Hell's Gate (38 page)

The shadow moved again, and made its leap for the grain elevator. Mike and Tom fired two, three, four times, and the shadow fell short. Mike had a last glimpse as he ran to the canal barge alongside the grain elevator. He saw the Bottler hanging to the edge of the hull, struggling to pull himself up. But the adjoining canal barge swung back against it with irresistible, grinding force, rocked by the oily swell. The Bottler didn't move fast enough. There was a single, gurgling scream and he disappeared between them. When they again separated, the Bottler was gone under the black surface of the river.

*   *   *

Mike woke on the floor of his parlor, his head on his arm, a blanket across him. He had no recollection of how he got home that night. He looked at his clock. It was nearly ten
A.M
. Slowly, painfully, he rolled to his knees and stumbled to his feet, where he swayed as if in a strong wind. He stank of smoke and sweat, burnt hair and vomit. For the first time he was actually conscious of it, and revolted by his condition. He looked at his sofa and was amazed to see Ginny under one of his mother's handmade blankets, sleeping peacefully. Mike had to rub his eyes to be sure of what he was seeing, but he did not wake her. There was a part of him that feared she might disappear.

Shuffling into the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror and recoiled from his reflection. His face was a mottled red, his eyebrows were gone and his hair was wild and burnt nearly to the scalp in places. Soot and dirt streaked his cheeks and brow. Oddly, the wounds on his cheeks seemed almost to blend in. He shook his head and began to cry over the sink, holding the white porcelain in his blistered hands so that he wouldn't fall. He didn't actually know why, a combination of relief, weariness, and enough pain to last a lifetime, he supposed.

But Mike had few tears left in him and things to do before the day was done. It was already late. He called to Ginny and went to her side at the sofa, kneeling to hold her as she woke, and telling her again that he'd never let go as she laid a warm cheek against his.

They left his apartment an hour later, Ginny at his side, wearing a black dress Mary had given her. He'd had a hot bath and Ginny had cut his hair so it was almost even, and shaved him over a steaming bowl. He hailed a cab and they got in. “Lutheran Cemetery, Queens,” he told the driver.

*   *   *

The line of hearses and carriages stretched to the horizon. Impatient, and in pain from his burns, Mike ordered the driver to take alternate routes, but time after time their progress was slowed by the tide of grief breaking over Queens. They had already missed a number of funerals and Mike felt that failing acutely. He could not have put into words his need to attend them. It was almost a compulsion, a driving force that would not let him rest, a longing for some kind of an end to this nightmare. He felt that if he let these rites slip by unobserved, that they might never have the opportunity to stand over a grave, cast flowers on a casket, and hear the graveside reassurance of resurrection. They'd agreed on the need to go, to say a prayer, and to offer their hidden, guilty thanks that it had not been their day to die.

He supposed that in some way he held himself accountable for the
General Slocum
fire. Ginny felt it, too. “We didn't start the fire, Mike, but I still feel like there had to be something we could have done, something different.” Her voice trailed off and Mike knew the depth of her doubts. “I don't even know anyone except Esther,” Ginny said, “and little Josh and Emily, of course. I haven't any idea where they might be. I just know that Esther was listed among the dead.”

They arrived at the Lutheran Cemetery at last and followed the first funeral they saw to the grave, where a small, white casket and two larger black ones sat side by side. The service was dignified and short, the minister undoubtedly had others to lay to rest. The mourners slowly scattered, disappearing into draped carriages for the silent ride back to the city.

Mike and Ginny slipped away to attend another, hands held tight. It was madness really, a form of it to be sure, but they repeated the ritual again and again as the day wore on, the stink of lilies imprinting itself so deeply in Mike's brain that he felt sure he would never be able to stand their scent again.

After standing beside an uncounted number of graves, listening to priestly dronings for some hint of solace, Mike and Ginny found themselves standing at the fringe of yet another burial, hardly seeing the black casket, the mourners, the weary priest with the sweat-stained collar. They heard the same words of comfort they'd heard before, but the name of the deceased cut through Ginny's clouded mind, jolting her out of her trance. Esther Claymaan. She looked at the small crowd, many of whom were women, and she suddenly recognized some from the factory.

Mike recognized the change in Ginny, and squeezed her hand tighter, craning over the crowd to see if Josh and Emily were there. At the front there was a man. Mike could only see his back. His hat was in his hand and his head was bowed, shoulders shaking. A few minutes later, when the funeral was at an end, and the mourners began to melt away, Mike and Ginny stepped forward and came near to the man they assumed to be Esther's husband.

“You're Esther's husband? I'm so sorry for your loss,” Ginny said, getting a grateful, but somewhat puzzled, look from the man in return. The children stood silently behind their father, their eyes still wide and blank.

“I tried to find Esther,” he said wearily, “but I never saw her, until days later at the morgue.”

“I'm so sorry,” Mike said, not letting go of Ginny's hand, and holding out his other, which was gripped firmly enough to make his burns turn again to fire. “Ginny wanted me to help them so badly, and I…” He could not go on, the memories came crashing over him, weakening his knees.

“He saved them,” Ginny said. “He saved both of them, pulled them from the burning ship and swam them to shore.”

“My God!” He took hold of Mike's hand in both of his, tears starting down his cheeks. “I have you to thank for my children. I…” Words left him and he began to sob, collapsing onto Mike's shoulder. Mike held him up and Ginny put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Finally he raised his head, a bit embarrassed, and asked for Mike's name.

“This is Mike Braddock. Esther may have mentioned him. He's my beau.” Ginny said, the phrase sending an unexpected thrill through her. Mike squeezed her hand in return.

“You're Braddock! I'm Frank Claymaan.” He started pumping Mike's hand, a strange, sad smile coming over his face. “Esther talked about you and Ginny going on the cruise. She was looking forward to meeting you. She said Ginny was head-over-heels for you. I had the operator try your telephone these last days but I got no answer.”

Mike's smile was fleeting. “I haven't been home.”

“Emily, sweetie, see who it is?” Frank said.

Emily stepped from behind Frank's legs and looked up at Mike. “Hello, Mister Braddock” she said, a shy smile creeping across her face. Mike was speechless. He started to bend down, but fell to his knees, Frank holding out a hand to steady him. He took Emily in his arms. “I'm so happy to see you,” he sputtered, embarrassed by his own weakness. “I was so worried. I couldn't find you.”

“I'm sorry you couldn't find me. I wasn't hiding. The nurses took me and Josh.”

“No, no, don't be sorry,” Mike whispered. “It's not your fault, not your fault.” He held her tight with Frank's hand trembling on his shoulder, while Josh started to cry and rub his eyes.

Some way off, out of sight on the other side of a rolling hill, thousands of mourners had gathered for the burial of the unknowns and had commenced to sing “Nearer My God to Thee.” The voices swelled, rising up as if from the earth, piercing the hearts of all who heard them.

Postscript

AN IN-DEPTH INVESTIGATION, prompted by public outrage and a campaign by the press to punish those responsible for the
General Slocum
disaster, resulted in a number of indictments, most notably of Captain Van Schaick and Frank Barnaby, president of the Knickerbocker Steamship Company, among others. The subsequent trials revealed a litany of neglect, falsified records, bogus safety inspections, unsafe fire hoses, untrained crewmen, rotting life vests, and inoperable lifeboats. Ultimately, the only person to serve any jail time was Captain Van Schaick. He was sentenced to serve ten years at Sing Sing prison, but was paroled after three. Upon his conviction, Van Schaick said, “The United States Government made me a scapegoat.” He died in 1927 at the age of ninety.

The
General Slocum
fire claimed more lives than any other civilian maritime disaster in U. S. history. Eclipsed in the public mind by the sinking of the
Titanic
in 1912, and most recently by the attack on the World Trade Center, the
General Slocum
fire stands alone in the loss of multiple family members, and its devastation of an entire community. The disaster claimed 1,021 lives. Hundreds of the victims were children.

Adella Liebenow Wotherspoon, the last living survivor of the
General Slocum
disaster, died on January 26, 2004, at the age of one hundred. Her two sisters perished on the
General Slocum
, as did two cousins and two aunts. Her mother survived, but was badly burned. She was both the youngest and last living survivor.

A memorial monument was erected over the graves of the sixty-one unknown victims of the
General Slocum
fire in the Lutheran Cemetery in Middle Village, Queens. It stands to this day.

Also by Richard E. Crabbe

Suspension

The Empire of Shadows

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin's Press.

HELL'S GATE
. Copyright © 2008 by Richard E. Crabbe. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Crabbe, Richard E.

Hell's gate: a novel / Richard E. Crabbe.—1st ed.

   p. cm.

“Thomas Dunne Books.”

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-34159-6

ISBN-10: 0-312-34159-8

1. Police—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. Street life—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Gangs—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3553.R18H45      2008

813'.54—dc22

2008012280

First Edition: June 2008

eISBN 9781466862012

First eBook edition: December 2013