Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom)

by Robert W. Walker

  “I had no idea they were so desperate, sir; I assumed they’d be thrilled at the news we were setting ’em free on the dock here. Free to go on their way, you know—facing no prosecution for—for—”

  “You told them that lie?”

  “I insisted the crewmen bringing them up say so, yes, to ensure their cooperation, you see.”

  “Clever, but it obviously didn’t work. Damn it all. This delays us further! Which is their aim, Mister Murdoch! You know this—delay, delay, sabotage next!”

  And it did have this supposed desired effect. This had all delayed Titanic, the clock ticking away, shaving off almost two hours from her schedule already, while they had been well ahead of schedule before now. This damnable delay could cost us the transatlantic record for a ship this size!” he continued. “A record I planned on winning before retirement—to beat Britannic. Every officer and crewman’s bonuses are at stake. Bonuses White Star promised, but only if Titanic shaves time off Britannic’s record.”

  “Not to mention your bonus, Captain,” said Wilde.

  Smith waved this off. “Record aside, gentlemen, the sheer embarrassment of it all; the owner and architect are aboard, both J. Bruce Ismay and Thomas Andrews.” He shook his head, despondent. “Fortunately, Pierre of Harland & Wolfe and J.P. Morgan, both of whom had hoped to be aboard, were unable to make the date, what with it changing daily!”

  Whether aboard or not, these men were giants of industry in a Gilded Age—in a time that heralded the greatness of mankind’s coming into the modern era; Smith mustn’t disappoint his bosses and benefactors, and at the moment, Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews were profoundly upset with the goings on aboard that he’d had to report already—first the Belfast intruders with their wild claims, and now this insane lunatic’s ridiculous so-called premonition of doom, and Smith had no doubt these distractions had been wired to J.P. Morgan and to Pierre.

  “We’ll send a second boat with those miscreants, Mr. Lightoller,” said Smith, legs parted in a fighting stance, his finger wagging at Lightoller’s nose. “For the moment, get that ranting woman off my ship!”

  Indeed, Mrs. Catarina Krizefieldt, sitting in the front of the life boat, awaiting her lowering over the side with her husband and her things, was shouting to any and all passengers who happened by—and there was a growing crowd of them—that they best come off the ship with her. “I’ve had a dream that’s altered every feeling I once held about this ship!”

  “What sorta dream?” shouted someone among the crowd the woman had gathered about Lifeboat #14.

  “A-A dream of death and destruction aboard. I have seen the Devil himself aboard Titanic. He has flesh fired like enamel, he does!”

  Some in the crowd taunted the woman for a fool, others called her a saboteur paid by the Cunard Line. Most wanted her unpleasant face, voice, and message to simply go away, and to this end Lightoller, with shaky hands, ordered a less experienced officer to lower him and Mr. and Mrs. Krizefieldt down. The young officer snapped on the davit motor that worked the pulleys to lower the shaking lifeboat that Lightoller stood in. A crewman monitored the lowering of the boat from the deck.

  For Smith, it meant Lightoller, a man at the davit, another monitoring the descent of the boat to keep it level, not to mention Murdoch and others chasing the other problem belowdecks were all engaged in time-consuming and unnecessary maneuvers. “God how I wish those Belfast thugs were on board with that woman!” Smith sighed deeply as he watched the action. “Lightoller seems be taking orders better than the more seasoned Murdoch. What do you think, Mr. Wilde?”

  “Think the both of them are good officers, sir; we’re lucky to have them with us, sir.”

  “Mr. Wilde, I can always count on your decorum.”

  But this was not the end of annoyances for Smith, for when Officer Lightoller returned piloting the lifeboat back to Titanic, he’d gotten an earful from the crazed old hag and somehow thought it wise to address the possibility of the woman’s having some powers in the realm of the unseen, the world of the paranormal and séances for which she was sought after and well known in Surrey and Wexford, or so she claimed as she hailed from Wexford and had acquaintances in Surrey despite her German background.

  “Mr. Lightoller, we’ll waste no more time on this nonsense, please!”

  “I only mean, sir, that her foresight… well it turns out it’s legendary in her region of England.”

  “Wexford, bah!” Captain Smith sniffed as if he smelled the place, and he went to the huge windows facing the bow and the horizon. For a long moment, he watched, silent, looking out over the broad expanse of the Atlantic ahead of them and then muttered, “Lost time… hard to make up.”

  Lightoller knew the man’s every move, every twitch by now, and he understood he was to stand silent and wait on his captain’s next order. Finally, Smith turned to his junior officer and firmly said, “Mr. Lightoller you and everyone aboard who answers to me are to be silent on the rantings of that awful woman and to speak no more of it, understood?”

  “Yes, sir… understood.”

  “And Charles…” Smith added, a hand waving birdlike, “I will hear no gossip among the crew or the black gang at the furnaces.”

  Lightoller felt a smidge emboldened since Smith used his first name, a sign the old man liked him regardless of his bumbling. “Sir, then will you hear of a missing man among the stokers?”

  “A missing man? What missing man?”

  “Aye, sir, Alfred Davenport.”

  “Sounds like the name of a sofa,” joked Wilde, who was at Titanic’s giant, shining wheel. The bridge was made of the most expensive mahogany paneling and all metal surfaces were gold plated, often reflecting sunlight so powerfully as to blind a man.

  “We can’t have already lost a man over the side, can we?” asked Smith. “Are all the life boats and collapsibles accounted for?”

  “They are, sir,” replied Lightoller, biting his lip.

  “Speak your mind, Charles.”

  “All accounted for sir—what few there are.” One of Lightoller’s many responsibilities included overseeing the lifeboats in the event they were needed, for which he took a terrible ribbing. He also oversaw the boarding of all supplies from the bakers’ flour to binoculars, gun stores to medical and foodstuffs along with various other supplies—at least in the loading. A chore that young, Junior Officer Boxhall was assigned as backup.

  “What do you know of this missing man?” asked Captain Smith.

  “The one they call Burnsey, sir?”

  “No… I hear of a second missing man.”

  “Oh, yes, well… the older fellow, another of the stokers.”

  “What is the word on this fellow?”

  “The other black gangmen, sir, they say he was there one minute, working away at his shovel, the next gone.”

  “This is the Davenport fellow you spoke of earlier, Charles?”

  “Davenport, Alfred, yes sir. Some said he’d gone toward the rear of the ship, others thought he’d gone up to the next deck. That he’d been boasting he’d met a girl up there in steerage.”

  “But they’re restricted to the lower depths and their quarters, aren’t they? Did they get those orders, Mr. Lightoller?”

  “Aye, sir, they did, but some say this chap didn’t always obey orders.”

  “They are the Black Gang, sir,” added Wilde with a shake of the head.

  Lightoller quickly added,” And there was a dance going on in lower class, lots of drink, music, and women, you see.”

  “Temptations abound,” said Wilde.

  “So he’s lying drunk somewhere on board is he?” asked Smith, his tone dripping of disgust.

  “Likely asleep atop some wench,” commented Wilde from the wheel.

  “We think so, but perhaps he’s fallen under the spell of a woman, sir,” Lightoller had to agree with Wilde. “Black Gang fellas live a rough life, and they act as if there’s no tomorrow, sir.”

  “Damn it all. What else can h
appen to slow us down?”

  “Actually, sir,” Lightoller began, grimacing, “there’s a coal fire burning away in one of the furnace rooms.”

  “What? My God. What happened? This day! I wish I could turn it back!” Smith stomped about in a small circle. “Bother.” He ended in his usual calmness, the picture of neatness and stoicism in his uniform.

  “Coal for the furnace ignited—we suspect one of those spontaneous ignitings that occur from time to time, sir, “Lightoller volunteered. “Something to do with the chemical combustion, natural processes. It’s beyond me, but as they chuck out the coal, the embers will be found and extinguished—of that you can be sure.”

  “So what’s being done?” asked Smith.

  “Can’t do anything but close off the section, which shuts off two auxiliary furnaces in that area, sir.”

  “Why am I just hearing of this now? You realize this means we can never get her up to 24 knots.”

  “Well sir, I do sir, yes, but the firemen have had no luck with it; bloody smoke—pardon me language, sir—the smoke is too thick.”

  “I see.”

  “Some believe Davenport may be inside there—choked to death, sir.”

  “Her maiden voyage and she’s fast becoming a ragged whore,” muttered Smith to no one in particular. “An expensive as hell whore but a whore, nonetheless.”

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Belowdecks, Constable Alastair Ransom, Declan Irvin, and Thomas Coogan looked over their shoulders and worked to catch a breath amid the crowd of second class passengers who strolled about the steerage deck, many at the portals that ran along every bulkhead; on this deck there were areas open to the sea at stern and bow but not elsewhere, not like the promenades of first class overhead. As a result, the over-booked, crowded lower decks made for a good place to hide in plain sight and with their clothes and appearance, the detective and the interns fit right in, so much so that it was unlikely they’d be recognized by anyone but those who had acted as their jailers, primarily Murdoch, Lightoller, and two crewmen.

  The trio made their way to the aft open deck, all of them feeling ambivalent at this point over their latest decision; they’d been given the opportunity to gracefully exit from Titanic—an escape rather. They could have done so by getting off at Queenstown with the lady that their jailers were laughing about, someone named Mrs. Krizefieldt, her bird, her belongings, and her husband. It would have been so easy to have thrown up their hands and just left, but Alastair was not having any of it. He’d encouraged the boys to do just that—go along peacefully with the burly but unarmed pair of crewmen escorting them and find their way back home to Belfast, return to school, get their education, meet wonderful future wives, have children—lots of them—and a practice as surgeons, hell… just live a long and prosperous life. When they’d first got word of the captain’s plan to set them ashore in Queenstown they’d discussed it there in their cell. They had but moments to decide, so Alastair decided for them. “You two go along peaceably… get to the top deck and follow Captain Smith’s orders. This is a death ship. Save yourselves.”

  Declan had asked, “What about you?”

  “I’m going to make a break for it, try to uncover this thing aboard the way we uncovered it back in Belfast, rub Smith’s face in it so that he will understand that this thing is real, and that it is freely operating aboard his ship, killing as it goes, and—”

  “What’re you bloody going on about, guv’ner?” asked one of the jailers who’d come to escort them to the waiting lifeboat Murdoch had told them about. Alastair turned away from his fellow prisoners and addressed both jailers. “We’ve tried to warn your captain; there’s a horrible plague aboard this ship that’s already killed one man that we know of… died a horrible death right here before our eyes last night. Man was mad with it, clawing his way into the cage to get at us, and this thing is attempting to reproduce itself here now aboard Titanic.”

  “It’s the black plague and smallpox combined!” declared Declan, rushing the barred door.

  It was all the two superstitious sailors needed to hear. It shook these men to their core to hear the word plague aboard.

  “Are ye not missing two fellow crewmen?”

  “No, we’re not!”

  “Stokers—two of the black gang’ve disappeared!” insisted Ransom.

  “Isn’t it true?” asked Declan.

  “Are there not two men gone from among you?” shouted Thomas, hands raised.

  “One a young lad named Burnsey,” added Declan.

  “The other a tall gaunt fellow,” added Ransom, “with red iron for hair and rings on every finger?”

  “You’ve seen Davenport?” asked one of the crewmen, slapping the other on the arm. “They’ve seen Davenport, Gil!”

  “He’s missing all right,” said the other man who unlocked the cell door and bowed with a wave, actions meant to mock them. “Now gentlemen, cause us no trouble; captain wants you topside, he does. Come along. Davenport and Burnsey—they’re the captain’s problem, not ours!”

  “But I tell you the man was mad with the disease,” countered Ransom, stopping before this crewman. “You men are at risk. Your captain is putting you all at risk of death not to heed us.”

  “No one’s to speak badly of Captain Smith, you!” shouted the second crewman.

  “Do you think when all hell breaks loose on this ship and people are dropping like flies from the plague that your captain up top is going to be concerned about you down here?”

  “Plague, you say again—and are ye stickin’ to that story?” asked the stouter, shorter of the two crewmen.

  “It’s the truth, you fools! Every bit of it!” cried Ransom, intentionally unnerving the two big crewmen.

  “It’s no wonder that old girl wants off the ship!” said the first crewman.

  Declan and Thomas watched as Ransom expertly continued the plan to unsettle these two. “Why do you think I brought two doctors with me when I boarded, eh?” asked Ransom. “This is Dr. Irvin, and this Dr. Coogan, and I suppose your captain didn’t tell you that I am a Belfast constable, or that we three have chased this disease from Belfast to here—and now your shipmates, Burnsey and Davenport are dead while your captain scoffs at us.”

  “If it’s true, Jeff,” said the taller of the two crewmen, “we’re pur’t-near the bottom rung here, a cut above the stokers.”

  “It’s a big if,” countered Jeff with an unconvincing wobble to his voice. “I mean Mr. Murdoch and Mr. Lightoller said this fellow Ransom is a sly one, and we’re to give no quarter.”

  “I thought he said no credence; to give no notice to what he says.”

  “Aye, that too.”

  “But if they saw Davenport out of his head with black plague, we could be next.”

  Declan and Coogan boarded the lift ahead of Alastair, and as the two crewmen continued to speak of one another’s misgivings as they herded the trio of prisoners to the lift, the pair didn’t expect the affable Alastair to turn and blow a handful of finely ground coffee into their eyes.

  Alastair followed up with a second complete surprise to the blinded duo and to the young doctors. Spinning his cane in hand and allowing it to slide through his fingers so that the wolf’s head was at ground level, he hooked it behind the foot of the taller crewman, stepped into him with an outstretched stiff arm, and sent him to his backside all in one fell swoop. The boys marveled at seeing Ransom in action, seeing the unsuspecting man toppled by his bear-like prisoner.

  The second crewman faired even worse than his now unconscious friend as Ransom weaved expertly on his feet to the right and threw himself then to the left. Using his considerable weight against his stockier opponent, Ransom slammed the big fellow hard into the steel doorframe of the lift—sending the boys backing into one corner. The thud made such a horrible noise that Declan imagined the skull-buster must be resounding throughout the ship. With evident planning for the next blow, Ransom pulled back with his wolf’s head cane, and whacked the c
rewman in the back of the head even as the jailer slid down the doorframe.

  “Gawd but that’ll leave a terrible headache,” Declan had shouted over the noise of the one-sided fight.

  The sudden power displayed by Ransom left his young friends both in awe and fear as they winced in pain for the men that Ransom had put down in a matter of seconds

  Ransom dragged the second man from the lift to lay across the other while shouting, “It’s in it we are now, lads!” He then leapt aboard the lift, wildly panting as a result of the fight.

  Aboard the lift, Thomas slammed the cage door closed and sent the tiny gilded cage upwards. “Sorry, fellas, you had to see that; but those two weren’t listening to reason anymore than their captain.”

  Then below them, the threesome heard the cursing and banging from one of the crewmen who’d come to.

  “I imagine, lads, that you’re hearing the worse cursing you’ve ever heard—albeit muffled.”

  “Where’d you get that black powder?” Thomas asked, laughing now.

  “Ground African roast—coffee, boys! Sacks of it just outside my cell bars! Stuffed my pockets with it, you see… in the event it was needed.”

  “And it was!” Thomas laughed.

  “And so here we are,” said Declan, taking a deep breath and smelling the coffee that had dusted them, “three refugees, escaped prisoners, aboard Titanic with a dire message no one wants to hear much less believe.”

  As the lift took them up and up, Thomas knocked at his clothes to brush off the coffee powder. “We’re in quite the predicament. How do we avoid another arrest?”

  Ransom next stopped the lift at Deck C, second class berths and deck. “You two can go on up,” he told the interns. “Give yourselves up, lads, and get on that lifeboat and off this… this plague ship.”

  “What about you, Alastair?” asked Declan.

  “We’re all in it together, Detective.” Thomas stepped off the lift.