Duke of a Gilded Age (24 page)

“Now I’ve heard everything,” Wesley said.

At that point, Cavendish stepped forward. “I volunteer as well.”

Captain Howe held up his hand. “Mr. Van Eyck may be of some use. But as much as I laud your offer, Mr. Cavendish, this is no fit task for aught but the very young.”

“When do we get started, Captain?” Wesley asked.

“There’s no time to lose, lad.”

As the cork jackets and life buoys were brought around, Mrs. Van Eyck arrived, and began to remonstrate with Stephen. Wesley suddenly noticed Belle standing nearby, her hazel eyes wide with fear. Before he could say anything, she threw herself into his arms. As they embraced, he could feel her trembling uncontrollably.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“No, I’m frightened.”

“It’s going to be all right, you know.”

“Just the same, I won’t rest until you return, safe and sound.” Belle kissed him on the cheek. “That’s a promise.”

Mr. Duncan brought over a couple of cork jackets. While Wesley shrugged on his, Stephen took Belle’s hand. “I could very well perish out there,” he said.

“Yes, I—”

Without warning, Stephen pulled her into a kiss. Wesley had to restrain himself from dragging him back by the collar like a cur.

“That’s enough, Stephen,” he said, tight-lipped. “It’s time to go.”

Stephen released Belle, reluctantly.

“Thank you, Miss Oakhurst,” he said. “Now I can die a happy man.”

Mr. Duncan dropped a cork jacket over Stephen’s head, helped him tie it around his waist, and thrust a life buoy into his hand.

“You’re all set, lads. Good luck to you.”

Wesley and Stephen approached the winch that would lower them down the side of the ocean liner and into the waiting longboat.

“You’ll pay dearly for that, Stephen,” Wesley muttered.

“Come now, Wesley. You’re just angry you didn’t think of it first.”

Although she was horribly embarrassed about Stephen’s kiss, she was too frightened for him and Wesley to do much of anything except stifle a rebuke.
I’ll deal with Stephen later,
she decided.
And just when I thought he was acting like a gentleman!
As the two young men disappeared over the side of the ship, Louise hugged Belle and sobbed. Over Louise’s shoulder, she caught Mrs. Van Eyck’s eye. Her face flooded with heat when she realized Stephen’s mother had seen the kiss.
Blast Stephen! He’s put me in a horrible position!
Instantly she regretted the thought. It sounded too much like a curse, and although she was furious with Stephen, she didn’t want anything to happen to him. Belle said a quick silent prayer for Wesley’s safe return…and slipped in a grudging word for Stephen as well. She pulled Louise toward the railing.

“Come on, Louise. Let’s watch them as long as possible.”

The bedraggled
Apollo
crew had already taken their places in the longboat by the time Wesley and Stephen were winched down. Once they were seated forward in the prow, the longboat’s oars were lowered into the water. As the boat moved off, Mr. Duncan came to stand next to Belle and Louise.

“Those are two brave lads,” he said. “’Tis lucky we’re in the Grand Banks and not the Flemish Cap.”

“Why is that, sir?” Belle asked.

“The current moves in a clockwise direction in the Flemish Cap and we’d be further separated from the
Apollo
for certain.” He paused. “Of course, nothing is for certain except uncertainty.”

Belle gulped. As she watched the longboat increase its distance from the
City of New York
, she knew one thing at least was certain: Wesley Parker and Stephen Van Eyck had just placed themselves in mortal danger and she’d never been so afraid for anyone in her life.

Chapter Sixteen

Optimism

W
AVES
L
APPED
U
P
A
GAINST
T
HE
S
IDE
of the wooden longboat, spraying frigid saltwater onto the men inside. The heat left Wesley’s body so quickly, he longed to row with the crew to stay warm. Stephen, who was sitting on the bench next to him, must have felt the same way. He nudged Wesley with an elbow and pointed to a pair of long oars at their feet.

“Let’s do it,” Wesley said.

They turned around until they were facing the
City of New York
, lunged for the oars, fitted them into the oarlocks, and began to row in concert with the crew. As the blood flowed into his muscles, Wesley’s misery was only slightly alleviated. Nevertheless, the exercise took his mind off the fact he was in a small boat in the midst of a vast, pitiless ocean. The unrelieved blackness that stretched out on all sides made Wesley feel small and insignificant. He gritted his teeth against the maelstrom of fear that threatened to paralyze his thoughts. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the rapidly retreating
City of New York.

The
Apollo
was at a far greater distance than she’d looked from the deck of the huge ocean liner. Worse, the waves of the Atlantic slowed the longboat’s progress. The better part of an hour passed before they reached their destination. By then, Wesley was at once clammy with sweat and chilled to the core. His fingers were seemingly frozen to the oar’s handles, but he peeled them free to climb the rope ladder onto the three-masted, single-screw ship. His muscles were so logy that his progress was slow. When he finally set foot on deck, a blanket was thrown over his shoulders and a mug of hot coffee was thrust into his hands. Stephen staggered on board a few moments later and was similarly greeted. The ship’s captain emerged from the bridge to welcome the new arrivals.

“Thank you for coming. My name is Captain Yarborough, and I welcome you aboard the
Apollo
.”

To Wesley’s humiliation, his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. “W-Wesley P-Parker, D-Duke of M-Mansbury.”

Stephen fared little better. “S-Stephen V-Van Eyck.”

The captain ushered them below deck and into the first class dining hall, where the acrid smell of smoke from the boiler room explosion immediately assailed Wesley’s nostrils and stung his eyes. The room, filled with almost one hundred fifty well-dressed people, was perhaps one-third the size of the saloon on the
City of New York
. Passengers, their faces twisted with fear, rushed forward to pepper the new arrivals with questions and demands for help. Wesley noticed one bejeweled lady held a barking Yorkshire terrier.

Captain Yarborough held up his hands for silence. “Do you have a message for us, Your Grace?”

Wesley took a deep breath and tried to slow the shivers racking his body.

“Captain Howe of the
City of New York
is prepared to offer his assistance,” he said.

His statement was met with a cacophony of reactions—cries of relief, more questions, and more demands. Wesley exchanged an exasperated glance with Stephen, who lost his temper.

“Stay calm and be
quiet!”
he bellowed.

To Wesley’s mild surprise, the crowd fell silent. Even the dog stopped barking.

“Thank you,” Wesley said, as much to Stephen as to anyone else. “Captain, we’ve room on the
City of New York
for your passengers and crew, but evacuation will be nearly impossible unless you decrease the distance between our vessels.”

“It will be done.”

The captain rattled off orders to his Chief Officer, who sped from the room to comply.

“Captain Howe requests the first evacuees be women and children,” Wesley said.

A look of aggravation crossed the captain’s face. “Yes, of course, but my steerage passengers are the difficulty. In fact, they are presently under guard lest they overrun the ship in panic. I can’t seem to make them understand.”

“Take me to them,” Wesley said.

“You speak Italian?”

“A little. I just hope it’s enough to help.”

Wesley and Stephen shed their blankets, Mackintosh jackets, and cork vests. As Captain Yarborough escorted them from the saloon, Wesley noticed piles of luggage stacked near the entrance.

“There’s no possible way to transfer those things to the ship, Captain,” Wesley said.

“I understand full well,” he replied. “The passengers were instructed to take only what they could carry, but they won’t listen to reason. That’s why I opened the weapons locker to my men, just in case things turn ugly.”

Captain Yarborough led Wesley and Stephen past the bridge and down a staircase to the deck below. In comparison to the
City of New York
, the
Apollo
was very compact. The ceilings were lower, the passageways and staircases narrower, and the finishes were far less luxurious. If he had not first seen the
City of New York
, however, Wesley would have thought the
Apollo
a handsome sort of ship. Mahogany panels lined the walls, highly polished brass fixtures reflected light from electric sconces, and tasteful artwork was on display.

“You still have electricity?” Stephen asked, taking note of the lights. “How is that possible?”

“We lost our engine in the explosion, but the generator remains intact—for now. The
Apollo
is sinking, and the generator may soon be swamped.”

“How long do we have?” Wesley asked.

“An hour, if the sea stays calm and our luck holds. After that, we’ll have to make do with kerosene lanterns.”

Near the bottom of the steps, two crewmen with pistols stood at attention as the captain approached.

“Come along and have your weapons ready,” the captain ordered.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Hazy thick smoke lingered in the air at this level, making it difficult to draw breath. Wesley’s shoes squished as he stepped from the carpeted stairs into the wet passageway, and raised voices became audible. Stephen winced and shook his head in dismay.

“Sounds like one big argument going on.”

The three of them, flanked by the armed crewmen, ducked through the doorway into the dining hall. Around fifty Italians were inside, sitting on long wooden benches with their legs drawn up, or on the dining table itself. Several older children floated paper boats in the briny seawater while the younger ones cried in their mother’s arms. As soon as the passengers saw Captain Yarborough, the shouting began in earnest. One tall swarthy man approached, spewing Italian curse words Wesley recognized but would never repeat. The crewmen brandished their weapons, but Wesley stepped forward and held up his hands.

“My name is Wesley,” he shouted. “
Ascoltare!”

The din paused and the painful process of trying to communicate began. Mocking laughter greeted Wesley’s attempts to speak Italian, and he felt his face flush red. Just when he was about to give up in despair, a young child pointed at Wesley’s chest.

“
È San Cristoforo!”

Wesley glanced down. His shirt had torn open when he removed his cork vest, revealing the Saint Christopher medal Sergio had given him.
Thank you, Sergio!
A sense of relief flowed through Wesley as he lifted the medal from around his neck and held it up for everyone to see.

“
Si, è San Cristoforo
,” he said. “Please listen.
Per favore ascoltare
.”

Wesley slipped the medal over the child’s head and began to speak again. With the hostility defused, the passengers tried to understand him this time. The swarthy man finally tapped his barrel chest.

“
Mi chiamano
Matteo.
Vuoi che venga con te alla barca grande?”