so’s I just swam on through it, out into the open water. The cook was already on the surface, clinging to some boards. The damn fool had been out on the deck, he said. On his way to the wheelhouse to ask the captain if he should cancel the evening meal. Funny how being stupid is what got him outside, and saved his damn life.”

  He squints at the faces. Baines starts to interrupt, but the sailor holds up a finger.

  “The strangest thing was the way she sank on her side, then stayed there for a bit, maybe thirty feet down. You could see her lurking down there. Creepy as a damn ghost. Thousands of tiny bubbles coming up. Just hovered like she had second thoughts, like maybe she wanted to come back up. The cook and I were clinging to some boxes and looking down. But the waves kept bouncing her, and with each rise and fall, she burped out more bubbles. She was just rocking and waiting to die. Then there was this terrible groan. Like she was crumpling up. That’s all I saw really. We were swept away, puking and swearing and praying that it would be over. Kept looking back, both of us, to see if anyone else came up, dead or alive, but there was no one else. The waves were up and down all night, and we kept looking, and eating foam and hanging onto those planks until the next day.”

  He looks around once more at all the eyes. He sees blank looks and drawn faces. It could have been any one of them.

  “I had no strength left. None. Just locked my hands around some loose boards. I figured I’d be found that way someday. My death grip. But a fishing boat on its way back from the Banks spotted us right after the storm passed. Said they saw lots of wreckage and they just started following it and prowling around to see if there were survivors. They hauled us aboard. We was in the water maybe eighteen hours. I was as goddamn cold as I’ve ever been.”

  He draws a series of circles on the tabletop.

  “Even though we told them there weren’t no others, they sailed in circles, like this, for another day, still looking and hoping. Guess the cook and I was hoping too. But there was no one else—just trash bobbing around on an empty sea.”

  Devlin Richards watches as Robert Baines pushes slightly away from the table. The rich man reaches into his coat and pats his inside pocket. Devlin finishes his own beer and wipes his lips on his sleeve.

  “So I wonder what was in those crates of his,” the man in the clean work clothes muses.

  The sailor studies him. “Where are you from, stranger?”

  “Me? Why, I came up from Mystic just yesterday. My name’s Jeb.” He extends a hand. “Jeb Thomas.” The sailor regards him coolly and doesn’t shake his hand.

  “I don’t much care what was in the crates. Far as I’m concerned, they were cursed. He was cursed too. Kept us out there just a little too long. Trying to mess with nature, that’s what I saw. We would’ve been well east of the storm if we hadn’t lingered.”

  “What do you mean, ‘mess with nature’?”

  “Well, he said he could maybe help ships talk to each other from hundreds of miles apart. It’s like he was practicing some kind of electric voodoo. It ain’t natural, and I say the devil took him for that. Devil took a lot of my friends along with him. So you ask me what was in them crates? Voodoo tools. And now I’m glad them crates are on the bottom. I’m glad I’m not there with ’em, and I’m damn glad he’s gone.”

  Jeb presses on. “Were the crates down below?”

  “No. He stored ’em topside.”

  “So this scientist … was he from around here?”

  “Yeah, said he was local. He talked a good bit to others on the crew. Said he had a place down by the rail yards. Had the back rooms of that big brown warehouse you can see just beyond the tracks. Lived there and had some sort of lab.”

  Jeb nods.

  Baines interrupts, eyeing this man Jeb suspiciously. “Did you see his crates in the wreckage at all? Did they float free?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. The hell with them.”

  “And if you had to guess?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say they broke off and floated away. They was topside after all. They was lashed down, but the way the Gossamer was pitching, and the way the waves were hitting, I’d guess they was washed away before she went down.”

  Baines rises. “I want to thank you, kind sir, for sharing the story with us. It was most enlightening, and, I’m sure, not much fun to remember. God bless you, sir, for what you’ve been through. And God bless those other poor souls too.”

  The sailor nods and shakes Baines’ hand. “God has a special place for sailors,” says the sailor. “I know he does. Fair skies and following seas. That’s what you find in God’s good heaven.” He looks toward the window, holding his limp arm and lost in remembrance.

  “Yes indeed,” Baines replies as he pulls on his dark cap and heads for the door. It’s a heavy oak plank with iron strap-style hinges that reach across the width of the door. His friends go with him, and they gather outside the door for a brief chat.

  Devlin Richards waits a few discreet moments and follows, head down, hands in his pockets. Outside, he pulls his scarf up and his hat down. It’s finally grown dark. He walks past the group and into the inky night.

  Chapter 14

  Away

  A road leads to the east. As she sits atop Duncan, Amanda’s eye is drawn to its vanishing point. She knows where the road goes. She’s traveled its length before. But now it calls to her in a different way. Her last trip in that direction was a good one. It’s in the general direction of where she reached the wreckage from the Gossamer, th
ough this road will curve away, toward a different place.

  If she were to ride up this road a couple of miles, she might be able to find that nice old couple who gave her a ride in their strange steam wagon.

  When she had finished walking the shore and sculching the wreckage, the couple had offered her a ride back to the road. They were a delightful pair. They told her where they lived and to come visit anytime. They seemed to be good people. Perhaps they’d understand.

  Hesitantly she tugs on the reins. The horse is unconvinced that Amanda really wants to go, so he circles quickly. She hangs on tightly as Duncan returns to the tasty grass, lowering his head so quickly that she’s suddenly pulled forward, hanging onto his neck. The unexpected transfer of weight makes the horse stumble, and he snorts in pain.

  As he regains his stance, Amanda pulls herself back to the center of the saddle. The horse walks toward a patch of shady clover, and she can feel him favoring his front right hoof. He lifts it, then sets it down tentatively, slowly trying to transfer some weight onto it.

  A lame horse could greatly complicate her escape. She leans forward, to whisper in its ear.

  “Come on, Duncan. I need your help, boy. Can you do it? Can you help me?”

  She strokes his thick neck. Urges him onward.

  As with most of the animals on the farm, Amanda is the one who feeds Duncan. He gets extra apples and sugar from her, and they have a solid bond. He gives her a bit of a grunt, then starts walking, a slight limp in his gait. As they head up the road, she doesn’t dare push him to a trot. Instead she looks nervously over her shoulder.

  Eventually she nears a farmhouse. Based on their description, she believes it’s theirs. “Quincy, that was their last name,” she mumbles to herself. Wayne knows nothing of these people, just as he knows nothing of her visit to the shore. She never got around to telling him where she had been nor showing him the compass.

  As she approaches the fields near their house, she takes the measure of Duncan again and decides his foot is surviving the trip. She spies a figure in a light yellow dress in the side yard, heading for the house. That must be Agnes.