LONG SHADOWS by Greg Porterfield

1915 – April 28

As Robert Burton stepped down from the train, he was hit by a powerful wave of sound and people. New York had changed.

On his last visit to New York City, it reminded him of the slums of London with squat tenements housing a multitude of poorly dressed immigrants.

As his porter briskly pushed the luggage cart through the station, a vast cathedral towered above an endless marble floor. This structure was not a church; it was the newly constructed Penn Station, a monument to the gods of the Industrial Age.

Colossal columns enhanced the four entrances to a magnificent hall with an elegant ceiling one hundred and fifty feet above. Its span rivaled any of the ancient cathedrals of Europe.

The waiting room beneath this man-made sky was nearly three hundred feet long. A large clock, flanked by pink marble statues, perched atop each of the four entryways, reminding Burton of the great architecture of Italy.

Rushing behind the porter, Burton followed his luggage to the 8th Avenue exit and descended the steps of Penn Station, as if he were descending from Mt. Olympus through a magnificent gateway into the future of America.

  Yellow taxis lined the curb at Penn Station.

“Where to Mister?” the cabby inquired.

“Take me to the Plaza.”

After loading Burton’s small traveling trunk and suitcase, the driver, an Irish immigrant bristling with red hair and ruddy complexion, slammed the taxi into gear and lurched onto the roadway—crowds of carts, people, and horses scurried out of the way—as they headed up 8th Avenue toward the park.

This was not Burton’s first time in an automobile. He had seen a few in Maple Grove and had ridden in one in San Francisco, but this was his first experience giving his life over to a New York cabbie.

The sound of the city was deafening. Mobs of people pulsed from sidewalk to street and burst into traffic from between the cars. Vendors hawked food, clothing, trinkets of all shapes and sizes. Odors of cooking meats, sweat, and filth filled the air. Even the cool of April couldn’t calm the assault.

“You’re here. Fifty cents. I’ll get your luggage,” croaked the cabbie.

The doorman at the Plaza caught Burton’s eye and smiled. Burton extracted himself from the taxi. The driver loaded the luggage onto a waiting cart and moved through the crush of the sidewalk into the calm of the hotel.

Robert Burton was awestruck by the luxury of the reception area. The best of the city’s social class moved with a rhythm reserved for those living on other people’s money.

After settling into his room on the 12th floor—with a tree-filled view of Central Park, the Grand Army Plaza, and 5th Avenue—Burton wiped the travel from his face, changed clothes, and headed down to the Lobby.

The concierge directed him to the Men’s Bar. It had been a long trip and he needed a drink. New York’s elite paraded like prized ponies through the broad hallways of the Plaza, dressed in silk and satin past mirrors, ferns, marbled archways, and crystal chandeliers.

The frosted glass of the Western Union office door caught his eye. Burton decided to send a message. An older man in an ill-fitting suit and starched collar stood behind the counter. His bushy eyebrows, slightly graying temples, and handlebar mustache complemented his thin white hands, one finger calloused by the sending key. They shook ever so slightly as if already typing out a message he had not yet received.

“I’d like to send a telegram.”

  “Write it down—print, so’s I can read it. Ya can write, can’t ya?”

Burton smiled as he slipped the paper across the counter.

“Maple Grove, California. You’re a long way from home.”

“Actually, home is where I’m headed.” Burton’s eyes misted.

“That’ll be 2 bits, Mister.”

Western Union

Received at [ C137=MAPLE GROVE, CAL. RR STATION   7:15P

[ April 28, 1915 ]

HORRACE BRADDICK=

MAPLE GROVE, CALIFORNIA=

ARRIVED NYC. SAIL LUSITANIA MAY 1. MY BEST TO YOU ALL.

         RB

1915 – May 9

Horrace Braddick quietly folded the Sacramento Daily Union and set it down on the table next to his reading chair. Pausing for a few seconds, he closed his eyes; the fingers on his left hand touched his forehead and he slumped ever so slightly. The list of survivors for the sinking of the Lusitania had not carried the name of his dear friend.

According to the front-page article, a German U-boat torpedoed the ship on the 7th of May. After a mid-section hit, just behind the bridge, the passenger ship listed hard to starboard, sinking in only eighteen minutes. It had been just eleven miles off the coast of Ireland. There were 1,959 people aboard—1,198 perished. The report listed all those who survived the disaster. Robert Burton’s name was not on that list.

“Father, what’s wrong?” Johnny asked as he came into the room.

“I just read some very sad news, Johnny. Very sad.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“It’s the Lusitania…” Braddick’s words failed.

“Isn’t that the same ship that Robert took?”

“Yes, that’s the one, Johnny. Do you know where your mother is?”

  “She’s out back, working in the garden. Father is everyth … Oh, no. I … Uncle Robert?”

Braddick eased himself out of his chair and patted his son warmly on the arm, as he shuffled toward the kitchen.

He could see his wife smiling as she fussed with flowers freshly cut from the garden.

“Esther…”

“Ben…what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“The Germans sank the Lusitania and over a thousand have perished. Our dear friend Robert is gone.”