by Shaun Lewis
‘You will forgive me if I check the diary entry myself, miss?’
‘Enough,’ Richard said, loudly and indignantly. ‘This is intolerable. I have just told you that my cousin was with me that Saturday. Do you doubt the word of a lady or even my own? Am I suspected of being an accessory to whatever monstrous crime you believe Miss Miller has committed? Put your cards on the table, man. Of what is my cousin accused?’
Mason looked intently at Richard for several seconds before replying. ‘I make no accusations, sir. I am merely enquiring into the truth. You will own that your cousin has quite distinctive hair colouring. A woman with hair of that description, in the company of two others, was reported as taking part in criminal damage in Oxford Street that day, namely the breaking of shop windows. One of them was arrested and we believe another was Miss Christabel Pankhurst. We have witnesses.’
‘And no doubt the Metropolitan Police have nothing better to do than to interrogate every good-looking red-head in the country. It’s preposterous. I only wish your father was here right now, Lizzy. As a sitting magistrate he would be very interested in this improper use of police time. Gentlemen, you have overstayed your welcome. Either charge my cousin with whatever nefarious act of which you suspect her or withdraw. If you do intend to press charges, then I shall insist on the family solicitor being present.’
Rimmer nudged Mason, but Mason continued to stare at Richard coldly. At the second nudge he dropped his eyes and turned to Elizabeth. ‘Very well, miss. I do not wish to impugn your cousin’s honour. If he states you were with him in Portsmouth that day, then there is no more to be done. Thank you for your time. Good day. We’ll see ourselves out.’
After the policemen had left the orangery, both Richard and Elizabeth stood in silence listening out for sounds of the carriage departing. On hearing the wheels begin to churn up the gravel, they both exhaled loudly. Elizabeth rushed up to Richard and hugged him tightly.
‘Dick, you were magnificent. You are truly my hero.’
She took hold of both sides of his head and kissed him several times. ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ she said.
Richard did not move or respond to her affection. He seemed stunned. Elizabeth paid no attention. Hugging him once more, she thought what a real man he had proved to be.
Chapter 7
October 1912
The sea was not particularly rough today, but Elizabeth Miller could tell that her travelling companions were already beginning to feel a little queasy. As the daughter of a shipyard owner, Elizabeth had often accompanied her late father on trials of the vessels the yard had built. Moreover, she had frequently made this crossing from Folkestone to Boulogne on her visits to Christabel Pankhurst in Paris. This was the first time she had made the crossing in such distinguished company.
The steam-driven packet steamer Onward suddenly lurched as she met a wave on her starboard bow and Elizabeth almost lost the contents of her teacup. It was the last straw for George Lansbury, Labour Member of Parliament for Bow and Bromley. He excused himself from the ladies and headed swiftly for the nearby gentlemen’s bathroom. Elizabeth regarded her female travelling companion surreptitiously over her tea and with silent awe, tinged with concern. She noted the sallow skin, the beginnings of crow’s feet around the eyes and the grey hair peeping from beneath her hat. It was only natural after so much time in prison and invariably on hunger strike, but the lady looked older than her years. Indeed, her companion had only a few months ago been released from yet another spell in Holloway, but without completing the nine-month sentence, and all for throwing a rock at the Prime Minister’s house.
‘Is the crossing always quite so uncomfortable, Lizzy?’
‘I hesitate to state that it is often much worse. It is the vessel’s speed that is causing the disturbance and not the weather. We must be travelling at twenty knots, if not a little more.’
‘Then I am grateful we are not enduring a winter gale. You, of course, are an habituée of this route, Lizzy, and a seasoned sailor after all your visits to my daughter this past eighteen months.’
‘I suppose I have been fortunate to have become accustomed to the motion. Even poor Lord Nelson suffered continually through the mal de mer.’
‘And let us not forget, Lizzy, you come from seafaring stock. Did you ever accompany your father at sea?’
‘Often.’ Elizabeth reflected on happier days, but still the memories were rather raw.
‘I was sorry to hear of the loss of your father, Lizzy. It was such a tragic waste of life. I don’t know how God could have let such a thing happen to all those innocent people. But forgive me for my insensitivity in raising it.’
‘Ever since the Titanic went down I’ve not been sure there is a God.’ After a brief pause, Elizabeth went on. ‘Let us not dwell on such morbid topics. I have the Cause to sustain me. Is there anything I can fetch for you, Mrs Pankhurst?’
Emmeline Pankhurst reached across and laid a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Bless you, child. I confess to feeling a little peaky, but no, thank you.’ After a quick survey of the other guests in the saloon, she went on. ‘Perhaps, however, we might take a turn around the promenade deck. I rather think that some fresh air might be advantageous.’
‘But what of Mr Lansbury?’
‘I have no doubt that he will have no difficulty in finding us. Come, dear.’
The two ladies linked arms and commenced a slow tour of the Outward’s covered promenade deck. Elizabeth was pleased to see Emmeline’s cheeks recover some of their colour.
‘Do you know much of Mr Lansbury?’ Emmeline asked.
‘But, of course. He is a great supporter of our cause. Indeed, I know he, too, has been imprisoned many times, and similarly endured the barbarism of force-feeding.’
‘It is indeed a barbaric practice, Lizzy. I trust you will never experience it. You are pinned down by four brutes whilst a so-called doctor forces a four-foot length of tube down your throat. You vomit, of course, all over your face, hair and body, but they carry on regardless, until every last drop of the bottle is in your stomach. But do you know the worst of it, Lizzy?’
‘No, I certainly do not. I cannot imagine the horror.’
‘Horror is the right word, child. At night I am haunted by the memory of the screams as the doctor passes from one cell to the other.’ Emmeline turned away and looked out to sea vacantly. Elizabeth decided it best not to interrupt whatever dreadful scenes her mind was re-enacting.
Emmeline gripped one of Elizabeth’s hands tightly. ‘It’s the contempt, Lizzy. At the end of the dreadful process the doctor slaps one on the face. How can a man who has taken the Hippocratic Oath do that?’
‘Because all men are pigs.’ Elizabeth spat out the words with venom.
‘No, Lizzy. Don’t think that way. There are many men who support our cause. Let’s not forget that. I am hoping that Mr Lansbury is going to put that to the test. Tell me, Lizzy, what do you think of the NUWSS’s pact with the Labour Party?’
Elizabeth was unsure how to answer and pondered the question for a moment. Following the defeat of the Conciliation Bill earlier in the year, the National Union of Women Suffrage Societies, had formed a pact with the Labour Party to support their candidates when standing against anti-suffrage Liberal candidates. Elizabeth knew their objective was to unseat these Liberals by splitting the anti-Conservative vote and thereby let in the Conservative candidates. She and Christabel had disagreed with the strategy and had tried to disrupt the alliance. The NUWSS was committed to suffrage for women in the long term by peaceful and democratic means, but Elizabeth could not wait that long. It was one of the reasons she had joined the WSPU after it had split from the group in 1903 to promote more militant activity. She knew that Christabel and Emmeline did not always see eye to eye on strategy so she decided to be guarded in her response.
‘That is a deep question, Mrs Pankhurst. I suppose that, on the face of it, I consider it a good strategy. However, I am no socialist and I doubt the sincerity of the Labour Par
ty towards giving us the vote. If it was really serious, then it could refuse to support some of the Liberal government’s bills. Such Members of Parliament as Mr Lansbury and Mr Hardie are too thin on the ground.’
‘Lizzy, you confirm my good opinion of your intelligence. You are quite right. The Labour Party is far too timid. The Party is too weak and their members sit alongside the Liberals like tame pussy cats. MacDonald regards all acts of militancy as “tomfoolery”. We need to puncture that complacency and show both the Labour and Liberal parties that women’s suffrage has the support of the working man. If all goes well on this trip, Mr Lansbury is going to help us do just that.’
Chapter 8
November 1912
As usual, after leaving harbour and supervising the trim dive these days, the captain was asleep in the bunk below. Richard no longer minded, but did regret the fact had been noticed by the ship’s company of HMS B3. He was finding it increasingly difficult to be loyal to his commanding officer, but was not sure what to do about it. As Mullan’s second-in-command it was Richard’s duty to back his captain to the hilt, but it was becoming increasingly clear that morale on board was quickly approaching a dangerously low ebb.
After the loss of D2, Richard had been pleased to enjoy nearly six weeks of leave. Two weeks of this had been the normal survivors’ leave following any shipwreck, but Richard had suffered a ‘bend’ during the ascent to the surface and this had partially paralysed his left side. Even today, eight months later, he still walked with a slight limp and sometimes struggled with the grip of his left hand, but he had been passed fit for a return to duty at sea. He had half hoped to be appointed to a command of his own, but Keyes had put him right on that score. He remembered every word of the conversation.
‘You did a fine job, Miller, in bringing the majority of your men to the surface safely. It was a nightmarish scenario and you demonstrated considerable coolness under pressure and outstanding leadership. The survivors have much for which to thank you. Such qualities will stand you well in command.’
These last words had caused Richard to dare to hope. Was he to be given a command after all? It was perhaps a little early to have such ambitions but, whilst he could not pretend to a command of a modern boat such as another of the D-class, might he be appointed to one of the C-class? After all, when they had last discussed Richard’s performance, Johnson had informed him that, after some initial reservations, he now thought Richard to be shaping up well for a command. Johnson had stated that he fully intended informing Keyes of this before being relieved of his command.
However, Keyes had continued, ‘I’ll be frank with you, Miller. After what you have been through, it is the least I can offer. When I last spoke to Johnson, in the spring, he spoke well of you, but he did express a doubt about your potential to command your own submarine. He wasn’t satisfied you could get your men on your side. I’m struggling to reconcile that opinion of you with those I have heard from the men we rescued from D2. Obviously, had Johnson lived, I could have discussed it with him.’
Richard had felt it incumbent on him to say something. ‘I very much respected Lieutenant Johnson’s opinion, sir.’
‘Yes, he was a damned fine officer and will be a great lost to the Service.’ Keyes looked away and drummed the fingers of his right hand on his knee. ‘Anyway, what are we going to do with you now, Miller? I had thought of offering you an appointment on my staff. I won’t deny that your experience of an escape from the deep would come in very handy for developing our new submarine designs. But, in the circumstances, we need to get you back to sea. Back on the horse, as it were. The First Lieutenant of B3 has requested a return to surface ships so I can kill two birds with one stone. I want you to take his place. I know it might appear as a step backwards after a D-boat, but give it six months and if you impress your new captain, then I will be only too pleased to offer you a command. We sure as hell need some new talent.’
So it was that Richard now found himself heading down the Dover Straits on the bridge of B3, a ten-year-old, petrol-driven coastal submarine, commanded by one Lieutenant Thomas Mullan, CGM.
Richard noted that the wind was freshening and the sea state increasing. He knew he ought to tell the captain, but he also recognised from experience that it would not be easy to rouse Mullan for another hour or so. Instead, he sent word below to ditch all gash over the side now. Before long it would not be safe to do so, or maybe Mullan would choose to dive the submarine. The weather at fifty feet would be much calmer.
Fifteen minutes later, the Coxswain, Petty Officer Goddard, reported all gash ditched and requested permission to come to the bridge. That was one comfort, Richard thought. Goddard and Stoker Scott had both been transferred to B3, too.
Goddard appeared on the bridge and looked back at the receding view of the white cliffs of Dover astern and to starboard. ‘I don’t think I will ever tire of that view, sir. There’s nowhere like it in the world.’
‘Not quite true, Coxswain. It has its mirror on the Alabaster Coast. They are part of the same geological formation.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t catch your drift.’
‘The French have something similar that they call the Alabaster Coast, over between Dieppe and Le Havre.’
‘Well, I never knew that. I can’t say the same about this rusty bucket, though. I mean tiring of it, sir.’
‘Now it’s my turn to fail to catch your drift, Coxswain.’
‘Here, Mac. Pass me the glasses and I’ll do your trick on the bridge for a bit. You go down below and get yourself a mug of char. Mind you don’t forget to send two up here.’ The bridge lookout seemed enthusiastic about the suggestion. After he had descended the ladder of the conning tower, Goddard expanded on his thoughts.
‘I thought the CO’s number was up this morning, sir.’
‘Really, Coxswain, you are quite enigmatic this afternoon. Perhaps you had better explain.’
‘I think Captain Brandt could smell the drink on the CO’s breath before we sailed. I was sure the CO would cop it.’
Captain Brandt, until the month before, one of Commodore Keyes’s assistants and responsible for the Third Submarine Flotilla, of which B3 was a member, had bid farewell to B3 as she set sail for exercises off Portsmouth and Portland before returning to her home port in Gosport.
‘Don’t be impertinent, Goddard. Many officers and men of the submarine service like to take a drink when ashore. We even issue them with rum daily at sea. Provided a man is fit to do his duty, it is not our concern to investigate his morals.’
‘I don’t mean to be impertinent, sir, but you seem to have changed your tune since our days together in D2. You were well known as a God-fearing teetotaller.’
‘It is of no concern to you, Coxswain, but I still love my God and I remain teetotal. I have just learned to keep it to myself and to afford others the same privacy.’
‘It’s still not right, though, sir.’
‘And what do you mean now, ’swain?’
‘The captain’s drinking. He’s down in the wardroom now, snoring like a pig. And the ship’s company have noticed that it’s become a habit.’
‘Really, Goddard. You are pushing your …’
‘And that’s not all, sir. It’s my duty to tell you that if you’re not careful, you’re going to land yourself with a full-blown mutiny.’
Suddenly, Richard was all ears. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘There’s resentment down below, sir, and soon enough it’s going to explode. ERA Thompson has taken to storing his tot and drinking it at sea. The pressure of keeping this boat going is telling on him. Stoker Scott tells me that he’s hardly coherent at times. And the other senior rates resent the captain’s relationship with the TI. Evans returned on board barely five minutes before the captain this morning, drunk as a lord.’
Petty Officer Evans was the senior torpedoman on board. Mullan had once been a Torpedo Instructor, too, and it was as coxswain of a torpedo boat during the Boer
War in 1902, he had displayed an act of conspicuous gallantry that had led to his immediate promotion to Lieutenant.
‘You know very well that I saw Evans come on board myself this morning and I intend raising it with the CO.’
‘But with respect, sir, we’ve been here before. You know I’ve tried to have Evans disciplined for drunkenness many times, but the captain always waives the proceedings. His precious torpedomen can do no wrong.’
‘Petty Officer Goddard, you, of all people, given your responsibility for maintaining discipline on board, have no business saying such things. It’s insubordination. I will hear no more of it. Please go below and send McIntyre back up to complete his watch as lookout.’
Before Goddard could comply, the control room called the bridge. ‘Bridge, control room. Captain coming to the bridge.’ It was not necessary for the captain to ask permission to visit his own bridge, but the message both warned the Officer of the Watch that the captain was on his way up and ensured that lookouts, when relieved of their watch, did not attempt to leave the bridge at the same time.
‘Here we go then. Now the fun starts,’ Goddard muttered, but loud enough for Richard to hear.
Despite his age of forty-two and a heavy drinking bout the night before, Mullan reached the bridge in remarkably good time. With his long, greying beard, closely-cropped grey hair and piercing blue eyes he might have been mistaken as of Nordic extraction. Instead he had been born and bred in Belfast of a staunchly Protestant, pro-Ulster family. Within seconds of his arrival on the bridge his experienced eye took in the submarine’s position and course, the sea state and the coming weather.
He then turned to Goddard, broke wind loudly and asked scathingly, ‘What the fuck are youse doing up here, Goddard? Where’s the proper lookout? Or is this some D2 survivors’ reunion? No doubt you’ve been bleating about how fucking hard done by you are, not to be in a modern submarine with all the comforts you carlin’ demand. Fuck off down below where you belong, ye hallion.’