There were now a dozen or more people filing in procession towards the elevator. They were mostly pretty cheerful, engaging in banter to do with each other’s quaint attire. A gentleman carrying a top hat and wearing tennis shoes beneath a coat with an astrakhan collar was much admired. He said he thought his hat would come in useful if baling-out was required. One woman cradled a Pekinese dog with the snuffles, another a pink china pig.
I decided to go below to see for myself what was happening. Descending the stairs I was aware of there being something not quite right about the slope of them. They looked perfectly level but my step was slightly off balance; my feet didn’t seem to know where to land, and I was tilting forward. I put it down to imagination, that and the bulky clothing which encumbered me, and marvelled that Rosenfelder must feel this propulsion all the time.
I didn’t get very far. There were too many people streaming in an opposite direction. On F deck an officer barred my way. He was holding on to the arm of a steerage woman who was carrying a baby against her cheek. The officer tried to restrain her and turn me back at the same time. ‘Why have we stopped?’ she kept asking. ‘What for have we stopped?’ Behind the officer’s shoulders I saw a line of postal clerks at the bend of the companionway, heaving mail sacks, one to the other, up from the lower level. The sacks were stained to the seals with damp.
Retracing my steps I made my way upwards again. On the staircase landing of C deck I passed White, the racquets professional. He didn’t acknowledge me though I raised my hand in greeting. From somewhere along the corridor a voice called out, ‘Hadn’t we better cancel that appointment for tomorrow morning?’ I didn’t hear White’s reply.
Colonel Astor was in the foyer talking to Bruce Ismay. Ismay had the appearance of a man on his death bed; his face had become as old as time. Owing to the numbers thronging the stairs I was prevented from going immediately up top and heard Astor say, ‘Is it essential I bring my wife on deck? Her condition is delicate,’ and Ismay’s response, ‘You must fetch her at once. The ship is torn to pieces below but she won’t sink if her bulkheads hold.’
There was a fearful crush in the gymnasium, spilling out on deck and flowing in again as the cold stabbed to the bone. Hopper was nowhere to be seen. Mrs Brown jogged my sleeve and asked if it would be a good idea to start community singing, but before I could answer the far door was thrust open and the ship’s band struck up something jolly. Kitty Webb sat astride one of the mechanical bicycles. She wore silk pyjamas under a man’s leather automobile coat and was accompanied by Guggenheim’s valet. I went out in search of Hopper. Save for a solitary man gripping the rail there was no one about under that glorious panoply of stars. I imagined the crew must be all assembled at the stern; before quitting the wheelhouse I had heard Captain Smith’s call for all hands on deck.
I was walking towards the port side when suddenly the night was rendered hideous by a tremendous blast of steam escaping from the safety valves of the pipes fore and aft of the funnels. I clapped my palms over my ears under the onslaught and turned giddy, for the noise was like a thousand locomotives thundering through a culvert. Even the stars seemed to shake. Recovering, I spied Hopper watching an officer attempting to parley with the bridge above. The officer was pointing at the life-boats and soundlessly roaring for instructions. Hopper and I, bent double under the din, ran back inside.
The crowd in the gymnasium had mostly retreated to the landing of the Grand Staircase and the foyer beneath. The band was now playing rag-time. Kitty Webb, head lolling like a doll, danced with Mrs Brown. Mrs Carter asked if Captain Smith was on the boat deck and whether I knew the whereabouts of Mr Ismay. I said I expected they were both on the bridge seeing to things. There was such a dearth of information, of confirmation or denial of rumours – the racquets court was under water but not the Turkish baths; a spur of the iceberg had ripped the ship from one end to the other but the crew was fully equipped to make good the damage and were even now putting it to rights – and such an absence of persons in authority to whom one might turn that it was possible to imagine the man in the golfing jacket had spoken no more than the truth when presupposing we were victims of a hoax. In part, this lack of communication was due to the awesome size of the wounded ship. It was simply not possible to keep everyone abreast of events. An accident at the summit of a mountain is hardly observable from the slopes. For the rest, what was Smith expected to do? Should he appear on the landing of the Grand Staircase beneath that rococo clock whose hands now stood at twenty-five to one in the morning and announce that in spite of the watertight compartments, the indestructible bulkheads, the unimaginable technology, the unthinkable was in process and his unsinkable vessel, now doomed, unfortunately carried insufficient life-boats to accommodate all on board?
Ginsberg was still in his armchair opposite the elevator, still clutching a handkerchief to his nose. An unknown girl was chatting to him; he introduced her but the loudness of the band blotted out her name. She had an enormous expanse of brow, beneath which her features sat truncated like those of an infant’s; it was possibly on account of her hair being dragged back in a fearsome bun. She said, without preamble, that she had known for several years past, from dreams and such like, that it was her destiny to drown. She spoke of it quite calmly and without resorting to melodrama. Her doctor had dismissed her condition as no more than nerves; her mother had enrolled her in the local tennis club, in the hopes that strenuous exercise in the fresh air would banish such fancies. She had become quite exceptionally adroit on the courts, but the dreams persisted.
‘There is nothing to worry about,’ I said. ‘I myself have been plagued by nightmares. I’m convinced they consist of memories of the past rather than portents of the future.’
Ginsberg was leaning back in his chair, breathing like a man recovering from a record-breaking run round the tracks. Hopper asked what was wrong and he explained he was afflicted with asthma. It came on sometimes without reason. His handkerchief was smeared with a concoction of honey obtained from a bee-keeper in a Shaker community in Massachusetts and would do the trick shortly. I thought it was an inspired excuse and fancied he was in a blue funk.
It was then that I realised I hadn’t seen Charlie Melchett since the interruption to our game of bridge. In Hopper’s opinion it was probable he’d galloped off to play knight errant to the Ellery sisters and Molly Dodge. I made my excuses to the girl with the forehead and went looking for him. Lady Melchett, but six weeks before, had drawn me to one side and entreated me to keep an eye on her boy. ‘He is so very fond of you,’ she’d said. ‘He looks up to you.’ ‘You may rely on me,’ I’d told her, fighting off those damn dogs threatening to lick my face away.
I ran him to earth quite quickly, standing in the deserted gymnasium gazing out at the shadowy deck. The funnels continued intermittently to release those deafening blasts of steam and though the sound was muted by the glass I had to shout to draw his attention. He didn’t turn round. ‘Why does it keep on with that ghastly noise?’ he asked.
‘It’s a bit like a train,’ I said.
‘I thought I saw a ship out there a few minutes ago.’
‘I expect it’s coming to assist us.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s stopped moving. Perhaps it’s just starlight.’
‘You ought to fetch your life-preserver,’ I said. ‘I’ve got mine on.’
‘I will . . . soon. I needed to mull things over. I should have liked—’ The gush of steam started up again; when it had died away he was still rabbiting on and I reckoned he was speaking of his father— ‘. . . I know he’s fond of me but it worries him how I’ll face up to things when he’s gone. I’m not brainy and I don’t often think of anything downright important. My mother dotes on me, and that’s rather held me back. I’ve never had to go it alone, not like some chaps. Not that I’d want to. I’m no good on my own . . . I lack common-sense.’
‘Charlie,’ I protested, ‘you have more common-sense than any man I know . . . a
nd kindness and a generous heart—’
‘I would have so liked to make him proud.’
‘Hopper and I are in the foyer,’ I told him. ‘We rather wanted you with us.’
‘I’ll come and join you in a bit,’ he said. I hesitated, but felt it my duty to ask, ‘You’re not frightened are you, Charlie? There’s no need to be.’
‘There’s nothing on this earth that frightens me,’ he said. ‘It’s what comes after that concerns one. I’ve not always behaved decently.’ His voice wobbled. I couldn’t help smiling. If the worst happens, I thought, God will surely send all his angels to bring Charlie to heaven. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to atone,’ I said, ‘a life-time, in fact,’ and at that he faced me and, sheepishly grinning, followed me down the stairs.
Ida and Rosenfelder hurried to meet us. Neither of them could find Wallis. Ida had looked for her everywhere, asked everyone if they recalled seeing her, but nobody had. ‘She was in the dining room when I got back after your faint,’ she babbled, ‘but then I went off to a concert in the second class lounge and later I had coffee with Molly in the Café Parisien . . . then that dreadful bump came and Molly said it was safer to remain where we were. Mr Rosenfelder’s been awfully kind. He went to our room but it’s locked, in case of looting or something, and the steward shooed him away.’
‘I knock and knock,’ Rosenfelder said. ‘And I think I hear voices, but there is no one opening and the steward tells me I have no business in that passage.’
I offered to go there again, just to set Ida’s mind at rest, and walked away in a deceptively leisurely manner. Once out of sight I fairly sprinted. The corridors of A deck were deserted, as though this was an ordinary night and all good folk were abed. I didn’t attempt to knock on Wallis’s door; instead I sought out the steward and demanded he hand over the key. He refused, saying it was more than his job was worth. I told him I would break the door down, if necessary, to which he retorted he would report me to the chief steward. I shouted he could report me to Captain Smith for all I cared, and we glowered at one another for some moments. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I have reason to believe that Miss Ellery is in there with a gentleman friend. This sort of thing can’t be new to you. Naturally, when you first knocked she thought it would compromise her to respond. She possibly waited until she believed you’d gone away, only to find the door locked. You take my meaning?’
‘Perfectly, sir,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?’ Taking the key off its ring he planted it in my hand. I told him to make himself scarce, which he did, beetling off down the passageway no doubt eager to inform the second steward of the salacious goings-on. I turned the lock, slipped the key under the door and ran for the companionway. I had no wish to confront Scurra.
In the short space of time I’d been absent, the atmosphere in the foyer had undergone a change. Some course of action had at last been resolved upon; there was a sense of relief rather than urgency as the stewards moved discreetly from one group to another, urging the women to proceed to the top deck. Ida refused to budge an inch without her sister until I said I’d go with her, mark where she was and bring Wallis to her side the moment she was found. I assured her it wouldn’t be long.
The chief saloon steward led us by way of the crew’s narrow companionway up to the forward boat deck. Colonel Astor and his bride, the Carters, the Theyers and Mrs Hogeboom went ahead, slowed down by the stately progress of Mr and Mrs Straus, linked as always. Hedged by Hopper and Charlie I held tight to Ida’s hand. Mrs Brown’s grandchild, riding his father’s shoulders, bobbed above our heads blowing on a tin whistle. There was even some laughter as we squeezed upwards. Behind, abreast with Lady Duff Gordon, nudged Rosenfelder, clad in a fur coat the colour of beeswax.
Captain Smith appeared at the top, waiting agitatedly to descend. Astor asked him a question, something to do with how the situation now stood, and he answered stoutly enough that all was under control, but we must hurry. We emerged on to the bridge, a little below the officers’ house, and were told to wait. Thankfully, the steam pipes remained silent. A stir was caused by Mr Theyer excitedly pointing to what he took to be the lights of a ship to the right of our stern. We watched intently but the lights receded and we came to the conclusion we were confused by starlight.
Some of the men, myself included, climbed down the companionway, starboard side, to be closer to the boats in case we were needed. There were very few seamen about and only two officers, both grappling with the complicated machinery of the davits. We called out that we were willing to assist but they waved us away. The night was perfectly still, save for our footfalls, the low murmur of voices and the crackle of canvas as the boat covers were trampled over. Astor paced alone, the tiny glow of his cigarette arching through the air as he flung it overboard. I remember Charlie talked to me about cricket. Above, a million stars sprinkled the heavens.
Some fifteen minutes later, nothing having been accomplished on our part of the deck, Hopper and I went round to the port side. Here, we saw one boat, free of its tackle, being lowered towards the rail. Suddenly there was a flash of light from the forward deck, a hissing whoosh sufficient to turn the stomach over as a rocket soared to meet the stars. Up, up it went, and we craned our heads to watch it go, until, exploding with a report that tore the night in two, illuminating for one stark instant the fretwork of wires upon the tapering mast, it sent its own stars sailing down. The women and children on the bridge clapped their hands in wonder at the pretty sight; we men could scarce look at one another, recognising it for a desperate measure.
Mrs Brown’s voice floated down from the bridge, ‘I wish you would make up your minds. We were told to come up here,’ and at that the crowd began to move inside again. Hopper and I hurried through the gymnasium doors and made our way below to meet them.
Jerkily, the boats were being lowered alongside the windows of the enclosed promenade of A deck. Someone had to fetch a chisel to crank up the glass. Mr Carter said the list of the ship had meant the boats hung too far out from the top rail for the women to enter safely. An officer thrust steamer chairs through the windows; when the nearest boat was level, he climbed out, one foot on the chair, one foot on the gunwale. There was no panic or undue excitement until he ordered the men to stand back from the women and children. Then, several of the women began to blub. Mr Carter challenged him, at which he bellowed, ‘Women and children first.’
To a man we obeyed him. Ida clung to my arm, whimpering Wallis’s name, but I shook her off and gave her into the charge of Mrs Brown. A young woman carrying a baby refused to leave her husband, but he said she ought because of the child. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be on the next boat, sure thing.’ Mrs Straus was being led to the window when she stopped and said, ‘I’m not going without Mr Straus.’ Someone, Theyer I think, asked the officer if an exception couldn’t be made for such a revered and elderly man? Whereupon, Straus turned away, remarking he would not take advantage of his age. Mrs Straus, dragged a further few steps, broke free and stumbled to his side. ‘We shall stay together, old dear,’ she said. ‘As we have lived, so will we die.’ This remark, though noble in sentiment, convinced the woman with the baby that she was parting from her own husband for ever. Shrieking, she attempted to clamber out of the boat and was pushed back by the officer. The infant set up a thin howl. Mr and Mrs Straus strolled a little way off and sat in steamer chairs, watching the proceedings as though from the stalls of a theatre.
Remembering my promise, I went inside to look for Wallis. I passed through the swing doors, propped open to the night, to that landing from which an eternity ago Madame Butterfly had glimpsed a ship on the far horizon. The orchestra stood there now, playing for the benefit of those outside. They had assembled in a hurry; I could see the score in the carpet where the cellist had dragged up his instrument.
Scurra sat below in the Palm Court, sprawled at a table with his legs stretched out. He was discussing the Peloponnesi
an War with Stead, the journalist. Neither of them took any notice of me. Mr Stead was neatly dressed for a windy morning on Wall Street. His life-preserver lay draped across his knee. Scurra wore a long black overcoat beneath which dangled the hem of my purple dressing-gown.
I was forced to interrupt their conversation. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘it’s important I find Wallis. Ida won’t get into the boats without her.’
‘She’s somewhere around,’ Scurra said. ‘She was rather tied up when the call came.’
I couldn’t fight him. I slumped into a chair and fought my own demons, calculating in my head how long I might survive in that icy water, should it come to it, while Scurra debated whether Thucydides’ account of the destruction of the Athenian fleet was truthful or not. He dwelt particularly on the drowning incidents, arguing that as the Greeks were half fish by nature and as the temperature of the sea off the harbour was generally high, it was surprising so many had perished. My mind drifted, until I swam with Hopper in that lazy lake at Warm Springs.
Presently, the journalist stood and shook us both by the hand. ‘It’s been an interesting trip,’ he observed. ‘I doubt we’ll see another one like it.’
‘Quite,’ said Scurra.
When Stead had gone, the room became deathly quiet. Save for a man at a table in the far corner, a full bottle of Gordon’s gin at his elbow, we were alone. The orchestra had decamped to the deck outside. Scurra appeared lost in thought; one finger tapped at his gouged lip. The silence lay like a weight. Clearing my throat, I considered asking how he had really come by his scarred mouth, then changed my mind. For all it mattered, God himself could have taken a bite out of him.
At last, Scurra said, ‘I was in the Turkish baths earlier. How very exhausting it is lying on an Egyptian couch with the perspiration collecting in the folds of one’s belly. The only thing missing was a plate of grapes.’ I didn’t reply, knowing him for a liar; the baths were closed on a Sunday. He looked at me quizzically. ‘You appear angry,’ he said. ‘Or is it your way of preparing for the ordeal to come?’
Every Man for Himself Page 15