by J. F. Collen
Nellie blushed, smiled, and said, “‘Twas truly magical. Thank you for a lovely night.”
As the group meandered up the path from the dock toward the West Point Hotel, Anastasia asked, “Which of your ships takes us home tomorrow, Papa?”
James Entwhistle gave a sheepish look, running his hand over his hair. “I thought we’d spy on t’ competition and ride that famous racer t’ Henry Clay,” he replied in his thick Irish brogue. “Collyer boasts his ship can run as fast as twenty-five miles an hour, and I want to verify t’ deceit of that braggart’s exaggeration.”
“Aye,” said Patrick. “We run a tight ship at Entwhistle Enterprises. ‘Twill be interesting to assess the state of our main shipbuilding competitor.”
“More pertinent, of course, to your inquiry, are the details of our return,” said the ever-practical Mrs. Entwhistle to her daughters, who nodded their heads. “In the morning, we shall attend Mass in Buttermilk Falls, breakfast at Cozzens’ Hotel, and then board the Henry Clay from the Cozzens’ Landing early in the afternoon.”
“Land sakes! The Meteorological Table, posted in The Eagle, Poughkeepsie’s newspaper, on Saturday last, predicted tomorrow’s weather to be upwards of eighty-five degrees. Whilst we shall have the river’s breeze to aid our personal temperature regulation, I do believe our lightest lawn or even cotton dresses shall be the order of the day,” said Agnes.
As they walked up the path through the starry night, Cornelia extended her hand to catch Obadiah’s, but he snatched his hand away.
Tarnation! What could be the cause of such ill humor?
She was not enlightened until she lay down in their hotel bed, and felt him beside her, rigid as a board.
“Mercy, Mr. Wright, what ails you?” she asked.
“As my wife, you should already be well cognizant of the source of my displeasure,” he replied, staring straight at the ceiling, keeping his arms at his sides so she could not nestle into them.
Nellie shook her head, reviewing the evening of laughter. She could not think of a thing that had gone awry. “Please, tell me what troubles you. I perceive no malady in this merry evening of song and dance partaken and enjoyed with our cherished family.”
But Obadiah did not reply; he lay there, unmoving.
Nellie lay her head on his arm. “Well, then, good night my sweet. I love thee truly.” She closed her eyes.
Obadiah moved with a sudden jerk, startling her from her drowsy state.
“Have you no thought of the welfare of your husband? Have you no time, when trifling diversions present themselves, to address my wellbeing?”
Nellie bolted upright, heart racing. Frightened out of her contented demeanor, she felt her stomach twist into a knot. What have I done?
“Demeaning yourself in flirtation with every man in a uniform! Why would you think it acceptable to dance with other partners? Trailing your naked hand in the water, and then giving that ungloved hand to a cadet?”
Nellie opened her mouth to reply but Obadiah rushed on. “Why did you not sit next to me, only, on the serenade boat, rather than invite Nathan and Augusta to squeeze in beside us? Am I not companion enough for you? It is your wifely duty to attend to me, ensure I am comfortable and happy in all situations. Must I prod you to attentiveness—to thought and courtesy for my needs and desires?”
“Were you not enjoying the evening?” asked Nellie.
“The evening elapsed pleasantly enough. But I noticed you gave me naught but a passing glance as you amused yourself with music and conversation.”
“Did you not amuse yourself with the same pursuits? Were you not sharing in the general camaraderie and frivolity of the evening?” Nellie put her finger in her mouth and bit her nail, a habit she thought her mother had successfully exorcised from her, and leaned closer toward him, her eyes anxiously scanning his face.
Obadiah kept his eyes cold and impassive and focused on the ceiling. “As I said, I found these diversions agreeable, but that in no way diminishes the fact that you did nothing to please me the entire evening. You never addressed me directly—you only included me as one of the general crowd. You did not keep your hand on my arm and you danced with other partners.”
“Were you not pleased I was enjoying myself?” asked Nellie.
“Cornelia, you enjoyed yourself at my expense. I shall not suffer myself to be so ill used.” In an angry, violent movement that rattled the whole bed, he turned over on his side.
Shaking and distraught, Nellie breathed hard and clenched her hands. She bit another of her nails.
She turned potential responses over and over in her head, formulating and reformulating a reply, trying to balance her expectations with his. Suddenly, she noticed Obadiah was breathing regularly and evenly. Mercy! Is he fast asleep?
Nellie crossed her arms over her chest and lay back down, staring at the ceiling. “I am sorry I was inattentive,” she said quietly.
Obadiah flipped to his other side and opened one eye. “It is high time you apologized for your actions,” he said.
A moment later, he was back asleep, while she turned and cried softly into her pillow.
Chapter 6 – In the Air Tonight
Hudson River, New York, July 1852
The steamer chopped through the waves with amazing velocity. Mercy! How fast do we travel? Nellie wondered. “If this doesn’t cap the climax! ‘Tis quite a stimulating voyage—whizzing through the waves with the speed of Poseidon’s chariot, the thrill enhanced by a veritable roster of famous people and dignitaries onboard emitting invigorating conversation.”
“Aye,” said her father, James Entwhistle. “I’ve already gone toe-to-toe with that old rascal of a rival o’ mine, Thomas Collyer. An’ I’ve pulled yarn with the Honorable Steven Allen, the former mayor of New York City... but a veritable roster of dignitaries? I didn’t ken any other renowned figures on board.”
“Au contraire,” said Nellie, “I have conducted a tête-à-tête with Mr. Andrew Jackson Downing, the editor of The Horticulturalist and renowned landscape designer of Knickerbocker movement fame. Tarnation! If I had my druthers, I would have perused the passenger list earlier to ascertain our fellow travelers’ celebrity. I surely would have paid a more assiduous devotion to fashion and worn my lace trimmed lawn dress instead of this old cotton skirt and shirtwaist!” She fingered her skirt self-consciously.
“Nonsense,” said Augusta. “You look ravishing.” Nellie felt somewhat reassured, but then she looked at Augusta’s daringly exposed décolletage framed by the beribboned bodice of her haute couture lavender dress and her doubts rushed back. Augusta is the mother of a little girl, yet still looks the quintessence of flirtatious fashion.
“Cornelia, it is unbecoming to fish for compliments. I will say this—you are the embodiment of matronly fashion, even if your skirt is last fall’s couture,” said Agnes, with one eyebrow raised.
Nellie bristled at the catty insult. Is Agnes’ sole function in life to irritate me? Matronly? Surely not! Agnes’ figure is far more matronly than mine. Tarnation! Augusta is in fact a matron—yet her fashionable attire remains as daring as ever.
“Your shirtwaist creates a charming effect upon your figure, and further, it is far easier to don on such a hot, humid July day as this,” said Augusta.
Moreover, ‘tis far easier to remove in anticipation of a cooling bath, or even a blissful swim in the Hudson. Goodness, would that I were a child permitted the joy of a swim in the river on this hot day. Aloud she said, “At least current fashion has blessed us with the new hoop underskirt—far cooler in this weather than petticoats.”
“I thank the Lord for the cool southerly breeze,” said Anastasia. Then her face assumed a devilish expression. “May it whip under our hoop skirts as effectively as it has whipped the river into a choppy rough!”
“Ach du Liebe, Anastasia, must you evoke such churlish images?” Mrs. Entwhistle tsk-tsked.
“I remain firm in my gratitude to the Lord that fashion sense has replaced
six petticoats with a single, airy hoop skirt,” said Nellie, with a wink at Anastasia, adding fuel to the fire.
Mrs. Gertrude Entwhistle grimaced and changed the subject. “I took the liberty of scheduling us for the early seating of dinner, as the temperature will continue to rise all afternoon. The enjoyment of this fine dining shall elude us entirely in warmer, even more stifling air. Ach du Liebe, I now anticipate a complete lack of any appetite at all.”
“I never met a dish that could ‘na tempt me, come hell or high water,” James Entwhistle said with his usual joviality.
“Papa!” exclaimed Agnes, as Nellie and Anastasia chuckled.
Obadiah joined their group, clustered on the forward part of the hurricane deck, overlooking the bow.
Nellie changed the subject. “Mr. Wright, I so hoped you would join us.”
Obadiah frowned in response. Nellie could see his foul humor from the night before still lingered. She rushed to make conversation. “I just concluded a stimulating exchange with Mr. Downing, the States’ premiere land design engineer. He has been to Sparta Cemetery, that wonderfully bucolic spot on top of the hill that sports the tombstone with the Vulture’s cannonball hole, and lauds what he calls the outdoor landscaping. The components of the spot quite conform to his artistic sensibilities. My conjecture is that cemetery has played a part in Mr. Downing’s fame and recent coups. As you know, our New York native son and current President, Mr. Milliard Fillmore, spent some time apprenticing in Sparta... local folklore claiming this time was spent in that very cemetery. I believe love of that spot led our President to commission Mr. Downing, who is famous for engineering similar layouts. At the President’s behest, Mr. Downing created a detailed plan for the landscape of the grounds between the White House and the Capitol in Washington D.C. Downing’s design shall extend from those buildings all the way to the new Smithsonian Institution. My word, such a prestigious project, of national importance.
“Mr. Wright, I did so want you to make his acquaintance,” Nellie continued. “Where had you secreted yourself?”
For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, Obadiah gave a genuine smile. “I engaged in a conversational escapade of my own. That renowned ‘Philadelphia lawyer’ who actually hails from Philadelphia, Mr. J. J. Speed, Esquire, also sails with us. A scintillating debate raged, assessing the merits of the United States Supreme Court case Genesee Chief v. Fitzhugh. We now await the decision of Chief Justice Taney, who opines on the question of the scope of federal jurisdiction and admiralty law over fresh water navigation in the Great Lakes.”
“A relevant inquiry as we jaunt through the section of the Hudson River more proximate to the freshwater of its northern tributaries,” said Nellie. Obadiah smiled in return but his eyes remained cold. More’s the pity; his smile does not necessarily indicate a change of heart or humor, just a satisfaction with his own conversation.... Nellie sighed. “Turning my thoughts from stimulating conversation, I submit my boundless gratitude that this navigation transpires on a quintessentially beautiful summer day.”
“One could not conjure a more picture-perfect summer’s day,” agreed Augusta.
“Land sakes, I vacillate between regret that my darling baby boy is home missing this spectacular day, and relief that he will be spared this oppressive heat,” said Agnes.
“I fear your statement encapsulates the universal plight of mothers,” said Gertrude Entwhistle, with a sympathetic smile.
“I shall make a renewed attempt to enjoy the blissful peace away from his fussing and engross myself in the spectacular scenery. Howsoever, it is difficult to fixate on any specific aspect along the shore. We travel at such a rapid pace!” complained Agnes.
“I barely discern the beauty of the mansions and estates before we have left them in our wake,” agreed Anastasia.
Suddenly, hot embers shot from the smokestacks towering directly above their heads and showered upon them. All the passengers on the hurricane deck exclaimed in alarm. Another burst of coals spat down, scorching shoulders, singeing hair, and burning holes in the awnings that sheltered passengers from the blazing sun.
“He’s running her too hard,” exclaimed Mr. Entwhistle. He folded his newspaper into a scoop and whisked the burning embers off the deck, tossing them overboard. “The boiler is overtaxed, and generating too much steam! ‘Twill surely ignite a fire.”
They heard the pilot’s bell clanging furiously.
“T’ pilot’s calling for more steam! Rascal! The cheek of t’ man,” said Mr. Entwhistle, running his hand over his hair, ending in a head scratch. He turned and engaged in a heated conversation about the ship’s capabilities with a gentleman standing next to him.
Tiny hot meteors of burning coal continued to spurt sporadically from the smokestack. “Mercy, little hot peas falling from the sky,” said Anastasia, in an attempt at levity.
“‘Tis a worrisome situation,” fretted Agnes.
“There’s no danger,” said the ship’s clerk, James Jessup, overhearing her remark. Jessup continued to placate exclaiming passengers as he passed through the deck on his way to the pilot’s house.
“Certainly not for you,” Agnes muttered. “But what about the passengers who cannot swim?”
Mr. Entwhistle rejoined their conversation group. “I’ve just gleaned from fellow passengers, wots been aboard since Albany, that t’ Henry Clay’s been racing with t’ Armenia. Damn fool captain cut t’ Armenia off, back at Kingston Landing. Thankfully, t’ Armenia crew had t’ good sense to fall back. Some passengers claim t’ Clay deliberately blocked her from t’ landing, giving her a whack on her fender. Mercifully, t’ Armenia blew off steam after t’ Henry Clay went nose to nose with her.”
“Gott im Himmel! God in heaven, if the Armenia blew off steam back in Kingston, whom in heaven’s name are we racing? I see nary another steamboat in sight,” said Mrs. Entwhistle.
“Our legislatures should outlaw passenger steamboat racing,” declared Cornelia. “Needlessly placing women and children in such peril!”
“All to satisfy t’ ego of t’ captain or t’ shipbuilder,” Mr. Entwhistle shook his head and rubbed his neck in dismay.
The dinner bell rang for the first seating and the Entwhistle party went below to the dining room. On the whole, far more liquid was consumed than food, for the heat successfully suppressed their appetites. Only James Entwhistle, true to his word, ate with his usual gusto.
After dinner, their party went their separate ways. The men climbed to the promenade deck to further explore the ship and discuss her workings, while the women went below to the ladies’ parlor.
Nellie hated being indoors. After a few minutes of polite conversation, she was itching to go back to the bow. She excused herself from the ladies and nosed her way back to the promenade deck just in time to hear her father’s loud, angry exclamation.
“We’ll disembark at t’ next stop. I’ll not be a party to this egotistical race for glory,” said Mr. Entwhistle. He turned away from the seaman and saw her. “Nellie, me love, go advise t’ women to gather their belongings. We disembark at our next landing.”
Nellie ran to the ladies’ saloon to alert her family as she was told. She left the women gathering their things and returned to the promenade deck to disembark.
But the ladies never surfaced, for the ship never stopped. It blew right by the Annsville Wharf in Peekskill, full steam ahead, engines straining.
“By all the Saints in heaven, I’ll be an organ grinder’s monkey!” exclaimed Mr. Entwhistle. “We are building up our head of steam!”
“By all appearances, we are racing still!” shouted Patrick, scanning the water beyond their ship’s wake for evidence of the Armenia.
“The whole ship shudders and the smokestack is throwing off enough heat to give the fires of hell a run for their money,” said Zetus.
“T’ planks o’ this ship seem anxious to move from their places. None o’ our ships shake, groan, and creak so, like tortured souls in t’ fires o’ eter
nal damnation,” said James Entwhistle.
“We make sure to run ‘em so they won’t shake,” confirmed Nellie’s brother Jerome. “We won’t stoop to racing ‘em.”
He reached out and caught the elbow of a man hurrying by. James took one look at the man Jerome waylaid and demanded, “Look ‘ere, Collyer, this is an outrageous business! I’ve watched ye scurry to t’ pilothouse and back on a dozen occasions, and I’ve only just boarded at Cozzens’ Landing. I don’t know what game yer playing, but I don’t rightly appreciate ye preventing me from disembarking at me stop. What’s t’ meaning o’ this?”
“James! Jest a little competition between two of the best built ships anywhere,” boasted Collyer, poking James in his well-padded ribs. “Jenkins over there....” Collier pulled Entwhistle over to the rail and pointed up the river at the ship following about a mile behind them. “...owner and captain of my shipyard’s Armenia, attempts to prove the merits of his finely crafted vessel. But this here little filly, the Henry Clay, has earned quite the reputation for her speed. Welcome to the show—we’re giving the passengers what they paid for.”
“T’ speed is excessive Collyer. All the passengers are protesting the showers of hot coals ye be tossing on their heads, and remonstrating for a safer passage. Ye must tell Captain Tallman if he doesn’t slow her down, she’ll combust! And then, by gum, his eighth interest in t’ ship will be an eighth o’ nothing,” said Nellie’s father.
“Tallman is indisposed today. Sure, he is onboard, but I am calling the shots, acting captain for the day. What do the passengers know? Are they expert seamen? No. They must mind their own beeswax. Are they skilled engineers? No....”
“For t’ love o’ Saint Michael, I am!” interrupted James. “And I say it is time to put a stop to this folly. Look here man, ye’ve beat t’ Armenia handily. We’ve been full throttle, full steam ahead, since Cozzens’ Landing. We are almost to Yonkers’ wharf and t’ Armenia’s no longer in sight. The race is won. Time to let off the steam. I’m gonna speak to pilot Edward Hubbard meself and put an end to this Tom Foolery.”