Duke of a Gilded Age (27 page)

“I hope the galley is on this deck because the one below is probably flooded,” Wesley said.

Fortunately, the galley was adjacent to the saloon and accessible through a sliding door. Broken crockery crunched under Wesley’s feet as he surveyed the contents of the icebox. “Mutton, cold chicken, or sliced roast beef?” he called out over his shoulder.

“Roast beef,” Stephen replied from the pantry. “I’ve got bread for sandwiches, and cake too.”

They piled their provisions onto a rolling cart.

“Where shall we have our going away party?” Stephen asked.

“The bridge,” Wesley said. “Except for the masts, it’s the highest point on the ship.”

The
Apollo
creaked and groaned as Stephen pushed the cart from the galley and through the saloon. He held the lamps while Wesley balanced the food on a large serving tray and carried it up to the deck. The sea was calm by then, but a thick eerie fog was stealing across the water like steam.

“It looks like we’ve sailed into a tea kettle,” Stephen said.

Wesley shivered. “If only it were that warm.”

Inside the bridge, Stephen hung the kerosene lamps from hooks on the ceiling and emptied the coal scuttle into the pot-bellied stove. Wesley arranged the feast on a map table and pulled up a pair of tall stools. Stephen produced the glasses and champagne from his pockets. As he set the bottle on the table, he frowned. “Oh, blast, I forgot a corkscrew.”

Wesley held up the required instrument. “I brought one from the galley.”

Stephen grinned. “We make a good team, Wesley.”

“I was just thinking that myself.” Wesley poured a quantity of scotch in the glasses and handed one to Stephen for a toast. “Here’s to going away.”

“And away we go.” Stephen drained the scotch and shuddered. “Ugh! I suppose it’s an acquired taste.”

They devoured a sandwich apiece, ate half the cake, and then settled down to drink. After a while, Wesley wasn’t sure if the swaying on the bridge was from the ship, or the strong spirits.

“I should apologize to you, Stephen. It’s my fault you’re in this mess,” he said. “In hindsight, giving away my Saint Christopher’s medal was ill considered.”

Stephen shook his head. “No, I invited myself along, don’t you remember? Serves me right for trying to impress a girl. Guess I’ll never do
that
again.”

They shared a laugh, but the merriment was cut short when the ship rolled to its starboard side. Wesley steadied the bottles to keep them from tipping over, and Stephen picked up the glasses. Wesley held his breath as he waited to see if the
Apollo
would straighten. To his relief, the ship came upright once more, albeit listing slightly. He let out his breath slowly and glanced at Stephen, whose face had gone chalk white.

“I admit, I’m not quite ready to die.” Stephen’s voice cracked slightly. The silence that followed his remark was filled with unspoken emotion. His hands shook uncontrollably as he set down the glasses and reached for the scotch. “At least not until I’ve finished this bottle.”

Belle’s face flashed into Wesley’s mind, like a beacon.
I’m not going to leave her like this!
He stood, abruptly.

“We’re not going to die. I won’t have it.”

“What do you propose?”

“I’m going to climb the masts and hang lit kerosene lanterns as high as I can. If anyone is out there, maybe they’ll see the light and come to our aid.”

“You’ll slip and fall, Wesley!”

“Perhaps that will be a mercy.”

Stephen stood and brushed cake crumbs from his clothes. “All right, I’ll help. If we’re going to die, we may as well go down swinging.”

At the base of the mainmast, Wesley tied the end of a rope around his waist.

“When I reach the uppermost yardarm, tie the lamp handle to the rope and I’ll haul it up,” he said.

Stephen squinted at the mast. “It’s awfully far.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

Before he changed his mind, Wesley began to climb the rigging. If it had been broad daylight, he might not have been brave enough to make a climb thirty feet high. As it was, the nighttime fog gave him the sensation of being wrapped in a silken cocoon. When he reached the yardarm, he gave the rope a tug. Stephen tugged back; Wesley pulled up the kerosene lamp and used a shorter length of rope to tie the lamp in place. He climbed down and then repeated the process with the foremast and the mizzenmast. The three lamps hanging high overhead sent a distinct glow that pierced the misty fog.

When he reached the deck for the third and final time, Stephen gave him a look of admiration. “You’ve nerves of steel, Wesley.”

“Not really. It’s just that I couldn’t see past ten feet due to the fog.”

“While you were up there, I thought of something else. We could take turns ringing the ship’s big brass bell hanging next to the bridge.”

Wesley stared at him, dumbfounded. “That’s brilliant.”

“It was the fog that made me think of it.”

Stephen took the first turn, ringing the bell vigorously, as if he were on his way to a fire. When his arm grew tired, Wesley took over. Then they switched off again, all the while pretending not to notice the water lapping over the deck. Stephen had just begun to use his left arm on the clapper rope when Wesley flinched. “Stop! I hear something!”

Stephen quieted the bell with his hands. “All I hear is ringing in my head.”

“Shh!”

Wesley ran to the railing and listened. A very faint “Ahoy there!” reached his ears. He turned toward Stephen, chortling with glee.

“Did you hear that? Someone’s out there! Keep ringing!”

As Stephen rang the bell for all he was worth, Wesley cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Hullo! We’re here! Hullo!”

The fog prevented him from seeing any boats on the water.
If I can’t see them, maybe they can’t see us!
Wesley tore into the bridge, grabbed the empty coal scuttle and bottle of scotch, and brought them both onto the open deck. After he shrugged off his Mackintosh coat, he untied his cork jacket, threw it in the tall metal scuttle, and doused it with scotch.

“What are you doing?” Stephen yelled. “Have you gone mad?”

“No, I’m desperate.”

He tossed a burning kerosene lamp into the scuttle and stepped back. A whooshing sound accompanied a surging gust of flame, which shot over eight feet into the air. Wesley was forced to drop to the deck and crawl away to escape the billowing conflagration. Stephen gaped but did not stop ringing the bell. Wesley snatched his Mackintosh jacket from the wet deck and sloshed through water toward Stephen. They watched in dismay as burning embers rose into the air toward the sails hanging from the foremast.

“Damn,” Wesley said. “I just set the
Apollo
on fire.”

Seawater lapped at their feet and Stephen stopped ringing the bell. “Doesn’t matter. The ship is sinking anyway.”

“Climb the rigging,” Wesley said. “I’ll keep the bell going as long as I can before I join you.”

“I’m staying, not you. You don’t have your cork jacket anymore.”

“That was my decision and you shouldn’t have to pay for it. Get going.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“I’m not stupid, I’m practical.”

“I’m
not
going without you!”

Just then, the lower foremast sail caught fire. The intense heat drove Wesley and Stephen back from the bridge.

“Have it your way, Stephen,” Wesley said. “We’ll both go.”

He led the way toward the stern of the ship, where rigging spread out on either side of the mizzenmast. Stephen took one side and Wesley took the other. Halfway up, however, the
Apollo
rolled for the last time. With a splintering crack, the mizzenmast broke at its base and fell with a slow arc into the frigid Atlantic.

His ankle became entangled in the rope rigging, and Wesley was submerged. The shock of the cold water nearly stopped his heart, but something inside wouldn’t let him give up. He managed to free himself from the rigging and swim to the surface. His breathing was fast and deep, as if he could not get enough oxygen, and the strength was ebbing from his limbs.
I’m so sorry, Belle, but I’m not going to make it after all. I wish we could’ve had more time together.
Suddenly he felt something tugging on his coat, and an arm went around his chest.

“I’ll hold onto you as long as I can,” Stephen rasped.

“Thanks,” Wesley managed.

In the water nearby, the
Apollo
was ablaze and sinking fast. A fuzzy, sleepy sensation began to dull Wesley’s senses. The next thing he knew, a wooden wall was sliding past his face. Confused, he reached out a hand to push it away. Something grabbed his elbow and he panicked. His feeble struggles came to nothing, but he kept fighting—with whom or against what he could not say.

“Stop struggling, Wesley!” Stephen said.

“
Dannazione!”
a deep voice cursed.
“Smettere di lottare ragazzo!”

“Wesley, let us help you,” Cavendish said.

Unable to respond, Wesley felt his body being pulled out of the water. He rolled into the boat, barely conscious. In the next moment, a rough blanket covered him.

“Stephen,” he muttered.

“We’ve got him, lad,” Mr. Oakhurst said. “We’ve got you both.”

Chapter Eighteen

Aftermath

B
ELLE
B
URST
I
NTO
T
EARS
of relief when the
Apollo
longboat pulled alongside the
City of New York,
carrying its rescue crew of Mr. Oakhurst, Matteo, Cavendish, and Captain Yarborough, plus two additional passengers—Wesley and Stephen. Lady Frederic, Mrs. Van Eyck, and Louise also began to cry with deep shuddering sobs. None of them would rest until the ship’s surgeon confirmed Wesley and Stephen would survive their ordeal. They’d both been brought aboard unconscious, with blue-tinged skin and bloodless fingernails that had made Belle gasp with dismay.

Finally, Mr. Oakhurst sent Belle to her cabin. She gave him a hug before she left.

“Thank you for saving him, Papa,” she said. “Thank you.”

Exhausted, Belle could barely manage to remove her clothes before collapsing into her berth. Although her mind would not truly be at ease until she’d spoken with Wesley, her body had its own agenda and she fell asleep immediately.

The hot air balloon soared over the Atlantic, its red, white, and blue colors reminiscent of the American flag. Wesley grinned as he leaned over the edge of the basket to admire the pod of purple whales keeping pace in the waves below.

“I told you we’d be rescued, Stephen!” he called out.

“You were right, Wesley. I promise to be much more optimistic next time!” Stephen replied.