There was a pounding of heavy hooves and a crashing rumble that could be heard even over the flames. “Here the Marsh pumper!” someone shouted. The bucket line stopped for a time while everyone gawked at the big gray horses nearly black with sweat and the strange machine, whose tenders now leaped off; some dragged one end of a hose to the cistern and the other toward the worst of the fire, while others up on top grabbed the handles attached to a great leather bellows and began to pump them up and down. The hose swelled and curled as if it were alive as a stream of water shot out the end of the nozzle and disappeared into the inferno of blazing timbers.
“Goddammit, what happened to the buckets?” a man bellowed, and with a start the bucket line went back to work.
The most even the pumper could do, it seemed, was to keep the fire from spreading any further, not much more than a gesture, since the greater part of the yard was already up in flames. All during this time Elisabeth had seen nothing of Gideon, though once she thought she might have seen him ahead of the pumper hose and being doused by it as he sought to retrieve something from the edge of the fire. The passing of the buckets and the ache of shoulders and arms became a part of her very existence, which seldom extended farther than the hands of her neighbors on each side. She had only the vaguest idea even of what they looked like, and was aware simply that one was a man and one a woman, so smoke-blackened were they all.
*
So slowly that at first it was all but imperceptible, the fire found itself without new material to consume, and gradually the flames lost their dancing roar. The hose began to make real headway now, though the man next to Elisabeth muttered something about the water in the cistern being low.
Bit by bit the hose backed up the fire, went on into blackened territory, and licked at the edges of the flames until they retreated even further, dying a bit all the time because of lack of fuel as they were forced back onto already burned ground. Those in the bucket line were too tired to stop; they automatically went on passing the buckets as they had for hours now, the swinging of the heavy slopping weight from one hand to another as unthinking as breathing. Suddenly there were no more buckets, and they stood there looking at each other amazed, confused by the sudden freedom. The hose was now dousing nothing but blackness; there were no flames left. It was possible to see oil lanterns spotted about to cast light for the hose men. Elisabeth became aware of an obscene, acrid smell, the smell of wet scorched wood, the smell of destruction and failure.
She stumbled over to a shed still standing and sat down with her back against it, already half asleep. People were staggering about aimlessly, but finally they all disappeared and she was left with the empty silent yard, the terrible smell, and the sound of distant retreating voices. With her blackened face and clothes she had gone unnoticed by the shed, and she supposed wearily that somehow she would have to get up the strength to walk back to town. She put her face in her hands and tried to think, but nothing came. She felt empty and light, a blackened shell that like the ashes of the fire would be picked up by the wind and whirled unresisting to some unknown destination. Dear God, was it only this morning she had sat there in the library listening to Captain Blodgett rattle the newspaper?
She managed to get to her feet and limp slowly toward the gate. As she rounded the end of the shed, she heard someone clearing his throat, a homey sound so familiar that it stopped her in her tracks. She saw him standing by himself looking over the scene of destruction as calmly as if he had been contemplating an ocean through which the ship he captained plowed powerfully, dipping her bow into the cool green water.
“Gideon.” It was little more than a whisper.
He snapped his head around. “Elisabeth! Are you there? Is anyone there?”
She went up to him then and saw that his face was blackened and blistered, his bright hair scorched gray. She put her hands on his shoulders and felt that he was thinner, the bones and tendons less protected by their covering of flesh. “Gideon, love, I’m so sorry.”
Belatedly he noticed her sooty condition as he stood there half out on his feet. In wonder he ran a finger down the scorched blue silk of her gown, and all at once she was in his arms. “Oh God, how I missed you!” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t think it was possible to hurt like that and live …”
They clung to each other desperately, their mouths joined in a helpless frenzy. She buried her face on his chest at last and held him with all her strength. He pushed her away and looked into her eyes.
“Come away with me, love. Right now.”
“But —”
“No buts. We’ll go to San Francisco and start over. The Mexicans would welcome a shipbuilder.”
“Emily — remember Emily,” she said desperately.
“Blast Emily! That frigid bitch has gone crazy. Do you know who set this fire?” He actually shook her shoulders with the intensity of his anger. “Emily, that’s who. She came to you, didn’t she?”
“I’d hoped you would never know. But she had a perfect right to, you realize that?”
“Oh, she couldn’t keep anything as good as that to herself. Well?” His teeth were unnaturally white in his blackened lace, and he looked exultant, an animal set free from a trap.
In her mind’s eye she saw for a moment how it would be. They would take a ship, and she would see where he had been on the wild seas down there at the bottom of the world. They would rent a small house and she would wait for him to come home at night — every night — and they would make love with the foggy tang of a different sea coming in the window. They would — “No, Gideon,” she said sadly.
“Why not? We’ll get married there if that’s what’s bothering you, and no one the wiser. Or we could go to Canada if you’d rather —”
“No, Gideon, I can’t. I’m already married.”
He dropped his hands. “And I thought they just got the names mixed up and you were too polite to correct them. You married Malcolm, didn’t you? And so soon.”
“You said you didn’t think it possible to hurt like that and live,” she said dully. “If it hadn’t been for Malcolm, I wouldn’t have. The neighbors began on me again, and I couldn’t stand it alone any longer. I’d lost the only thing I really cared about and I thought I might as well make someone happy.”
“And did you?”
“Don’t ask me that, Gideon. I did what I thought was best.”
“If all of this had only happened a few months ago,” he said musing, “we’d be riding Dasher double to the train and taking ship at Boston for the Horn and Frisco.”
“No again, Gideon. Even if I weren’t married, even if I didn’t care about Malcolm and the promises I’ve made, there are the promises you’ve made, and you must honor them. I don’t care what she is or what she’s done, you’d feel guilty and tied to her all the days of your life. If she did this terrible thing, think of how desperate she must have been. She’s sick, and you can’t leave her now.”
“She’s sick of hate and envy and revenge, that’s what she’s sick of. I owe her nothing anymore.”
“Yes you do, Gideon. You’re angry now, but when the anger wears off you’ll feel sorry for her. I know I do. We’ve had so much, after all, and she has had nothing. People who are vindictive have been hurt badly or they wouldn’t be that way. Even worse than my never seeing you again would be seeing you look at me and hate me because you hated yourself. I’m glad, not sorry, that I married Malcolm, because otherwise I wouldn’t have the strength to refuse you like this.”
He stepped back then, and his face retreated into the shadow. “Be damned to your cold and loveless morality!” he cried, his voice breaking. He turned and ran, and before long she heard the sound of a running horse. With a hurt too great for tears, she began to trudge the long way back to town as the sky lightened imperceptibly behind her.
*
Captain Blodgett rattled his newspaper as she looked up from her cataloguing and saw Dick Poulson.
“I received your note,” he said.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“I’m about to close for lunch. We can go to the Common.”
When she came out to the anteroom, he was examining the half models with interest. “I see you’ve got one of the Andromeda,” he observed, surprised.
“Yes, Gideon gave it to us.” She could actually say his name now without feeling as if it scalded her tongue.
He gravely offered her his arm, and they strolled sedately the short distance to the Common, where they sat down on a bench. Though there was still a nip in the air, the direct sun was warm, and they looked across the new green toward the Charles River.
“I asked you here, captain, because I needed to know how Gideon was getting along.” She raised her hand in an impatient gesture at the look on his face. “You see, I happen to be in a position to have some money to invest — anonymously, of course — and I was wondering about the shipyard.”
Poulson was looking at her with interest, his fair hair shining almost silver in the sun. “Well, he’s made a remarkable comeback,” he said cautiously, “but of course the yard isn’t anywhere near back to what it was before the fire. John Rowdy and Benjamin Fine and myself invested heavily in repairs and replacement of timber and equipment. After all, we stood to lose the most if the yard didn’t get back on its feet. We’re stretched about as far as we can go, however, and there’s plenty more needed. Gideon’s a hard worker all right, but even he can’t conjure up miracles. How much were you thinking of?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Poulson’s eyebrows raised. “Indeed! At what interest, may I ask?”
“None.” She regarded him steadily.
“My dear young lady! You can’t do that, you know. It’s like adding three thousand dollars to the amount.”
“I don’t care. If there is any profit at the end, I’ll accept a fair share of it according to what everyone put in, and, of course, the principle back eventually, but until then I don’t want any interest.”
“And if the yard fails?”
She shrugged with a little smile on her lips. “Then I’ll have lost it, won’t I?”
“I had no idea that you were in possession of funds of that magnitude.”
“Tom’s trust came due, and it seems there was a condition he never thought to tell me about that stated that in the event of his death before the trust matured, any dependents he had would themselves divide the trust’s proceeds.”
“Ah, what does your husband think of this generous investment of yours?”
“He doesn’t know of it, of course. This is strictly between you and me. If he did know, however, I doubt if he would say anything. He and I are going to Switzerland on the larger part of the money, perhaps for some years.”
“Switzerland! What a strange place to want to live. I could see the south of France, or perhaps Italy, but Switzerland!”
“Yes, but Switzerland has lots of mountains, you see, and the doctors agree that the mountain air would be good for Malcolm, might in fact save his life.”
Poulson looked at her pityingly. “I see. Yes, I’ve heard that Switzerland is supposed to have effected some miraculous cures of consumption. Your Malcom has my sympathy, as do you. I assume that you don’t wish Gideon to be aware of this news, either, and I think you are wise. He has burdens enough of his own at present.”
“Please tell me, captain. How is he?”
“He’s working his head off, of course. Emily has been very ill, and she’s, ah, expecting.”
Elisabeth closed her eyes briefly, and Poulson knew how she would look when she was old. “I’m glad for him,” she said finally in a low voice. “Even if our circumstances had been different, that is one thing I couldn’t have given him. God bless him, I hope he has a raft of them.”
Poulson took her hand in his. “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Greene — Elisabeth. I didn’t, as you sensed, approve in any way of your liaison with Gideon. Since, I’ve had occasion to see that there were many reasons for it of which I was not then aware. May I say that I am glad now that you gave him some happiness, even if only for a short time?”
She squeezed his hand. “You know then how the yard was fired?”
He nodded. “The official conclusion was vandals, but yes, I know.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t had that happiness you’re talking about, and I would give him the money outright except that he would be certain to guess where it might have come from, and refuse it.” She rose. “Thank you, captain. I’ll send you our address. I’ll expect to hear from you only concerning the success or failure of the business,” she added hastily. “I think it better that I know nothing more of him.” Her voice shook. “I don’t think I could bear it.” She turned and walked rapidly away, her head bowed.
Poulson stood looking after her for a long time before he thoughtfully began making his way to his club for lunch.
*
Elisabeth sat at the window writing a letter to Bob and Evvie. Outside, the lower slopes were mantled in white, and above them the breathtaking raw peaks of the Swiss Alps thrust domes and spires up into the unbelievable blue of the sky.
“The time seems to slip by more and more quickly,” she wrote. “I can hardly believe that five years have passed since we came here. Malcolm has been furiously writing on his poetry, though the doctors don’t approve. I say if it keeps his mind off his condition, it’s all to the good. My English class is going well. The Swiss are so much better at languages than we are, or the English either, that it is a pleasure to teach them. Malcolm’s health, I’m sorry to say, is slowly deteriorating despite all that the doctors can do. They say, however, that if he had stayed in Evanston, he would have been dead long since, so I suppose it has been worth moving away from our friends, but oh how I miss you all! Jim Hart is an impossible correspondent, though occasionally I receive a welcome yet all but illegible card from Mrs. Grayson. How is he? Arrogant as ever? I would give a great deal to be back in the kitchen at Mrs. Tibbet’s listening to his ribald verse. Don’t pay any attention to my moods. It’s only that I get to feeling a bit shut in during the winter. Malcolm sends his love as always. Tell Pericles I think of him often.”
As she signed and sealed the letter, a querulous voice rose from behind her. “Dammit, Beth, when are you going to stop wasting time on all those letters and finish the manuscript? You know how eager I am to see it in print.”
“If you don’t send any letters, you don’t receive any,” she protested good-naturedly, “and you know perfectly well you look forward especially to Evvie’s.” Elisabeth addressed herself then to a pile of papers on which were scrawled poem after poem, the outpouring of a man who knew he was having his last say about the universe and about himself.
“I’ve been thinking about that first one I wrote way back in Evanston,” he said truculently, “and I think it should be included.”
She looked up. He was lying on the bed with a light blanket over him. His skin was so pale and translucent except for the deceptive flush in his cheeks mimicking health that she could almost imagine she could see the shadows of his bones beneath, not human bones at all but delicate, birdlike structures that were hollow within. “I didn’t suggest not including it,” she said mildly. “I only thought you ought to work it over first. It seems so — so awkward next to your recent work, that’s all, and it needs a third verse.” Actually, she thought despairingly, all of his work was awkward, without that graceful choice of word and phrase that made good poetry so inevitable. But she would bite her tongue off rather than tell him. All that he had left was the belief that he was writing immortal verse that would live on after he had died in so untimely a fashion.
“It couldn’t have been all that awkward,” he argued plaintively. “After all, you liked it then. I —”
He broke off and began to cough. She hastened to him to hold his head and the basin, but was unprepared for the sudden gush of bright blood that seemed to go on and on until he had finally bled his life
away there in her arms. She noticed as she went on holding him as if she could somehow hold the life in him that the disputed poem, which had fluttered unnoticed to the floor, was spattered with his blood:
I would that I had been
The first and only love you ever had,
Yet summer’s opulence is none the less
For spring’s sweet painful fire. The sad
Song of autumn haunts my heart.
*
I would that none had come before,
Who made your heart so glad,
Yet second laughter oft is best
And second love thereafter.
The sad Song of autumn haunts my heart.
Afterword
1840
The little sloop, its pennons fluttering bravely, flew across the ruffled water toward the man and the small boy kneeling at the edge of the pond. It was April, and a gusting wind blew cloud shadows racing across the pond and up onto the green of the park. The boy picked the boat out of the water and solemnly handed it to the man, who tucked it under one arm before taking the boy’s hand for the walk back out of the park.
The woman coming toward them hesitated and almost made as if to turn around, but instead lifted her chin and resumed her approach. When they were perhaps ten feet apart, the man noticed her and stopped, staring. The little boy looked up at him inquiringly.
“Hello, Gideon.”
“Elisabeth!”
“They said at the house you’d be here.” She took a deep breath and went on hastily. “I’m working in the library again. You remember how I wrote that man who was experimenting with rubber? Well, Hayward wrote me just now and says Goodyear is on the verge of perfecting a workable process and would be interested in a real test of it. I thought you might wish to correspond with him …” Her words had tumbled over each other faster and faster until she came to an indeterminate halt.
Kings of the Sea Page 19