Ship of Dreams (32 page)

And indeed, less than an hour later, they did spot a ship low on the horizon. Perhaps it was the one from the night before, for it appeared to be moving back and forth, as though searching the water.

Again, they paddled and shouted with every ounce of their strength. The ship was nearly five miles away, however, and though the wind had dropped enough to make paddling less fruitless than it had been last night, they had moved very little closer before the ship began, again, to move away. All too soon, it was entirely out of sight, leaving them alone on a vast expanse of ocean.

Several of the men became completely dejected now, despite everything Kent tried to do to cheer them. "I've lost the fortune I spent the past five years digging up," said one, a returning prospector. "I got a letter two months since that my wife went off with another man. Guess there's not much point for me in hanging on."

With that, he rolled off the raft before anyone could stop him and floated away, sinking deeper and deeper into the water until they lost sight of him. Ten minutes later, another man, who had been badly injured during the sinking, muttered something unintellible and did the same. Kent made a lunge that wrenched his leg, managing to grip the man's sleeve for a moment before it tore in his grasp. As the other man wore no life preserver, he sank at once, without a murmur.

Kent felt sick, both at the sight of such despair and the foreboding that the same fate might well await them all. What would Della do at this juncture, he wondered? She'd make the best of things, of course. And so would he.

"Mr. Dawson," he said suddenly, "we have room for you now. Climb aboard." The others made no move to help him, but they did not protest as he pulled the colored man onto the raft. He thanked Kent heartily, and the two passed the next few hours exchanging life stories. Eventually one or two others joined in and though the sun beat down on them and their hunger and thirst grew, they were able to keep despair at bay—for the moment.

As darkness closed in without any sight of another ship, however, hopelessness closed in along with it. Toward midnight, a man who had earlier introduced himself as James Birch, president of the San Antonio and San Diego Mail Line, sat up suddenly.

"I won't survive this," he said with conviction. "If any of you do, will you have the goodness to see my wife gets this? It's a gift for our little son." He pulled a small silver cup from his pocket and held it up, glinting, in the feeble moonlight.

"I'll take it, sir," said Mr. Dawson quietly. "But I'll give it back to you soon as we're rescued, so you can give it to your wife yourself."

By morning, however, Mr. Birch had disappeared from the raft, though no one had seen him go. They were now down to a company of eight, and no sign even of the wreckage of the
Central America
remained about them.

Kent's heart grew heavier and heavier. Never until now had he entirely lost hope of seeing Della again, but as the second day on the raft wore on, he couldn't help but think what her life would be like now, without him by her side. Who would she turn to? Where would she go? Francis Cadbury's threats taunted him.

The next few days passed in a blur of ever-increasing misery. Thirst became the very focal point of their existence, and one by one the men on the raft grew delirious, raving about food and water, imagining themselves ashore, or back on the steamer. Two more died, either of thirst or of injuries sustained during the shipwreck. Another claimed he saw a ship and swam away, never to return.

On Wednesday, four days after the disaster, only three remained on the raft: Kent, Mr. Dawson, and Mr. Grant, the fireman. Kent spent much of his time staring into the water and attempting to net the occasional small fish that passed by with his shirt—so far without success. The other two faced in opposite directions, continually scanning the horizon for ships, just as fruitlessly.

Turning away momentarily to rest his dazzled eyes, Kent was startled by a splash. A large fish had actually landed on the raft itself! For a moment, he was too dazed to react, but then he reached out to seize it before it could slip back into the ocean. The others, belatedly realizing what had happened, turned to help him, and a moment later their prize was secured.

Mr. Grant was the only one with a knife, and with some difficulty he sawed through the tough skin of the fish, carving out a portion for each of them. Famished as they were, they still found it nearly inedible, but they forced themselves to swallow a few mouthfuls, against the hope that they could somehow stay alive long enough for rescue.

The next day the fish was less tough, and though Kent gagged over it, he ate as much as he could, and cajoled his comrades into doing the same. By now, Mr. Dawson was becoming delirous, as so many of the others had before disappearing. Hourly, it seemed, he would implore the others to look again for a ship, as though one must surely be near.

"Very well, very well," said Grant, after Dawson's latest supplication. I'm scanning every inch of the— Well, I'll be damned! There's
something
out there."

Kent followed his gaze and saw, nearly a mile away, what appeared to be a small boat, with an oar upraised. "Is that what it looks like?" By now, the prospect of rescue seemed so remote that he doubted his own senses.

"I'm swimming to take a look," Grant declared. With his broken leg, Kent could not accompany him but he and Dawson helped Grant to tie a life preserver about his middle, and then he struck off toward the boat. Dawson lay muttering, staring up at the sky, but Kent anxiously watched Grant's progress until he reached the boat.

Though the sun kept making his eyes tear, he thought he saw an arm reach out of the boat to help Grant into it. A moment later, it was unmistakeable. There was another man in the boat, and he and Grant were rowing back toward the raft. As they drew close, Kent was able to read
S.S. Central America
on the prow of what could only be one of the steamer's lifeboats.

The man aboard her was a Mr. Tice, who had been one of the assistant engineers. He was in no better condition than they, but as the boat was far sturdier than the raft, they all climbed into it, abandoning the piece of decking that had supported them for days. For a few hours, the men exchanged their stories of the shipwreck and its aftermath, but their parched tongues made talking difficult and they eventually subsided.

Kent was never sure how they survived the next few days. Each of them had moments of delirium, but the others were always able to restrain whichever one threatened to leave the boat. No more food, and no water whatsoever came their way. Over and over, Kent caught himself chanting the stanzas of the Coleridge poem:

Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.

It might have been Monday, though by then he couldn't be certain, when they were roused by a shower of rain. As quickly as their cramped muscles would allow, they set out the few pans and tins in the boat to catch all they could, then turned their faces to the sky, mouths wide. The shower was all too brief—when it ended, they had collected perhaps a pint of water to share between the four of them. All it had really done was rouse them to new awareness of their doomed condition.

Kent regretfully watched the rain move away. He was about to suggest they attempt rowing after the receding clouds when a flash of white on the waves caught his attention.

"A sail!" he croaked, his voice rusty from days of disuse. Without that mouthful of rainwater, he would not have been able to make any sound at all.

Rather than attempt speaking again, he pointed, then grabbed an oar. Mr. Grant took the other, and without a word they began feebly rowing toward the white triangle that was their very last hope of salvation.

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CHAPTER 20

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Morning brought no renewal of hope to Della. Listlessly, she peered out the window of her room at the National Hotel, where she had slept with three other women from the
Central America
. What was she to do now? Where would she go? She couldn't bring herself to care, though she knew she needed to plan for her future. Life would go on, as it always did after a loss.

Wouldn't it?

Caring Norfolk townspeople had donated clothing and other essentials for the survivors of the shipwreck, and it was with genuine relief that Della put on a clean, if faded, gown after a thorough wash. Though still holding her emotions at bay, she now felt more equal to making decisions for her future.

Addie greeted her at breakfast with a hug, still glowing with happiness, though her eyes were sympathetic to Della's pain. "Ansel and I mean to go on to New York aboard a ship leaving this evening, and we wish you to accompany us. Ansel says that a few survivors transferred to another ship from the
Ellen
before she reached port."

"But Kent was not on the
Ellen
," Della reminded her.

"Ansel did not see him, but he says he cannot be absolutely sure. And it is always possible that another ship picked up more survivors, and that they may be even now on their way to New York. Do say you'll come with us, Della!"

Della hesitated. "Let me eat something, and I'll think about it. I promise to let you know well before you sail."

"Oh, of course! I'm sorry to be so pushy. Come, see the breakfast they have laid out for us!"

Docilely following her, Della surveyed the astonishing spread of food arranged on two enormous sideboards in the hotel dining room. Though she could not summon much enthusiasm, she ate enough and more to satisfy the lingering hunger from her long deprivation. While she ate, she considered her options.

The prudent thing, of course, would be to go back to California, perhaps to Sacramento, and to reestablish herself there. Or, perhaps, to travel northwest, to Ohio, where she still had cousins and, to the best of her knowledge, grandparents. Going to New York seemed pointless, as well as risky.

The chance of finding Kent alive there was extremely remote, but if she went she would be hoping all the while—and she was not sure her heart could take that. In addition, she would have Kent's family to face, not to mention his onetime fiancée and her vindictive brother. With no proof of her marriage to Kent, she might find herself in legal trouble on top of her other woes.

No, she would do better to avoid New York and to go anywhere else. That was the only way she could truly start her life over again. She'd done it before, after her mother died, and again after her father had passed away and her sister married and left. She had no doubt that she could establish a successful business in Sacramento or Cincinnati, or wherever else she might choose to go.

Somehow, though, the thought of resuming her roving, solitary, mercenary existence seemed unutterably dreary, after the hopes and dreams she had so recently allowed herself.

Where was the Della who delighted in living moment by moment, trusting to luck and her own wits? She seemed to have gone down with the
Central America
—with Kenton Bradford of the New York Bradfords, that East Coast stuffed shirt who had somehow become all the world to her.

She looked up from her breakfast and her thoughts at long last, to find Addie and Ansel chatting quietly, directly across from her. She opened her mouth to tell them that she could not accompany them to New York—that her destiny must lie along a different path. But then her glance fell on a young woman with a baby, seated on the far side of the dining room.

Miracles, she realized, were all around her. Ansel Easton's rescue was one, as was that tiny life—and the other infants and children who had survived the shipwreck, who survived all of the hazards of childhood to grow up and live out their lives. Perhaps one more miracle, just for her, was not so unthinkable. She would trust in her Irish luck—and yes, in God—one last time.

"I've decided to come with you," she said suddenly. "I'll go on to New York, just ... just in case."

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Though he rowed with all his dwindling might, Kent at first doubted they were making much progress toward the ship they had sighted. Soon, though, he could see that the sail was growing steadily larger—the ship must be heading right for them! Desperately fearful that it would veer away, they held their course.

Dawson and Tice waved their handkerchiefs while Kent and Grant rowed, Dawson praying aloud that the ship would see them. Then, while they were trying to summon the energy to shout, it changed course slightly to meet them. They had been sighted.