by Conrad Allen
“So do I, George.”
“Please don’t let it come between us. It won’t happen again.”
“What guarantee do I have?”
“My word.”
“I thought I already had that,” she replied sadly.
He lowered his head for moment, accepting her rebuke without complaint. The afternoon tour of New York had met with an unforeseen obstruction. Dillman wondered how he could remove it. He looked up at her again.
“It was my turn to have delusions,” he said.
“Delusions?”
“Yes. I didn’t think I was the Prince of Wales with a British regiment at my command. Mine was a more ridiculous fancy. I believed that I knew what you wanted.”
“So you kept me in the dark.”
“Foolishly.”
“I’m old enough to make my own decisions, George.”
“I accept that. What a mess!” He sighed. “Neither of us ends up getting what we’d choose. I sail off to Japan alone and you board the Carmania without me.” He was in need of reassurance now. “Is that what will happen?”
There was a pause. “How long will the Minnesota be away?” she asked.
“Several weeks.” He saw her wince. “It takes the best part of a fortnight to reach Yokohama. And there’s the small matter of getting to Seattle in the first place. That will involve a very long and tedious train journey. It will be even longer and more tedious without you, Genevieve.”
“Is that all I am?” she teased. “An amusing distraction on the train?”
“Of course not!”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Will you miss me?”
“Painfully.”
“What would you do to persuade me to go with you?”
“Anything,” he vowed. “Anything at all.”
She was touched by the obvious sincerity in his voice. Genevieve disliked arguments as much as he did, and there had been very few of them in the past. This was a new situation, a disagreement that was central to their relationship. They had reached a turning point, and she was uncertain how to proceed. Genevieve was aware of a paradox. Wanting him to view them as an inseparable team, she nevertheless clung to her independence. She agonized in silence. Togetherness and personal pride exerted conflicting claims upon her.
“Let me tell you what I need before I can even consider this venture,” she announced, watching him carefully. “I want your solemn promise that you will never again take me for granted. It’s humiliating, George.”
“I understand that. It won’t happen again.”
“Do you promise?”
“With all my heart.”
“Good,” she said, relaxing. “In that case, I have only one more question.”
“Do you?”
His hopes flickered. Genevieve bestowed a conciliatory kiss on his cheek.
“What sort of clothes will I need to pack for the Far East?” she asked.
TWO
It was the most exhilarating journey she had made in her entire life. Genevieve Masefield was so fascinated by the scenic beauty that unfolded around her day after day that she had no time to notice the jolting of the cars, the noise of the locomotive, the clouds of black smoke, the discomfort of the seats, the chatter of her fellow passengers, the shortcomings of the food, or the interminable length of the ride. For someone who had only ever seen English countryside through the window of a train, America was a revelation. Prairies, mountains, rivers, lakes, and forests competed for her attention. The sky was a continual object of wonder, changing in color and appearance as they surged along beneath its vast awning. What overwhelmed Genevieve was the sheer scale of everything. Bridges were massive, tunnels were endless, and the occasional viaduct completely dwarfed its British counterparts. Herds of cattle ran into thousands, buffalo thundered in profusion across the plains, wheat fields stretched to infinity. Even the towns they passed and the stations at which they stopped were sources of intense curiosity to Genevieve. Crossing the continent was one big adventure.
George Porter Dillman was equally impressed by it all, but more phlegmatic in his response. Though it was his first trip from one coast to another, he had some idea of what to expect and was able to give Genevieve some useful information at every stage. Each new state produced a brief history, each new city unleashed a fresh supply of amusing anecdotes. Dillman was a good listener with a retentive memory. The journey gave him the chance to retell some of the many stories he had picked up about different parts of his native country. Seated opposite him, Genevieve was an appreciative audience. She was never bored. They were a hundred miles from their destination before she asked the obvious question about the vessel on which they were to sail.
“Why is it called the Minnesota?”
“I guess it’s because that’s where her owner lives,” he replied. “No less a person than the celebrated James J. Hill.”
“You’ll have to excuse my ignorance,” she said. “Who exactly is James J. Hill?”
“A railroad king. He built the Great Northern on the heels of the Northern Pacific Railroad. Both of them end in Seattle. We’re traveling over his tracks right now. Mr. Hill is a farsighted businessman. The prize at stake for him was trade with China, so he had the two ships built to further his interests.”
“Two?”
“The Minnesota and the Dakota.”
“No need to ask why he chose that name. It’s the neighboring state.”
“Jim Hill is a hero in Dakota,” said Dillman. “His railroad really opened the state up, North and South. Actually, he was a Canadian by birth but he found more scope for his genius south of the border.”
“He sounds like an enterprising man.”
“I take my hat off to him. He’s a man with real vision.”
“Have you ever met him, George?”
“Unfortunately, no,” he admitted, “but I did get to see him when the Minnesota was launched. And his daughter, for that matter.”
“His daughter?”
“Miss Clara Hill. I felt so sorry for her.”
“Why?”
Dillman gave a sympathetic smile. “Things didn’t go quite to plan, Genevieve. It must be all of—what?—five years ago now. April 16, 1903. I doubt if Jim Hill and his daughter have forgotten that date either.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“I had an invitation to the launch at Groton, Connecticut. Now there’s another example of his vision,” he noted in passing. “Since no yard in New England was big enough to build the two giant vessels that were projected, Hill constructed an entirely new yard. Groton was a good choice. He bought a forty-acre shorefront property with a solid rock foundation that ran down to deep water. That’s where the fiasco occurred.”
“Fiasco?”
“Launching a ship is a difficult job at the best of times,” he explained. “When the vessel is over twenty thousand tons, it’s both difficult and perilous. So much can go wrong.”
“I’m sure.”
“They had serious problems with the Minnesota. What a day! Everyone was there for the occasion. I was one of a crowd of thousands on land, and thousands more were watching from boats. Every member of the Connecticut state senate turned out. It was a proud day for the Hill family.”
“Did it all end in tears?”
“Not exactly, Genevieve, but it came close to that. I can see Clara Hill now,” he said reflectively. “She looked quite beautiful. She was wearing a maroon coat, a sable boa, and a flower-trimmed hat. But when she tried to crack a bottle of champagne across the bow, nothing happened. A frantic message came up from the yard superintendent and her father rushed off at once.”
“What was the matter?”
“The men couldn’t shift the timbers holding the ship. A hundred of them were swinging huge wooden rams without making any impression. I can imagine what Mr. Hill said to them. He speaks his mind. Meanwhile, of course,” he continued, “his daughter was shivering in
the cold on that platform. She stuck it out bravely for an hour, then retreated to the shelter of the shipyard fence. All we could hear up above were the deafening thuds as the men hammered away relentlessly at the timbers. We began to wonder if the ship would ever be launched.”
“And was it?”
“Eventually,” he confirmed. “Another hour went by, then the word came up from below. By this time, Miss Hill had been fortified by hot coffee from her father’s railroad parlor car. She rushed back to the platform, smashed her bottle without ceremony, and the Minnesota slid gracefully down the ways and into the water.”
“What a relief!”
“That was the general feeling.”
“How did you come by the invitation to be there?”
“I was once in the same business, remember,” he said wistfully. “Of course, we only built yachts up there in Boston. They were tiny by comparison with an ocean-going liner. But you make lots of friends in that world. One of them was involved in the construction of the Minnesota, and thought I’d be interested to take a look at her.”
“Did you ever imagine that you’d sail in the ship, George?”
“No, this is a real bonus.”
“I could say the same.”
“In what way?”
“Well,” she said, glancing through the window as another glorious vista beckoned, “I never expected to see any of this. To be frank, I didn’t so much come to America as flee from England. Just look at it, will you?” she urged, indicating the view with a hand. “My mouth has been wide open since we left New York.” Genevieve turned back to him. “If I’d known it would be this beautiful, I might have come sooner.”
“I’m glad you crossed the Atlantic at precisely the time you did,” he said fondly. “Otherwise, I might never have had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“The pleasure is mutual.”
They exchanged a smile, then lapsed into silence for a while. Genevieve studied the landscape again before shifting her gaze to the cloud formations above it. Minutes passed before she became aware that he was watching her. There was a contented expression on his face, but it was edged with concern.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said evasively.
“I know that look in your eyes, George. Something is troubling you.”
“Slightly, perhaps.”
“Go on.”
“Well,” he confessed after a pause, “I just hope that I’m not dragging you into something that we’ll both regret. It won’t be a case of five days on a Cunard liner this time. We’ll be at sea far longer, and the trip may be fraught with danger.”
“Danger?”
“We’re not just there to look out for thieves and cardsharps, Genevieve. That’s the easy bit. The main reason they want us onboard is to safeguard the cargo. They have a strong suspicion that someone is concealing smuggled goods inside legitimate freight.”
“What sort of goods?”
“That’s the problem,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re not entirely sure. It’s going to be a tricky business, make no mistake about that. We’re looking for something when we don’t even know what it is.”
“Do we have any leads at all?”
“None that I know of, Genevieve, but we’ll be briefed more fully when we get aboard. One thing is certain. These people are professionals. A great deal of money is involved here. Be warned,” he emphasized. “When the rewards are that high, they’ll stop at nothing to avoid detection.”
“I’ll be very careful,” she promised.
“You’ll need to be—and so will I.”
“What about the sister ship?”
“Sister ship?” he echoed.
“The Dakota,” she reminded him.
“Ah, yes.”
“Do they have the same problems aboard that?”
“Not anymore, I fear. That’s the other thing I should warn you about.”
“What?”
“Hazards at sea,” he said. “The Pacific is a hungry ocean, Genevieve. It swallows ships in one frightening gulp. The Dakota ran aground on a submerged reef forty miles from Yokohama. It was a total loss. When that kind of thing happens, the biggest vessel in the world is utterly helpless.”
They reached Seattle with hours to spare before the Minnesota sailed. It was only when she alighted at the station that Genevieve realized how exhausting the train journey had been. Her limbs were stiff and her neck ached. When they were ready to embark, they parted company so that they could appear to be traveling separately. Dillman had learned from experience that they were more effective if they were not recognized as a couple. Individually, they could go places and elicit information that would have been impossible under other circumstances. While accepting the wisdom of the arrangement, Genevieve regretted that she would not see as much of Dillman on the voyage as she would have liked, but she had the reassuring feeling that he would always be there in an emergency.
As soon as she entered the customs shed, she saw that this would be a very different assignment. During her work on transatlantic liners, she dealt almost exclusively with American or European passengers. The Minnesota carried a much more cosmopolitan population. Asiatic faces abounded. There were Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Filipinos, and even a few Siamese. The simplicity of their clothing made her feel ridiculously overdressed. Genevieve could not understand a word of their rapid conversations, but those who glanced in her direction showed an immediate deference. Of the white passengers, a large majority were American, disparate accents suggesting that they came from all over the continent. It would not be quite so easy for Genevieve to adopt her usual camouflage by joining a group of her compatriots. That could prove a hindrance. On the Lusitania and its like, she blended in perfectly. Here, she saw, she would tend to stick out.
When she came out onto the landing stage and caught her first glimpse of the ship, she stopped in her tracks. Without quite knowing why, Genevieve was profoundly disappointed. Though smaller than the twin flagships of the Cunard Line, the Minnesota was a daunting sight. Over two hundreds yards in length, it loomed over the harbor like a gigantic black whale. What set it apart from the ships on which she normally sailed was the fact that it was also a freighter, capable of carrying a cargo of thirty thousand tons as well as substantial amounts of water and coal. The last of a consignment of flour was still being loaded into the hold. To her eye, the Minnesota lacked distinction, and Genevieve put it down to the fact that it had a single funnel at its center. The Cunard flagships had four stacks apiece. Only three of them were functional, but a fourth had been added for reasons of symmetry. Four stacks suggested power and gave a vessel definition. Genevieve felt that there was something missing from the Minnesota.
Yet it had one revolutionary feature that gave it an advantage over its rivals. A deep, melodious, American voice at her elbow obligingly pointed it out to her.
“I bet you’ve never seen one of those before, have you?” he said.
“One of what?” she asked, turning to face a big, broad-shouldered man in his thirties with an attractive woman on his arm. “I was looking at the funnel.”
“Forget the funnel. Every steamship has one or more of those. Take a look at that winch,” he advised, pointing a finger. “That’s one of thirty-seven aboard, and every one of them is electric. Isn’t that something?”
“I suppose it is,” agreed Genevieve.
“Listen to that accent, Horry,” said the woman with a smile. “Don’t you love it?”
“You know me, honey,” he replied. “I adore anything English. Oh,” he went on, touching his hat politely in greeting. “Allow us to introduce ourselves. Horace and Etta Langmead. We’re from Chicago.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said Genevieve, exchanging brief handshakes with them. “My name is Genevieve Masefield. You’ve already guessed where I come from.”
Langmead grinned. “We worked that out before you even spoke.”
“Is it tha
t obvious?”
“Delightfully so. Is that Miss or Mrs. Masefield?”
“Miss, actually.”
He was surprised. “Really? You mean, you’re not married yet? What’s wrong with the guys over there? Are they all blind or just plain stupid?”
“You’re being personal, Horry,” said his wife. “Excuse him, Miss Masefield.”
Genevieve smiled tolerantly. “No offense taken.”
They set off toward the vessel and their respective porters, who had waited patiently in their wake, now trailed behind them with their luggage. Genevieve took an instant liking to the newcomers. Horace Langmead was a handsome, confident, well-dressed man who was affable without being presumptuous. His wife, Etta, was a plump, dark-haired, vivacious woman with expressive dimples in her cheeks. From their air of prosperity, Genevieve suspected that they must be first-class passengers, an impression reinforced by the sight of their trunks. She had made her first friends, and she sensed that the Langmeads would be pleasant traveling companions. Her early reservations about the Minnesota began to fade.
“Are you going to Japan or China?” wondered Etta Langmead.
“Both,” said Genevieve.
“Wonderful! So are we. Do you hear that, Horry?”
“Loud and clear,” he said.
“Have you been to the Orient before, Miss Masefield?”
“No,” said Genevieve, “this is my first time.”
“It’s the same for me,” admitted Etta with quiet excitement, “though my husband has been to Japan and China many times.”
“Strictly on business,” he added.
“What’s Japan like?” asked Genevieve.
“Much too good for the Japanese.”
Langmead gave a confiding laugh, then stepped back so that the women could go up the gangway first. When their tickets were examined, they were escorted to their cabins by stewards. The Langmeads had been given one of the eight luxury suites on the boat deck, but Genevieve was conducted to a cabin on the promenade deck. Like all the first-class accommodation, it was on the outside of the vessel, and she had a first view of the Pacific Ocean through one of the portholes. Large, comfortable, and well appointed, the cabin could be electrically heated in colder weather. Genevieve was very pleased with what would be her home for several weeks. She settled in at once by unpacking her trunk and hanging up her clothes in the fitted wardrobe. As the hour of departure neared, she went out onto the promenade deck to join the other passengers at the rail.