The Halifax Connection

by Marie Jakober

  “They don’t exist. And if they did, it would be the wickedest thing imaginable, turning a man into a fish. God made men and He made fish, and He didn’t make them to be changing places.”

  Madame started to reply, but a younger lass was faster. “A silkie’s not a fish, ma’am. He’s a seal.”

  “Doesn’t matter in the least. He’s a perversion of nature.”

  A perversion of nature? Oh, my, my, I must tell Erryn. I wonder what he’ll say.

  Then there were the Misses Bedard, trying to decide which of the lads from McGill was the most attractive, and why, for one had finer hair and the other had broader shoulders and a third was said to be very rich. There was Mrs. Foster, the Grey Tory from St. John, thinking it a great pity they hadn’t sung “The Bonnie Blue Flag” as a tribute to the brave, outnumbered heroes of the South—especially since she had made a personal request for it.

  Sylvie sighed, trying to control her impatience. At least an hour passed before Madame was ready to go to her berth. By then nearly everyone else had done the same, and there was only the stewardess to deal with, a sturdy, brisk woman in her late thirties. She was an altogether admirable stewardess, courteous, thoughtful, and busy. Still, for Sylvie she represented authority, to say nothing of respectability—those stern, unyielding boundaries of a proper lady’s life. Sylvie tried to imagine their conversation.

  “Was there something you needed, miss?”

  “No, m’um.”

  “But where would you be going, then, miss? It’s very late.”

  “Out on the deck.”

  “But miss, most everyone’s abed, except for them”—and here she would point to steerage, out behind the cargo bay, whence, even through two sets of doors and mountains of freight, boisterous noises could be heard—“and Lord knows what sort they might be. You can’t be going out on the deck alone, miss.”

  “Oh, I won’t be alone. My young man is waiting for me.”

  At which point, Sylvie thought, the stewardess would turn pale, march over to wake Madame Louise, and ask her if she knew that her servant was playing the harlot behind her back.

  No, it would never do; she would have to slip out. Funny, she thought, how a woman could be done in with factory dust or starvation or disease or drink, and no one would bat an eye, but the whole bleeding world bent over backward to save her from a handful of kisses.

  The ladies’ cabin filled less than a third of the middle deck; the rest was taken up by passenger baggage, freight, and, at the stern, the cabin for the steerage passengers. Sylvie could hear them clearly the instant she slipped out into the cargo bay—a general hubbub of voices, children crying, the clattering sound of something being dropped. A frail lamp outlined mountains of boxes and crates piled in uneven rows. But there were no ruffians about, only two immigrants standing by the rail in the passageway, laughing and talking in a language she did not understand. They seemed to be great friends, totally absorbed in their conversation. Sylvie was light, slender, and quick on her feet, and the steady slapping of the paddlewheel was far louder than the soft steps of a woman or the small rustle of her dress. She waited until her eyes had completely adjusted to the darkness, then she crept past them and up the stairs to the deck.

  She thought Erryn would be right there, waiting, eager to see her, maybe catching her in his arms even as she appeared. But she could see no one at all; the deck seemed utterly deserted. She fought back her first rush of disappointment. He might be off to the side, perhaps. The night was pitch-black, without a star, and only the gimballed candles were lit now in the grand saloon, leaving small, timid pools of light, no bigger than a pair of pillows, just below the stern windows. It would be hard to see anyone who had wandered more than a few feet away.

  “Erryn?”

  There was no answer, no movement, nothing but the steady slapping of the wheel and once, briefly, a harsh masculine laugh from the passageway below. She looked through the stern windows into the grand saloon with its rows of stateroom doors, all shut tight like the gates of palaces. She looked up where the puffing funnel was barely a silhouette against the black, descending sky.

  Had she missed him? Had he come out and grown bored with waiting and gone off to his bed? She had not been terribly long, an hour and a half, or possibly two, and he knew she had to wait on Madame … No, probably he had not come at all. He had shrugged off his promise like a drop of rain and gone to his bed …or elsewhere. Perhaps he found the other ladies far more pleasing, the ones who gathered around him after the concert, flashing their jewels and their eyes.

  Always it was the same, she thought. Always she allowed herself to hope, to imagine that something might have changed, that this time, with this man, it might be different … and always she was wrong. Always the hurt was new and unbearable, as though it had never happened before.

  She knew he was not there; to imagine otherwise was absurd. Yet she walked to the far side nonetheless, and then slowly back toward the stern, trailing her hand along the rail for balance in the darkness. The tears came slowly, quietly, at first, and then more and more bitterly. For the smallest moment she scarcely noticed the splinter tearing at her hand; it was only another hurt. For yet another moment she felt only bewilderment: what on earth was that? She felt at her hand and found it wet, not as with water but with something sticky. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and looked down. Right beside her, the upper railing was gone, its jagged end thrust out into nothing like a tree trunk broken in a storm.

  Oh, my God …

  She ignored a wild impulse to lean out across the water and scream Erryn’s name. Instead, she sped back down the passageway, past the two foreigners who still smoked by the paddlewheel, praying they were honest immigrants and would not try to grab her. She did not knock on the door of the pilothouse, she wrenched it open and yelled at the two men inside.

  “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 th
ink 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, i
t’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.