Quincy Morris

SS Adriatic, The North Atlantic

1897

Love alone propelled him through this nightmare. It was a dark and stormy day, the kind that reminds humans of our fragility and mortality. Nature raged over the north Atlantic, merciless and deadly. Violent winds screamed over the ocean, wailing and battering the commercial ocean-liner like a monstrous banshee hungry for blood. The sea bucked and tumbled, first trying to throw the ship from its back the way a raging bull does a rider, then trying swallow it up so that it could drag it down into the deep and crush it beneath thousands of tons of pressure. Cold and fierce, rain pounded every inch of the ship, doing its devilish best to break through the thick portholes that shielded the passengers. Between the three of them, wicked wind, hungry ocean and torrential rain, they conspired to sweep overboard anyone fool enough to venture onto the decks of the lonely ship. They’d already lost a woman and the two men who’d attempted to bring her back to relative safety indoors.

The ship was the SS Adriatic. She was an Oceanic-class steamship, with twelve boilers pumping out six hundred horsepower, yet she also bore four towering, square-rigged masts next to her funnel. The Adriatic straddled both the age of sail and the age of steam. At three thousand, eight hundred eighty-eight gross tons, she stretched a hundred and thirty-eight meters long and over twelve wide, with two sleek but cramped decks carrying eight hundred fifty passengers at a speed of fourteen and a half knots, almost twenty-seven kilometres per hour. It had been fast enough to win the coveted Blue Riband for fastest trans-Atlantic voyage back in 1872. After a thirty six year career as a workhorse carrying passengers and mail across the cold, volatile sea, she was now making her final passenger voyage from New York to Liverpool. Or, at least she was trying to.

On the bridge, a sparse, economical room painted sterile white that stretched the width of the superstructure, the mood was a tense mixture of determination and fear. The captain, resplendent in his crisp, white uniform, was a hard but kind man with an iron gray moustache and eyes to match. He was most definitely earning his pay at the moment as he struggled to handle multiple problems at once, both keeping the ship afloat and keeping the people under his protection alive. 

“Put more men on the bilge pumps,” Captain Pike told a junior officer, his voice firm, displaying his complete control, or at least the appearance of it. “Recruit them from steerage if you must. And double the men on the stokers. We’ll need every bit of steam this lady can give us to survive.” He then turned his head and addressed a ship’s steward, “Get back down to the first class kitchen at once and you tell that chef that if he doesn’t put every fire out right this instant, I’ll let this ship sink and the ocean can put them out for him.”

“But, sir. The first class passengers have been complaining. They say they haven’t had breakfast and are starving—”

“Let them!” Captain Pike roared, his contempt for high-paying passengers and their selfish attitudes far less veiled than usual thanks to their current crisis. “We’re damn near drowning as it is. I’ll not add burning alive to the list of threats as well. And anyone who’s been in a ship’s kitchen damn well knows that the place is a death trap in high seas. I want every single staff member out of that kitchen and safe in their bunks, which is where they belong at a time like this. Which is where the passengers themselves should be as well, not in the dining room demanding caviar and champagne like spoiled children!”

The ship swooned in a way that nauseated the stomach as the bow sharply rose. 

“Two points to port, Mister Rogers! We’ll not be climbing at an angle unless you want us rolling back down the way we came!”

“Aye-aye, Captain. Two points to port.” The helmsman, barely in his mid-twenties, clutched the wheel like his life depended on it, which it did.

“All ahead full!”

“All ahead full!” echoed the junior officers. 

The handles on both engine-order telegraphs were pushed by junior officers to FULL, sending a corresponding signal down to the engine room for the same. The telegraph gave a brassy ding in response. Below decks, the boilers opened up. The ship soon surged ahead in an effort to climb the mountain of water before it.

Quincy nervously ran a heavy hand over the close-cropped, black hair on his head. He regularly sheared the hair almost to the skin so that there was only a thin layer of curls. For practical purposes, it was easy to keep his scalp clean and cool, especially in the hot climes he frequented. Those climes being the reason he’d taken to wearing Stetson-made Boss-of-the-Plains hats, the kind widely adopted by farmers and ranchers across the western US. A nearly bald head made hat wearing a lot easier. After all, his hair, when grown out, naturally had the structure of a densely-curled wire brush. Quincy was half Native American Seminole on his mother’s side, descended from displaced Cree who’d been pushed south to Florida by incoming Europeans, and he was half African American on his father’s side, a line descended from African warriors if you went back far enough. He had definitely gotten his hair from his father’s side.

Not that he wore a hat at the moment. Mostly he wore an expression of faint dread and a sheen of salty seawater that sprayed through the door whenever it was opened. He felt an elbow nudge him in the ribs.

“First time in high seas?” Samuel Clemens asked him. He and Quincy had met in steerage class. The author, better known as Mark Twain, refused to travel in first as a matter of principal, being a staunch supporter of civil and equal rights, as well as unions, that is, all things that the people in first class tended to oppose, and he’d said he felt much more at home with real folk. They were on the bridge as guests of the captain. Captain Pike was a regular at the poker games Samuel and Quincy often took part in to pass the monotonous days of sea travel. The three had become fast friends over a shared interest in Jamaican rum, cards, adventure, and a shared distaste for snobby money folk, both new and old, the kind that frequently tried to monopolize the time of both the captain and the illustrious author in their personal quests to one-up each other in silly games of status. The private, invite-only poker game had become a refuge: for the captain, refuge from his employment duties pandering to guests and, for Samuel, refuge from fans who wanted to tell all everyone that he was their personal friend, or uptight critics who seemed to have an opinion about his published works or his personal political views.

Quincy nodded in answer to the older man’s question and more tightly gripped the hand-hold keeping him upright. The ship felt like it was taking off into the sky at this angle, a very unnatural feeling. “I’ve fought in armies, tracked down killers, safaried in Africa, and trekked the Amazon jungles. I’ve been through Rocky Mountain winters and spent summers in the Mojave desert. Whatever the land, whatever hell it can throw at me, I can face it. But this? There is no hell like this.” Quincy stared out the windows. There was no sky, only water. Because the ocean wasn’t stretched out flat in front of them like it usually was. Against all reason it was standing up in front of them, a wall of water intent on pushing them over. It was terrifying. He missed mountains made of stone. Mountains didn’t move the way the ocean did, generally speaking. They rarely tried to kill you on their own. But the sea seemed alive and possessed by vengeance and malice. 

The world-famous author seemed far less perturbed. Sixty two years young, his hair an unruly mass of white, and dressed in a white summer suit despite the chilly weather, he calmly gazed out at the sea as if it were just another day, one hand on the handrail to steady himself and the other holding his pipe to his lips. The instrument was unlit. Samuel had explained earlier that he’d long ago given up the unhealthy habit of smoking, both for his own sake and so as not to plague others with clouds of smelly smoke. But he liked the image of the pipe and the habit of having something to fiddle with. Sometimes he packed the bowl with potpourri and scented oils, just because he enjoyed the look of surprise on people’s faces when they got a whiff of the smoke. 

Quincy glanced at his companion. “How can you be so calm right now?”

Samuel shrugged. “We’re just passengers in this. What would stress do to improve the situation? There’s nothing we can do about that storm. Nothing to it but to wait it out and hope for the best.”

Quincy nodded in frustration. “That’s exactly the problem: I can’t do anything. On land, I feel like I have options, that I’m in control. Here, my life is entirely in someone else’s hands and I feel helpless.”

Captain Pike looked back over his shoulder. “Fear not, Quince. We’re not going to let you die today. I’m still upset about your full house earlier. I want a chance to win my money back before you go looking for Davy Jones.”

“Well ain’t that skippier than a key lime pie on a July evening,” Quincy sarcastically retorted, putting on a thick, southern drawl. “Perhaps I’ll grab the cards and rum and bring ‘em up here so as we can all enjoy our drownin’ and dyin’ like proper gentlemen.”

Samuel and the captain both chuckled. The levity eased their tension, but only for a moment, before the storm returned it two-fold with a gust of wind so strong that the whole ship leaned away from it.

Quincy shook his head in amazement. “I can’t believe that Samuelson and Harbo made this whole journey in a dinky little rowboat last year.” 

He referred to the Norwegian-born Americans who had recently become the first people to ever row across an ocean. They’d done so in nothing more than an open-faced, eighteen-foot, oak rowboat with a couple of watertight flotation compartments. Armed with a compass, a sextant, a copy of the Nautical Almanac, oilskins, and three sets of oars, they departed New York City on June 6, 1896 and arrived fifty-four days later off the Cornish peninsula of Great Britain. Sadly, neither brave man had become legend, nor had they become rich for their incredible efforts, receiving no more than ten Swedish krona from King Oscar II of Sweden for their mastery of the sea. But a few remembered, those who also had adventure in their hearts.

“Those Norwegians are made of tough stock.” Samuel agreed. “Must be the viking blood in them.”

“Aren’t the English the masters of the seas?” Quincy joked.

“The vikings did it first.”

“True,” he agreed. “You know, my father’s people were seamen, generations ago. Bloodthirsty pirates, actually, of the Caribbean. I don’t think I inherited any sailor blood though.”

Samuel snorted. “Just a love of rum, women, gambling, and brawling.”

Quincy made a roguish grin. “Exactly. All the best parts.”

The ship’s steam engines worked full out, dedicating every scrap of power they had to climbing a monstrosity before them, a surge of water that blocked their entire view. They had to climb it. It was either climb it, or die. If the ship lost power, for any reason, they’d be left fully at the mercy of the storm, and Quincy knew full well that the storm had none.

The ship crested the roller with aching slowness. For a few moments, they knew respite. 

“Engines to one quarter!” called the captain.

“Engines to one quarter!” 

Quincy should have known calm as they reached the top of the rise, but then the vast ocean opened up before them and he saw the impossibly deep valley below. Slowly, the ship nosed down into the trough and began its downward plunge, as if diving into the belly of the abyss itself. “Fuck me,” Quincy muttered and hung on even tighter. “This is nuts!”

Samuel raised a bushy, white eyebrow as he appraised the drop. “Oh, I don’t know. Reminds me of those switchback railways and scenic rides they have at the Coney Island amusement park. Folk pay good money to ride those rickety contraptions, going up and down just like we are. But here we are getting an even better experience for free.” He winked.

The captain forcefully jested in a tight voice as he focused on the sea in front of them. “Yes, it’s a new entertainment service White Star is thinking of introducing for thrill-seeking passengers. Figured they’d try it out on this old girl first.” He nodded at the ship. “Being her last passenger voyage and all, I guess they figured that if the plan failed and the ship sank, it would be expendable.”

“And the passengers? And crew?” Quincy asked.

“Surprise tour of Davy Jones’ Locker,” Samuel added, referring to the sailor’s term for the bottom of the ocean. “I’m guessing that crabs are on the menu. Pretty much every day”

Quincy snorted a laugh. Then something outside the window caught his eye. He pointed. “There’s something in the water over there.”

All eyes turned to look, for anything in the water was a potential hazard. Something the size of a house bobbed in the surface waves as carelessly as a cork.

“Ice!” exclaimed a junior officer, his face turning pale.

Moments later, the ship plowed through a thick pack of slush and it bathed the deck. A slurry of freezing water and ice chunks, some big as a carriage, devastated the front deck. 

“We’ve hit a patch of melt. We need to head south,” the captain grumbled, thinking out loud.

“Sir?” the first mate asked.

“South, First Officer Kinley. We need to get further south. Immediately. Get out of this mess and go around it.”

The first officer was a chubby, weak-willed sort. He was the kind of man who’d gotten to his position more from brown-nosing and internal corporate politics more than from hard-won experience. “But, sir, we’ve already been delayed half a day. If we deviate further from our course, we won’t make it to London on schedule. They may not pay our bonuses.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “We’re smack dab in the middle of a North Atlantic storm in iceberg season. I did my duty trying to get us to London on the allotted day. But I’m not going to jeopardize everyone on this ship by continuing our course when there’s visible ice around us. It’s madness. It would be a titanic mistake to blindly plow through these waters like that. Who knows what could be waiting for us on the other side of the next roller?” He nodded to himself, perhaps having talked himself into the decision. “Helmsman, prepare to gently bring her to starboard on the next decline. We’ll go straight into each rise when we climb, but inch our way south—”

The ship reached the the lowest point between two rollers. But before it could climb, the front of the ship buried its nose in the oncoming wave. A third of the ship submerged amidst cries of helpless panic from all aboard. Water and ice surged over the ship. 

A hunk of ice shot through the air like a cannonball and pulverized one of the bridge windows, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

Quincy instinctively yanked Samuel out of the path of the incoming missile and shielded the elder man’s body with his own. Salt spray filled the air and the sound of the storm was deafening without glass to keep it at bay. The temperature plummeted as the wind sucked it out into the storm.

“Board that up!” commanded the captain. But men were in disarray, two laying injured and bleeding in the debris. 

At first, Quincy stood rooted in spot, staring wide-eyed out the broken window. The whole, brutal ocean seemed ready to invade their tiny little shelter and drown them all. Then the sudden need for action overrode his fear. At last he could actually do something about his own situation. He looked around. In a narrow, vertical space were several large, heavy wooden boards ready for just this situation. He reached in, grabbed a board, and easily hauled it out into the open. Quincy, at almost a hundred and ninety centimetres tall and about a hundred and ten kilos, was a large man, packed with muscle from a lifetime of farming, ranching, construction, fighting, and hauling people and baggage across frontiers on four continents. But the floor was slippery with water and broken glass and fierce winds poured through the opening. A sudden gust tossed Quincy aside and threw him against the wall. He grunted in pain. But with the brute strength of three regular men, he stood and heaved the board up over the space where the window had been. It took everything he had just to keep the board in place against the gale. 

A junior officer ran up, hammer in hand and Samuel right behind him with a bag of nails. Together, the three of them managed to nail the board into place just as the ship levelled out at the top of a rise and then began to descend.

Lightning flashed and before thunder could reach them, every soul on the bridge collectively gasped. 

Deep inside the upcoming roller ahead was a massive, dark shadow: a huge iceberg entombed in the water, a mountain of ice lifted high and placed directly in their path, capable of crushing their boat to splinters as easily as stone. It would be like sailing into a mountain.

“Hard to starboard!” Captain Pike shouted. “All ahead full!”

The ship was large and slow to change course even in the best of weather and now they were sliding downhill, directly in line with the ‘berg, and picking up speed. For a moment, nothing happened, then the ship started turning to starboard, albeit with bone-aching slowness. 

Quincy shook his head. After all he’d been through, this was how he’d die? Helpless in the middle of the ocean? 

He’d never get to see Lucy again. He’d never have the opportunity to propose. Or to love her the way he’d wanted to since the moment he’d met her.

That was the reason for this voyage. Hell, it was the reason for his continued existence. For two years he’d been away from London, with nothing but long, tender letters between them, words of hope and promise, of love and teasing sensuality. Distance should have caused his heart to go yonder over time. He should have fallen for greener pastures closer at hand; after all, he’d explored enough of them, being a man who took considerable physical enjoyment in such bodily pleasures. And yet, somehow, his passion for her had only grown stronger. Lucy was sweet and happy, playful and wonderfully naughty in the best sense of the word. He hadn’t met anyone else who could capture his imagination the way she could. Now, with money in his pocket and she finally about to turn nineteen and eligible to marry, he was eager not to lose a single hour more. He had planned to arrive just in time for her birthday in a few days and then the very next day he would propose. At long last they would be able to begin a real relationship in earnest, as man and woman, as husband and wife. And with all the friendship, love, and wild physical lust that entailed. 

Unless he ended up feeding the fish with his corpse before he got a chance at such happiness. 

They sailed ever closer to the iceberg ahead. The ship’s screws churned and the men in the boiler room were urged to throw everything they had into their task. The ship reached the lowest point of the trough. The bow dug into the water, stuck a moment, then lifted clear as the ship began its ascent. Unlike previous climbs, they were no longer aimed directly at the roller, a strategy that had kept the ship on an even keel. This time they had turned and come in at an angle. And almost immediately, the ship canted to the side.

Quincy felt his stomach roll too. He’d give anything to be astride a nice, safe stallion right now. In winter. On the side of a mountain. Hell, he could even have bandits shooting at him and it would still be better than this.

Lighting flashed again, illuminating the iceberg. It loomed right before them. 

“Come on, blast you!” Captain Pike desperately urged his ship. “Turn!”

The ship canted even further. It shuddered. Then a terrifying groan cut through the air. 

“We’ve hit!” the first officer cried out. He looked about ready to wet himself. Quincy couldn’t entirely blame the man. He couldn’t remember the last time he, too, had been so scared.

The groan dragged on and every man, woman and child on the ship was no doubt picturing a huge gash tearing its way through the hull and cold seawater pouring in. Would they even have time for anyone to make it to the lifeboats? Or would they sink too fast to save anyone?

Then the groan was gone. The ship continued to climb. Everyone paused, silent, listening for further sounds of disaster. But none came. 

“We’re past it!” Samuel grinned in triumph.

Quincy sagged with relief. 

“Johnson!” the captain barked. “Down to the hold, double-time. Find out how much damage we’ve taken on. Hartlon, begin evacuation procedures just in case. Get the passengers lined up but don’t begin launching life rafts until I give the order.” The ship rolled even further. They tilted to an almost ninety degree angle. A few more degrees and they’d flip over. “Helmsman, to port! Angle up the rise!”

“Port, sir! Aye!”

They nosed over the crest and it gave the ship just enough weight redistribution to turn them back upright. A cheer rang out throughout the bridge. It was soon reported that it was the keel that had dragged along the ice, which was, luckily, the strongest part of the hull, and that the hull hadn’t been breached at all. They weren’t going to sink after all. Another cheer rang out.

After that, it was a matter of slowly making their way south and away from both storm and hidden dangers. They spotted other icebergs, much easier to see in calmer seas, and gave them a wide berth. Three days later, they steamed past the Isle of Man and turned into the River Mersey on route for Liverpool. 

Quincy and Samuel stood on the bow deck with dozens of other passengers, watching Liverpool appear out of the last remnants of dawn fog. It wasn’t home to the Americans, but the sight of any civilization at all, and the prospect of dry land, was a very welcome one. They were safe, their sea trials were over and Quincy was once more giddy with excitement at the prospect of seeing Lucy.

The author smiled. “There she is, my boy. Jolly ol’ England.” 

“And there she awaits in London.” Quincy grinned and rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation. “Just a short train ride away.”

Samuel clapped Quincy on the arm. “I do hope she says yes. If she has even half the good impression of you that I have, I think she’d be a fool to say anything else.”

“Thank you.” He felt honoured by the man’s words. He’d come to deeply respect the wise gentleman beside him.

His new friend gestured with his pipe. “A bit of advice, something I learned with my own dearest Olivia: do not give up. Winning a woman’s hand can have many obstacles: her doubts and insecurity, her ability to trust, her family, or rivals for her hand. If everything you’ve told me is true, she’ll probably say yes to you before the words are even out of your mouth. But no matter the initial response, no matter what crops up to derail your plans, keep at it. Fight for her. Nothing haunts a man worse than giving up without fighting for what he really wants in life. Especially when it’s that special woman in his heart.”

Quincy nodded. “I’ve waited two long years for this moment. I won’t let anything get in the way of our happiness together.”

“Good lad.”

“And to you, sir, good luck with the speaking engagements in France. Recollections is a fine work,” Quincy stated, referring to Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, Samuel’s most recent novel. Samuel had conducted much personal research on Joan in Paris while writing the novel and was one of the first English-speaking authors to popularize her outside France. He had been asked back to celebrate the release of the book. “I for one think it’s perfectly ok for an author to branch out into other genres. Those critics clamouring for more Finn and Sawyer are just being selfish. You’re an artist. You deserve the freedom to create what your heart demands.”

Samuel chuckled, though there was a touch of disappointment or sadness to it. “Thanks. I’ve tried to tell them that but critics aren’t a terribly bright breed, only an unfortunately vocal one. Perhaps we should gather them all up and ship them off to the north Atlantic during a storm. But without good Captain Pike to help them. Or lifeboats.”

Quincy laughed, then turned gentle and more serious. “I’m sure Susy would be proud of the book. And you.”

The author’s face clouded in pain. Samuel’s daughter had died the previous August of spinal meningitis at the tender age of only twenty-four, a flower cut down just as it had reached full bloom. 

Quincy put his arm around Samuel’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know it’s still hard to hear her name. But talking about her is the best way to remember her. And to heal. And I’m sure she’d want that for you.”

Samuel bravely tried to smile and nodded. He gazed out over the metropolis crowding the riverbanks. “Susy always hated the fact that I was dismissed for being a mere humorist. She said I ought to be taken more seriously. Said I should try to be more serious. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I wrote this novel.” He paused a moment. “I based Joan on her, you know. On Susy’s physical description as it was when she was seventeen. And something of her character.” He wiped a tear away. “I miss her so much.”

Quincy squeezed the older man’s shoulder in sympathy. He was used to this dramatic swing in his new friend’s moods. Suzy had been a light in Samuel’s life and inspired multiple works over his career. He had taken the death very hard and spent the months since in deep depression. Quincy had done his very best over the trans-Atlantic voyage to comfort when he could, listen when Samuel felt like opening up, and providing cheer or distraction where appropriate. Like many Americans, Quincy had long been a fan of the world-famous author. But their time together had given him a much more intimate appreciation for the man behind the name and he prided himself on having had the opportunity to be a friend and risen to the occasion. To do so was the essence of friendship. “You’ve done as good as any father could ask for. She may be gone, but thanks to your works, both of your biographies, and the memories of those who knew her, she’ll live on.”

Samuel nodded and tried to pull himself together. He offered his hand. “You’re a good man, Quincy Morris. A good man.”