The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen (33 page)

“Peter?” my mother asks, resting a concerned hand on his chest. She shakes his lapel, and he slumps over senseless to the side, leaning on Beattie, who struggles to right him. Ed cuddles closer to me, the tears having overflown their dams.

Now who's the crackbrain,
I think wickedly.

“Mr. Van Sinderen?” a young corporation lackey cries into the carriage window after hustling the drunk away. “Are you quite all right, sir?”

The bands outside are striking up again, and a lone firework goes off with a whine and glittering pop over the water. Someone bellows through a speaking tube that all parties expected on the barge should make their way to the gangplank.

Mother shakes Papa more roughly. “Peter!” she shouts in his ear. “We're going to miss the boat! Wake up!”

“Mr. Van Sinderen?” the lackey says again. “They're calling people to the barges, sir.”

“Peter, dammit!” Mother says, pulling off her glove and slapping Papa across the face. The force from her blow flops his head over to the other side, but his eyes are glassy and he doesn't reply.

Cursing, the lackey wrestles the carriage door open and leans in, thrusting a small container of ammonium salts under Papa's nose. Mother catches a whiff of it and coughs, shouting, “Be careful where you put that, for God's sake!”

Meanwhile, the door on my side of the carriage opens softly, and I feel a gentle hand on my arm.

“Annie,” Herschel says to me levelly. “It's time to go.”

My lover stands before me full of life, and my heart quails at the sight. I push Ed into Beattie's arms, take Herschel's proffered hand,
and step out of the carriage. I feel as light as a leaf, as though beams of light were shining out of my head.

“No!” Beattie screams. “Wait!”

I turn to my struggling family in the carriage, Mother gagging on the ammonia stench as she and the secretary try to rouse the dead weight of my drunken, head-stunned father, Beattie wedged in next to them, her arms full of my bawling little brother. I lean back into the carriage and plant a kiss on Beattie's cheek.

“Don't you worry,” I say with a smile, tucking a hank of her hair behind her ear. “You keep them here. Watch Ed. I'll be back soon as I can.”

I'm lying to her. We both know it. Tears start to fill Beattie's lower lids.

“Ed?” I say to the sniveling creature cowering on the carriage bench in his new suit. He rubs his eyes and stares at me.

“Here,” I say, pulling the cameo of Persephone off my finger. It glows faintly in the oncoming night. I bring it to my lips for a fast kiss and then slide it quickly onto my brother's thumb. “You hold this for me while I'm on the barge. Keep it safe. That's your job. All right?”

He looks down at the trinket with fresh interest. “All right,” he acquiesces. “But only 'til you come back.”

“Fair enough.” I smile. “Now whatever you do, stay here, with Mother and Papa. All right?”

My siblings nod dumbly, and a strange golden glimmer seems to pass over the scene, the fairy wash of light I saw at the park. Like a leaf showing its underside on a breeze. A subtle change.

“Annie . . . ,” Beattie starts to say. Her face crumples and she can't finish.

“I know. Me, too,” I reply.

Herschel's hand is around mine, and it's time for me to go. I slam the carriage door against my mother's muffled cry of “Where does
she think she's going?” We take off at a dead run, weaving through the crowd.

“They're going to cast off!” Herschel cries. “We have to hurry!”

The gangplank is thronged with so many people that we'll never be able to fight our way on. The barge sags low in the water, heavy with bunting and bands and milling people, streamers dropping between the gunwales and the shore. A few rowboats bump up against the hull, full of more people laughing, tossing streamers, a few uninvited young men trying to vault aboard.

“We can get on from the stern,” I shout to Herschel, pointing.

He nods, and we dash through the crowd away from the gangplank to the shade of a tree near the end of the Battery, its branches trailing streamers like a weeping willow. We skid to a stop as a rough-looking young man steps forward from the shadows, clutching a weathered leather bag to his chest. The leather has been branded with the pattern of a spindle.

“That's Claude,” Herschel explains. “It's all right. He's with us.”

“Here, take it,” the man says, thrusting the bag into Herschel's arms. He has a thick Creole accent. Another contraband. “You sure you're ready?”

“I'm ready,” Herschel says.

“What she be doing here?” The man gives me a suspicious look, taking in my fancy dress and my prissy curls.

“It's okay. I'm in the Brotherhood,” I say, fixing him with my steeliest stare.

“
Okay
?” the rough-looking Creole repeats as though he's never heard the expression before, and I smile to myself.

Herschel is startled to hear this pledge of revolutionary allegiance from me, but when the suspicious man eyes him for confirmation, he nods, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. “It's perfect,” Herschel insists to him. “Her father's in the corporation. She's kept us apprised
of their plans all along.” He peers at me closely, and then adds with a smile, “It's
oll korrect
.”

I grin at him.

The young man's suspicion morphs into a begrudging respect, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “All right,” he says. “Remember. Paint the letters big. Big as you possibly can. It's pointless if no one ashore can see.”

“Right,” Herschel says, peering into the leather satchel to confirm its contents and then slinging it over his shoulder.

“Paint?” I echo. “What do you mean, paint?”

“A slogan of liberation. On the barge,” Herschel says, and the tone of his voice suggests he's reminding me of something I already know.

“Wait. We're not blowing it up?” I ask.

“Blowing it up?” He laughs. “Of course not! The original Luddites smashed the cotton machines. But if we smash the machines of oppression, they just build more. Our Brotherhood is different. We're here to change their minds instead. Come on!”

I'm giddy. We're not blowing it up! This time
is
different! Maybe . . . maybe . . . But I can't let myself think about that now.

Herschel takes up my hand. My skin flames to life when he touches me, and we go flying across the Battery as fast as our feet can carry us.

Private police from the Second Ward, retained by the corporation for the evening, have started herding people away from the gangplank, and we sneak unobserved to the stern of the barge where it's moored not far from the West Battery peninsula. A thick hemp docking line groans under the drag of the barge as revelers mass on the port side to wave to the people on shore. Night is gathering quickly in the shadows of the Battery, and no one observes us as we creep to the dock edge. The stern of the boat bobs about ten feet away.

“We can shimmy across on the dock line,” Herschel suggests. “Can you do that in a dress?”

I grin at him through the dark, plant my hands on his cheeks, and kiss him full on the mouth. He's surprised, his young lips trembling. Then his lips warm under my pressure, and he kisses me back.

A pop and explosion from a child's firecracker startles us apart, and I break away from him, taking a few steps back. I hoist my skirts up over my knees, bloomers exposed, take a deep breath, and then I start to run.

“
Gott im Himmel!
” I think I hear Herschel exclaim, but it's too late to stop now. My foot plants hard on the edge of the dock, the light-spangled waves below me, and I jump.

I vault up as high as I can go into the air, my feet kicking, and then I land on the deck, collapsing in a heap of skirts over my head. Some other young people on the barge applaud and cheer, and a few young men rush over to help me to my feet, slapping me on the back and shaking my hand.

While they're congratulating me there's another thunk and it's Herschel, sprawled out on the deck on his stomach, one leg in the water, scrabbling his way aboard. They've thrown the dock lines off and the barge is slowly starting to make its way into the current. Several young men haul Herschel to safety by the back of his jacket. He's lost his hat in the leap, and when the young men see his ear curls, they drop his jacket and move away.

“Jew,” one of them mutters under his breath.

I rush over to help him to his feet, glaring back at the strangers who've vanished into the throng. The music has reached deafening levels, and I can't get Herschel to hear me over the horns. I ascertain that he's not hurt, only winded and hatless.

As the barge pulls away from shore, I spy my parents' carriage rolling to a stop at the foot of the gangplank, and my father lurches
out of the carriage door with my mother close on his heels. They're waving their arms and shouting, but I can't hear them.

Herschel moves with stealth behind the band in the stern, making sure of the leather bag, until we reach the lee side of the cabin. We're alone. Most of the corporation crowd has gathered on the larboard side, where they can watch the city lanterns recede into glittering dots along the shore. The barge will pull away from land and swing around into the current in a wide semicircle until the starboard side faces the city, and that's when the governor on his barge nearby will pour the waters into the harbor, and they'll light the fireworks.

We don't have much time.

Herschel fumbles the leather bag open and pulls out a couple of cans, some brushes, and a pocketknife. Swearing with effort he struggles to pry the cans open. Finally he gets one done, dips a brush, and sets to work.

I grab another of the brushes and dip it into the paint, but it's old and congealed so thick I almost can't get the brush in.

“Herschel,” I whisper, tugging at the hem of his coat.

“What?” he whispers back.

“It's too thick. I can't get enough on my brush,” I say.

“Add some turpentine,” he says, jerking open the other canister. “That'll thin it out. Here.” He dumps some bitter-smelling liquid into the paint, sloshes it around inside with the handle of his brush, and sets back to work. Some of the turpentine spills on my dress and slippers, but I don't pay any attention.

We work quickly, making the letters as big as we can, covering the entire side of the cabin. Smoke belches from the stacks in the center of the barge, and a long horn sounds as the boat slowly begins to change direction. I feel the wind shift, blowing my skirts out to the side.

“Should I sign it?” he asks me, smiling his crooked smile.

I laugh. “Maybe not with your name,” I say.

Herschel leans down and signs the brotherhood's name with a flourish, but he gets the spelling wrong.

“Ludditz?” I ask, teasing him.

He chucks the paintbrush into the sea and comes over to take me in his arms. “Hey now. I didn't have a fancy tutor like you,” he says, nuzzling my ear.

The barge's wide circle continues, the steam engine groaning under the weight of so many people. We pass through the shimmering white pathway of moonlight stretching across New-York harbor, and Herschel holds me closer to him. I can feel his heart beating in his chest, and the rhythm of mine matches his.

“After this, when it's all over, can we go away in your brother's cart like you said?” I ask, my breath hot on his neck.

He nods.

The barge continues its slow, laboring turn, and a distant voice echoes through a speaking tube across the water, announcing that at the conclusion of the drumroll, the governor will pour the combined waters of the Hudson, Ganges, Amazon, Mississippi, Lake Erie, and all the major waterways of the world into the harbor of New-York City, and a new age will be upon us. Rattling snares begin on the governor's barge a few rods away, and the snares on our corporation barge roll to life, drumming deep in my body, in my veins, in my heart.

Herschel and I cling together, and in the split second between the drum's abrupt silence and the distant plash of river water, Herschel whispers, “'Til the wheels fall off.”

I turn my face up to kiss him, and our mouths find each other as the first firework goes off overhead with a whistle and pop and rain of sparks. One after the other fireworks launch, a row of sparklers sizzles to life along the edge of the gunwale, and in the sudden
illumination of every corner of the boat the assembled corporation folk gasp.

Behind us, on the barge cabin, written in letters as tall as me, is the wet bloodred slogan
PROGRESS WITH SLAVERY ISN'
T PROGRESS
. Underneath is signed
UNITED BR
OTHERHOOD OF LUDDITZ
, with a long flourish on the
Z
.

The company on board immediately bursts into appalled gasps, tittering among themselves and cries of “What?” and “Who did this?”

The slow flame of chaos starts to lick through the crowd, as shouts of “But what do they mean?” echo through the night. Onshore the onlookers gasp and start arguing amongst themselves.

“Annie!” I think I hear my father shout. “Is she aboard? Wait! Annie!”

Amid the heat thrown off by the gunwale sparklers, the letters of our fresh-painted statement begin to smoke. The turpentine in the paint. It's flammable. The letters start to bubble.

But I'm not paying any attention. I'm wrapped up in Herschel's arms, in the longest, most exquisite kiss I've ever imagined. I feel myself enveloped in him, in the perfect warmth of his presence, of his mouth and mine together, his hand gently cupping my cheek.

“I love you,” I murmur into his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he breathes into the curls over my ears.

I don't even notice when the letters in
PROGRESS
burst into hot blue flame.