Page 49 of Under the Stars

An Account of the Sinking of the Steamship Atlantic, by Providence Dare (excerpt)

Winthrop Island, New York

( an hour and a half after the Atlantic ran aground )

Someone had built up the fire in the inglenook of rugged fieldstone, but it wasn’t enough. Two dozen stunned, shivering men huddled nearby, vying quietly for each additional inch of exposure to its warmth.

I sat on a stool in the corner, wrapped in a blanket.

Though I shivered as violently as any of them, I drew neither comfort nor warmth from the fire.

Starkweather lay on a pallet next to me, covered by another blanket.

The gash at his temple had ceased to bleed, and I had contrived to brace his broken arm in a sling until a doctor could be found to set the bone, but his skin was like wax and his pulse, when I lifted his wrist to find it, hung by a thread.

It seemed impossible that so mighty a heart should falter. Impossible that his will to exist should encounter some stronger force. I clung to this hope. Against my own interest, I suppose, because what would he do if he rose from this couch a whole man?

He would deliver me faithfully, regretfully, to the authorities in Boston. That we had shared the warmth of our bodies during this cold, fatal night would only strengthen his resolve to do his duty.

Of that, I was certain.

—

The scene on the shore was seared on my mind forever.

Somehow I had found a man to help me drag Starkweather from the rocks.

The slow, relentless thunder of the breakers pounded my ears.

Debris filled the water and the pebbled shore.

As I tugged and slipped in my torn stockings, the wind howled and the sea spat on my hair and clothes and my icy fingers.

All around me, men screamed for help—screamed in mortal agony. Out among the boulders, Lieutenant Maynard hauled the living from the water and dragged them to shore, though the waves crashed over his head and the undertow nearly swamped him, and his face was white with cold and fatigue.

I spotted an arm reaching for aid from behind a nearby rock. When I grasped the outstretched palm, I found that the rest of the body was missing.

Starkweather’s heavy bones resisted my strength. It was not until a man from shore joined me and pulled from the other shoulder that we dragged him clear of the breaking sea, where I collapsed next to him, shaking down to my very bones.

“Does he breathe?” I gasped.

Before the man could reply, Starkweather’s back heaved.

He made a noise that was part cough, part strangle, and water vomited from his mouth.

With all my might I reached to turn him on his stomach while he retched and coughed.

The blood streamed from his head. He struggled up on his hands—gave way—struggled up again and turned his head to me. His lips moved.

“Go,” he said.

I should have obeyed him. God knew I had no business attempting to preserve the life of John Starkweather.

Nor did he want me to, I thought. As I look back now on that terrible scene, I am certain he meant to die on that rocky shore rather than face his duty, which was to arrest me for the murder of Henry Irving—a charge against which I could not defend myself.

Better to save myself. Better to follow the other survivors, now straggling up the hill, to whatever shelter this barren island afforded, before I froze to death.

But when I climbed to my hands and knees, torn and battered, every bone protesting, I found myself reaching for Starkweather’s shoulders.

I found myself screaming for help—my rescuer had long since gone to pluck other victims from the surf—to somehow haul Starkweather up the steep, ragged slope before us.

But nobody answered my calls. Maybe nobody could hear them in this furious storm. I had no strength to summon except my own.

“ Go! ” said Starkweather—louder this time, a command.

I shook my head and slung one meaty arm across my shoulders.

When he saw how determined I was, he seemed to gather himself.

He climbed to his knees, then set each foot beneath him.

A fit of coughing overcame him. When it subsided, I grasped his hand that draped over my shoulder.

Together we heaved to our feet. He wobbled heavily and I thought he might topple, but his legs were like iron and held firm.

I don’t know how we achieved the top of that hill.

Now, when I stand on the ridge and stare down at the shore below, the boulders wet and gleaming under a watery sun, I try to piece together some memory of the climb—the effort it cost us both, step by step, until we reached the crest and saw the lane that led to a pair of flickering lights from the windows of a house.

All I remember is the sound of a bell, ringing through the noise of the wind and the surf and the rending screams of dying men, as we scrambled and slid through the darkness toward shelter.

Starkweather had found just enough strength to cross the threshold before he tumbled to the ground in a dead faint.

—

Now I knelt at Starkweather’s side and leaned my ear against his great chest to listen for the rhythm of his lungs, of his heart.

My own heart was too numb to feel anything at all—hope or despair, love or indifference, joy or grief.

I had not even the strength to pray for the child inside me.

I heard the soft, rattling whoosh of air beneath his ribs and lifted my head.

To my surprise, his eyes were open and fixed in wonder upon my face. I touched his cheek and said his name.

“I am content,” he said, and closed his eyes.

Only one event stands out in my recollections of that lonely vigil, as dawn spread over the world and Starkweather breathed his last. The door swung open to reveal a pair of men bearing a dripping body slung between them, backlit by a sooty new morning.

They brought him to rest on the floor next to Starkweather, so that the two men lay side by side—both stout of shoulder, long of limb, white shirts stained with blood.

Then the light fell on the poor victim’s face, fringed by a fair beard along his jaw, and I saw that it was Captain Dustan.