Eleanor

by RA Williams

  ‘Couple weeks ago, I had just made sail from Utila Island. In the channel between the islands, we struck a sounding in ten fathoms – unexpectedly shallow for that part. The sounding lead snagged something. Took half my crew to drag it up, and when the lead finally broke the surface, we realised we’d snagged an old ship rib.’

  Henrikson pulled back a paint-splattered tarp lying on the forecastle hatch. A blackened arc of wood, partially disguised with coral encrustation, lay underneath.

  ‘You think this is from Griffin?’

  Lifting one end, he pointed out a wooden peg screwed into a joint. ‘This is a treenail. It’s been shaped by hand, not turned on a lathe.’

  ‘I assume that’s significant?’

  ‘After 1825, treenails were all turned on lathes.’

  Fishing a shiv from his dungarees, he dug into the blackened wood with its blade. ‘British ships were coppered, to retard barnacles. They used tar as a bonding agent.’

  Prising a fragment of wood from the rib, he pointed out a residue on the knife’s blade. ‘Do you see those particles in the tar?’

  She nodded.

  ‘It’s birch pulp. Only the British mixed birch pulp into their tar.’

  ‘So you think you may have found a British wreck?’

  ‘You don’t miss a trick, Dr Annenberg. I’ll be making sail before first light,’ he said, resting the rib back on the hatch. ‘With a good blow, Adel can make Honduras in under five days. What I lack on board is someone familiar with the Maya.’

  ‘I’m flattered, of course. But sea yarns and shipwrecks? Skipper, this isn’t my field of study at all. If this were pagan Germania, I’d gladly be your Huckleberry. But this? No. There are a hundred professors more qualified than I am. A hundred.’

  ‘Before you make up your mind, there’s something more.’

  Following him into the galley stack, she passed a kitchen crew stocking provisions. Beside an unlit oven stood a row of fresh-water casks. One separated from the others.

  ‘I made a hard-hat dive on the reef where we found the rib.’ Henrikson prised the lid from the cask. The stink of stagnant seawater caused her to gag. ‘There was an anomaly.’

  ‘Anomaly?’

  ‘Something man-made. I kept it soaking in seawater so as not to destabilise it.’

  Reaching into the barrel with both arms, he lifted it out.

  Elle stopped chewing. ‘Expecto resurrectionem mortuorum.’

  ❖❖❖

  8 APRIL 1929

  ISLAS DE LA BAHIA,

  HONDURAS

  Masts creaked as Adel’s boom lazily turned, tacking into the wind, under the command of the master of the helm. The first watch kept an eye out for close reefs, as celestial moonbeams fell across the sea in the ashen-pale pre-dawn. True to Skip’s word, the schooner pressed effortlessly through the Bahama Channel and into the Florida Strait, crew keeping the blow in the ship’s sails day and night, completing the eight-hundred-nautical-mile journey by the start of the fourth day.

  ‘Morning,’ Henrikson said as he appeared from the galley stack, two tin cups of coffee in hand.

  ‘Morning, Skip,’ Elle replied, accepting a cup.

  ‘Slept on deck again?’

  ‘It’s stuffy in my cabin.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘The night air helps me process my thoughts.’

  ‘It’ll get hotter.’ Henrikson looked up to the sails before shouting to the crew. ‘Take in the top sails. Catch her on the foresail.’ Turning to the helmsman, he gave an order to keep Adel scudding along.

  Having now lived on Adel for three days, Elle had got to know the crew, their seamanship meticulous yet at ease. Hoisting courses on tackles, the crew drove the courses through blocks on the jackyard, heads coming to attention as Adel’s power winches pulled the jackyard taut. Effortlessly, the sail came home to the yard. Secured to catheads, the forecourse canted, and the foresails fluffed as an abrupt gust filled them out, scudding the schooner along at an impressive seventeen knots.

  She had little understanding of the complexity of their seamanship. But that wasn’t the point. It was for the crew to know. And do. She was a passenger. And what she knew, they couldn’t understand much.

  Correcting the helm by a degree, Henrikson returned to his coffee. ‘Sorted ’em out yet?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your thoughts.’

  She offered him an unsure smile – crooked lip with a slight upturned snarl. In other circumstances, she would sweetly wrinkle her nose and make men go weak at their knees. ‘Do you know how Cork and my father came to be friends?’

  ‘On Titanic, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. That’s where my life changed, and my story really begins.’

  Moving across from the helm to the row of deckchairs Elle reclined in, Henrikson settled in a chair beside her. She was about to tell him her own sea yarn, when he spoke up.

  ‘Do you not recognise them?’

  ‘Recognise what?’

  ‘The deckchairs.’

  She leaned forward for a better look. They’d certainly seen better days.

  Henrikson didn’t wait for her to deduce their origin. ‘They came off Titanic.’

  Elle nearly leaped from her chair. For all she knew, it was the very chair where she’d first clapped eyes on Balthasar Toule. ‘But… how can that be?’

  ‘Found ’em.’

  ‘You found them?’

  ‘Cork didn’t tell you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He really didn’t tell you anything, did he?’ Sparking up a chewed stogy, he leaned back in his own deckchair. It creaked, taking his weight. ‘You know, I’ve met yachtsmen over my many years at sea who thought drinking grog and chewing tobacco were the only requisites for making a seaman. But a wise seaman knows different. We accept the sea for what it is.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘A beholder of death.’

  ‘I know a little something about death,’ she replied. Seventeen-year-old girls were not meant to witness the things she did on Titanic. In fact, considering the talisman she wore about her neck, it could be said death had her by the throat.

  He took a few puffs from his stogy before turning to Elle.

  ‘So it was, for Griffin. And Titanic. The hardships and privations of a seaman’s life are greater than those of any other. It’s a life I love. I was First Officer to Captain Larnder on Mackay-Bennett, you know.’

  Elle shrugged indifferently.

  ‘She was a cable-laying vessel. Not a pretty ship, but a sturdy, working-class girl. We were in a Halifax port when news of Titanic arrived. We sailed the same morning for the wreck site.’

  She stared at him, mouth agape now.

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘A floating graveyard. We stationed the ship outside the recovery area so as not to disturb the dead, and sent the crew out in skiffs. Fished out all manner of flotsam: mouldings from staterooms, Gladstone bags, deckchairs. Loads of deckchairs. I think Titanic must have broken her back when she went down.’

  ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘A lot of wardrobe trunks and stores came up from her holds. Then there were the bodies. There were so many of them. Hundreds. All in their lifebelts, mostly floating upright. The maritime embalmers on board our ship found very few of the dead had any water in their lungs: the cold killed almost all of them.’

  ‘I heard their cries from our lifeboat.’ Elle reached out, gripping his hand, offering him a bereaved smile. ‘They pleaded to be saved. It wasn’t too long before it got quiet.’

  ‘When the sea is that cold, death comes quick. Minutes. We surely did find the damnedest things in their pockets – from biscuits to diamond necklaces. One of my sailors found $2,500 in John Jacob Astor’s coat pocket. We handed it all over to White Star Line when we returned to Halifax. Nobody had much interest in the deckchairs.’

  Falling silent, he puffed away on his cigar.

  Elle stared out to sea, the night’s shade giv
ing way to the cheerful blues and greens of morning. Already, the heat of day was coming up.

  ‘I sat in these chairs with my friend Titch, swigging a bottle of Taittinger.’ She looked down, rubbing the armrest. ‘Could’ve been this very one.’

  Henrikson said nothing. A wise old smile appeared on his face before he said finally, ‘I didn’t make a mistake insisting you come, did I?’

  Elle returned her gaze to sea, discerning a distant toehold of land. A bank of clouds hovered over blue saw-toothed masses of mountains looming solemnly in the distance.

  Honduras.

  ‘You couldn’t have picked a better person for the job.’

  An island appeared off the port beam.

  Utila.

  Adel glided into its emerald shallows, mingling with Chebaccos and banana boats sheltering from the trade winds. Sails slackening as they turned from the wind, the schooner drifted towards a flotilla of sailing sloops at anchor, their sterns in close formation. A familiar flag flapped in the breeze above the thatch palms and trumpet trees.

  ‘Is that the Stars and Stripes?’

  ‘American fruit companies run the customs office,’ Henrikson explained, instructing a crewman to prepare a launch. ‘They don’t like delays. The fruit spoils. Bad for business. It’s better for us to clear customs out here than suffer the mess on the Honduran mainland.’

  Elle climbed into the launch. Skip joined her, nodding for his crewman to fire the outboard and take them to the wharf jutting from the shore.

  ‘God, it’s hot,’ she sighed, linen shirt sticking to her damp skin.

  ‘Not so bad here. The humidity on the mainland makes the Abacos feel like Newfoundland.’

  In less than a minute, the launch’s rubbing strake scraped against the wharf’s wood pilings. Climbing a ladder, Elle was surrounded by sweating labourers shifting heaps of pineapple, bananas and guava. Parked up beside the customs shed flying the Stars and Stripes was a pair of olive-drab Ford Model T Tourers, their convertible tops stowed. A platoon of soldiers sweated through their khaki uniforms and wide-brimmed campaign caps, separating fruit for themselves.

  One of the soldiers, stripes on his sleeve, approached Henrikson. They shook hands firmly.

  ‘Gunny Schadowski, this is Dr Eleanor Annenberg.’

  ‘Oh, Doc.’ He clasped a hand to his chest. ‘I got a terrible pain in my heart. Can ya take a look at it?’

  ‘Not that kind of doctor,’ she replied, spotting the eagle, globe and anchor emblem on his cap. A marine. ‘I’m an ethnologist, leatherneck.’

  ‘Call me Joe,’ replied Gunny, as he pushed his way between her and Henrikson. Taking off his hat, he adjusted his ‘high and tight’ clipped hair. ‘We don’t get many American gals down here, see.’ He looked closely at Elle’s fingers. ‘Least of all ones that ain’t handcuffed.’

  She realised he was looking for a wedding band on her finger. ‘United States Marines?’

  ‘Hoboken,’ he replied. ‘Actually, I’m a Pollock but what the hell. Where you from, Doc?’

  ‘Detroit.’

  ‘Tigers. I’m more a Giants fan, but that southpaw, Ty Cobb… man oh man, can he swat a Spalding.’ Turning his attention to Henrikson, he asked, ‘So, Skipper, off on another treasure hunt?’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll find something this time,’ Henrikson replied, glancing at Elle.

  ‘Good luck with that. Umpteen chumps come out here looking for treasure.’ Gunny waved out to sea. ‘They always promise better luck next year. You’re the first who actually came back.’

  ‘Stubborn Canadians. Like our ice fishing: we get our hooks into something, we stick with it.’

  ‘I’m guessing you anchored in our East Harbour hoping to jump the customs queue on the mainland?’

  Henrikson nodded.

  ‘Sorry to have to tell ya, but there’s a day of fruit consignments ahead of ya.’

  Gunny’s eyes darted towards Elle. She gave him her hesitant smile. Including the wrinkled nose this time. The big brash marine crumbled.

  ‘Tell you what – I’ll do my damnedest to push you to the front.’ He showed them to one of the Fords, throwing a guava at his corporal to attract his attention. ‘Us Yankees don’t suffer the poco a poco malaise of the local boys on the mainland, but things still take time.’

  Crate of fruit under his arm, the corporal held the door for Elle and Henrikson. As they climbed into the back seat of the Tourer, Gunny added, ‘It ain’t all bad, though. No Prohibition here. And the giggle juice is cheap.’

  ‘Poco a poco?’ she asked.

  ‘Little by little,’ replied Henrikson. ‘Hondurans set the schedule.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ interrupted Gunny, climbing into the front passenger seat. ‘You’re on the islands. Different ball game out here. We’ll have you on your way in two ticks off a hound’s ass.’

  Taking off his hat, he adjusted his hair before turning to the driver. ‘Let’s go, marine.’

  Gears grinding, the Ford parted the crowded dock. Leaning back in the seat, Elle raised her chin, trying to catch as much of the breeze as possible, a hot blast better than none at all. As the automobile gained speed on the macadamed road, she widened the collar of her linen shirt, letting air onto the sweat developing on her chest. She watched as the driver’s eyes honed in on her from the rear-view mirror and he had to swerve to miss a trap full of bananas hauled by a mule.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road, Corporal,’ ordered Gunny. ‘That’s how accidents happen.’

  Adjusting the mirror, Gunny gave her a nod and a wink. Elle thought better of leaving the top of her shirt open, sweat or no.

  The Ford bounced along the narrow coastal track, leaving East Harbour’s centre-ville behind.

  ‘Where we going?’ Elle asked.

  ‘Stopping round Scotland Road,’ replied Henrikson.

  ‘Titanic’s crew nicknamed a passageway below decks Scotland Road.’

  ‘Here, it’s a hotel.’

  ‘Not a good one,’ added Gunny. ‘Utila ain’t exactly what you’d call cosmopolitan, like. There’s a customs office, paid for by American companies buying up all the fruit from the locals on these here Bay Islands. Somebody with deep pockets got President Coolidge to send in us marines. An entire company from the 4th Marine Division is quartered in La Ceiba.’

  ‘The principal Caribbean port on the mainland,’ explained Skip.

  ‘Yeah. And where all the action is: officers’ club, casino, ice cream, nurses. The whole tamale. Best we can muster here is a platoon.’

  ‘And a gunnery sergeant,’ said the driver.

  ‘Yeah, and a gunnery sergeant. Utila is so small we don’t even rate an officer. But I make sure everything goes smooth, like.’

  ‘There are two hotels on the island,’ said Henrikson. ‘The fruit companies built a posh one. All the comforts of home – even the Miami Herald delivered a couple times a month with the resupply.’

  ‘Hotel Scotland Road ain’t exactly the Waldorf.’

  ‘We don’t want to be at the Waldorf,’ Henrikson replied. ‘Too many nosy types.’

  The car bounced over a bridge spanning a stagnant estuary, before turning onto an even narrower dirt track, and finally coming to a halt under the blessed shade of a palm’s feathery fronds. A faded sign nailed to its trunk read Hotel Scotland Road. Climbing from the motor car, Elle caught the scent of sea air. Henrikson closed the door behind her.

  ‘You’re not coming?’ Elle asked him.

  ‘Not directly,’ he replied. ‘I’ll sort my bits with the customs boys while my crew gathers hogsheads of fresh water. Waste of a good day and tariff, if you ask me.’

  Gunny raised his arms helplessly. ‘I just follow orders.’

  ‘What am I meant to do all day?’ Elle asked petulantly, standing alone before the hotel, a mosquito already buzzing around her ears.

  ‘Have a bath and breakfast. Ask for Dougie Beedham. He’s the proprietor.’

  ‘He’s two sandwiches short of a p
icnic,’ added Gunny.

  ‘I’ll be back by suppertime,’ called Henrikson as the Ford pulled away. ‘I hope.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Gunny with a wave, as they disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes and dust.

  Elle turned to the hotel with a sigh. Obscured by verdant Lysiloma, the ageing pink clapboard façade of Hotel Scotland Road peeked out at her. It was quaint. If quaint meant needing a fresh coat of paint and a new zinc roof.

  Passing through a wooden gate hung by a broken hinge, she noticed sand replace dirt beneath her feet. Distantly, she heard the crash of waves.

  Continuing inside, she found a little Honduran boy in a white waiter’s jacket three sizes too big polishing the silver service, in a mahogany-panelled anteroom that smelled faintly of stale beer. The boy smiled, perfect teeth gleaming. She smiled back.

  ‘Dónde está Sr Beedham?’ she asked.

  The boy pointed a spoon in the direction of reception. Giving him a smile and a pat on the head, she entered an open courtyard heavy with the scent of mango and orange blossom. At one end stood the aforementioned reception, its dark mahogany counter cracked by the humidity. A Papillon puppy coiled its line, whimpering at a coconut husk just out of its reach. In a worn-out flower-patterned lounge chair sat a rakish and rail-thin man in a wrinkled Panama suit, his gingery hair skew-whiff. He pulled apart a green soursop with his fingers, the pulp falling onto his jacket lapel.

  ‘Dougie Beedham?’

  He looked up at her with a nod, stuffing the fruit into his mouth.

  ‘I’m Dr Annenberg.’

  ‘Somebody poorly?’

  ‘Skipper Henrikson dropped me.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, motioning for her to sit. ‘I met a Franklyn Annenberg once. Years ago.’

  ‘Funnily enough, I have a father named Franklyn Annenberg.’

  Ceasing his chewing, his eyes met hers, brightening. ‘All grown-up now.’

  She felt caution come knocking again. ‘We’ve met?’

  ‘Morning after the night before.’

  ‘Titanic?’

  Another nod. ‘Steward. Second Class.’

  She smiled. ‘Interesting name for a hotel.’

  Tossing the loose skin of the soursop aside, he bit into the fruit. ‘It was along Scotland Road I saw my best mate for the last time. On his rounds, inspecting the holds. Podgy old scouse.’ Smacking his lips, he swallowed. ‘Few hours later, I fled the ship in a collapsible lifeboat.’