It almost looked real.
Then on November 25, 1890, it was as if the drunk finally suffered a black out, when Joseph A. Kuhn, a trustee of the railroad, opened a telegram: Due to the failure of several key banks in London, the Oregon Improvement Company had applied for court-ordered receivership. Local investors in real estate, and businesses owners, were advised to get out. A worldwide economic crash would dash the dreams of Port Townsend.
Three years later on January 6, 1893, the Great Northern Railway completed its trans-continental line to Seattle. Swan’s vision of Port Townsend’s railway had dispersed in a puff of steam. Once again, hopeful newcomers packed their bags and moved on, a few of them in pursuit of the Klondike gold rush.
However, a city can no more reinvent its character than a person can. The City of Dreams lost its railway, but preserved its capacity to imagine.
34
The Lights Go Out
c. 1890
On the morning of Tuesday, November 25, the most prominent men in the city convened a public meeting at the opera house. The implosion of the investment banks would cause the railroads and other related business concerns to go bust, putting thousands in the region out of work.
The Reverend Mathieson, a simple heart, not always astute, proved to be a worthy spiritual guide in a crisis. That evening in his sermon he quoted Luke. “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who weep now.”
The impact of the crash of the London banks on Port Townsend lasted well beyond the first shock waves. In fact, the financial panic would provoke violent labor unrest and create a Populist outcry against the dramatic gap between the rich and the burgeoning poor, their numbers constantly increased by new waves of immigration. This quake created a tidal wave of unemployment that crested at ten percent, remaining nearly at that level, nationwide, for the next five years. It was a sustained period of hardship worse than any time before. In the next half-decade, Port Townsend would see a mass exodus of those who had wagered everything on the rail.
The Reverend did his best to console the baffled, downhearted, and dusty men, the mothers with their distraught babes, and the dutifully downcast children who really had no idea what had happened. The Reverend urged all of us to count, not what we had lost, but instead our assets. These he listed: a fair city with productive farmland and a deep harbor. Most of all, a diverse community, if only we could put aside differences.
To the Cuban kitchen maid beside me in the pew, who had forgotten to take off her scorched apron, I handed my used hanky as she quietly cried for her future. Before the catastrophe, I doubt that I would have bothered. In the days of prosperity, I had little to do with the other hired girls. Though outwardly we appeared to be the same, I was sure that I was different, and meant for something better. No doubt they felt exactly the same way about me. Now, at the touch of my fingers on her wrist, she threw her arms around me. We embraced and quietly consoled one another as we wept.
The crisis was the Reverend’s finest hour. I realized that, to lead us, he must remain fortified. I decided to go home to prepare him a sandwich and some strong tea. If he could not get away, then I would bring it to him in a jar inside a basket.
The wind was gusting in the street, throwing up bits of muddy late autumn. Clutching my hat, I made my way. Our house on the cliff’s edge looked like a lone boat tossed about on an irate sea of storm clouds.
Through the back door I entered the bleak, chilly house. The atmosphere complemented the mood in church and in the town. On the hearth I lit a match, which immediately went out in the drafty room.
A flat voice said, “Everything has gone black.”
In the Reverend’s armchair by the hearth, there was Chris, twisted up like a discarded bootlace. “It’s over.”
I went to him and knelt. All across the carpet, the contents of his notebook. The scattered pages told the sad story of his destroyed real estate investments, the result of days and weeks of careful research, now rendered completely worthless.
“Poor Chris. After all your hard efforts. At least you’re not alone. Up on the bluff, or down in the muck, we’re in this together.”
“You compare me to the riffraff on the waterfront? Not so. I am more miserable.”
His voice was bland, his forehead was damp, and his mouth quivered. Chris described what he had witnessed. He had lost more than money.
That morning Chris went to the shop, assuming his place at the little desk in the corner. No one else showed. The black rain outside made Rothschild’s emporium filled with a colorful collection of bright tins and jars and fabrics feel like the inside of a damp closet. No customer appeared.
A few moments later Henry Rothschild came in tapping his cane across the floorboards. In person. This had never happened before. He had a weak forehead and a curved snout complimented by a lush mustache—a cross between bulldog and beagle. Slowly planting both fists upon the counter, he drew himself up and pronounced the economic crisis in a cool, factual manner. He barked, “Everyone, go home. And don’t come back.”
In a hushed tone that required me to lean in, he said that he’d been frozen in shock . . . bolted in place. He didn’t move as he watched, in horror, as Rothschild lifted a shotgun from below the counter . . . rested it on the floor . . . pointed it at his skull . . . and pulled the trigger. Chris was the only witness.
Chris took down his overcoat and circled round the shadow of his former employer, who was still bleeding, on his way out.
He thought about checking in with his pastor-father, but instead spent what was left of his shattered morning, and a sharp slice of the afternoon, wandering the waterfront, tossing old bricks at vermin who celebrated the disaster in deserted streets. Finally it had occurred to him that it was time to head home. As he climbed, the strong winds made the stairs seem to detach themselves from the towering bluff side and float. He paused for a moment and looked down at the once-enchanted city below. The bitter wind whipped up a cloud of swirling leaves, needles, and debris, and dashed it in his eyes. He reached for his hat and missed.
Dizzy, blinded, little by little he wended his way around to the front porch and entered through the front door.
Right off he sensed it. “Edith? Edith.”
Disaster apparently stepped upon the heels of disaster. He hurried up the stairs. Her bedroom empty, he frantically searched everywhere: upstairs, downstairs, and even the cellar. Perhaps, in the moment of crisis, though she had not attended a service in some time, his sister had made her way to her father’s church.
Somehow, he knew better. Edith was not at church. She was not anywhere.
Here, Chris, overwhelmed by emotion, broke off.
Listening, I had not removed any of my outer garments. I was still wearing Edith’s mustard-yellow cloak, which Christopher had specially designed for her. It was made of a handwoven Falkland wool that had been lined in black satin. Very recently she’d handed it off to me. It was a small thing, still I couldn’t help wonder at the pain it might cause Christopher to know that she’d so carelessly cast off his thoughtful gift. Under the circumstances it seemed a trifling thought.
“Oh, Chris. How you must be suffering.” I took off my gloves and the cloak and set them on the end table. I seized both of his hands.
He seemed reassured, until his empty eyes found the pages of his portfolio disturbing the swirling floral pattern of the carpet.
Bitterly, he said, “In a way, I’m grateful. From the start all of my efforts to make money were no more than a means to an end: to secure a future for my sister. For you, too.”
Christopher laughed. “No matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Edith has disappeared. With Astor.”
I reached for my gloves and cloak, worriedly exclaiming, “At any time her fever could return. We must find her.”
He replied coldly, “It’s too late. Even if we could stop the marriage, her reputation is ruined. Between us, nothing can ever
be the same. I will never forgive her. She has betrayed me.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“Less than a day.”
“Then surely she will return.”
“No, Millie. I know that’s not the case. You see, not long ago I learned the truth about Thomas Astor. He’s a fraud . . . a low-rent actor . . . and an opium addict on top of it. I confronted her. She said she intended to use her inheritance to open up a new theater in town for Astor. One fact she had forgotten: Until she’s twenty-one, that money can’t be touched, not without father’s consent. She made me promise not to say a word to him until she had a chance to consider what I had said. I agreed. Now she’s gone.”
“How do you know?”
“When I entered this house tonight, it was as if I had gone to my grave. The door at the top of the stairs was open. Her wardrobe, rummaged. The locker at the end of her bed, ransacked. On top of her pillow, this . . .”
He turned to face me and held up a soiled bundle.
A stillborn swaddled in putrid rags.
I’d completely thrust it from my mind. The Aia’nl. From out of the silk rags, one tiny hand thrust out. All at once I recalled Edith’s warning. If Chris ever found the weird doll, his pious sensibilities would be so appalled that it was likely he would simply turn me out.
My alarmed gasp confirmed what he knew already: the doll belonged to me.
Before I knew what happened, he tossed it into the dying embers of the cold fire.
Like an angry idol, the little doll fumed and flared. The head of the little figure churned purple smoke. Suddenly it burst into flames.
With a searing sense that part of me was burning away with the Aia’nl, I cried out, “No!” And thrust my right arm into the flames.
Christopher seized me from behind. He caught my hair where the base of my skull met my spine. Was he seeking to save my life? Or was he trying to keep me from rescuing the hellish doll?
“Millie, I know that you’ve betrayed me. You lied to me . . . and my father. Just what did you know about Astor that night you invited him into our house?”
I replied, “I knew nothing that was in his favor. But I trusted he could cure Edith in her dire moment of need . . . and ultimately I believed his love could make her well.”
I could smell the Reverend’s brandy on his breath. Chris pulled my head down. His trembling mouth breathed into mine. “This morning, someone came looking for you. An Indian. Tall and lean, with a foxy face. He wanted to talk to you.”
“Jake Cook,” I exclaimed “It can only mean that my grandmother, or Carl . . . or perhaps Annie, is ill. What exactly did he say?”
“Nothing. I ordered him to tell me but he refused to say a word.”
“Home. Christopher, I have to go home . . . now.”
I tried to twist free, but Chris held firm. All the while he stared at the flame, I sensed that he had detached from the reality of the moment, as he wrestled with the realities of the day. The little doll cackled and turned black. At last, he withdrew his cold gaze from the wrathful fire.
“Go home? Leave me?” he asked in a faraway voice. Then in a different tone, he said, “It’s true, everything is different now. Without Edith you can’t stay here. I may as well tell you. Several months ago, father wrote to a teaching college in Kansas. He felt he owed you and wanted to make good. I asked him to wait. I felt that you needed more time. To accept God into your heart and into your body.”
He eased his grip, just enough, to turn over my wrist. He searched my blistering palm, as if there were a message written there. “Does it hurt? I can see that it does. This injury is a sign. Before I fetch a healing salve, let me tell you what it means. You were sent to me from Heaven so that I might protect you. Until the day you and I are married, I must safeguard you . . . keep you free from taint.”
So. Christopher wanted to marry me after all. His angry criticism, though irrational at times, proved that he cared. Chris was also right about another thing: the wound truly hurt. Its throbbing pain sapped my power to resist him.
“Your wife? First I must go home. I need to go back to Dungeness to find out who I am. I need to recover the life and love I have lost before they’re gone from me forever.”
“This is your home,” he said as the tips of his fingers he stroked my cheek. “I know who you are. I know everything about you. I know that your mother and your father are not really married. It doesn’t matter to me. I’ll have you anyway. Tonight, you become my wife. My way. Later, according to God.”
He held me fast as I struggled.
“You say you know me? How could you? I hardly know myself. I was just a little girl when I arrived, I’ve spent the past three years chopping, churning, polishing, and scrubbing. Maybe that’s why I thrust my poor hand into the fire. Along with that Aia’n—” I pointed to the fire with my free hand “—these are all I had left of my childhood.” I touched my silver fish earrings.
“Yes, Thomas Astor sinned on his way to her, but don’t you see that Edith forgave him, with arms wide? Why can’t you be as generous to a future wife? I’m not an angel, but I’m no slattern. If you’re my friend, why do you want to change me?”
He bit his lip and grimaced. “You say you care. Then, don’t abandon me. I’ve lost everything, not only our scant savings, along with Edith’s trust fund, but the wealth of the entire parish. Edith is delirious or dead. Or engaging in unspeakable acts with the actor in a seamy hotel. My eyes are boiling. My head is exploding. Millie, I need you. Do you understand what I’m saying? Are you even listening? To stop you from leaving, I would do anything, even commit murder. Shall I beg you on my hands and knees?”
His sweaty palms reached for me and salted the oozing pock on my palm. “No. You say you need me, but my real family in Dungeness needs me more. Goodbye. I promise I will write to you.”
Christopher fell silent but there was something in his eye I did not like to see there. Swiftly he swaddled up the scattered pages. With studied care, he lined up the edges of the pages and set the pile down on top of an end table.
“Goodbye,” he blurted.
I gathered up Edith’s cloak and gloves.
Suddenly and emphatically Christopher said, “Not now. Tomorrow you must go. Tonight, the Reverend will require a hot supper. See there. The wood box is empty.”
Whenever Chris became distraught, it soothed him to order me about. No wonder he craved a docile wife. Well, why not play along? In the morning, I would leave this cursed house, never to return. For now, I must take the necessary steps to restore peace and calm. I owed it to the Reverend, to Edith.
I folded the cloak. Tears singed my cheeks but I made no move to dry them. Head down, I went out.
Outside, a bitter wind scrubbed clean my mind. The humped-up shed reminded me of the raccoon-infested shack next to the New Dungeness Light Station. I passed through my drowned garden, creaked open the rusty door, and propped it open with a wedge of bark. Inside, the little woodshed smelled of fresh cedar and mice: musty, humid, and peaceful. Clumsily with my left hand I reached for a log.
A white light plashed. The basket on my elbow grew heavier as I added pieces of fuel until it was almost filled. Just then, a rusty spring wheezed. I turned round. The little door, like a wood trap, cracked up against the doorjamb, extinguishing the moon.
“Black. It’s all turned black.”
“Christopher?”
He extended his arm. To locate me in the dark?
My basket dropped.
With nowhere to go, I sprang up like a trapped deer.
Between us sat an ancient round of Doug fir, with two-hundred-and-fifty spiraling rings protected by three inches of deeply crevassed bark. We used this cross section of log as the surface to split kindling. On the wall, within easy grasp, an assortment of tools, including a small hatchet. Chris’s hand reached out. To deal me a blow?
No. His hand shot past my skull, ear level, to grasp for a buried bottle. His teeth removed the cork. H
e tilted the brandy back, parted his lips, and let it flow. I squirmed, as he gripped me strongly with his other hand. The whites of his wide, wild eyes twinkled in the black half-light of the shed. My resistance was pathetic. He found it amusing. He put down the half-drained vessel, having satisfied his thirst . . . and laughed.
Softly, he reminisced. “I remember the night Adele died. I was sixteen. Do I need to say it? A virgin. Overwhelmed by grief, I confessed to my father an evil urge inside of me so deplorable it made me want to die, yet at the same time, my one and only reason for living: a passion for my sister.”
“My poor father. How he wept, for his wife, his son, and Edith too. He told me to plead with God, and never stop praying, until I was free of the need to have and to hold her. I tried, good Heavens, how I tried. My fervent urges to give her up only increased my desire. I knew I would never feel it for any other woman.”
He squeezed me in his vise grip. “Then you showed up, Millie. Really, I hated you. Each time she petted you, or touched your hand, or combed your hair, I despised you more. But something odd happened. Through you I began to feel the touch of Edith’s fingertips. When she whispered in your ear, I felt her breath on my neck. Little by little, observing the two of you together, I began to feel real pleasure. Once in a while, I would wait for you to go up, then crack open her bedroom door to watch the two of you giggling and embracing. Tonight, the thing changed again. As we stood by the fire—when I twisted your arm, hard—for the first time I experienced a surge of desire, not for Edith, but only for you. She betrayed me. But you are not like her. Millie, you must never, ever leave. Not for an hour. Not for five minutes. Not ever.”
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