But the experiences he’d had in his three hours in Salisbury represented for him the psychological equivalent of being bombed. He had begun to realize that all of his paper wealth—his stocks, bonds, mutual funds, Treasury certificates—were probably worthless. And the tangible assets he owned—the apartment houses in New York City, his home in Oyster Bay, the shopping center in Englewood— had all, with the hopeful exception of his house in Oyster Bay, been destroyed. But worse, he realized that the “problems” and “challenges” presented by the holocaust were not something that could be dealt with. He couldn’t buy a plane, or a car, or even, maybe, a tank of gasoline. He couldn’t even telephone anyone. He was almost helpless. Suddenly, overnight, he was an unemployed pauper.
But a live pauper. As he drove back toward Crisfield with the car radio tuned to the appalling news—cities with which all communication had been lost, countries with which all communication had been lost—a large part of him began to fear for his life and wanted to scurry for the nearest hole. The numbing, incomprehensible, dreamlike list of American cities and defense installations that had been struck by nuclear missiles or bombs dazed him. He heard the Secretary of Defense urging people to stick to their jobs if their jobs were important, to report for service if they weren’t. In one sentence the secretary warned against needless panic and in another advised people to evacuate “contaminated” areas. (He didn’t mention any by name.) Frank learned that the United States had bombed Cuba, that Europe was being devastated, London wiped out, Moscow, Leningrad, numerous other unpronounceable Russian cities, Russian forces in Iraq had been attacked. China and Japan had been hit. Several countries in South America and Africa had loudly proclaimed their neutrality.
His fear for himself began to grow. He knew that part of his frantic activity to get up north to his wife was based on the simple fact that it was the expected thing to do. It was a man’s job to protect his wife. The thought of her there in their house, helpless, confused, worried about Jimmy, worried about him, too, huddled together with Susan—that thought made him sad, made him feel needed, made him want to find a way north. But the only thing left now was Vagabond. He was frightened: he pressed his foot down on the accelerator. All hope of salvation lay with Vagabond.
With the wind shifting further to the north. Vagabond had one long tack across the bay to Crisfield. Despite the extra ton of weight from the new passengers and their luggage, she plugged along at six or seven knots until she had gotten within two miles of the town and the wind fell. Then her speed dropped to two knots and she began to wallow and crawl. Neil hailed a small cruiser and bribed its owner to tow them the last two miles to the dock.
The trip was uneventful. Although thin wisps of the dark cloud mass over Washington seemed to have floated almost directly overhead, there was no obvious sign of radioactive fallout. The ten passengers displayed a kind of stunned obedience that made the boat handling easy. Jeanne had spent the first hour and a half below, but with Skippy napping and Lisa helping Jim at the helm, she came up and stood beside Neil in the port cockpit.
He was again aware of her as a woman, her bare brown legs and arms set off by the white shorts and shirt. Her long hair was brushed now and tied up on top of her head. She stared forward for a while without speaking.
“Do you think Frank will be there?” she finally asked.
“There’s no way of knowing,” he answered. “We’ll just have to see.”
“And then what?”
“I suppose that will be mostly up to Frank,” he said after a pause.
“We should leave,” she said with unexpected force. “Get out of the country.
He glanced at her. She seemed more angry than fearful.
“I agree,” he said, “but I’m afraid Frank doesn’t.”
“I just listened to a radio down in the cabin,” she went on. “The whole world is collapsing.”
Neil felt a tremor of fear, partly because of what she said and partly because of her intensity.
“I imagine it is.”
“And we’ve done it,” she continued, staring forward again. “Our country and Russia are destroying the world.”
Neil was aware that two of the women sitting in the wheelhouse were looking at her uneasily.
“If we live through this madness, we’ll have to create a new world,” she said, her eyes seeming to make a personal appeal to Neil. “We’ll have to create a family, support each other, put an end to the selfish distinctions that led us to this horror.” She looked at him for confirmation.
Neil felt an unaccountable heaviness. He supposed it was because he didn’t think the species that had killed a hundred million of its own kind in one day was likely to be too great on its next go-round. If there was a next go-round.
“First we have to survive,” he replied.
“Yes,” she said, seeming to relent somewhat. “But, my God, how coldhearted this war is making us survivors. I think you’re the only friendly face I’ve seen all day.”
“Cornered and fleeing animals aren’t nice,” Neil said. She nodded and frowned.
“Back before you rescued me, I could have killed someone with that butcher knife,” she said softly, looking quite puzzled and a little saddened by the knowledge. “How depressing that is.”
Neil didn’t comment. Two passengers were leaning out over the combing in the port cockpit, and he wondered why until he saw that one of them was being seasick.
“And that way madness lies,” Jeanne went on, then paused and looked up at him. “I’m glad I spared you,” she said. Suddenly and unexpectedly she was smiling up at him.
“I am too,” he replied, smiling back.
“My personal Captain Luck,” she said.
“How so?” he asked, puzzled.
“You said that before we can create a new world we have to find the luck to survive,” she said, strangely gay all of a sudden. “I guess I found you.” She paused. “Although I hope your style isn’t always to throw me overboard.”
After the horror of Point Lookout, Crisfield was as quiet and relaxed as a picturesque fishing village should be. There were no mobs and few boats. Neil supposed that survivors from the Philadelphia area had more escape routes open to them than those who were south and east of Washington and Baltimore.
After Vagabond was tied up at the dock in front of a large green fishing trawler named the Lucky Emerald, he helped his passengers ashore. Most were bewildered; it seemed to Neil that if someone had offered them a boat ride back to Point Lookout many of them would have crowded aboard. As they were leaving, Jeanne came up beside him where he stood overseeing the exodus.
“Can’t we invite some of them to stay with us?” she asked him.
“That’s Frank’s decision,” he replied, feeling like something of a liar. “When he comes, we can reconsider it.”
“They have no place to go.”
“And we have nothing to feed them with,” Neil explained.
“I was in their place four hours ago,” she said, looking away.
“I know,” he said gently, frowning. “But we can’t save everybody. We’ll be lucky if we can save ourselves.”
“We should try to save as many as we can,” she said.
“We haven’t even enough food to last ourselves more than two or three days,” he went on. “That’s our job now: to try to get some supplies aboard.”
“I’d like to invite that woman with the baby,” Jeanne persisted.