Dance on a Sinking Ship

by Kilian, Michael;

  The other picture that struck him was much more startling. It was of common people, a handsome if overweight man dressed in an ill-fitting black Irishman’s Sunday suit, an attractive woman in a cheap, light-color dress, and a little girl in a white blouse, plaid jumper, long white stockings, and patent leather shoes. They might have been posing in Ireland—behind them was a storefront with curtained window beneath a sign that said “Reilly’s Saloon and Grocery”—but it was Toledo.

  Spencer felt an onrush of admiration for Nora—for keeping such a photograph, for displaying it in an upper-class silver frame among all the others of her with famous swells.

  The noise he heard at the door was almost imperceptible—heard the way he had seen specks in the dangerous skies over France that had become Fokkers and Pfalzes—the hushed sound of feet on the carpet, the slightest turning of the knob. Too many dangers had presented themselves on this trip. He leapt at the door and yanked it open. Someone had hung a cardboard sign on the outside knob, something about maid service. He heard now the thump thump of running footsteps, and leaned out to see a tall man in a raincoat hurrying away down the corridor, pausing just once to sling another sign—apparently his last—on a final door.

  Spencer pounded off in angry pursuit. The man was the same pernicious jokester who had plagued them all this voyage. Spencer raced around a turning in the corridor, nearly catching up to the fellow as he struggled to open an exit door to the boat deck. The man then turned to look at him, and Spencer stopped stock still in his tracks. There was the famous curly hair, though not so much as Spencer remembered from the newspaper photographs. Indeed, the forehead was quite high. But the clear blue eyes, the Nordic nose, the thin lips, and hero’s chin were exactly the same. Spencer was looking at Charles Augustus Lindbergh, “the greatest man in the world.”

  “You haven’t any clothes on,” Lindbergh said.

  The exit door came free. The man grinned, then vanished outside, looking not a little embarrassed. It dawned on Spencer that he’d run from Nora’s suite without a shred of clothing on.

  He retreated, hurrying back the way he’d come, surprising a maid and causing her to give out a terrible shriek.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Going the wrong way.”

  The door to Nora’s suite had closed behind him. He pounded on it furiously until she came to his rescue.

  She looked astonished, but as he stepped inside, began to giggle.

  “A little habit you picked up from Lady Mountbatten?” she said.

  Spencer scowled, but then began laughing himself. He sat down in a chair, his laughter becoming uncontrollable.

  “It’s not all that funny,” she said.

  “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s Lindbergh. Nora, that practical joker who’s been bedeviling us is Charles Lindbergh.”

  “What?”

  “Charles Lindbergh, conqueror of the Atlantic. It’s true. He’s on this ship. I knew a pilot who was an instructor of his after the war. He taught Lindbergh how to fly, the military way to fly, down at Kelly Field in Texas. He said Lindbergh used to do crazy things like put itching powder in the pajamas of his fellow cadets. He put a snake into the bed of one fellow, and moved another fellow’s bed up on the roof of the barracks. He even poured kerosene into the coffee cup of my friend when they were both mail pilots a few years later. I’d forgotten all about it. I should have realized it immediately. Nora, the Great Hero is—is a card. He’s the biggest practical joker in aviation.”

  He laughed more, crazily. She wondered if he’d been at the liquor again.

  The door opened and yet another maid stepped in. She saw Spencer naked in the chair and screamed, fleeing.

  “You don’t know how glad I’ll be when we finally do get to New York,” Nora said.

  He went to her and put his arms around her. He was no longer weary of sex.

  They took a late lunch in the smaller of the first-class dining rooms, contenting themselves with just a single cocktail beforehand. Then, returning to the suite to dress in warm clothes against the cold mist, they set out for a brisk walk about the deck.

  “My hair,” Nora said, with as much concern as a soldier who’d discovered he’d been wounded.

  “Your hair is beautiful.”

  “It’s going to stand out like a clown’s.”

  “New England girls have hair like that all the time. I find it very attractive.”

  “Well, I’m a Lake Erie girl, and I’m going to wash it before dinner and put some hairdressing on it.”

  “Nora. I’d love you bald.”

  “I wouldn’t love you bald.”

  “What will we do when we’re old?”

  “You won’t get bald. You’ll just get gray. I can tell.”

  They kissed, gently and sweetly. They had gone toward the bow, and the wind was a presence. Pausing at the rail, they looked at each other possessively.

  “What will we do in New York?” he said.

  “Why, we’ll stay together. I have a suite reserved at the Plaza Hotel.”

  “You have a play to begin. What will I do?”

  “Just stay with me. After we finish the rest of the auditions, we’ll move down to Philadelphia for the tryout run. But then it’s back to the Plaza. We could be there a year if it’s a hit. I don’t want to do more than a year. I can’t stand being away from California more than that. I’ve got a film to do. But I hope it’s a year. I hope it’s a hit.”

  “I’m sure it will be a hit.” He fought back a frown. “Nora?”

  “Yes?”

  “Nora, do you want to get married?”

  “I don’t think it’s time to talk about that, not yet.”

  “On the lifeboat …”

  She moved away from him slightly, but then realized the effect of her action and placed her hand atop of his on the rail.

  “A shipboard romance, Jimmy. Just what I wanted. As for more, let’s wait and see.”

  “Are you worried about something?”

  “Actually, I’m worried about someone.”

  “Edwina? That was nothing at all.”

  “I’m worried about the blonde.”

  “The blonde? You mean Diana Cooper? That was nothing, period.”

  “No, not the faded British beauty. I mean the girl back in Paris. That Whitley.”

  “Whitney.”

  “Whitney. What about her?”

  “She’s back in Paris. And I’m here.”

  “There are other ships on the sea. They go back to France. You’ve got Paris in your blood.”

  “Let’s try New York.”

  “But let’s not talk about marriage.”

  They were interrupted by another thundering blast of the Wilhelmina’s horn. There was another immediately after, but it was not the Wilhelmina’s. At first it seemed an echo of their ship’s sounding, but it came again from off the port bow. The Wilhelmina bellowed back. The deafening dialogue went on, almost a contest. The blasts from the other ship became louder.

  “Oh, Christ,” Nora said, “Are we going to collide?”

  The phantom ship’s blasts came nearer still, almost as loud as the Wilhelmina’s. The thick gray fog was thinning and had become suffused with a falling touch of golden light.

  “Jimmy. I see it. I see the ship!”

  Another horn blast. Vaguely they saw motion, then the ghostly form of black hull, white superstructure, and single funnel. A freighter, perhaps a coaster. They were very near land.

  There was another, shriller sound, such as might be heard from a lighthouse or coastal buoy. Spencer put his arm around Nora’s waist. The sea began to widen. The mist was being pulled away. Behind them they could now make out the Wilhelmina’s wake. Forward, the fog was a thicker presence, but they could see another shadowy form, much smaller than the single-funneled freighter. In a moment the shape began to draw abreast, and they could detect the color red. It grew brighter and brighter. All at once their eyes were caught by a flash of light, a revolving glare that tu
rned away and swung back again. The shrill sound repeated itself.

  “Welcome to America, Nora darling,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re off Cape Cod.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s the lightship Nantucket. We’re off Cape Cod. We’ll be in New York tomorrow.”

  A telephone call from Chips Cannon awakened Spencer and Nora from a nap in the late afternoon. Sounding exceedingly friendly and solicitous, he invited them to cocktails in the prince’s suite. They accepted happily. A bit of society was in order. They would shortly be returned to the real world. It was time to prepare for it.

  Everyone was there save Edwina, the count, and Mrs. Parker. The prince, dressed in a loud checked jacket, gray flannels, and a blue tie with an oversized knot, leapt up to see to their drinks. He was unusually cordial—indeed, extremely charming. It was the royal skill, this charm, the secret to his immense popularity in England. If the Windsors could maintain it in succeeding generations, they would sit in their thrones long after the dictators had toppled all the other royal houses of Europe.

  Edward was particularly attentive to Nora. After a few minutes he led her away to search for the coast of Long Island from the sun deck with a pair of binoculars Metcalfe had borrowed from the ship. Mrs. Simpson, wearing a pale-blue cocktail dress and too much jewelry, sat in a corner somewhat glumly.

  Chips, maintaining a crisp banter and sounding more English than ever, pressed Spencer in the opposite direction, over toward a painting on the wall that depicted Hendrik Hudson discovering the river that bore his name. It was an elaborate and expensive work, but uninspired.

  Duff Cooper came up to them. Chips had been talking about the raffishness of New York society, but Cooper changed the subject to politics and the failure of the League of Nations to deal with the Abyssinian crisis. It was as if they had never been through their ordeal, as if Parker, the countess, and the young seaman had not gone into the sea. It was all too blitheful.

  Channon nodded toward Mountbatten, who was standing with great dignity next to Lady Emerald and Diana.

  “You’d never know he was almost murdered this morning,” Chips said.

  “Murdered?” Spencer said. He thought of Count von Kresse.

  “It was the Polish woman,” Chips said. “Or Russian. Or whatever she is. Some filthy eastern tribe. In any event she tried to shoot Dickie right on deck. In the fog. That young officer she took as a lover intervened, and Dickie subdued her. Dickie is nothing if not a man of action.”

  Spencer shook his head as if in amazement. He was trying to work it out in his mind where he would fit this bizarre incident into his already otherworldly tale.

  “One could write quite the book about this voyage,” Cooper said.

  “Or quite the newspaper article,” Channon said.

  The prince had gone off with Nora. Mrs. Simpson rose and walked slowly to her room. Everyone else’s eyes were on Spencer. The conversation diminished, and suddenly there was silence.

  “Sit down somewhere, Jamieson,” Chips said. “We’d like to talk to you.”

  Spencer glanced around the room, at all the faces. Some, like Diana’s, were friendly. Others, like Emerald’s, decidedly not. He turned and settled onto the couch beneath the Hudson painting. Everyone else took a seat. The cocktail party had suddenly been rendered into a scene from a lawyer’s office, with Channon playing the attorney.

  “Jamieson,” he said carefully. “Everyone here knows what happened to your father—that you support yourself as a journalist.”

  Spencer wondered if there was some social problem involved in this. He felt defensive about his status in their eyes.

  “So, I believe, does Winston Churchill.”

  “That’s not the point,” Channon said. “Winston would not for any reason even think of doing what we’re afraid you intend to do, which is to make all that’s happened to us public in the American press.”

  “It’s a deuced sensitive matter,” said Major Metcalfe. “His Royal Highness intended this to be a very private holiday. If he—if we had thought there was a chance of your making professional use of what’s transpired, well …”

  “His Royal Highness would not have extended the hospitality he has to you,” snapped Lord Brownlow.

  “I am here as a passenger on this ship,” Spencer said. He feared he sounded surly.

  “Yes, but certain considerations, certain generosities were extended you,” Chips said.

  Spencer saw Lord Mountbatten color markedly. He wished Edwina were among the group. He felt certain she’d be defending him—indeed, calling for an immediate halt to this embarrassing confrontation.

  “It’s a difficult time for England,” said Duff Cooper. “We’ve millions out of work. The king is seriously ill. There’s the war in Abyssinnia. A public controversy over the prince’s, er, social life, is hardly the ticket just now.”

  “If it’s a matter of finances,” Chips said. “I mean, I understand how difficult it’s been for you since your father’s ruin—I mean, reverses. I, we, we’re prepared to compensate you for whatever financial loss you fear you might suffer for not—for not being able to carry out what you feel to be your, how shall I say, professional responsibilities.”

  Now Spencer colored, more darkly than Mountbatten. He started to rise from the couch.

  “Look, old sport,” said Metcalfe. “I rather think this is hardly the way …”

  Channon had taken out a checkbook. “Would a thousand pounds be appropriate?”

  “Mr. Spencer, I’m sure this isn’t necessary,” Metcalfe said. “All we’d like is your word as a gentleman that you won’t write about this.”

  “And if we don’t get it,” Brownlow said, “we can only assume that you are not a gentleman.”

  With that, Spencer was out of his seat and out the door. He wanted to slam it violently behind him, but the English police inspector was there just outside, and Spencer wasn’t half sure that he wouldn’t be treated like some dangerous criminal if he did.

  He and Nora had just finished dressing for cocktails, to which they’d been invited by Mr. van Hoorn of the shipping line in his suite, when a steward knocked at the door. He bore a neat envelope with Spencer’s name written on it. Spencer tipped the man, then opened it. Inside was a check for £1,500 and a note that said “Jamieson, please”—and nothing more.

  Spencer tore the lot of it into very small pieces.

  “I’m going to write the most searing, sensational story that American newspapers have ever seen,” he said. “That the Associated Press, United Press, INS, Inter-Ocean, and Reuter have ever seen.”

  “Jimmy, what are you talking about?”

  “I’ll leave you out of it,” he said. “Out of the bad parts of it, at any rate. But I am going to raise a lot of hell.”

  “Why don’t you just forget them?” she said, coming to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. “They’re all so sad and dull. I have to say I was really impressed at first, but after the fire and all … Why don’t we just let them go on their way?”

  He put his arm around her.

  “I won’t do anything to hurt you,” he said. He had, he later recalled, said the same thing to Edwina.

  They had what could only be called a pleasant time at the cocktail party, where Nora was the star of a rather crowded affair, though no member of the prince’s party made an appearance. At dinner, they sat at Mr. van Hoorn’s table, steadfastly ignoring the English group at the captain’s, where First Officer van Groot presided in his place. Young Kees, limping, came by to say good evening and inquire after them. The sad Mrs. Parker was with them, though she spoke little. The count was not present, but Edwina was there with Lord Mountbatten.

  Toward the end of dinner, Edwina came up to them, putting a hand on Spencer’s arm.

  “I heard about all that rot, Lieutenant Spencer,” she said in a voice both quiet and brittle. “That bloody inquisition. I rather think you should t
ell them all to go fuck themselves.”

  She gave a quick, friendly smile to Nora, then returned to her husband.

  There was another envelope awaiting them when they returned to Nora’s suite after a long after-dinner perambulation of the deck.

  The note was for Spencer. It was from von Kresse.

  “His Excellency the Count requests another rendezvous for brandy,” Spencer said. “At eleven o’clock this time.”

  “Jimmy. Forget him. Forget all of them. I have a much better idea on how to spend our time. It’s our last night. Aboard ship, anyway.”

  “There’ll be time enough for your better idea,” he said, patting her bottom. “There’s time now, in fact. But I think I should see him. I suspect the Prussian and I are not done with each other yet.”

  She reached to unhook the back of her dress.

  Spencer and the count met at the same dark place on the uppermost deck. Though he spoke in a pleasant tone, von Kresse looked even more somber than before. In fact, he turned his face away after greeting Spencer, keeping his eyes on the unseen night horizon of the sea. For the rest of his unhappy life, von Kresse would see things no one else would when he looked out to sea. Dagne von Kresse would haunt every ocean, every shoreline. As he thought of it, Spencer felt the more wrenchingly sorry for the scarred and crippled Junker aristocrat. The words the man had spoken about the brotherhood of the air were beginning to take on some meaning.

  “We’ll have our brandy later,” the count said. “There’s someone I want you to meet, someone who wants to meet you.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see. Just come with me. Please. It won’t take long, though I’m afraid that once again we’ll have to walk slowly. It’s a long way. Third class. Far astern.”

  Spencer made two attempts at conducting a conversation during their transit, but the count replied in desultory fashion and fell silent both times. Spencer then decided to keep quiet. Finally they reached a plain door on one of the lowest decks.

  “It’s Lindbergh, isn’t it?” he said.

  The count did not reply, except to knock sharply on the door, five times in quick succession. It opened swiftly. There was only one dim lamp on in the narrow chamber, and the tall figure who greeted them stood in silhouette. Without a word he motioned them in, then shut the door behind them as quickly as he had opened it.