Duke of a Gilded Age

by S. G. Rogers

  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?”

  Wesley could only make out a few words, but they were the important ones.

  “Si, Matteo, alla barca grande,” he repeated, nodding in an exaggerated fashion. “To the big boat. Ladies and children first. Donne e bambini prima.”

  At that point, the women began to protest while the men tried to make them see reason. Wesley glanced at the captain.

  “They understand now, I think. How soon before you can drop lifeboats into the water?”

  “The Apollo has been turning the whole while we’ve been down here. I’ll go topside to check on her progress.”

  After Captain Yarborough left, Wesley sagged against the wall, emotionally and physically spent. He couldn’t help notice Stephen’s smirk.

  “You’ve something to say?”

  Stephen shrugged. “Yeah. That wasn’t too bad, Wesley. Well done, actually.”

  Wesley peered at him. “You know, I’d like you far better if you left Miss Oakhurst alone.”

  In response, Stephen laughed. “On that, we must agree to disagree.”

  Captain Yarborough managed to halve the distance between the Apollo and the City of New York before ordering the first of the lifeboats lowered into the water. Wesley and Stephen tried to coax the steerage woman and children from the dining hall, but they cried and clung to their husbands and fathers. Finally Matteo raised his voice over the din. His words crackled with authority, and the women reluctantly picked up worn carpetbags, took children by the hand, and followed Wesley and Stephen on deck.

  Overhead, clouds had blotted out the moon and stars, and the ocean swells had doubled in size. Wesley did not have to be an expert sailor to recognize the increased danger. The crew of the Apollo busied themselves guiding the women and children passengers into the lifeboats, and a short while later the first of the boats pushed off for the City of New York. It rose up on the crest of a huge swell and then disappeared on the other side. As the second lifeboat prepared to depart, a fracas ensued.

  “Captain Yarborough, I simply refuse to ride with steerage!” exclaimed the lady with the dog.

  Stephen and Wesley exchanged a disgusted glance.

  “Madam, you’ve no choice—” the captain began.

  Stephen marched over. “Let me help.”

  To the woman’s shock, he plucked the dog from her arms, and handed the squirming animal down the side of the ship into the waiting arms of a crewman. The woman was beside herself, but she hastened to follow her pet into the lifeboat. She repeated, “Well, I never!” the entire way, but at last the boat shoved off.

  “Thank you, lad,” Captain Yarborough said, patting Stephen on the shoulder. “I was about to throw the beast into the drink.”

  “Which beast?” Stephen muttered.

  The captain shouted orders to his crew to move faster. After the women and children were loaded, a shoving match broke out amongst the men over their place in line. Since many of the crew were engaged in either rowing lifeboats or trying to keep the Apollo from drifting, Wesley and Stephen stepped in to sort things out. Wesley took a blow to the jaw for
his efforts, but the third and fourth lifeboats finally began inching across the writhing ocean to safety. By then, the Apollo was sitting decidedly lower in the water, and the larger waves were sending spray onto the deck. The electrical lights on board began to flicker and the remaining crew lit kerosene lamps.

  “Lads, time is running short. I want you on the next boat,” the captain said.

  Stephen grinned and gave him a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  The crew and many passengers on the City of New York formed a human chain to receive refugees from the Apollo. Belle and Louise handed out blankets to cold, wet, and terrified women and children before stewards led the refugees to their quarters in steerage. Most of the new arrivals were emotionally numb and compliant, but one dreadful woman with a dog demanded to see Captain Howe. He emerged from the bridge and listened patiently as she reeled off a list of requirements: she would have a deck cabin, chopped chicken liver for her pet, and the ship must turn around and head to New York as soon as may be.

  “I’m sorry, madam, what may I call you?” the captain asked.

  “Mrs. Stilton of Gosling Manor, Gloucester. My dog’s name is Princess.”

  Captain Howe beckoned to a waiting steward.

  “Mr. Kelly, please escort Mrs. Stilton and Princess to the finest accommodations we have—in steerage.”

  “What!” Mrs. Stilton exclaimed, trembling in outrage. “I never!”

  “You’re welcome to take your meals in the saloon, Mrs. Stilton, but all our first and second class rooms and cabins are full. Furthermore, I plan to arrive in Liverpool only a half-day behind schedule. Welcome aboard.”

  Captain Howe bowed, turned on his heel, and returned to the bridge. Belle and Louise exchanged an amused glance, which Mrs. Stilton unfortunately noticed. She singled Belle out for her wrath.

  “Having a joke at my expense are we?” she snapped. “You’ll regret it, I’m sure.”

  Belle curtsied. “I beg your pardon.”

  But Mrs. Stilton was striding off with Mr. Kelly, her nose in the air. Louise stared after her, aghast. “What was that all about?”

  Belle sighed. “Adversity can bring out the best or worst in people. Obviously, Mrs. Stilton falls into the latter category.”

  Wesley hastened toward the Apollo saloon, relishing the idea of spending a few moments someplace warm. Stephen rubbed his hands together and stuck them under his armpits.

  “Playing the hero is chilly work, I must say,” he said.

  Wesley laughed. “Agreed.” He rubbed his bruised jaw. “And occasionally painful.”

  “When I get back to the City of New York, I’d like a sandwich and a tot of brandy. Not necessarily in that order.”

  The lights sputtered, but stayed lit.

  “I’m glad we’re getting on the next boat,” Wesley muttered. “I believe the ship is sinking sooner rather than later.”

  Apprehension showed in Stephen’s eyes. “Right you are.”

  They burst into the saloon, past the pile of abandoned luggage, and dashed toward the cork vests and Mackintosh jackets they’d left on the table. Wesley suddenly noticed a well-dressed man kneeling in front of an open trunk.

  “You should be on deck, sir,” Wesley called out. “The last of the lifeboats are loading now.”

  As the man straightened, he slipped a handful of jewelry into his pocket with a furtive motion. “Thanks, kid. Much obliged.”

  The man’s American accent had a Western twang. Wesley glanced at the luggage; many of the trunks were open and their contents strewn onto the floor.

  Stephen frowned. “It looks an awful lot like you’re stealing valuables that don’t belong to you.”

  “That’s none of your business, is it? Besides, it’s all going into Davy Jones’s locker anyway,” the man replied.

  “Nevertheless, I’m going to notify the captain,” Stephen said.

  Before Stephen could take more than a few steps, a second man stepped out from behind the door and swung a cane at his head like a club.

  “Watch out!” Wesley yelled.

  The corner of the cane struck Stephen’s temple with a sickening thud and he dropped to the ground, out cold. Wesley launched himself toward Stephen’s assailant. Before the man could pull back the cane for another strike, Wesley knocked him flat. The American leaped over the luggage and shoved Wesley backward. The two exchanged several blows, but Wesley finally hit the fellow hard enough to send him flying over the long dining table. He rushed to Stephen’s aid, but then something heavy came crashing down on his head and the lights went out.

  Blackness and a throbbing headache greeted Wesley when he opened his eyes. Am I blind? He sat up, reached out his hands into the darkness…and encountered a body.

  “Stephen, is that you?” Wesley shook him and was rewarded with a groan. “Wake up!”

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Wesley struggled to his feet. In the process, he kicked over what sounded like a metal bucket.

  “Don’t make any more noise!” Stephen exclaimed. “My head hurts like the devil and it’s making me queasy. I may get sick.”

  “Please don’t. We’re in a closet.”

  “A what?” Stephen repeated, confused. “Why are we in a closet?”

  “Those two thieves must have dragged us in here after they knocked us unconscious.”

  “How long have we been out?” Stephen sat up quickly, banging into a shelf. “Ow!”

  “I don’t know, but we have to get to the lifeboat.”

  Wesley fumbled around until he found the door. Unfortunately, there was no knob and the panel would not yield to pressure.

  “Damnation, we’re locked in!”

  He pounded on the door, and shouted, but there was no answer. Stephen joined him, but still nobody came.

  “We’re making a horrible racket! Why doesn’t anyone come?” he asked finally.

  “Nobody can hear us,” Wesley said. “They’re all on deck.”

  “There’s nothing for it, then. We’ll have to break the door down.”

  Wesley and Stephen used their shoulders as battering rams. After several painful minutes, the hinges began to give way. At last the door crashed to the ground and they emerged from the closet into more darkness.

  “I suppose the generator finally went out,” Stephen said. “More bad luck.”

  Wesley peered across the room, where he discerned a glow. “I see some light.”

  “I see it, too.”

  The ship rolled to the one side just then, lying almost flat in the water. Stephen was thrown into Wesley and they both ended up on the floor. Nearby, the sound of breaking glass was followed closely by the strong odor of alcohol. The ship finally righted itself, accompanied by a cacophony of ominous creaks. Wesley and Stephen got to their feet.

  “Do you smell that? We must still be in the saloon,” Stephen said. “And if the ship experiences another roll like the one we just had, it will sink for certain.”

  Wesley could hear the tension in Stephen’s voice.

  “We’ll be on the City of New York before that happens,” he replied.

  Wesley crept forward in the dark until he encountered one of the swivel chairs anchored next to the dining table. As he felt his way across the room, Wesley felt compelled to make conversation…if only to fill the silence.

  “Terrible waste of fine scotch, from the smell of it,” he called out.

  “An utter tragedy, separate and beyond the loss of the ship,” Stephen replied from the opposite side of the table.

  “I must tell you, I’ve never been stuffed into a closet before.”

  “Nor have I. An ignominious end to a heroic escapade,” Stephen replied. “But it’ll be the worse for the rascals who put us there, when we get hold of them.”

  “Indeed. I take umbrage at being savagely attacked and left for dead, don’t you?”

  “Umbrage of the highest sort,” Stephan agreed. “Umbrage supreme, I think.”


  They left the saloon and tore up the stairs to the deck of the ship. When they emerged into the open air, Wesley and Stephen stood there in shock. Light from the kerosene lamps revealed the deck was clear of people, the Apollo had been abandoned completely, and they were on their own. Wesley repeated a few Italian curse words out loud.

  “This explains why nobody came to help,” Stephen said.

  Although panic had seized him by the throat, Wesley forced himself to stay calm.

  “We can lower a lifeboat into the water and row to the City of New York,” he said. “Between the two of us, we’re strong enough to manage.”

  “Right.”

  Wesley and Stephen each grabbed a kerosene lamp off its hook and went in search of a lifeboat. A quick examination of the Apollo revealed all the longboats had been deployed. Stephen stared at Wesley, stricken.

  “We’re dead men,” he said.

  “Look, there has to be something buoyant we can use as a raft,” Wesley said, desperate. “Perhaps we can lash a few doors together and float until a ship passes by and picks us up.”

  “The City of New York is long gone, Wesley. Just how long do you think we’d last in that water? For heaven’s sake, I nearly froze to death in the longboat as it was!”

  “They’ll notice we’re missing and come back for us.”

  “Surely everyone but the crew has turned in by now. By morning, the City of New York will be a hundred miles from here and we’ll have drowned.”

  “Belle won’t have gone to bed,” Wesley said. “She’s waiting for us.”

  “Quit being so damned…hopeful!” Stephen snapped. “We’re done for. Even if they wanted to look for us, we’ve no generator. Without lights, we may as well be invisible!”

  “The Apollo might not sink after all,” Wesley said. “It seems like the waves have diminished.”

  A huge wave broke over the side of the ship at that moment and sprayed both men with frigid sea foam. As he dried his face with his sleeve, a crooked grin crept across Stephen’s lips.

  “You’re right, Wesley. The ocean has grown calm and the ship won’t sink. It’s also possible a dirigible airship flown by leprechauns will pass overhead and pluck us off the Apollo. Anything could happen.”