THE HOUR OF PERIL.
As Mr. Graham had expressed in his letter the intention of being at the steamboat wharf in New York to meet his daughter and Gertrude on their arrival, Dr. Jeremy thought it unnecessary to accompany his charges further than Albany, where he could see them safely on their way, and then proceed to Boston with his wife over the Western Railroad.
"Good-bye, Gerty," said the doctor, as he bade them farewell on the deck of one of the Hudson river-boats. "I'm afraid you've lost your heart in Saratoga; you don't look quite so bright as you did when we first arrived there. It can't have strayed far, however, I think, in such a place as that; so be sure and find it before I see you in Boston."
It wanted a few minutes only of the time for the boat to start, when a gay group of fashionables appeared talking and laughing. Among them was Miss Clinton, whose companions were making her the object of a great deal of wit and pleasantry, by which, although she feigned to be teased, her smiling face gave evidence that she felt flattered and pleased. At length the significant gesture of some of the party, and a half-smothered hush-h! indicated the approach of some one, and presently William Sullivan, with a travelling-bag in his hand, a heavy shawl thrown over one arm, and his grave face, as if he had not recovered from the chagrin of the previous evening, appeared, passed Gertrude, whose veil was drawn over her face, and joined Isabel, placing his burden on a chair which stood near.
Just then the violent ringing of the bell gave notice to all but the passengers to quit the boat, and he was compelled to make haste to depart. As he did so he drew a step nearer Gertrude, a step further from her whom he was addressing, and the former distinguished the words: "Then, if you will do your best to return on Thursday I will try not to be impatient in the meantime."
A moment more and the boat was on its way; just then a tall figure, who reached the landing just as she started, had, to the horror of the spectators, daringly leaped the gap that already divided her from the shore; after which he sought the gentlemen's saloon, threw himself upon a couch, drew a book from his pocket, and commenced reading.
As soon as the boat was fairly under weigh and quiet prevailed in the neighbourhood, Emily spoke softly to Gertrude, and said——
"Didn't I just now hear Isabel Clinton's voice?"
"She is here," replied Gertrude, "on the opposite side of the deck, but sitting with her back towards us."
"Didn't she see us?"
"I believe she did," answered Gertrude. "She stood looking this way while her party were arranging their seats."
"Perhaps she is going to New York to meet Mrs. Graham."
"Very possible," replied Gertrude. "I didn't think of it before."
"Who was the gentleman who spoke to her just before the boat started?"
"Willie," was the tremulous response.
Emily pressed Gertrude's hand and was silent. She, too, had overheard his farewell remark, and felt its significance. Several hours passed, and they had proceeded some distance down the river; for the motion of the boat was rapid—too rapid, as it seemed to Gertrude, for safety. She observed several circumstances, which excited so much alarm, that, effectually aroused from her train of reflection, she had leisure only to take into view her own and Emily's situation, and its probable consequence.
Several times, since they left Albany, had the boat passed and repassed another of similar size, with living freight, and bound in the same direction. Occasionally, during their headlong course, the contiguity of the two boats excited serious alarm. They were racing, and racing desperately. Some few, regardless of danger, watched with pleased eagerness the mad career of rival ambition; but by far the majority of the company, who had reason and sense, looked on in indignation and fear. The usual stopping places on the river were either recklessly passed by, or only paused at, while, with indecent haste, passengers were shuffled backwards and forwards at the risk of life and limb, their baggage (or somebody's else) unceremoniously flung after them, the panting, snorting engine in the meantime bellowing with rage at the check thus unwillingly imposed upon its freedom.
Gertrude sat with her hand locked in Emily's, anxiously watching every indication of terror, and endeavouring to judge from the countenances and words of her most intelligent-looking fellow-travellers the actual degree of their insecurity. Emily, rendered through her acute hearing, conscious of the prevailing alarm, was calm, though very pale, and from time to time questioned Gertrude concerning the vicinity of the other boat, a collision with which was the principal cause of fear.
At length their boat for a few moments distanced its competitor; the assurance of perfect safety was impressively asserted; anxiety began to be relieved, and most of the passengers gained their wonted composure. Emily looked pallid, and, as Gertrude fancied, a little faint. "Let us go below, Emily," she said; "it appears now to be very quiet and safe."
Gertrude opened her travelling-basket, which contained their luncheon. It consisted merely of such dry morsels as had been hastily collected and put up at their hotel, in Albany, by Dr. Jeremy's direction. Gertrude was hesitating which she could recommend to Emily, when a waiter appeared, bearing a tray of refreshments, which he placed upon the table.
"This is not for us," said Gertrude. "You have made a mistake."
"No mistake," replied the man. "Orders was for de blind lady and hansum young miss. I only 'beys orders. Anything furder, miss?"
Gertrude dismissed the man with the assurance that they wanted nothing more, and then, turning to Emily, asked, with an attempt at cheerfulness, what they should do with this Aladdin-like repast.
"Eat it, my dear, if you can," said Emily; "it is no doubt meant for us."
"But to whom are we indebted for it?"
"To my blindness and your beauty, I suppose," said Emily, smiling. "Perhaps the chief steward, or master of ceremonies, took pity on our inability to come to dinner, and so sent the dinner to us."
The sable waiter, when he came to remove the dishes, really looked sad to see how little they had eaten. Gertrude drew out her purse, and after bestowing a fee upon the man, inquired whom she should pay for the meal.
"Pay, miss!" said the man, grinning. "Bless my stars! de gentleman pays for all!"
"Who? What gentleman?" asked Gertrude, in surprise.
But before he could reply another waiter appeared and beckoned to his fellow-waiter, who snatched up his tray and trotted off, leaving Gertrude and Emily to wonder who the gentleman might be.
"What time is it?" asked she, on awaking.
"Nearly a quarter past three," replied Gertrude, glancing at her watch (a beautiful gift from a class of her former pupils).
Emily started up. "We can't be far from New York," said she; "where are we now?"
"I think we must be near the Palisades;" said Gertrude; "stay here, I will go and see." She passed across the saloon, and was ascending the staircase, when she was alarmed by a rushing sound, mingled with hurried steps. She kept on, however, and had gained the head of the stairway, when a man rushed past gasping for breath, and shrieking, "Fire! fire!" A scene of dismay and confusion ensued too terrible for description. Shrieks rose upon the air, groans and cries of despair burst from hearts that were breaking with fear for others, or maddened at the certainty of their own destruction. Those who had never prayed before poured out their souls in the fervent ejaculation, "Oh, my God!"
Gertrude gazed around upon every side. Towards the centre of the boat, where the machinery, heated to the last degree, had fired the vessel, a huge volume of flame was visible, darting out its fiery fangs, and causing the stoutest hearts to shrink and crouch in horror. She gave but one glance; then bounded down the stairs to save Emily. But she was arrested at the very onset. One step only had she taken when she was encircled by two powerful arms, and a movement made to rush with her upon deck: while a familiar voice gasped forth, "Gertrude, my child! my own darling! Be quiet—be quiet!—I will save you!"
She was struggling madly. "No, no!" shouted she; "Emily! Emily! Let me die! but I must find Emily!"
"Where is she?" asked Mr. Phillips; for it was he.
"There, there," pointed Gertrude—"in the cabin. Let me go! let me go!"
He cast one look around him; then said, in a firm tone, "Be calm, my child! I can save you both; follow me closely!"
With a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the cabin. In the furthest corner knelt Emily, her hands clasped, and her face like that of an angel.
Gertrude and Mr. Phillips were by her side in an instant. He stooped to lift her in his arms, Gertrude at the same time exclaiming, "Come, Emily, come! He will save us!" But Emily resisted. "Leave me, Gertrude—leave me, and save yourselves! Oh!" said she, imploringly, "leave me, and save my child." But ere the words had left her lips she was borne half way across the saloon; Gertrude followed closely.
"If we can cross to the bows of the boat we are safe!" said Mr. Phillips, in a husky voice.
To do so, however, proved impossible. The centre of the boat was now one sheet of flame. "Good heavens!" exclaimed he, "we are too late! we must go back!"
With much difficulty they regained the saloon. The boat, as soon as the fire was discovered, had been turned towards the shore, struck upon the rocks, and parted in the middle. Her bows were brought near to the land, near enough to almost ensure the safety of such persons as were at the top part of the vessel. But, alas for those near the stern!
Mr. Phillips' first thought was to beat down a window-sash, spring upon the guards, and drag Emily and Gertrude after him. Some ropes hung upon the guards; he seized one and made it fast to the boat; then turned to Gertrude, who stood firm by his side. "Gertrude," said he, "I shall swim to the shore with Emily. If the fire comes too near, cling to the guards; as a last chance hold on to the rope. Keep your veil flying; I shall return."
"No, no!" cried Emily. "Gertrude, go first."
"Hush, Emily!" exclaimed Gertrude; "we shall both be saved."
"Cling to my shoulder in the water, Emily," said Mr. Phillips, utterly regardless of her protestations. He took her once more in his arms; there was a splash, and they were gone. At the same instant Gertrude was seized from behind. She turned and found herself grasped by Isabel Clinton, who, kneeling upon the platform, and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely to her as utterly to disable them both; she shrieked out, "Oh, Gertrude! Gertrude! save me!" But Gertrude thus imprisoned, she was powerless to do anything for her own or Isabel's salvation. She looked forth in the direction Mr. Phillips had taken, and, to her joy, she saw him returning. He had deposited Emily on board a boat, and was now approaching to claim another burden. A volume of flame swept so near the spot where the two alarmed girls were stationed that Gertrude felt the scorching heat, and both were almost suffocated with smoke. An heroic resolution was now displayed by Gertrude. One of them could be saved; for Mr. Phillips was within a few rods of the wreck. It should be Isabel! She had called on her for protection, and it should not be denied! Moreover, Willie loved Isabel. Willie would weep for her loss, and that must not be. He would not weep for Gertrude—at least, not much; and, if one must die, it should be she. "Isabel," said she—"Isabel, do you hear me? Stand up on your feet; do as I tell you, and you shall be saved. Do you hear me, Isabel?"
She heard, shuddered; but did not move. Gertrude stooped down, and wrenching apart the hands which were convulsively clenched, said sternly, "Isabel, if you do as I tell you, you will be on shore in five minutes, safe and well; but if you stay there we shall both be burned to death. For mercy's sake, get up quickly, and listen to me!" Isabel rose, fixed her eyes upon Gertrude's calm, steadfast face, and said, "What must I do? I will try."
"Do you see that person swimming this way?"
"Yes."
"He will come to this spot. Hold fast to that piece of rope, and I will let you gradually down to the water. But, stay!"—and, snatching the deep blue veil from her own head she tied it round the neck and flung it over the fair hair of Isabel. Mr. Phillips was within a rod or two. "Now, Isabel, now!" exclaimed Gertrude, "or you will be too late!" Isabel took the rope, but shrunk back, appalled at the sight of the water. One more hot burst of fire gave her renewed courage to brave a mere seeming danger; and aided by Gertrude, who helped her over the guards, she allowed herself to be let down to the water's edge. Mr. Phillips was just in time to receive her, for she was so utterly exhausted that she could not have clung long to the rope. Gertrude had no opportunity to follow them with her eye; her own situation was now all-engrossing. The flames had reached her. She could hardly breathe. She could hesitate no longer. She seized the piece of rope, and grasping it with all nor might, leaped over the side of the vessel. How long her strength would have enabled her thus to cling—how long the guards, as yet unapproached by the fire, would have continued a sure support for the cable—there was no opportunity to test; for, just as her feet touched the cold surface of the water, the huge wheel, which was but a little distance from where she hung, gave one sudden revolution, sounding like a death-dirge through the water, which came foaming and dashing up against the boat, and, as it swept away again, bore with it the light form of Gertrude!