Silent came the monster, p.1
Silent Came the Monster, page 1
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praise for
Silent Came the Monster
“A mere five words into this gripping story I could hear the thrum of the Jaws music inside my head. Based on real-life events, Amy Hill Hearth captures two weeks of terror in an age of innocence. A riveting tale. Be bold—make it your beach read.”
—Marshall Karp, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Silent Came the Monster is chilling, thrilling, and fun. A great white shark with a taste for hunting humans in this turn-of-the-century setting makes for a fabulous read.”
—Lynn Hightower, internationally bestselling author
“Wherever Amy Hill Hearth turns her attention, history comes alive . . . Silent Came the Monster is a thrilling, unforgettable journey into the past.”
—Peter Golden, author of Nothing Is Forgotten
“A deeply compelling novel rich with historical detail and surprising parallels to our modern world.”
—Hester Young, author of The Gates of Evangeline and The Burning Island
books by amy hill hearth
Nonfiction
Having Our Say: The Delany Sisters’ First 100 Years
The Delany Sisters’ Book of Everyday Wisdom
On My Own: Reflections on Life Without Bessie
In a World Gone Mad: A Heroic Story of Love, Faith, and Survival
Strong Medicine Speaks: A Native American Elder Has Her Say
Know Your Power: A Message to America’s Daughters
Children’s Nonfiction
The Delany Sisters Reach High
Streetcar to Justice: How Elizabeth Jennings
Won the Right to Ride in New York
Fiction
Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women’s Literary Society
Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County
Silent Came the Monster: A Novel of the 1916 Jersey Shore Shark Attacks
Copyright © 2023 by Amy Hill Hearth
E-book published in 2023 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Alenka Vdovič Linaschke
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any historical figures and events referenced in this book
are depicted in a fictitious manner. All other characters
and events are products of the author’s imagination, and
any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-200-74917-1
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-200-74916-4
Fiction / Thrillers / Historical
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
For Blair and all the other rescuers, lifeguards, and heroes who rush toward danger at their own peril. You represent the best of humankind.
Prologue
june 17, 1880
The deckhand saw it first. Sweet Jesus, what is that? he asked himself. Before he could get a good look, the creature dove beneath the surface.
They were close to shore, less than a mile off Sea Bright, New Jersey. Propelled by a light but steady wind, they were heading in for the day with a full catch.
Maybe it’s a whale, he thought. It was embarrassing that he knew so little, but this was only his third day as a deckhand. Two weeks before, he had graduated from the eighth grade. The summer of 1880 stretched out before him with visions of hammocks, fireworks, and girls. His father, however, had decided that a challenging job would toughen him up, and so the lad found himself aboard a wide-beamed nineteen-foot catboat, learning the ropes from an experienced captain willing to tolerate a novice assistant.
“Captain Longstreet,” he yelled. “There’s something out there!”
But when the skipper turned, there was nothing to see but the gray-blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean on a glorious summer day.
Then the creature surfaced off the starboard bow. This time the captain saw it and recoiled.
“What is it? A whale?” called the deckhand.
“It’s a shark!” the captain shouted. “Big one! Never saw one like that ’round here! Now stay calm, boy!”
This was not the response the inexperienced deckhand was hoping for. He scanned the horizon intently. Maybe it will just go away, he thought.
But it appeared again behind the stern, the enormous dorsal fin protruding like the black sail of a pirate ship closing in. Instead of catching up, however, the shark hung back. Then it sped up and began to pace them, and the young deckhand saw that the shark was nearly the length of their fishing vessel.
It’s not following us, the deckhand thought, his heart in his throat. Surely, it can’t be.
Suddenly, the shark shot forward, its dorsal fin aimed directly at the boat. The deckhand screamed. The captain watched helplessly.
Just as they braced for impact, the shark simply disappeared. There was no sight of its dreadful dorsal fin at all.
It’s gone! thought the deckhand, shaking with relief.
A few seconds later, it slammed the underside of the boat and tore right through the wood, sending chunks and splinters flying. Protruding through the bottom of the boat, stuck fast, was the massive head of the creature—its jaws wide, as if to bite the air.
Then the shark seemed to panic, thrashing wildly, flinging the captain overboard.
The deckhand grabbed ahold of the gunwale and held on.
The creature could not free itself. It shook the boat furiously, then spun the vessel back and forth in semicircles. Finally, it lifted the boat into the air, smashing it back down on the water’s surface.
The deckhand hung on.
I must kill it, he thought. I have to kill it. But he could not reach anything that could be used as a weapon. At the same time, he wondered what to do about the captain, who was trying desperately to climb back into the boat.
“Don’t give up, Captain!” the deckhand cried. He let go of the gunwale and reached for the captain’s hand, gripped it tightly, and pulled him into the vessel.
At the same moment, the shark freed itself.
Water gushed through the hole where the shark’s head had been. We’re going to sink! the deckhand thought. He grabbed a tarpaulin and tried to stuff it into the hole, but the force of the water was too great.
The captain began to shout, and the deckhand’s first thought was, The monster is back!
But that was not why the captain was yelling. He was calling to the captain of a much larger fishing boat that was arriving to help.
“Are you all right? My God, what was that thing?” shouted a crew member on the bigger boat, a two-masted schooner more than twice the size of the catboat. Seeing the extent of the damage, he shouted urgently to his own captain. A gangplank dropped into place, and three sturdy sailors scurried aboard the smaller boat. They shoved the young deckhand out of their way. Using their squall jackets, they managed to plug the hole.
This was only a temporary fix, however, and the men worked together, scrambling to locate material for a sturdier repair. There wasn’t anything suitable on the smaller boat, but a piece of wood from a supply crate was located on the rescue boat and quickly nailed into place.
Now there was nothing to do but wait to see if the repair held. They used the time to bail water that had accumulated during the near-catastrophe.
The young deckhand scanned the sea for their attacker. There was no sign of it. He was starting to feel hopeful. Is it possible we survived this? But he was struck by the continued uneasiness of the seasoned crew that had rescued them.
“Tell me—what do you think it was?” one of the rescuers asked in a low voice, as if the sea beast might overhear and come back.
“We saw what was happening to you and couldn’t believe our eyes,” added another.
“My deckhand and me, well, ’tis a miracle we are still here,” replied the captain, also speaking in a hushed voice. “I can scarcely believe it myself, but ’twas a man-eating shark, the kind with the white underbelly.”
The first rescuer nodded his head. “That is what we thought too!” he said. “I’ve only ever seen one off the coast of Australia.”
“I saw one off Nantucket, far out to sea, a long time ago,” said another.
“Never heard of one here off the Jersey Coast,” declared the captain of the damaged vessel. “And so close to shore! They are deep-sea creatures! But we can’t be more than a half mile off Sea Bright!”
“Well, you know, it’s still out thar somewhere,” said the first rescuer. “We’d best all be going to our home ports. Where you headed?”
“Oceanic,” said the captain. “Just got to cut through the inlet, then south a wee bit. It’s not far, and the wind is picking up, so it won’t take long at all.”
“Do you want us to go with you?” asked the second rescuer.
“No thank you, she seems seaworthy,” replied the captain. “But I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you have done for me and my deckhand.”
All we need to do is get to the inlet, the deckhand thought, trying to remain focused. Once we pass through the inlet, the docks at Oceanic aren’t much farther.
The wind was at their backs, the repair was holding, and soon they would be home. All seemed well.
The inlet, which separated Sea Bright from the barrier island known as Sandy Hook, was in sight. Beyond it, they glimpsed the tidal estuary that would carry them home. The estuary was flanked on the north side by a woodsy hillside known as the Atlantic Highlands—the highest elevation along the Eastern Seaboard south of Maine—and on the south side by lowlands and marsh, where the docks awaited. Within a few minutes, their ordeal would be over.
They were moving along at a steady clip, their confidence growing by the minute, when a familiar, horrible sight appeared behind them.
“It’s back!” the deckhand screamed to the captain.
“No!” hollered the captain.
But it was. And this time it didn’t just follow the boat. It caught up and swam along the starboard side.
“Try to hit it with something,” cried the captain. “If it attacks the boat again, we’ll sink for sure!”
The deckhand tossed an empty bucket, but it bounced off the shark’s head, which it had raised slightly from the water.
“Go away!” yelled the deckhand as if it were a dog.
Maybe all it wants is the day’s catch, he thought. He scooped up as many fish as he could and threw them toward the shark.
“You want the fish? Take them, and I hope you choke!” he shouted.
The shark slowed, opened its enormous jaws, and swallowed the fish. Then it caught up with the boat again.
The deckhand threw another armful. And another. It’s working! It may be eating all of the fish, but at least it’s not attacking the boat.
“Stop!” shouted the captain. “What are you doing?”
Horrified, he realized the captain was right. He wasn’t distracting the shark. He was encouraging it. He threw an old lobster trap. The shark paused, lifted its massive head, and swallowed it.
For a moment, the deckhand lost all hope and stood frozen.
Then the captain called out, “It won’t follow us through the inlet! We’re almost there!”
Desperate, the deckhand rushed around the boat, collecting anything he could grab and heaving it overboard. He tossed cork life vests and a length of coiled rope, which caused the shark to slow down momentarily. It tore into the life vests but ignored the rope.
He found a hatchet, aimed for the creature’s head, and flung it, but missed.
Next was a pair of boots. “How about these smelly old boots?” he shouted at the shark. “Take ’em! Go away!”
Again, the shark swallowed them.
But now they were in the inlet. Surely, as the captain had said, the shark would abandon the chase, preferring to remain in the open sea.
Yet it stayed with them.
“It’s not giving up!” the deckhand wailed helplessly. There was nothing left to throw at the beast.
As the boat neared the docks at Oceanic, people hearing the commotion were stunned by an extraordinary sight: a small fishing vessel heading straight toward them at a brisk clip, and adjacent to it, an enormous dorsal fin protruding from the water, keeping pace.
“Look out!” the captain bellowed as people scattered.
To the deckhand, he shouted, “Hang on! We’re going to hit the dock hard! Don’t get thrown in the water! Be ready to jump on the dock and run for your life.”
july 1–2, 1916
Chapter 1
“Hello! Could you tell me if I missed dinner?” a blond youth in a black woolen bathing costume, blotting his boyish face with a beach towel, called boldly to an exceptionally pretty debutante strolling the boardwalk.
“Not at all! You have plenty of time,” she called back playfully.
“May I see you later?” he shouted.
“Not if you’re still covered with sand,” she replied and laughed. She smiled coquettishly, then turned and sashayed into the lobby of the majestic Engleside Hotel while he stared after her longingly, trying to imagine what she might look like in one of the daring new swim dresses.
As members of Philadelphia’s high society, which comprised most of the guest population at the Engleside, the flirtatious pair, both younger than twenty, normally would not dare to interact so brazenly in public. But in the tiny seaside town of Beach Haven, New Jersey—a little slice of heaven compared to the suffocating, smelly streets of the city back home—everyone let their guard down, especially since it was the first of July, a Saturday, and the beginning of the Independence Day celebrations.
The young man raced into one of the brightly painted beachside cabanas to change his clothes. He reappeared a few minutes later and dashed into the lobby in pursuit of his new friend.
The lifeguards were relieved that he had gone indoors. A competitive swimmer and a bit of a show-off, he was one of several young men who swam far out to sea, alone and for long stretches at a time. From where the lifeguards stood on the beach, it was difficult to see him past clusters of people splashing in knee-deep water. They knew there was little chance they could rescue him if he were afflicted with a muscle cramp, a jellyfish sting, or even simple fatigue.
The seasoned lifeguards, especially, groused about this new generation of men who actually went swimming in the ocean, as opposed to the good old days of the Victorian era when everyone went sea-bathing, an activity which largely consisted of wading, treading water, paddling about, and floating, often while clinging to ropes.
The lifeguards now turned their attention to a small group of boys who had just arrived with their families. Released from the stuffy confines of railcars or automobiles, they tore through the sand with nannies scampering after them. Pausing only to kick off their shoes, which flew haphazardly through the air, the boys hurtled themselves fully dressed into the surf, then ran back and forth in an impromptu game of tag with the waves, their arms outstretched and faces lifted to the sun, all the while screeching with joy.
The boys weren’t easy for the lifeguards to monitor either, but at least their antics were amusing, unlike the ocean swimmer. Hotel guests also found the boys charming and paused on the boardwalk to watch. The sight of children in the surf, frolicking like dolphins, reminded adults of their own carefree younger days. This was part of the charm of returning year after year. Each new generation discovered and fell in love with the seashore while older family members observed, smiled, and reminisced. For the middle-aged and elderly, how comforting it was, in a chaotic world, to return to the seaside, where one could count on the certainty of salt-scented air, the soothing sound of breaking waves, and the hypnotic rhythm of low and high tides.
No one noticed the disturbance in the water—a ripple or strange current just beyond the safety ropes. A dark spot appeared, then vanished, like a shadow from a passing cloud.
It was time for the boys to come in and get dressed for dinner. Reluctantly, one by one, they responded to their nannies’ pleas. Slowly, they left the blissful sea and trudged onto the sandy shore.
At last, the surf was empty. The lifeguards relaxed a bit. The activity had shifted almost entirely to the boardwalk, except for a few guests who relaxed on chairs placed in the sand. Inside the hotel, the newly arrived were settling into their suites, and everyone was preparing for the evening meal. Trunks were opened, gowns unfolded and pressed. Maids organized slippers and hatboxes. Dinner was a formal affair, and guests dressed accordingly. Some of the women were known to take more than two hours to prepare for their entrance at the dining room.
Among the late arrivals was a family which was new to the Engleside, the Vansants. The father, an esteemed physician, had made a last-minute decision that they would not vacation at their summer house in Cape May because of an outbreak of contagious disease there.
Charles, the only son in the family, was eager to take a quick swim in the ocean, although the dinner hour was growing near. His mother objected, saying there wasn’t time, what with the unloading, unpacking, bathing, and dressing that needed to take place. But Charles insisted. He was, after all, a grown man, a stockbroker by profession who would turn twenty-four in August. He opened a leather bag, grabbed his bathing outfit, and hurried to a cabana to change his clothes.
