“Yes.” Charlotte was silent, her gaze turning inward as she appeared to remember that night. “I was scraping out one of the pipes—the one carved from redwood, do you remember, Michael? It was so beautiful …”
“Yes, I recall it quite clearly,” he replied gently.
“Michael spared no expense, you know, to provide his customers with an experience worthy of royalty. I was quite honored to be asked to serve as his chef,” she assured Hattie.
Hattie frowned, saying nothing.
“Go on,” Jordan urged.
Charlotte was trembling. “I was in the process of slicing a small wedge from a cake of chandu, to place in the pipe for Jesse, when we felt the most terrible jolt …”
The Rescue
Dungeness Spit
August 5, 1893, 11 P.M.
FLUNG against the wall, Charlotte dropped the silver scraper and the pipe. Her cabin mates, reclined on velvet settees, were thrown to the floor.
She heard a sharp crack from overhead. A huge wooden mast plunged through the skylight, shattering it. Shards of glass rained down on her. The floor dropped from under her. Water rushed into the great cabin, soaking her satin slippers and the hem of her gown.
Someone scrambled past her, yelling, running for the door. Jesse was no longer beside her. Dropping to her knees, she attempted to shove debris aside. She strained to see through the gloom and layers of opium smoke. Where was Jesse? Where were the others?
“Someone, please help!” she cried, her voice a high, thin wail, but no one answered.
The floor shifted again beneath her, water sloshing against the velvet settee. At the other end of the room, she glimpsed a body floating in the debris-filled seawater. She struggled to her feet and waded toward it.
The floor canted sharply, throwing her against the mirrored wall. She heard terrified shouts from above as something crashed onto the deck. Her knees suddenly felt cold, and looking down, she realized the chilly water had risen to her thighs.
“Ahoy, down there!” a voice shouted.
“Help!” she screamed.
A head poked through the skylight, barely discernible. “Miss? Are you hurt?”
“No, but I fear the others are. There’s someone just over there …” She tried to wade through the water, to no avail. “You must help us!”
He angled his head, staring silently for a brief moment in the direction she pointed. “Come, miss,” he finally said, his tone quieter. “There’s nothing we can do to help him.”
“No! He’s just unconscious. He’ll be fine once we get him out from under the mast—”
“We don’t have much time, and you must save yourself.”
“No!” she sobbed. “It might be my friend! I won’t leave him.”
“Miss.” The voice held patience as well as understanding. “This ship is precariously balanced in the surf—it could break further apart any second now. The waves are gaining height, and they will soon suck the ship deep into the sands. You must come with me now, or I’ll be forced to leave you behind.”
“Oh God, please! Can’t you do something?”
“I’m afraid he’s already gone.” The man reached down to her. “Give me your hand, and I’ll lift you out.”
She stared over at the body, uncomprehending.
The floor shifted once again beneath her, throwing her off balance, and she screamed.
“Make haste, miss. I beg of you!”
Pushing away from the wall, she reluctantly reached up to grasp his hand. The man pulled her off her feet and out of the water, urging her to give him her other hand. In moments, she stood on a badly listing deck.
Destruction surrounded her. What had once been a ship possessing immense beauty and grace now seemed to be no more than piles of rubble. Canvas and rigging lay as it had fallen. Stacked taller than the height of a large man, it jumbled together with splintered pieces of wood that had once been yardarms.
In front of her, the bow of the ship had been forced up and onto the sand and driftwood. Behind her, the stern still lay in the water. Waves crashed against the hull.
Her rescuer kept a tight grasp on her elbow, holding her steady whenever she felt her balance give way. They picked their way around bodies and over snarls of rope and sails, their progress greatly hampered by the weight of Charlotte’s drenched gown.
As they reached the ship’s bow, she could hear faint shouts from the mist below. Her rescuer sliced quickly through a section of rope and used it to tie around her waist.
“I’m going to lower you down, miss,” he explained as he secured the rope to the railing. “Someone below will guide you onto the beach.”
“But what about the others?” she asked.
“They’re gone,” he replied in a gentle tone.
Dear God. Jesse. “No! I’m certain that if you just search the lower cabins …” Her voice trailed off on a hiccupping sob.
“Go on now, miss—I’ll be right behind you.”
Clinging to the rope, her heart pounding in her chest, she was lowered past bodies hanging in midair, tangled in the rigging. Mist swirled around her, adding to the chill of her soaked clothing and making it hard for her to see what lay below. Gradually, the faint light of a lantern beckoned through the darkness. Hands grasped her ankles, then her legs. She dropped onto the sand.
A woman worked briskly to untie the rope about her waist, then gave it a sharp yank as a signal to pull it up. She handed Charlotte a coarse wool blanket. “Sit, miss, and try to keep yourself warm. It will be some time before boats arrive to take you back to town.”
Shivering, Charlotte glanced overhead. The hull of the Henrietta Dale towered over them. Just aft of the bow, she could see a massive log sticking out of the hull where the ship had rammed onto the sand. The stern sat lower in the water than usual, and the entire ship was canted at an angle so acute as to appear as if it would fall any moment, crushing them. The woman stood by Charlotte, her head angled so that she could watch overhead, her expression tense. Two other men sprawled on the beach only a few yards away, unconscious and injured. One, the town councilman she recognized from the great cabin, had blood darkening the side of his face.
“Are we the only survivors?” she asked the woman in a hushed voice.
“No,” the woman replied, not pulling her gaze away. “By the time my husband and I arrived, a few of the crew had already managed to climb down with one injured man. They left to hike back along the spit to the headland and summon more help from nearby farms. Until we can get a message back to Port Chatham, no one will know to bring their boats out here to help with the rescue.”
“What about Michael Seavey?” Charlotte asked. “Have you seen him? And what of Jesse Canby?” she added, her voice breaking.
“Unless one of them is the man who was carried ashore a bit ago, or one of those two lying just over there, I’m afraid they didn’t make it.”
Chapter 17
I continued to ask throughout the night, but there was no indication that Jesse had survived,” Charlotte told them, swiping at tears. “The first mate and another member of his crew walked the five miles back to a farm on the headlands, to notify the authorities of the shipwreck. It took until almost dawn, but more help did eventually arrive.” Her expression reflected the rigors of that long, freezing night spent on the beach. “And along with help, of course, came the press.”
“Eleanor Canby was there?” Jordan asked. “She must have been devastated by the news of her son’s death.”
“No, her reporters were at the scene of the wreck, but Eleanor didn’t learn of Jesse’s death until around dawn, when we were all brought back to Port Chatham. Until we were all gathered together on Union Wharf, even I wasn’t willing to accept that Jesse hadn’t made it out alive.” Charlotte pressed her lips together for a moment before continuing. “I’ve never seen Eleanor so hysterical. She was raging at anyone who came close to her. When she saw you being lifted off the rescue boat, Michael, she became incoherent, ranting about how it was all your fault, that you were the reason her son was dead.”