by David Dyer
‘A rocket!’ the stewardess says. ‘They’ve just fired a rocket, I saw it – it went right up into the sky and then exploded.’
People who have been sitting stand up and there’s murmuring and whispering among the crowd. Everyone knows what a rocket at sea means.
Stella looks to her father, willing him to lead them all up to the open deck. ‘Don’t you see?’ she asks him. ‘This ship is in trouble. We must go up.’
Her mother steps closer to her husband and slips her arm through his. Stella can see her father is trying to decide what to do. She turns to her eldest brother. ‘George, please tell him. We’ve got to go.’
When George is silent she looks again to her father. She knows she’s his favourite – he’s always loved her wild curls, her playful energy – and she can persuade him to do almost anything. But now he surprises her with his resolve.
‘No,’ he says. ‘This isn’t one of your rallies. We’ll do what we’re told. We will wait for Mr Hart.’
* * *
On the SS Californian, Herbert Stone, the 24-year-old second officer, is standing the midnight watch on the cold, open bridge. His ship is stopped and he’s looking at the lights of a distant steamer. He has been trying to contact her with the Morse lamp, but to no avail. Then, just after half past twelve, he sees a small white light climb into the air above her and burst into stars. The cluster drifts slowly downwards.
A few weeks later, in the warm spring air of the Scottish Drill Hall in London, he describes what he saw to a polite and attentive audience. ‘I was walking up and down the bridge,’ he tells them, ‘and I saw one white flash in the sky immediately above this other steamer. I did not know what it was; I thought it might be a shooting star.’
There is a gasp in the ladies’ gallery and excited whispers. A shooting star! Behind the flimsy witness stand, Stone begins to fidget.
‘What did you think it was?’ asks Mr Butler Aspinall, KC, appearing for the Board of Trade and on behalf of the British public.
Stone shrugs. ‘It was just a white flash in the sky.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘It might have been anything.’ He looks up at the gallery, as if its occupants are just as likely as he to know what the flash might have been.
Aspinall is not satisfied. He tries to narrow down the possibilities. ‘But what did it suggest to your mind? What did you say to yourself? What did you think it was?’
Stone, wide-eyed, shifting left and right, is throwing nervous half-smiles this way and that. He appears to be thinking hard about what he’d thought on that night, and at last he answers, ‘I thought nothing.’
So, on the Californian, Herbert Stone, officer of the watch, eight years at sea, sees a white flash and thinks nothing; but he does bring the binoculars to his eyes so he can study the steamer more intently. ‘Watch that steamer,’ the captain had said, and Stone is doing what he was told.
Meanwhile, below and behind him, standing at the starboard rail of the shelter deck smoking a cigarette, Ernie Gill is thinking many things: that the fourth engineer has no right to talk to him in the way he does, that it wasn’t his fault the pump broke, that he didn’t mean to drop the spanner. He has a mind to go to the chief engineer about it. He ought to, because he’s not just a fireman or a greaser but the assistant donkeyman, and he knows his rights.
He draws hard on his cigarette and its tip glows bright red. The smoke gathers and thickens because there is absolutely no wind. Then, on the horizon, he sees a white light.
‘I had pretty nearly finished my smoke and was looking around and I saw what I took to be a falling star,’ he explains later to the enthralled spectators in the Drill Hall. He has never had such a large audience in his life. ‘It descended and then disappeared. That is how a star does fall…’
A falling star. On the Californian’s shelter deck, Ernie Gill makes a wish. It involves the fourth engineer getting what’s coming to him.
The second rocket
Stella is worried. Mr Hart has not yet come back and the third-class reception area has become dangerously crowded. More men have arrived, bringing their luggage with them, and there’s not much room to move around. Mr Kieran, the chief third-class steward, has taken up a position at the top of the stairs and will let no one pass.
Another steward smiles at Stella’s father and says he ought to take his family down to F deck to wait in the dining room, where it’s warmer and there’s more space.
‘No, thank you very much,’ says Stella, placing herself between the steward and her father. ‘We want to go up, not down.’
The man wanders off and Stella places her coat over Connie and Ada, who’ve fallen asleep on the floor in their lifejackets. She reties the laces of Dolly’s boots – never in her life has Dolly been able to keep her laces tied – and slides young Tom’s golden curls behind his ears. When Fred and Doug begin to bounce their chests together like fighting seals, she says they should stop their tomfoolery but can’t help laughing.
Her mother stands with her father, talking softly in his ear. She’s always been his support. When he took up work as a corn grinder she learned to make cornbread; when he became landlord of a public house in Norfolk she waitressed at tables; when he bought the bakery at Peterborough she woke at four every morning to stoke the ovens. And when he announced that he was taking the whole family to Florida to grow oranges, it was her mother who persuaded Stella that she must come too. ‘You have a special strength,’ her mother said, ‘that your father needs.’
Stella has always thought of her father as a man of action, and admired his various schemes, but the emergency on this ship seems to have overwhelmed him. Normally a fast thinker, he’s become slow and passive. He wants to wait rather than act, and speaks only of doing what he’s told. Stella wonders whether something has broken inside him.
Just then she hears again the distant popping sound. It is another rocket. If her mother is right and she has a special strength, then now is the time to use it.
* * *
The Californian is swinging imperceptibly anticlockwise, bringing her bow around to the south. Alone on the bridge, Herbert Stone is wondering what to do. The more he thinks about it, the more it seems that it was only a flash he saw, something in his peripheral vision, hardly anything really, and if he’d been looking the other way he wouldn’t have seen it at all. His eyes linger on the speaking tube leading to the captain’s cabin. If he were to call down, what would he say? That he’d seen a shooting star?
He wishes Gibson, the apprentice, would come back from below decks so he could talk to him about it.
Three or four minutes pass and then – there, above the steamer – another flash of white light. This time he’s looking through the binoculars when it happens and what he sees is very clearly a rocket, streaking skyward and bursting into white stars.
He knows the regulations about distress signals. He learned them verbatim for his First Mate’s Certificate, memorising them from crib cards he’d written up in neat capitals. Rockets throwing stars are a signal of distress. But when he studies the ship closely there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her. She’s been sitting there stationary and silent for an hour. Why, all of a sudden, start firing rockets? Stone isn’t sure what to do. If he wakes the captain, what would the captain do anyway? He wouldn’t steam anywhere tonight – not with so much ice about, not in this darkness. And if he wakes him for nothing the captain will think him a fool. ‘It will be an easy watch,’ the captain had said, ‘with nothing much to do.’
Stone decides to wait just a little longer and see what happens. If there’s another rocket, then he will call the captain.
Ernie Gill, meanwhile, stands aft on the shelter deck. ‘I threw my cigarette away,’ he later tells the audience in the Drill Hall, ‘and looked over, and I could see from the water’s edge – what appeared to be the water’s edge – a great distance away, well, it was unmistakably a rocket. You could make no mistake about it.’
He watches for a few more min
utes. Over his shoulder he can see the shadowy outline of his own ship’s bridge, silent and dark.
‘It was not my business to notify the bridge, but they could not have helped but see it,’ he explains to his sorrowful listeners in London. They are spellbound, and he tries to look each of them in the eye. He knows they understand. He can’t do every job on the ship. Others should do their job properly, just as he does his. ‘I am not a sailor,’ he says, his voice heavy with regret: if only he had been a sailor, this whole sad business might have turned out differently. ‘I do not know anything about latitude or longitude. My compass is the steam gauge.’
So he goes below and slides back into his bunk.
The third rocket
The slope of the deck beneath her feet is increasing; Stella has to lean a little to keep her balance. There are rumours that wireless messages have been sent out asking for help and that the first-class passengers are being put into boats. And Mr Kieran, at the top of the stairs, now has two more stewards, with broad chests and thick arms, standing with him.
Most of the people crowded into the reception area are women and children. Stella wonders where the rest of the third-class men are. Her father has said there were hundreds quartered with him and the boys in the ship’s bow, but there are only about twenty here.
At last Mr Hart returns, out of breath, and says that he will now take another group up to the boat deck. There’s a surge of people towards him, and Stella pushes through and reminds him of his promise. When Mr Hart agrees to take them, Stella tells her brothers and sisters to join hands, youngest to oldest, and not to let go no matter what. Her father picks up his suitcase and the older boys their satchels.
‘Leave the luggage,’ she calls, pulling the satchels from her brothers.
But her father doesn’t want to leave his suitcase. It has in it family letters and photographs and the papers relating to the Jacksonville farm. Stella takes it gently from him and places it against the wall. ‘We’ll come back for it,’ she says. ‘Later.’
Mr Hart leads them up the stairs, but when they reach the top Mr Kieran puts out his arm to stop her father.
‘No men,’ Mr Kieran says.
‘But we are nine children,’ Stella says. ‘Of course our father must come with us.’
Mr Kieran insists: women and children only. His two assistants step forward, arms crossed on their chests. ‘The men stay,’ Mr Kieran says, turning to Stella’s father, ‘or you all do.’
Stella sees her mother slip her hand into her father’s. It’s her way of saying she will not go without him. But he kisses her and tells her she must, for the sake of the children.
‘Not them either,’ says Mr Kieran, pulling George, Doug, Fred and Will from the line by their shoulders. ‘The baby may go, but not the others.’
‘I am not a baby!’ shouts Tom. ‘I’m four!’
Mr Hart is becoming agitated. If they delay further he will go without them; he has the other women in the group to think of. Stella pushes Will forward. ‘This one must come with us,’ she says, stepping closer to Mr Kieran as if daring him to say otherwise. ‘He’s only eleven.’
‘He seems older,’ Mr Kieran says.
‘Well, he’s not,’ says Stella. ‘Look at him!’
Will’s face is translucent; he is angelic. Mr Kieran hesitates, then nods him through.
Stella’s mother embraces her husband and sons, and Stella follows, hugging them hard one by one. ‘I will put Mother and the little ones in a boat,’ she says, ‘then I’ll come back for you.’
Her father kneels to Tom, who still clutches his blue blanket with its yellow giraffe, and tells him he’s a brave boy. ‘It’s cold now, but think how warm it will be when we get to Jacksonville. Remember what I told you? About the oranges? And the giraffes? But for now, make sure you take good care of your mother and sisters.’
Mr Hart is leading the group outside onto the open welldeck. Stella pauses to watch her father and brothers walk back down the stairwell. When George slips his arm tenderly around his father’s shoulders, she has to stop herself running after them. She whispers her promise to herself: she will come back for them. Then she turns and follows Mr Hart and the others across the deck.
There is no wind and she can hear voices and ragtime music drifting down from the forward decks. The moon isn’t up but the stars blaze as brightly as she’s ever seen them. For a moment she holds the rail and looks out into the dark. She can’t see the horizon, but as her eyes slowly adjust she makes out, in the blackness, a light. It’s faint and dim, but she can see white with a tinge of red. A ship! But in this strange, depthless darkness, she cannot tell how far away it is.
And then: an angry hissing sound. It’s the sound she’s heard before, a sound like escaping steam, but here on the open deck it’s much louder. She looks forward and sees the rocket rushing skyward. It explodes with a loud echoing clap, and for a moment its stars light the whole ship. The crowds on the deck crane their necks to look up. She notices that the little wooden boats hanging from ropes down the side of the ship are filled with people – she can make out the bobbing feathers of extravagant hats.
Stella Sage doesn’t know much about ships, but she does know that rich women would not get into such flimsy boats unless something was terribly wrong.
* * *
When he sees the third silent white rocket above the steamer, Stone grips his binoculars tight. He’d promised himself he would call the captain if he saw another one, but still he wavers. He wonders where the apprentice has got to.
‘What did you think they meant?’
In the Scottish Drill Hall Mr Butler Aspinall, KC asks him the question yet again. The room has become very quiet. Newspaper reporters have stopped writing and ladies are holding their fans still in their laps. The great musty curtains that have been hung to improve the acoustics seem at last to be working: people imagine they can hear the witness breathing. The audience watch him move from side to side like an animal in a zoo. They feel sorry for him. They can tell he is a good man, kind and gentle, who is doing his best. But they want to shake him by the neck, too. The sharp-faced Commissioner offers him water and reminds him to speak up.
‘I thought…’ There’s a catch in Stone’s voice and it seems possible he might cry. He casts his eyes about the hall, as if looking for help, then drifts into incoherent mumbling.
Lord Mersey, high on his central dais, is growing impatient. ‘Come on, man, come on!’
‘I thought, perhaps, the ship was in communication with some other ship. Or possibly she was signalling to tell us she had big icebergs around her.’
Aspinall is not looking at the witness. His thumbs are hooked into his waistcoat, his head is craned backwards and his eyes are closed, as if he is trying to visualise for himself this strange scene on the North Atlantic. How could rockets bursting in the sky convey such a message? ‘Possibly,’ he says slowly. ‘What else?’
Stone – furtive, fidgeting, fussing – develops another idea. ‘Perhaps,’ he says, ‘she was communicating with some other steamer at a greater distance than ourselves.’ He looks pleased with himself.
But now the Commissioner huffs and puffs, leans forward and takes off his glasses. ‘What,’ he asks, ‘was she communicating?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is that the way in which steamers communicate with each other?’
‘No,’ Herbert Stone has to admit.
‘Then you cannot have thought that.’
A gentle twitter of laughter rises in the Drill Hall and quickly subsides. The audience sits perfectly still, perplexed by a shared knowledge: everybody knows what rockets at sea mean.
The fourth rocket
Little Tom is having trouble keeping up as Mr Hart leads the group along a wide alleyway of ivory-white panelling. When he tries to run he trips on the front panels of his lifejacket and Connie lets go of his hand. He’s almost in tears. Stella wishes George or her father were here to carry him.
‘You take his hand,’ says her mother, ‘and I’ll look after the girls.’
This arrangement works better. Stella holds onto Tom, lifting him whenever he trips, and Dolly, Ada and Connie form a chain behind their mother, like ducklings. Stella keeps a close eye on young Will, who trots along by himself and runs ahead from time to time. The children are frightened, but Stella reassures them by singing songs and talking of Florida sunshine.
They climb another staircase and come upon the foyer of a little restaurant. There’s a knot of first-class passengers ahead; Mr Hart says they’ll have to wait a moment. The restaurant door is open and Stella sees beautiful wall panels of walnut inlaid with gold, and a ceiling of moulded flowers and garlands. The tables have been set for the next day with glittering silverware and lamps with pink silk shades.
The children wander in and stare in wonder: never have they seen such a place. Tom kneels to sink his hands in the soft carpet. Connie traces with her finger the roses in the tapestry upholstery of the chairs. Will stands silently before the coloured patterns of the stained-glass windows. But what enthrals them most are the crystal bowls of fresh fruit laid out on the carved buffet tables. They step nearer and gaze at the green grapes and red apples and the plump, glossy oranges. ‘Just like Daddy’s farm in Jacksonville!’ Tom says.
As Ada extends a hand towards one of the bowls, Stella, watching from the door, calls out to her, ‘No. They’re not ours to take.’
‘Just one?’ Ada asks.
‘To show Daddy?’ adds little Tom.
‘No. Not even one.’
‘Oh please?’ insists Ada. She’s a stubborn girl, and seems on the verge of a tantrum, but Stella sweeps in and takes both her and Tom by the hand. ‘Come along,’ she says, cutting off any further complaints. ‘It’s time to go.’
‘Don’t worry, young lady,’ Mr Hart says to Ada as they pass into the alleyway. ‘There’ll be more oranges up ahead – you’ll see.’ Ada seems unconvinced; Stella hears her mutter something about not liking oranges anyway.