“What did he say?” Cutter showed the trace of a smile.
“The newsmen didn’t know what they were getting in for when they asked Jolly to walk up to the microphone. He didn’t want to do it but his wife and sister made him. Then Reverend Blue got into it too. You know Reverend Blue?”
Cutter nodded. “He’s the one with the lighted crucifix around his neck. He lights up to red and blue colors when he presses a button in his pocket.”
“Well, his lights were going off, red and blue, blue and red. Finally Jolly says, waving his arms, “All right, I’ll go up there and talk to ‘em. Can’t say as I can do much good.”
The Chief picked up a mug of coffee and sipped, then said, “There was a new reporter from New York with a suit that, damn it, shined I was told. Maybe he was the one that interviewed Stringer, I don’t know. He was a cocksure son of a bitch, Jim, and he tried his stuff out on Jolly.” He reached over to his computer console. “I recorded the interview to show to my crew for laughs.” He hit a button and the video came on. The noise of the bar provided a background to the reporter aggressive questioning and Jolly’s relaxed comments.
“What’s your name, Mister?”
“Eh, Jolly.”
“You’re from River Sunday, is it Mister Jolly?”
“Yessir, that’s right.”
“What do you do around here, Sir?”
“Well, I build boats.”
Steele smiled. “You can figure, Jim, that the crowd knew Jolly was coming up to something and the reporter didn’t have a clue. Here’s when the lady from his New York staff came over and whispered in his ear who Jolly was. You can see him change his attitude.”
“You have constructed boats for decades, Mister Jolly. Your crew built the Peregrine. Can you inform the American people what you think of Mister Stringer’s worries about the Peregrine.”
“I don’t think he has much to say at all.”
“He’s the designer. You don’t think that means anything?”
“Well, first off, he ain’t the designer. That boat was set down over a hunnert years ago by someone, nobody even remembers who it was, who had already forgot a lot more about these clipper boats than Stringer ever knew.”
“The ship wasn’t safe.”
“She was fast. That was the whole purpose of building her. She was designed to go fast. To go fast you have to take risks. Mister Stringer was a damn liar and I don’t mean maybe. He come in River Sunday to help us make up a copy of one of our old clippers. That’s all he did. His job wasn’t to say the boat was good or bad, just make one.”
“The American public thinks he’s right.”
“The American public ain’t from River Sunday. Boat like this sailed for a long time and made a lot of very fast trips without any problem. It ain’t an unsafe boat.”
“So you’re not worried about the Peregrine and its crew?”
“Nossir, I’m not. Boat is as good as its crew. That’s the whole meaning of this trip anyway. It’s the crew and she’s got a good one.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Reverend Blue told us last Sunday the truth is in the men on that boat. The Lord helped the men to sail her. We been sending men down to the sea for centuries. Haven’t lost any more than our share. Ship will take it. We been building pungies and schooners. It’s a lot about the men and women sailing them. Boats never been perfect but the sailors and their guts are the same. Preacher say men made the boats but God made the men. He say that’s God’s perfection to get the job done.”
“Bay storms are a big difference from hurricanes.”
“I’d say to you there’s a big difference in studying them from land and sailing them out there in the water. Reefed with tops and foresail, all hatches closed, they’ll be all right.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I’m damned sure, mister.”
Steele smiled. “Even though he's a short man, he looks about two feet taller than the asshole newsman. You can hear the applause.”
“Reverend says we all make mistakes. There’s mistakes at being human and mistakes taking chances to go ahead. You got to for something worthwhile.”
“Worthwhile?”
“Let me ask you something. A century ago we were challenged by the British in a sailing race that came to be known as the America’s Cup. Do you know that the American team copied our Chesapeake ships like the Peregrine in order to win that first race? So you see, sailing these old boats is worthwhile.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Maybe to a lot of people who want reality in this world. Reality is hard work and risk.”
The telephone rang at Steele’s desk. He stopped his computer.
“Sparkles is on the phone,” Steele said, handing the receiver to Cutter.
“Mister Cutter, we picked up an offshore transmission of a Peruvian Navy ship still working the storm zone. Their radar has found a contact.”
Doc Jerry came on, “The Peregrine’s been found. She’s all right. Sails in storm set and making way heading south from the winds. Her communications started again too and we now have her on the chart.”
When Cutter told Steele, the Chief said, “See, what’d I tell you about Captain Hall, Jim?”
Cutter smiled for the first time and slapped Steele on the back. “Whatever you told me, it’s all right.”
The only person he wanted to talk to was Katy. She was on her way to River Sunday from Baltimore. She congratulated him on the good news.
“I think I had a little more faith in your son’s ability than you did,” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I did worry too much.”
“Fathers are allowed.”
Neither spoke for a few moments.
Then Katy asked, “If the crisis is over with the boat, can you get away to help us at Staten Island? I need some of your know how on this wreck site.”
“You got it.”
“By the way, that Honda was following me for a while tonight. It was the same one, the car with the bent rear fender. Could not see the driver. Eventually it went away.”
Cutter said, his voice trembling from exhaustion and now fear for her safety, “I’ve let all the people I love get into danger. You and Jamie might be killed by this thing before it is over.”
“I can take it.”
“I can’t save you guys. It’s what happened to me in Africa with Rosa and Jamie all over again.”
“We’ll be all right.” Her voice was calm but he was very worried. He did not know what Strand would do next to harm his people.
“At least I can let the State Police know about this Honda. Maybe they can figure out who it is.”
Hours later, Cutter was awakened from an exhausted sleep by the pounding on his hotel door. Immediately he thought of Jamie.
Doc Jerry called, “You got to come over right away.”
He looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. He quickly dressed and rushed down the huge stairway into the lobby of the Chesapeake Hotel. Outside the hotel, the streets of River Sunday were quiet. The night air smelled like the harbor, a tinge of fish and rot and seaweed. He ran to the Peregrine operations office located a few blocks away. When he entered, Doc Jerry came spilling into the front room, excited, several printouts in his right hand.
He shouted, “The Louis 14 has been found. The Peregrine discovered her by nearly running into the hulk, submerged under the ocean surface by about a foot. French and Peruvian cutters have been searching the area for bodies. All crew drowned, including Captain Etranger.
Cutter read the notes. “Let’s get ready for a press release of some kind. Get all you can from our people out there at the scene.”
“We have staff on the Navy carrier that is approaching the location.”
Among the printouts was a first report on the British Willow. She broke some of her bow timber and seawater had filled part of the hull. She was half-sunk on the sandbar a few miles out from the Peruvian coast. All
its crew were safe.
Finally, Cutter found a note on the America, Strand’s boat. She had lost some rigging. All had been replaced and she was fully underway back on course towards China.
The others were coming into the office. Chairs scraped as the team sat down at their stations and turned on their computers. Cutter slapped the papers against his desk. He was aware only two clipper brigs were left in the race. The race had come to Strand International versus Johnson Company, the America versus the Peregrine.
Sparkles had turned on the television to get the news. Cutter stood watching as the first videos came across the screen. A woman reporter was standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier, a yellow parka pulled over her shoulders. As a pair of helicopters idled their big rotors behind her, she talked into her mike, her face excited. The helicopter blew her hair behind her. Cutter could see storm rain spitting in the bright lights of the large ship.
“We’re reporting to you from the deck of the United States aircraft carrier Harry S. Truman. Early this morning the Peregrine radioed they had come upon the half-sunk wreck of the Louis 14, their competitor in this round the world race. Its crew was lost.” The television camera now panned over the side of the carrier deck and picked up, in the glare from huge spotlights, the upper mast detail of the Peregrine.
On the deck and on the yardarms men and women worked to bring the sails to the proper squaring. Small as she was, the wooden brig kept up with the larger steel ship while managing to stay clear of her huge nuclear-powered wake.
The reporter and her cameraman climbed down to the brig’s deck. When she arrived on the much smaller deck, she interviewed Captain Hall who praised his crew. Madeline Etranger was standing next to him, haggard in the bright lights.
“We understand that you were the first to spot the Louis 14.”
“It was on my watch, yessir,” she said, her English tinged with her French accent.
“Did you see your father?”
“No. No one.”
“We’re sorry,” said the reporter.
She turned and pointed to the bow of the Peregrine, “Show us where you took your watch.”
Madeline pointed to the fore top mast of the Peregrine, with was swaying back and forth in the swells. “Up there.”
“Way up there?”
“Yessir. In these waves you have to be high up.”
“Don’t the heights bother you, Madeline?”
“You get used to it, sir.”
Madeline was asked to comment on her father. She said, moving her hands to stop the tears, “He died the way he wanted.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wanted to go down at sea in his ship if he died. He did not want to die. He deserved a longer life. More than anyone he should have lived long and hard. But, if he had to go, he wanted to be fighting for something he loved and that was the sea.”
“What was he fighting for?”
“He proved that a man is still a man not a number. He proved that even if he is part of a team he is still someone special.”
“You plan to keep sailing?”
“Yes, to China,” she said, staring hard at the camera. “My father wanted to win and I will win for him.”
Jamie had come up next to her. Cutter grinned as he heard his son speak. He said, placing his arm around her waist, “We use the wind. We don’t let it use us. Besides, that albatross sitting on the tip of the Peregrine mainmast likes the pancakes Madeline makes up for him. Couldn’t disappoint the bird or we’d all sink for sure.”
The video went to the sight of the large bird, who looked down at the lights below him.
Tolchester’s century old words came back to Cutter as he watched.
“Peregrine will come back. She’s not finished yet.”
Chapter 18
August 29, Midnight
Staten Island
Katy and Cutter returned to Staten Island. They drove into Narrows Beach close to midnight. She had arranged a motel near the shoreline within a hundred yards of the boat slip for the rental dive boat. A diner’s neon light blinked welcome nearby.
Katy said, “Come on.”
Inside, at a booth in the back of the room sat Peter Wingate and two other men Cutter did not recognize. By the time they were halfway to the table, Peter looked up and waved.
He shook hands and turned to the man beside him. “This is Captain Tate and his mate, Willie. I asked for Captain Tate because he’s looked for wrecks before,” said Peter. “They’ll be running the boat and helping with the dive gear tomorrow. How’s the brig doing?”
“One hundred days out making good time,” said Cutter. They joined the others on the red plastic booth seats.
“The eggs are good here,” said Tate.
Cutter said, “We’re hungry, that’s for sure. We just got off the road.”
“We have been going over the search route for tomorrow.”
The salvage expert, tousled hair and all, laid out his materials and went over his strategy for the underwater search. He unfolded a large yellow map.
“This is the New York 12327 chart. Hell of a busy harbor here. We’re not going to have a quiet little bay to ride up and down. Near the sandbar area that we plan to search there’s a yacht basin.”
Cutter asked, “What about the media?”
“We might be lucky and not be bothered. The boat I’ve hired is fairly old and non-descript. If we mind our business and don’t stir up any wake to speak of, there may be no notice of us.”
Peter shuffled the papers in front of him. He said, “You got to understand the research alone on this project is almost impossible. I don’t know for sure whether this is even the right location. You know what I mean, Katy.”
She nodded.
“I began with the statement by the steamer captain at the time the ship was wrecked. We are told by this captain who said he saw the wreckage disappear under the storm waves that the brig was located directly one and a half miles offshore on the sea side of the West Bank shallows and to the southeast of the Quarantine Hospital. He said that the old shot tower was directly to the north of the wreck, on a sight he could make before the masts were washed away.
“From my friends at Mystic Seaport Museum I got copies of several maps of New York Harbor. We have one for 1840, one for 1850, and another for 1890. They were similar but you’d be surprised the changes in the coastline that come even during those close years of mapmaking.” He spread out the charts.
“You guys can see the Quarantine Hospital on the 1840 map. According to the eyewitness the wreck was about here,” he measured with a ruler. “This is about one and a half miles offshore to the southeast. Comes up near this sandbar that is called the West Bank.”
Cutter pointed, “The old sailor watched the entering ships from this spot.”
Peter looked up. “Who?”
Katy said, “When we talked to the Tolchester relative out here, we found a later cousin who used to help pilot ships by mooring along here. Kind of a local celebrity.”
“Interesting,” said Peter, thinking for a moment. “You say he was a Tolchester, a relative of the clipper ship captain?”
“Yes.”
Peter thought a little longer then shrugged. “Maybe he knew something.” He moved the 1850 map to the top of his charts.
“Unfortunately the hospital is not on this map or any of the later ones. Something happened to that landmark.”
“Did you find anything?”
Peter smiled. “Turned out there is a monument to the old building. The place helped the sick sailors and passengers who came in to the harbor on the sailing ships. They were kept until they could be cured or sent home. Smallpox, that kind of thing.”
He went back to his new harbor map. A few hundred feet back from the shoreline near the Verrazano Bridge was penciled in a latitude and longitude mark. “See the point where the old hospital was located? I got it from my GPS standing at its monument.”
He pulled his compass fr
om his briefcase and drew an imaginary circle out from the hospital point. “Due southeast on this line which is one and half miles out, if that old steamboat man wasn’t drinking, is the intersection we want.”
He pointed to another pencil mark. “The spot is slightly south of the West Bank.”
Tate said, “Now you got to get the north marker.”
“I drove to the north about ten miles from the old hospital site. I had to go up in the morning. The tower was about here on the 1840 map.” Turning over the later maps he indicated the spot. “I thought I might have some luck. I went to Jersey City, and drove around. Turned out I found nothing but several intersecting railways.”
He looked at Katy. “You ever work with the railroads?”
“The last time I did, I had to go all the way to the president of the line just to get permission to walk across a track,” she said.
“I wasn’t about to get into that kind of bureaucracy. There simply wasn’t time. I decided to find someone in the train yard who might remember a tower. So I drove around some more. I found the freight office and an entry gate into the closest train area approximately near the spot I wanted. I went inside and found nobody anywhere. Nothing was inside but a lot of dirt and dust as if the place wasn’t even being used. Outside there was a truck backed up to the platform and some men unloading freight.
“Well, I went up to them and asked about the tower. No one knew anything. The boss, a short heavy set man with no hair on his head, tried to get rid of me. He told me I was holding up the unloading of his truck. Then a kid called out that he knew about the tower. There was a hubbub as the boss shouted to him to get back to work. The other workmen shouted back that he had a right to tell me. Anyway, they pushed him to the edge of the truck container. He was small, stripped to his boots and jeans and covered with dirt. He told me that his grandfather took him to a foundation nearby to look at birds. He said it was left over from an old tower building. He pointed to where it was located.
“Within ten minutes I had crossed the track and found what appeared to be a square set of walls stretching at least one hundred feet in each direction. The bricks were set several rows wide as if they had been planned to hold great weight. The foundation was incomplete, intersected by the ties for several rails. Much of the brick wall was taken out, I guess for use in some other building.
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