Hell's Gate Page 29

  It was late that evening, around nine, when Mike decided to go through the dead at the Charities Pier again. He had heard there were another couple of bodies brought in while he was at the Bellevue morgue and he hoped one of them was the Bottler. Tom had returned to his station house a couple of hours before to send out a description of the Bottler to the other precincts, describing him as a dangerous fugitive. He also sent two cops to Carl Woertz’s fleabag hotel, with orders to pick him up, too.

  Again, Mike was admitted to the Charities Pier at the flash of his badge and began to shuffle down the dwindling aisles of dead. The same frozen faces swam before his eyes. He wondered if those faces would ever leave him. He feared that they’d always haunt his dreams, floating up from the depths of the river, or materializing through a veil of fire. He shuddered and forced himself to look harder. He’d spoken with Ginny after Tom had left, and assured her that he was still looking for Esther. He tried to persuade Mary that he was fine, which, of course, he was not. She told him to come home with Tom. He’d pick him up and she’d prepare him a good meal. Mike’s stomach churned at the thought.

  Tom arrived back at the Charities Pier while Mike shuffled past the remaining bodies. Primo was with him, and they hugged with reddened eyes to see each other again.

  “I am so happy you are okay, you bastard. And your Ginny, too. You are a lucky Irishman, no?”

  “I don’t feel so lucky,” Mike said. He resolved at last to go, and turned toward the door. It was far off, at the end of the pier, but the bright lights inside cast enough brilliance to make it appear as bright as day. The Bottler was in that doorway, mixed with the crowd of searchers. Their eyes locked, and then he was gone.

  Mike’s feet splashed in the water on the pier’s floor as he sprinted toward the door, men and women calling to him to slow down, have some respect, cops thinking he was about to leap into the river. Tom and Primo were left far behind, shouting for him to stop. Two cops wrestled him to the floor, rolling about until Tom and Primo managed to convince them of who he was, Mike pushing his badge in their faces, cursing in frustration. Precious minutes were lost, and Mike was soaked by the time they hit the street.

  He stopped, looking north, then south, water raining off his hair, seeing nothing of the Bottler, only a long line of the hopeless, seeking to confirm what they already knew. A few reporters still buzzed like flies, harrying the weary, the childless, the motherless for quotes for tomorrow’s headlines. Mike went to one who was closest to the door.

  “Hey, you see a guy just leave here, seemed like he was in a hurry? Mustache? Heavy fella with hairy arms?”

  “Sure,” the reporter said. “Went south a minute ago.”

  Mike started to run, not knowing where exactly, but he was brought up short by the blast of a horn. It was Tom at the tiller of his Olds, now repaired and shining in the lamplight. He and Primo had run to get it without Mike even noticing.

  Mike ran toward the Olds. “The Bottler, he’s headed south, let’s go!” He hopped up on the engine box behind the seat, shouting, “Go! Go!” and holding on to the seat rail as they picked up speed, the Olds moving slower than he hoped it would.

  “It is good again, no?” Primo shouted over the chugging engine. Mike grabbed his head in both hands and kissed him on the cheek. They laughed into the wind. Mike pulled the Colt and chambered a round, barely managing to hold on as the Olds bucked over the cobbles.

  “Where the hell is he?” Tom shouted. “Is he on foot or what?”

  “Don’t know. I only saw him inside for a second,” Mike answered. “A guy said he’d gone this way.” Tom drove on, looking for anything suspicious.

  “There!” Mike cried a few moments later, pointing with the Colt. Up ahead, about two blocks, a horse-drawn ambulance rumbled at an unusually fast clip and a face appeared at the edge of the wagon body, peering back. The ambulance picked up speed, the horse whipped to a gallop. Tom pressed the speeder as far as it would go, Mike now kneeling on the engine box, holding on to their shoulders for support.

  They’d already gone ten blocks down South Street, and Fourteenth Street went by a moment later, the ships and docks thickening as they went. There was little traffic and they were able to fly southward, closing the gap with each block they passed, weaving to avoid the occasional wagon, carriage or pedestrian. They passed Houston, Stanton, Rivington, and Delancey, narrowing the distance to less than a block. Mike extended the Colt, but Tom said, “Not yet. You won’t get a good shot.”

  “Fuck it.” Mike fired, the blasts ringing their ears, splinters flying off the back doors of the wagon. He emptied the Colt in one long burst of bullets, the hot casings flying into the night, tinkling off the cobbles. Before the last bullet flew, the wagon began to veer left then right and an instant later, a body slipped off one side and under the rear wheels, kicking the rear up as the wagon turned and spilling it forward, the horse screaming and flailing with its hooves, falling sideways. The wagon and horse crashed, sliding across the cobbles, the horse kicking, sparks flying from the hubs as they ground across the stone.

  The Bottler was up an instant later from the overturned wagon, running toward the docks. Mike’s Colt was empty. Primo and Tom both fired after him, but he ran on without slowing as Tom brought the Olds to a stop.

  “Who the hell is that?” Mike said as they got out near the body. Tom ran over, holding his pistol on the unmoving form. “It’s Carl Woertz, that pimp,” Tom said, and with a kick, added, “I think he’s dead.”

  Mike slipped another clip of ammunition into the Colt and started after the Bottler, who had disappeared among the densely packed shoreline—canal barges, schooners, steamers, fishing boats, oyster barges, dry docks, and piers forming an almost unbroken maze south to the tip of Manhattan. He saw a figure in the moonlight scurry across the deck of a low oyster boat, jumping across a narrow gap to another. Mike followed with Tom, while Primo covered the shoreline. Primo was still in no shape to be jumping and clamoring from ship to ship. Still, with gun drawn, he was able to block an escape back into the streets of the city. A patrolman, drawn by the shooting, joined Primo a moment later and after a brief conversation, they spread out, forming an even greater barrier.

  Mike made the leap onto the oyster boat with Tom fast behind. They had lost sight of the Bottler and went forward warily, one covering the other as they leapt to the next boat. A dry dock was ahead and a fishing schooner was in it, looming above the other ships, well out of the water. As Mike leapt to the next boat, shots rang out from the edge of the dry dock, flashes of light momentarily illuminating the Bottler. The bullets whizzed by, close enough to drop him and Tom to the deck. When they got up, cautiously peering over the bulwark, the Bottler was gone.

  “That was fucking close,” Tom said. “Nearly parted my goddamn hair.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said, unconcerned. He was more worried about losing the Bottler in this maze of ships. He ran forward and, using a rope, swung across to the dry dock’s edge, where he clung for a dangerous moment until he got his feet under him. He crouched low, looking under the hull of the schooner, the huge ship, towering above, was held there by massive blocks of oak. It was as black as coal under the ship and the creeping, wet hand of fear slid down Mike’s spine as he held the Colt in shaking hands.

  Tom joined him a moment later. “I ain’t goin’ in there,” he said sensibly. “And you ain’t either. It’s a dead end. Only way out is up onto the ship. Let’s check the other side.”

  They could hear the roar of a steam screw tug coming upriver against the tide as they rounded the other side of the dry dock and looked south. A floating grain elevator loomed next to a row of canal barges, full of grain from Buffalo and Syracuse, sent down the Erie Canal for shipment to Europe.

  “There!” Tom said while the roar of the tug grew louder.

  A flitting shadow moved across from one barge to the next. They jumped again to the deck of a barge, rolling as they fell. Another shot cracked the night and pinged against
something metallic, but neither Tom nor Mike shot back. They positioned themselves behind the rear of a small cabin at the back of the barge.

  “Hold on,” Mike whispered. “See that grain elevator?” It loomed maybe three or four stories high, a big, rectangular building on a barge. “He’s got to jump to that or he’s trapped.”

  The roar of the tug receded upriver as Mike and Tom held their positions, guns ready. The barges began to rock, riding the swells of the tug, the river lapping and splashing against their hulls, pilings grinding, wood-on-wood, an eerie creaking and moaning of unseen origins went up.

  The shadow moved again, and made its leap for the grain elevator. Mike and Tom fired two, three, four times, and the shadow fell short. Mike had a last glimpse as he ran to the canal barge alongside the grain elevator. He saw the Bottler hanging to the edge of the hull, struggling to pull himself up. But the adjoining canal barge swung back against it with irresistible, grinding force, rocked by the oily swell. The Bottler didn’t move fast enough. There was a single, gurgling scream and he disappeared between them. When they again separated, the Bottler was gone under the black surface of the river.

  * * *

  Mike woke on the floor of his parlor, his head on his arm, a blanket across him. He had no recollection of how he got home that night. He looked at his clock. It was nearly ten A.M. Slowly, painfully, he rolled to his knees and stumbled to his feet, where he swayed as if in a strong wind. He stank of smoke and sweat, burnt hair and vomit. For the first time he was actually conscious of it, and revolted by his condition. He looked at his sofa and was amazed to see Ginny under one of his mother’s handmade blankets, sleeping peacefully. Mike had to rub his eyes to be sure of what he was seeing, but he did not wake her. There was a part of him that feared she might disappear.

  Shuffling into the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror and recoiled from his reflection. His face was a mottled red, his eyebrows were gone and his hair was wild and burnt nearly to the scalp in places. Soot and dirt streaked his cheeks and brow. Oddly, the wounds on his cheeks seemed almost to blend in. He shook his head and began to cry over the sink, holding the white porcelain in his blistered hands so that he wouldn’t fall. He didn’t actually know why, a combination of relief, weariness, and enough pain to last a lifetime, he supposed.

  But Mike had few tears left in him and things to do before the day was done. It was already late. He called to Ginny and went to her side at the sofa, kneeling to hold her as she woke, and telling her again that he’d never let go as she laid a warm cheek against his.

  They left his apartment an hour later, Ginny at his side, wearing a black dress Mary had given her. He’d had a hot bath and Ginny had cut his hair so it was almost even, and shaved him over a steaming bowl. He hailed a cab and they got in. “Lutheran Cemetery, Queens,” he told the driver.

  * * *

  The line of hearses and carriages stretched to the horizon. Impatient, and in pain from his burns, Mike ordered the driver to take alternate routes, but time after time their progress was slowed by the tide of grief breaking over Queens. They had already missed a number of funerals and Mike felt that failing acutely. He could not have put into words his need to attend them. It was almost a compulsion, a driving force that would not let him rest, a longing for some kind of an end to this nightmare. He felt that if he let these rites slip by unobserved, that they might never have the opportunity to stand over a grave, cast flowers on a casket, and hear the graveside reassurance of resurrection. They’d agreed on the need to go, to say a prayer, and to offer their hidden, guilty thanks that it had not been their day to die.

  He supposed that in some way he held himself accountable for the General Slocum fire. Ginny felt it, too. “We didn’t start the fire, Mike, but I still feel like there had to be something we could have done, something different.” Her voice trailed off and Mike knew the depth of her doubts. “I don’t even know anyone except Esther,” Ginny said, “and little Josh and Emily, of course. I haven’t any idea where they might be. I just know that Esther was listed among the dead.”

  They arrived at the Lutheran Cemetery at last and followed the first funeral they saw to the grave, where a small, white casket and two larger black ones sat side by side. The service was dignified and short, the minister undoubtedly had others to lay to rest. The mourners slowly scattered, disappearing into draped carriages for the silent ride back to the city.

  Mike and Ginny slipped away to attend another, hands held tight. It was madness really, a form of it to be sure, but they repeated the ritual again and again as the day wore on, the stink of lilies imprinting itself so deeply in Mike’s brain that he felt sure he would never be able to stand their scent again.

  After standing beside an uncounted number of graves, listening to priestly dronings for some hint of solace, Mike and Ginny found themselves standing at the fringe of yet another burial, hardly seeing the black casket, the mourners, the weary priest with the sweat-stained collar. They heard the same words of comfort they’d heard before, but the name of the deceased cut through Ginny’s clouded mind, jolting her out of her trance. Esther Claymaan. She looked at the small crowd, many of whom were women, and she suddenly recognized some from the factory.

  Mike recognized the change in Ginny, and squeezed her hand tighter, craning over the crowd to see if Josh and Emily were there. At the front there was a man. Mike could only see his back. His hat was in his hand and his head was bowed, shoulders shaking. A few minutes later, when the funeral was at an end, and the mourners began to melt away, Mike and Ginny stepped forward and came near to the man they assumed to be Esther’s husband.

  “You’re Esther’s husband? I’m so sorry for your loss,” Ginny said, getting a grateful, but somewhat puzzled, look from the man in return. The children stood silently behind their father, their eyes still wide and blank.

  “I tried to find Esther,” he said wearily, “but I never saw her, until days later at the morgue.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mike said, not letting go of Ginny’s hand, and holding out his other, which was gripped firmly enough to make his burns turn again to fire. “Ginny wanted me to help them so badly, and I…” He could not go on, the memories came crashing over him, weakening his knees.

  “He saved them,” Ginny said. “He saved both of them, pulled them from the burning ship and swam them to shore.”

  “My God!” He took hold of Mike’s hand in both of his, tears starting down his cheeks. “I have you to thank for my children. I…” Words left him and he began to sob, collapsing onto Mike’s shoulder. Mike held him up and Ginny put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Finally he raised his head, a bit embarrassed, and asked for Mike’s name.

  “This is Mike Braddock. Esther may have mentioned him. He’s my beau.” Ginny said, the phrase sending an unexpected thrill through her. Mike squeezed her hand in return.

  “You’re Braddock! I’m Frank Claymaan.” He started pumping Mike’s hand, a strange, sad smile coming over his face. “Esther talked about you and Ginny going on the cruise. She was looking forward to meeting you. She said Ginny was head-over-heels for you. I had the operator try your telephone these last days but I got no answer.”

  Mike’s smile was fleeting. “I haven’t been home.”

  “Emily, sweetie, see who it is?” Frank said.

  Emily stepped from behind Frank’s legs and looked up at Mike. “Hello, Mister Braddock” she said, a shy smile creeping across her face. Mike was speechless. He started to bend down, but fell to his knees, Frank holding out a hand to steady him. He took Emily in his arms. “I’m so happy to see you,” he sputtered, embarrassed by his own weakness. “I was so worried. I couldn’t find you.”

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t find me. I wasn’t hiding. The nurses took me and Josh.”

  “No, no, don’t be sorry,” Mike whispered. “It’s not your fault, not your fault.” He held her tight with Frank’s hand trembling on his shoulder, while Josh started to cry and rub his eyes.r />
  Some way off, out of sight on the other side of a rolling hill, thousands of mourners had gathered for the burial of the unknowns and had commenced to sing “Nearer My God to Thee.” The voices swelled, rising up as if from the earth, piercing the hearts of all who heard them.

  Postscript

  AN IN-DEPTH INVESTIGATION, prompted by public outrage and a campaign by the press to punish those responsible for the General Slocum disaster, resulted in a number of indictments, most notably of Captain Van Schaick and Frank Barnaby, president of the Knickerbocker Steamship Company, among others. The subsequent trials revealed a litany of neglect, falsified records, bogus safety inspections, unsafe fire hoses, untrained crewmen, rotting life vests, and inoperable lifeboats. Ultimately, the only person to serve any jail time was Captain Van Schaick. He was sentenced to serve ten years at Sing Sing prison, but was paroled after three. Upon his conviction, Van Schaick said, “The United States Government made me a scapegoat.” He died in 1927 at the age of ninety.

  The General Slocum fire claimed more lives than any other civilian maritime disaster in U. S. history. Eclipsed in the public mind by the sinking of the Titanic in 1912, and most recently by the attack on the World Trade Center, the General Slocum fire stands alone in the loss of multiple family members, and its devastation of an entire community. The disaster claimed 1,021 lives. Hundreds of the victims were children.

  Adella Liebenow Wotherspoon, the last living survivor of the General Slocum disaster, died on January 26, 2004, at the age of one hundred. Her two sisters perished on the General Slocum, as did two cousins and two aunts. Her mother survived, but was badly burned. She was both the youngest and last living survivor.

  A memorial monument was erected over the graves of the sixty-one unknown victims of the General Slocum fire in the Lutheran Cemetery in Middle Village, Queens. It stands to this day.