Cheers rose. This was it: the day Grayson had been waiting for. Today he would solve everything. The temperature was pleasant. The sun was warming. His entire crew buzzed with energy.
And Grayson didn’t feel a thing.
Maybe it was because he had too much to do. It took another three hours of carefully laying cable to come up on Moresby Island. Somewhere in those hours, Lightfoot reported the current had cut off. They then had to retrace their wake, hauling up cable and testing as they went until they found the flaw. Cut, splice, check the insulation, check the signal. The crew cheered when the current was restored and off they went again.
Moresby Island started as a line on the horizon, gradually expanding into dark green forests and grassy meadows.
It was midday when they caught up to the Celerity. She was anchored with Moresby close enough to taunt them with the end of the journey. From here, Grayson could see another ship—the Reliant—visible in the harbor. She’d come up with a support crew for the aftermath of this. The shore line had already been laid; everyone was waiting so Grayson could complete the task that had taken so much of his life. Just one splice—connect the shore line to the line aboard the Victory. One splice and it would all be done.
Grayson had stood here once before, on board a different ship roughly nine years ago, plotting this enterprise. Even back then, he and Harry had planned to complete the line here.
And he’d done it. Just as planned—he’d done it. He should have felt a sense of accomplishment. Pride, at least. If there were ever a moment for happiness, this was one.
Except, he had never planned to be alone when it happened. Harry was supposed to be on the Celerity. Noah should have been at his side. John would have been waiting on Myriad with a feast ready to celebrate the occasion. Instead, it was just Grayson.
Seamen gathered as Mr. Lightfoot performed the final splice and a final check. The mood was exuberant. There were jokes and laughter amid ebullient, expectant waiting.
Grayson found himself mimicking the proper emotions alongside everyone else. He laughed. He clapped, holding his breath alongside everyone else as the two cables were spliced into one.
“That’s it?” someone asked, when that was complete. “We’re finished?”
If they’d done everything right, the line they’d just laid would complete the work they’d set out to do—Japan to Myriad Island, Myriad to Moresby, Moresby down to Seattle. The circuit should be complete. They could now send telegraphs halfway round the world.
Lightfoot looked over at Grayson, gesturing with the now-joined cable. “Sir? Would you like to toss her overboard?”
The line was heavy, copper coated in gutta percha. Letting go of the cable would signal that he’d finished, that he could move on. Grayson shook his head. “You do the honors.”
Lightfoot looked honored. Delighted. Not conflicted, the way Grayson felt. “Me?”
“Who else?” Grayson smiled at him. “It’s thanks to you that we’ve kept the line in working condition this whole time.”
Lightfoot walked the spliced cable to the railing. He held it gently. He bit his lip, then kissed the cable for good luck. Finally, he heaved it over the side. A half second later, a light splash sounded.
For a few moments, Grayson could see the line disappear, a dark black snake vanishing into the murk of the Pacific.
“Well?” someone asked. “Is that it? We just wait for it to settle?”
Grayson counted. He knew the precise depths at this spot, knew exactly how long it would take for the line to fall to the ocean floor.
“Now what?” someone asked.
“Now someone on Moresby sends the signal that the line is live.” Much of the crew on the Celerity had likely rowed in to shore for that purpose—that and the celebration that would follow. Grayson shut his eyes. “Then Sapporo signals Seattle, and Seattle signals Sapporo in return. Whoever is listening on shore tells us if we did it properly, and if not, we haul it up, find the fault, and toss it back in.”
“That’s him then?” One of the seamen gestured behind them. “The signaler?”
There was a man out on the deck. At this distance, the man appeared as little more than a stick with flags.
The Victory was a mile offshore. Yet something like silence fell—the silence of the sea. They could hear the waves slapping against the hull, the call of gulls circling overhead.
“I can hear it,” someone whispered. “I can hear the vibrations of the telegraph passing, a hum.”
“Dunce,” someone responded with a slap to the head. “You can’t hear a telegram.”
“Then tell me, what did I just hear?”
Grayson exhaled. Nine years ago, he and Harry had stood on this ocean together. They’d bickered good-naturedly about what the first message should be.
Grayson had wanted something grandiose, a quotation like, be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.
Harry had rolled his eyes and told him, “Just say, ‘We did it.’ Or better yet, ‘Harry was here.’”
They’d bickered about it good-naturedly.
Harry wasn’t here though, so it was the first message—we did it—that was being sent. If that was received, Sapporo would reply, “Apparently so.”
At the cable junction built on Moresby, the waiting crew would be able to listen in on the transmission. If they’d been successful, the man on the dock would signal via semaphore.
The seconds that passed felt like hours. They waited. Two of the Victory’s seamen clutched hands, dark and light brown fingers twining nervously together.
Then the man on the dock turned to face the Victory. He picked up his flags and signaled—one flag at his knees, the other pointing to the sun.
C.
The ship didn’t need the rest of the word to know what would follow: clear. They’d done it. They’d connected two continents over the widest ocean. The cheer that went up could have wakened the whales in the deeps.
It wouldn’t wake the dead.
Grayson had accomplished everything. He’d made his transpacific line, and he felt—
Gutted. Empty. He felt as if he were playacting all the proper emotions—clap everyone in his crew on the back, accept congratulations from everyone, and thank them for their hard work.
He didn’t feel satisfied. He didn’t feel pride in his accomplishments.
He felt alone. So alone. He never should have been the only one of his brothers here. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this.
That sense of loss rolled over him, strong enough it threatened to wash away the barriers he had built. It took all his will to hold back the tide of his emotions. To command his smile to stay on his face. He couldn’t let anyone know.
“Now what?” Lightfoot asked him after the cheers had died down.
“Now we go ashore,” Grayson said with that false smile. “We go ashore, and we celebrate.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The junction on Moresby Island was housed in a small building next to a cabin. The Celerity had taken all but the bare minimum of the crew over for the celebrations. Grayson had planned for the party in detail. There would be provisions present: real food, not just sea-faring grub in larger quantities. Wine. Beer. He’d even had a small staff brought up to make everyone as comfortable as they could be in such a desolate setting.