The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Leaving Liverpool next morning I thought I was the luckiest lad alive. Seeing the waterfront receding as a chuntering little steam tug eased us out of Queen’s Dock, I was near bursting with excitement. As we were towed out into the great River Mersey I thought I’d never seen anything so wonderful as that widening view. Joe pointed out various buildings: the public baths by George’s Dock – a popular place after a long voyage, he said with a smile – the grand New Customs House and, further along, the Sailor’s Church, where we’d been the night before.

  ‘They don’t build bigger than that,’ he said proudly, tapping the chart and indicating the lantern tower, topped by its spire. ‘You know why? It’s a navigation mark – on the chart, that is. Been a guide for sailors for hundreds of years.’

  Only as we turned into the main channel did I start to feel a little uncertain. The Senator Weber had seemed enormous from the quay, but turning under tow she seemed no more than a child’s toy being pulled towards the dangers of the estuary and open seas beyond. Feeling the dip and rise of the deck beneath my feet, my stomach churned.

  Even as the tug dropped her tow, a score of men who’d seemed unaware, fiddling with ropes or just generally hanging around, were suddenly galvanised by a series of orders from the Mate. Some were up top already, one by one inching out along the yards, releasing lines until the canvas dropped. Others hauled on ropes, turning the sails until they billowed out to catch the breeze.

  Joe – Sir, or Captain Hancock, as I must now address him – seemed to do nothing but stand on the quarterdeck. Only as I glanced sideways and saw his sharp eyes following every move from deck to topmast did I realize he was in charge simply by being there. Mr Parsons was doing the Mate’s job, getting the ship under way, and the Bo’sun was chivvying the men. I must say they looked a motley bunch, most in their twenties, I guessed, although Chippy, the carpenter – a man whose skills were invaluable aboard ship – was older than Joe. In his forties, I believe, as was Jim, our cook.

  In those first weeks I survived a bad blow across Biscay and a touch of sunstroke off the Canary Isles. Thought the ship was rolling when it was me, staggering down the deck like a drunkard. Cold cloths and Joe’s darkened cabin brought me round – as it also revealed a bond which had probably not been obvious at first. Mind, Jim the cook reckoned he’d known we were brothers all along: we were alike, he said. That seemed odd, given that I was thin as a broom-handle, we had different fathers and our mother was a tiny woman. On the other hand, Joe’s blue eyes could be as sharp as Mother’s. Maybe it was true of mine too.

  That day of Joe’s kindness kept me going through some hard times. He’d explained before we left home that our relationship aboard had to be different, and though I understood that – after all he was the Old Man and I was just the ship’s boy – it was something of a shock to find the jolly brother I knew at home so strangely grim and distant at sea. When I saw him prowling the quarterdeck I tried not to mind that we couldn’t share a yarn as in the old days.

  When the excitement faded I discovered a few realities. If the Master was God, Mr Parsons the Mate was a holy terror, and the Bo’sun his right-hand man. I learned you had to be bright and tough to survive, that it was no good crying for your mother as you clung, dripping wet, to the ratlines – you had to scramble for the yards to miss the next wave. I remember the first time I went up aloft. They said not to look down, but having reached the top platform I saw the ship’s deck moving in dizzy sweeps below me, the crested seas surging past, and all at once my head started to spin and my stomach to heave.

  A vice-like grip brought me to my senses. It was the Bo’sun. ‘Now then, lad – what are you about?’

  For a moment I had no idea why I was up aloft, but then I looked around. The sail to my right was furled. I was supposed to edge out along the footrope to release the gaskets – ropes that kept the sail tied to the yard. Stuttering, I said as much.

  ‘Well, then – keep your eyes on what you’re doing. Grab that jackstay, twist it round your wrist, edge your way along. Remember – keep one hand for yourself and the other for the job. That way you’ll stay alive.’

  I thought I would be sick, and only the imagined humiliation of vomiting onto one of my shipmates below made me keep it down. I did the job at snail’s pace, but at least I did it. Next time was not so difficult, but there was so much to learn, so much on which your life could depend. Those first weeks were a hard slog of repeated effort. Every muscle screamed in agony, despite the labour I’d done in the forge. But in the forge I was not pulling my weight up vertical masts a dozen times a day, or keeping my balance across a moving, sea-washed deck.

  While our brickie passengers hung over the taffrails, vomiting their last meal, or laid in their bunks, groaning like old men, I was finding my sea legs and learning new lessons every day. Not least the practical importance of cleanliness.

  ‘If you get drenched in salt water,’ Joe said, ‘and you will, at least once a day – the salt will dry on your clothes and skin and cause no end of bother. It’s like sandpaper – it rubs and breaks the skin, sets up an infection. I’ve known men be covered in boils – armpits, waist and groin – agony. Sick as that, you’re no good to anybody, least of all the Mate – he’ll reckon it’s self-inflicted and make your life misery. So keep yourself clean. Use half your water to wash your face and neck and arms – the rest to wash your privates, and then your feet and legs.’

  That small allowance was just enough. Clothes were another matter, however: fresh water was too precious to squander on laundry. The first time we had a squall I couldn’t believe my eyes. Men dashed out into the rain with soap, stripping off as they went, washing their bodies, rinsing their togs, while those on watch directed rainwater from the sails into the great barrels stationed around the deck. Facing the uncertainty of the Doldrums as we crossed the Equator, with no wind or rain for maybe weeks on end, keeping those barrels topped up was vital.

  But sunburn and salt-water sores were bound to happen. With Joe’s words in mind, I learned not to mention their unrelieved misery, but paid attention to my ablutions after that and made sure I dozed in the shade. And if I hated the weevils – fresh meat lad! – I was soon tapping my biscuits on the board like any old salt, and waiting for the grubs to drop out.

  Often queasy – mostly when swabbing out the passenger cabins – at least I was never seasick. Although in common with most youngsters away from home and family for the first time, I suffered bouts of homesickness for several months. If my mother had often seemed harsh and unbending towards me in the past, it did not take me long to recall her gentler side. And if the house had often felt like a place of restraint, it was the comfort of a cosy nest compared to the close quarters of the fo’c’sle, amongst a score of men who were hardened to the life.

  Some were slackers, good at passing work to an innocent, and some were downright brutal, especially when they discovered I was the Old Man’s young brother. I was glad to have some muscle on me then, to have developed some strength back in Hanley. Once I’d got the measure of the worst offender – Scouser Rudge, a black-eyed brute of a man – I took the Bo’sun’s advice and stood up to him. My left eye took a punch which made the world explode; and my right hand swelled so much after I socked him on the jaw I could barely hold a rope for a week. But at least I had the satisfaction of having knocked one of his rotten teeth out. After that I gained a bit of respect, and mostly the bullying stopped.

  Day after day, we worked or idled, fought the weather or prayed for wind. Away from England, there were no seasons. Time became meaningless. There was only the rolling sea and the sky. Listening, watching, on that first long voyage it seemed to me that if the breath of God was in the wind, the surging seas held his power. It was transmitted through the ship to all of us aboard. It could thrill, terrify and frustrate in equal measure. I was in awe of how small we were, how much at the mercy of the elements; and yet somehow we achieved our aim. Working like furies, harnessing the winds, with
canvas cracking we followed the ocean currents across to Pernambuco, then south to pick up some powerful westerlies. That leg of the voyage was the most exhilarating, skimming across the southern ocean at a rate of knots, racing the seabirds, feeling we were part of the air and the waves, at one with God himself.

  I wouldn’t have known what day it was, except on Sundays – weather permitting – we gathered on deck for prayers. They were not formal, but followed a similar pattern – prayers for a speedy passage; praise for our survival if the weather had been bad. Joe invariably closed that half hour with a quote from the Psalms: Thy way is in the sea, O Lord, and thy paths in the great waters: and thy footsteps are not known. It kept us in mind of our place in the scheme of things.

  ~~~

  ‘Life at sea,’ Joe had warned all those months before, ‘is composed of both terror and tedium. In just about equal parts, I reckon. With just the odd moment of glory to keep you seeking and sailing on…’

  If I was fortunate in having few moments of real terror that first trip, boredom was never a problem. I had too much to learn. Not just practical seamanship, but the finer points of navigation. Under Mr Parson’s tuition, I was progressing from the simplicity of plane trigonometry to the complexity of the spherical triangle. Plotting the movements of the stars – learning to recognize and name those lighthouses in the sky – was a challenge that never palled.

  As for glory, I found that out on deck at night in the Indian Ocean. The air was warm, every movement like a caress against the skin, the constellations so clear and close you felt you could reach out and pluck them from the sky. I’d never seen a sky like it, never seen such dazzling beauty, nor felt so insignificant and uplifted at the same time.

  Once in a long while we caught the smell of land, and next day tropical islands would appear like floating jewels. Every man aboard gazed longingly as we sailed on past, imagining his feet on dry land, the company of beautiful girls, and a banquet of exotic food before him. Such moments – full of promise and frustration – gave rise to desires I’d barely been aware of ashore, although they were no doubt fuelled by the fantasies of others. Men without women, I discovered, are apt to let their imaginations wander.

  By the time the extraordinary rocks and islets of the South China Sea appeared, rising like hunched grey monsters out of the deep, we seemed to have been forever at sea. Even so, when we came at last to Hong Kong, it was a surprise to realize that half a year had gone by.

  ~~~

  The great crescent of the harbour fairly took my breath away. There were barques and brigantines, Royal Navy warships, Chinese junks and sampans; everywhere I looked there was something different, things I’d never seen before. A feast for the senses, like being let loose in a sweetshop after all those months of open sea. Even as we came in, drawn by a steam tug, we saw Chinese families sailing past, old women cooking with great pans on tiny stoves, little children fishing from boats. At night, with lanterns lit across the harbour, it was like being at the centre of a fairy tale.

  But even magic can pall, especially in the humidity of August. We were anchored, awaiting a berth, for more than a week. All quite normal according to Mr Parsons, who’d done this trip before, but it caused problems amongst crew and brickies alike. Hardly surprising, given the length of time they’d been cooped up aboard. Within the confines of the ship the air was heavy with thunder, while from all around us came staccato flashes of Cantonese and a ferocious clacking of what I later discovered to be mah-jong tiles. The locals were addicted to the game and seemed to play – and argue about it – all night long.

  On heavy air across the bay drifted all the seductive aromas of the east: food, spices, flowers, fish, rotting vegetation. What the men could smell, of course, was freedom. I was keen to get amongst it myself, not least for a change of diet. Hard tack and salt beef stew had long lost their appeal, and the smell of cooking wafting from the sampans had me salivating. Be it cats, rats or birds’ nests – whatever the bully boys claimed these folks cooked and ate – I was willing to give it a try.

  Joe and I had agreed from the outset that I must carry no tales, nor try to act as go-between in any dispute. Anything of that nature had to be dealt with via the Bo’sun and the Mate. But in this instance desperation made me bold.

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ I said one evening as Joe clambered back aboard after taking a cooling swim. ‘Do you think they’d sell us some of their food, or could we ask them to buy some and cook it for us?’ I gestured towards a sampan on our port quarter. ‘That old woman over there keeps waving a spoon at me and grinning. I don’t know if she’s feeling sorry for us or wants me for the pot.’

  At that my brother laughed and clapped me on the shoulder; it was the first time I’d seen his good humour in an age and it brought a lump to my throat. When he’d dried himself, Joe said he’d certainly think about it, and next morning detailed the Mate to attempt some sort of negotiation. To my delight I was told to clean myself up to go visiting.

  The jolly boat was lowered, and we rowed across to the sampan. The entire family – at least a dozen people – seemed to be living on this small craft, and they all appeared as we drew alongside. In a mixture of pidgin and sign language we managed to convey what we wanted, and after a little conferring it was smiles and nods all round. Even the baby clapped his hands. As for Grandma, her beady black eyes disappeared into a million wrinkles. She seemed particularly pleased, laughing and grasping my hand, even reaching out to touch my face and curly, sun-bleached hair.

  Money was the difficulty, of course. We had no real idea how much it would cost to feed so many of us, nor how much we should pay the family for their services. The Mate had a rough idea of what it would cost to eat ashore, so at his suggestion we agreed to work around it. In the end, after a bit of friendly haggling, we paid less and got more for our money. That night a veritable feast was handed across from the sampan, bowls of rice and dish after dish of fish, then some kind of meat and vegetables, rapidly cooked in the big pan and shared out between us. It was the best meal I have ever tasted. So delicious, even those who’d sworn they wouldn’t touch a scrap were rapidly tucking in.

  The idea of the feast – from Joe’s perspective at least – was to end the monotony and break up the frustration, but amongst the malcontents it served only to whet their appetites for feasts of a different nature. They were kept in check for a day or two longer, but once we had our berth and the ship was cleared for entry, several of the crew disappeared. In my innocence I was shocked by such behaviour. Having signed the ship’s Articles – a legal document – they were bound to the ship for the duration of the voyage. And liable to arrest if they were found. I felt sorry for Joe – as Captain he was responsible for their welfare as well as their sins and their debts, just as he was liable for everything to do with the ship. Wages, cargo, harbour dues, all had to be accounted for. Including dealings with officials in foreign ports. When men absconded it caused no end of trouble.

  With a shrug, the Bo’sun said it happened all the time, but the Mate was furious, chomping on his pipe stem like some angry cannibal. It was my belief the men absconded because of him – he wasn’t just hard, he could be vicious, and I think the only reason I got off lightly was because of Joe.

  I did wonder why my brother didn’t countermand some of Parsons’ excesses, but as he explained to me many months later, as Master he had to be seen to uphold the chain of command. He had remonstrated on several occasions – privately – but the men couldn’t be allowed to see daylight between the Old Man and the Mate, otherwise the ship would be ungovernable.

  ‘And when I say ungovernable,’ my brother emphasised, ‘I mean dangerous. We need the crew to sail the ship – and they need us to direct it. When the Mate gives an order, it’s on my behalf. Therefore it must be obeyed, otherwise discipline’s gone. We could run aground, turn turtle, sink. We could all die. It’s as plain as that, young man, and don’t you ever forget it.’

  7

  If the heat
and humidity of the monsoon region was hard to bear, ahead of us we had the vastness of the Pacific. When I saw the chart, and that huge empty space between the Japanese islands and the western seaboard of America, I swallowed hard.

  ‘It’s all right, lad,’ Joe said, clamping a heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘There are no sea-monsters out there – only big waves and bad weather.’ And then he laughed. ‘Let’s pray the Pacific is well-named!’

  Beans and rice formed the bulk of our cargo that voyage, together with crates of luxury goods – Chinese silks and lacquered chests – bound for San Francisco. Since the gold rush of ‘49, it was said the town had more millionaires to the mile than almost anywhere else on earth – millionaires who couldn’t wait to deck their homes with such expensive finery.

  As passengers we were also carrying a large party of Chinese labourers bound for work on the new American railroad. They bunked in the ‘tween decks space aft and did their own cooking. Sharing one of the cabins were two English officers, both of whom were returning home due to ill health. The older one was yellow with fever, the younger, a thin, fair-haired man from Cheshire, was suffering from a lung infection. He’d been ill for some time but a sea voyage, with all that salt in the atmosphere, was expected to ease his condition.

  ‘Have these doctors never taken a sea-voyage as a cure?’ Joe muttered, grimacing as the chest case coughed with every movement. ‘Let’s hope we can keep him warm and dry, otherwise he’ll be a goner.’

  With several hens and a goat penned up on deck, we had eggs and milk to go with the more usual salt fish and cured meats, together with a quantity of dried fruits and Chinese duckling.