The Halifax Connection (31 page)

“Stop the boat! Please! I think something awful’s happened! Stop the boat!”

The man at the wheel stared at her as though she were mad. Only later would she consider how wild she must have looked, how totally she must have surprised them.

“Someone’s overboard?” he demanded sharply.

“I don’t know. He were supposed to meet me on the deck and he ain’t there and the rail’s all broke! Oh, please, sir, stop the boat!” For the first time she could see her hand in the light. The wetness
on it was blood, a great smear of blood, more than ever could have come from a splinter. Her breath caught in a sob of fear.

The pilot still thought she was mad, perhaps, but he reached quickly, yanking on a lever, and shouted at his companion, who promptly took the wheel from his hands.

“Now, tell me, miss, what is this all about?”

Be calm, damn it! If you aren’t calm, they won’t listen!

“Mr. Shaw. He’s … he’s my friend, and we were going to meet on the deck, and when I got there, it were empty—”

“It’s late. Perhaps he’s in his cabin.”

Where I would be if I were a proper woman, yes, I bloody well know.

She held up her bloodstained hand.
“Someone
broke that railing, sir.”

He nodded. “Come.”

They swept down to the passageway. Already the motion of the steamer had changed and the paddlewheel was churning to a stop. A great, clanging bell began to ring, and feet were hammering up the stairwells.

The smokers still chatted by the wheelhouse. They were the obvious people to ask who might or might not have gone to the deck, but they spoke very little English. It took all of Sylvie’s willpower to stand still while the pilot addressed them—slowly and carefully, as he might have done with children.

“You? See? Anyone? Go? Up?” The pilot pointed emphatically to the deck.

“Go up?
Ja, ja.
I see. Big man.” He held his hand well above his head. “Then other man.
Ja, ja.
I see. Go up.”

“When?”

The immigrant shrugged, looked at his friend. They spoke together softly, briefly.

“I think maybe …
Viertelstunde …”
He groped for words, then, frustrated, held up one palm, fingers extended. Once, twice, three times.

“Fifteen? You mean fifteen minutes? A quarter hour?”

“Ja, ja.
Quarter hour. Maybe more.”

“Did they come back down?” Sylvie pleaded. “The men you saw. Did they come back?”

“Beck?” He shook his head emphatically.
“Nein, nein.
Not beck. Still there.”

Oh, God.
She barely noticed the pilot’s muttered curse as crewmen spilled into the passageway, the fateful words already being shouted and echoed.
Man overboard! Man overboard!
She thought about the broken rail, and the blood on its jagged edge, and the immigrant’s words.
Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe more. Still there.

Only they were not there. They were in the river.

The pilot’s hand closed firmly on her arm. “Easy now, lass, easy. Don’t be getting in the way.”

They waited until the last of the crew ran onto the deck and then followed. Later, looking back, she would realize the response of the
Saguenay’s
men had been efficient and quick. At the time it seemed to be neither. All she could see was a chaos of men running hither and yon, lanterns flaring, boats slowly dragged from their moorings and lowered down the side, over all of it a great shouting, mostly names and commands, and most of it incomprehensible to her even when it was in English. The whole of eternity seemed to pass before the first boat touched the water, an eternity in which to wonder how the railing had been broken, and how far the steamer had gone, and whether anyone could survive in that pitiless river for so long.
Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe more.

Or maybe less, she reminded herself desperately. The man in the passageway saw them go on deck. He did not see what happened after. Maybe it did not happen right away.

She turned sharply to a voice at her shoulder. An officer stood by her, breathing hard, as though he had run from the farthest corner of the ship. He touched his cap briefly.

“Marcel Drouin, mademoiselle. I am first mate. I am most sorry, but I must ask you what you know, and make a record.”

He wrote everything down, not only her name but her berth
number and where she lived in Halifax. When he had finished, he thanked her and turned to go.

“Sir … please …”

“Oui
, mademoiselle?”

“Will you find them? I mean,
can you?
Has anybody ever …” She faltered.

“You are asking, has anyone ever fallen in the river and been saved?
Mais oui
, mademoiselle. It has happened many times, if they can swim.”

Could Erryn swim? He had never said. Most of the men in the mill towns could not. Some even went to sea and never learned. But rich young men learned everything, surely—to ride and shoot and swim and do all the other sporting things?

By now both boats were over the side and men were scrambling down the ladders and rowing away. The captain himself came on deck, and the mate stood and spoke with him quietly. When the boats were well away, the captain gave a sharp order for silence. Those remaining could only watch now, and wait, and maybe pray. The mate crossed himself. Sylvie’s hands clenched hard by her side. The sudden quiet was startling, no sound except the river slurring against the sides, the gentle slap of oars, then, starkly, a voice calling,
“Allô! Allô! Y a-t-il quelqu’un?”
And then silence again, and the cruel waiting, and then another voice, from another direction, “Is anybody out there?”

There were strong currents in this river, she had been told. It was dark and the water must be dreadfully cold. What chance did a man have, going over?

If he could swim, the mate had said. Only if he could swim.

The sailors’ lanterns flashed on the water, eerie, like carnival lights. Most any other time they would have been wonderfully pretty; now they spoke only of doom. He was dead, she thought. What else was possible? He was dead, and this was his burial rite, this last bit of light playing over his grave, all he would ever have, a stranger and so many miles from home …

Muffled voices came on the wind—not the clear, precise calling of the searchers, something else, more like the sounds of men at work. One boat, the farther one, had stopped moving. For a long time it stayed motionless. Then the voices fell away and its lantern swung in a broad arc. Drouin the mate crossed himself again.

Sylvie turned desperately to the man beside her. “What is it? What does it mean?”

“Means they ’as one, mademoiselle.”

It was the hardest waiting of all, watching the one small boat make a beeline for the steamer while the other still called and circled, wider and wider, with ever-diminishing hope.

“Steady now, steady, take it slow!”

They brought the man up by inches, with another great flurry of commands. She pushed forward desperately and saw through the mass of bodies that it was Erryn. He was conscious, but just barely, hanging in the arms of the sailors like a long, wet towel, water dripping from him everywhere, one hand pressed hard against his side. She wanted to run and wrap her arms around him in pure thankfulness and joy, but there were too many others in the way. She thought they would take him below, but instead they eased him flat out on the deck, one of them calling sharply over the voices of the others:
“Mon capitaine, il est blessé!”

The man beside her translated without being asked. “Says he’s wounded. Must’ve been a fight of some kind. That’s likely how the rail got broke.”

Sylvie’s brief flood of happiness melted back into fear. She watched as the circle of men opened and the
Saguenay’s
captain knelt by Erryn’s side. It was hard to see what he did, but she could hear fabric tear and rip. A young man came running onto the deck with a satchel. She hoped he might be a doctor, but he merely handed the satchel to the captain and went away. There were mutterings from the men, and once a small moan from Erryn. A few minutes later the captain got to his feet. “M’sieu Drouin!”

“Mon capitaine?”

“I think it would be better if we did not disturb the passengers with this. I should like to take Mr. Shaw to your quarters.”

“Mais oui, mon capitaine.”

They lifted Erryn onto a board and strapped him down. Two sturdy sailors picked the stretcher up as though it were nothing more than a feather quilt and headed for the passageway. Sylvie hurried over to the captain as he moved to follow them.

“Please, sir, how is Mr. Shaw? Will he be all right?”

Even in the lamplight she could see that he was weary and on edge, perhaps not in the best of health himself. He stared at her as if for the smallest moment he could not remember who she was or what she was doing there.

“Miss.” He touched his cap. “Yes, he’ll be fine. It’s just a flesh wound. I’ve patched up a dozen worse who walked away laughing.” He waved a summoning hand at his first mate. “M’sieu Drouin, I’m placing this lady in your care. And, miss, I want to thank you for your actions tonight. Your quick thinking undoubtedly saved Mr. Shaw’s life. If there is anything you would like for your comfort, anything at all, just ask the stewardess to fetch it for you and tell her I said so. It’s the least we can do.”

“There ain’t anything I need, sir,” she said.

“Well then, good night.” He touched his cap again. “This gentleman will be pleased to escort you to the ladies’ cabin. I hope you will have a bit of sleep in spite of it all.”

Good night?
Lord save us, he was sending her off to her bed like a bleeding child.

“But what of Mr. Shaw, sir?”

“We’ll look after him the very best we can. M’sieu Drouin, after you’ve seen the lady below, take the deck. If there’s still no sign of the other fellow, call in the searchers and get us under way.”

“Oui, m’sieu.”

“Captain, sir.” Sylvie stepped forward with a boldness she did not feel. “Please, can I come with you? To be with Mr. Shaw?”

“That’s quite unnecessary, miss. He’ll be well taken care of.”

“Please. Just for a while.”

“Believe me, Miss Bowen, it’s not a place for passengers.” His voice was brusque, impatient. He was worn right out and she was being forward. She was not a wife, after all, or a sister. Why didn’t she go back where she belonged and leave him to his duties?

“I don’t care what kind of place it be. God in heaven, sir, if it were your son they knifed and pitched in the river, you’d want someone there with him, wouldn’t you? Someone he knew, to comfort him a bit?”

He had a son, no doubt. He stared at her for a breath and then looked away. “All right. But mind, you’ll have to be quiet and let him rest.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you.”

The mate’s cabin was small and plain as a box. They made her wait outside till they were finished—for modesty, she supposed, as if she had not seen every human body part, male or female, long before she was twelve, and many times since.

Erryn lay very still, covered with a thin grey blanket. His face looked cruelly battered, as if he had been brawling in a tavern. She said nothing, not wishing to wake him, but brushed her fingers very gently across his hair. It was still wet.

His eyes opened. He tried briefly to pull his hand out from under the blanket, then settled for a small, wan smile.

“Sylvie.”

His voice was weak, barely his voice at all. It frightened her. So did the ashen pallor of his skin. She fought back the urge to spill out questions—was he all right, did it hurt, what could she do? The captain had not been long patching him up. Did that mean he was not much hurt after all? Or did it mean they did not know, or could not help? They always patted you on the head and said things would be fine. Somebody could be lying with his
head six feet away in a ditch and they still said things would be fine.

“Sylvie … I’m … so sorry …”

“Hush, love,” she whispered. “Just rest. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Try to sleep.”

Obediently, he closed his eyes. She stood very quiet, watching him. She heard the paddlewheel start up again, wondering briefly if they had found the other man and who he might have been. Then she forgot him as Erryn shifted on his bunk. He seemed almost to huddle, as if only his wound prevented him from curling himself into a ball. She bent closer and realized he was shaking.

“Erryn?”

“So c-cold,” he whispered. “Is there … m-m-more blankets?”

She looked around desperately. There was a small sea-chest in the corner, but it was locked, or perhaps only worn and difficult; in any case she could not get it open. There was an old jacket hanging on the wall, and an oilskin lying across the foot of the bunk. That was all. She spread the garments over him, right to his chin, tucking each carefully against his sides. He said a feeble thanks, trying vainly to keep his teeth from chattering.

The captain had said his wound was not dangerous, and maybe it was true. But no one knew how much blood he had lost, how close he had come to drowning. His skin felt dry and cold where she touched it, not just his hands but his chest as well, as though all the life in him were huddled deep inside, trying not to be driven out.