‘Yes.’ The pain in her eyes found its way to my heart.
There was no chance to say more, even had I been able to find the words. At that moment Aunt Wilson caught up with us, leading me to understand that we were almost at the Lang residence. By the gates she turned to ask, somewhat breathlessly, if I would care for a glass of lemonade before going back. I looked up at the house with its deep eaves and verandas, at the palms and flowering shrubs waving in a health-giving breeze. I imagined large cool rooms with servants waiting at table, and was tempted to say yes.
But then I thought of Harry Jones, languishing in the hot, airless barracks below. I couldn’t betray him like that. I shook my head. ‘Thank you no, Mrs Wilson – I’m expected back at the ship.’
Dorothea glanced up at the sky. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for a while? It’s quite a walk and bound to rain.’ She looked so appealing, a delicate white flower backed by an expanse of greenery, it was hard to believe she’d toyed with Harry deliberately. But I could see why he’d been so besotted.
‘I’m used to the elements,’ I said boldly, and took my leave. But I had barely reached the town when a sudden rumble of thunder preceded the first huge drops of rain. Drenched within moments, I ran for the shelter of a shop doorway and waited for the downpour to stop. Nothing had gone according to plan, and litter tumbling down the gutters looked to me like the remnants of my pride.
9
Through the haze of time and mist, it seemed like yesterday. Dreaming, I’d been dreaming. I came to myself with a sense of confusion. Pride. Yes. Before a fall? True, I’d fallen all right. Painful memories, jumbled images assailed me. Then I remembered my walk on deck – the stark cliffs of Mizen Head, the curling foam of the wake – and it all slipped into place. With Harry Jones, Joe and Dorothea had even invaded my sleep.
Or was it, I asked as I rose from my bed, that ghosts had invaded my waking world?
Shaking off the shadows of the night, I sluiced my face and neck with cold water, donned my uniform and went through to the bridge. It was earlier than usual, barely five o’clock, and Henry Wilde was on duty. We exchanged greetings as I surveyed the chilly morning. A gentle swell was running, just enough to give a sense of motion under the feet; the horizon was clear, dawn light streaked like mother-of-pearl over the sea. But that light cloud cover made the taking of stars a chancy exercise.
‘We picked up a couple, sir,’ Wilde said in answer to my enquiry. ‘Regulus and Arcturus.’ As we went back inside he showed me the plotting chart.
‘Good altitudes?’
‘Yes, good and clear, sir. No sign of a false horizon, so we’re reasonably confident.’’
I nodded, glancing across at the junior officers, busy with pencils and paper. All held Master’s Certificates, even down to Moody, who, at 24, had achieved his remarkably young. Our bridge watches were staggered, so that during the hand-over there was always a man alert to the current situation. Between watches, the senior officers, with additional duties to perform, had eight hours away from the bridge, the juniors had only four in which to grab some sleep. Hard, perhaps, but it was all part of the training. I’d done it and so had everyone else.
‘How’s it looking?’ I asked.
Wilde spoke to Mr Lowe and came back to me. ‘Good, sir. 21 knots from full away at Queenstown.’
‘Excellent.’ Mr Ismay would be pleased by that. As the Quartermaster brought me a mug of tea, I took it outside, watching the pearly sky turn pink then gold – then white as the sun showed its fiery rim above the horizon. The promise of a calm day, with barely a flutter across the sea. After a winter in which gales and storms had been the norm, this respite was welcome indeed.
It would have been good to stand and enjoy it, but with a formal ship inspection on the agenda I had work to do. Over breakfast in my quarters I checked the Belfast faults’ list against Southampton’s jobs completed, and made a few notes. Before the usual meeting at 10:00, I wanted an overall picture from Tommy Andrews.
A few minutes later he came in answer to my call. Leaning heavily on his stick, he looked exhausted. For a second I thought we had more problems, but Tommy’s sleepless night was down to diligence. Now we were properly under way, he’d been checking every single aspect of his latest design.
If sometimes I felt hard pressed, Harland and Wolff’s chief naval architect had been working without a break for months. He might have been Lord Pirie’s gifted young nephew, but while the ship lay alongside in Southampton, Tommy Andrews had been labouring like a navvy. No man in the guarantee workforce had put in more hours. Checking everything aboard a ship this size, no wonder he was limping.
Most of the cosmetic details were complete by the time we sailed, but more serious deviations from the original Olympic design were still being pored over.
‘I’ll not be satisfied,’ Tommy confided, ‘until this ship’s done a complete round-trip. I want to see how some of the innovations have worked.’
‘Yes, of course, I understand. But you know what bothers me, Tommy? Those windows on the Promenade Deck. They’re up forward, right where the weather will hit. What happens if we catch a hurricane off the eastern seaboard? I’m not sure they’ll withstand it.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, the glass is strengthened – I’m assured it will take a hammer blow.’
‘What about a wall of water, though?’ Having seen what the power of wind and waves could do, I remained to be convinced.
‘Well, I agree we won’t know for sure until it’s tested in real conditions. But believe me, I’m just as concerned about wind turbulence. I need to know how it will affect the structure further aft…’
I shook my head, knowing the windows had been one of Bruce Ismay’s last minute changes, inspired, no doubt, by some lady passenger’s complaint about wind funnelling down the Promenade Deck. Understandable – the average Atlantic breeze could take your breath away, never mind your hat – but even so, I wished I’d been in Belfast to protest before the job was done.
Having disposed of the technical details, we turned to other matters. When I mentioned our speed from Queenstown, Tommy’s tired eyes lit up. ‘That’s excellent! So, apart from the fire, things are going remarkably well? If the Chief approves, we should be able to increase the revs later, bring a couple more boilers on line.’
Since time and weather had been against us in the sea trials off Belfast, Tommy was keen to see what she would do with everything working at full power. Me too, although – like Joe Bell – first I needed to know the bunker fire was under control. More importantly, that we had enough coal to fuel a full speed trial before reaching New York. That was a question still to be answered.
As Tommy left, the normal Friday routine took over. My senior officers came in for coffee, we discussed departmental business and prepared for the tour of inspection. I could tell the Chief was less than happy, giving me his report in a leaden tone while chewing on his moustache. The best news he could deliver was that the bunkers either side were now empty. At worst, he said, we could leave the offending one to burn itself out, but there could be a risk of damage to the internal bulkhead. The thought of subsequent repairs – and more delays – made my stomach clench. Not a good situation with which to end my career.
The engine room was generally last on our morning rounds, with just the Chief and me going below; for once, however, I decided to break with routine and do the inspection in reverse order. ‘Finish your coffee, gentlemen – we’ll meet you outside the Chief’s office in twenty minutes.’
If anything, when we got down there the situation looked worse than the day before. There was far more flame, the heat was overwhelming, the bunker itself appeared to be glowing. The men were bedraggled and dispirited. That worried me too. Once we’d seen everything and left the area, I suggested they be spelled more often, and ordered up on deck to clear their lungs of smoke.
‘It’s gone on too long,’ I said. ‘They’re exhausted.’
I was not sure if Joe Bell
resented that observation, but the moustache ceased working. ‘Right you are, sir,’ he said tersely. ‘I’ll see to it.’
Grimly, we set off back again, up the endless metal steps. In silence we made our way back to the Chief’s accommodation. Donning our frock coats, we joined the other senior officers. Time for the morning’s rounds, the first proper inspection since leaving Southampton.
It was not entirely satisfactory. Through the lower decks we had to retrace our steps two or three times. Small mistakes, but each wrong turn was disconcerting, reminding me that for all her similarities this ship was not the same as the last. I made a joke of it, not exactly reassured to hear the others were having similar problems.
‘We must study the blueprints, gentlemen! And keep on walking the ship.’
On the plus side, most of the cosmetic work was finished, and the 3rd Class passengers were all comfortably housed. In the old days, folk travelling steerage were crammed into dormitories with rows of bunks and a communal table. No privacy except in the lavatories. Then, few people bothered to undress or bathe – and in bad weather the stench of vomit could almost knock you down. Worse than the fo’c’sle of an old sailing ship.
Here though, everything smelled quite strongly of new paint. No one was sick and no one complaining. As Mr Wilde checked fixtures and fittings against a defects list, Chief Steward Latimer and I cast our eyes around the four-berth cabins. Crammed with possessions but clean. Checking for signs of illness, Dr O’Loughlin gave each occupant the benefit of his searching gaze.
‘Everything all right?’ I asked one after another, mainly mothers of young children, since by mid-morning the men and older offspring were generally out on deck.
Those who understood smiled and nodded, occasionally volunteering a comment. The foreigners – many from Eastern Europe – tended to be daunted by the array of uniforms, no doubt assuming they’d committed some grave error and were about to be arrested. Often I found myself wondering at their circumstances, what had driven them from their native lands. Some were adventurers, of course; others seeking a better life for their children; many were refugees who’d suffered from police and military alike. So for these inspections I always put on my best and broadest smile - the glances I received in return were more than worth it.
~~~
The 3rd Class Promenade was a deck below the 2nd Class Prom, connected by a flight of steps and divided by a gate. Crossing the deck I noticed a young couple standing either side of that waist-high division. He was fair with a short beard; she had soft brown eyes and chestnut hair. Our arrival with keys broke up the close conversation and I apologized for disturbing them.
‘Enjoying the voyage?’ I asked with a smile.
They both answered shyly; the girl blushed. I imagined they were lovers, the young man unable to afford two Second Class fares. Closing the gate between them, I felt mean.
‘It’s a damned shame, you know,’ I said under my breath as we made our way forward. ‘I don’t like this segregation business. Never had it in the old days – can’t see why we have to have it now.’
‘Well now, sir, if you saw how some of the poor devils live ashore,’ Billy O’Loughlin ventured, ‘tis a wonder they survive at all. I remember now, in Dublin…’
‘If it’s something serious, like cholera or smallpox,’ I protested, turning to emphasise the point, ‘how do they think the ship’s staff are going to escape? Or the other passengers? Take that couple back there, chatting over the gate. Anyway,’ I added, turning to the Chief Steward, ‘your people are in and out all the time, Latimer, they could carry any number of diseases. It’s pointless – just a nod to quarantine. If you ask me it’s quite unnecessary…’
Latimer would never ask; and Billy knew me too well. We’d sailed together for years, ever since he joined me on Baltic. Between us we’d seen most of life’s dramas and tragedies at sea, from premature births and sudden deaths to a most distressing suicide. Things like that draw you together. He didn’t like Ellis Island any more than I did. It was an unpleasant fact of life to which we simply had to close our eyes. But whenever I was faced with it – when it became personal, as back there – I felt the need to protest. My family hadn’t lived in poverty, but my parents hadn’t much money either. Had they wanted to emigrate, nowadays we’d have been travelling steerage too, subject to the same harsh regime. There was a basic unfairness to it that rankled.
For the last 20 years, segregation had been required by the American authorities. On docking in New York, 1st and 2nd Class disembarked after a cursory check, while ferries took 3rd Class immigrants across to the island for registration. All right, many of them were tough as old boots, but even folk with young children could be held for hours on those boats, in all weathers, with no protection. And once landed it was often days before they cleared the place. The medical inspections were unpleasant, making our boarding checks seem like a parental once-over. If you had a 1st or 2nd Class ticket though, you were welcomed at once. On the principle that since you clearly had the means to support yourself, you wouldn’t be a liability.
I wondered how the young lovers were intending to handle the Ellis Island aspect; how they would manage to meet up again after the separation. ‘I think somebody should explain to that young couple back there just what will happen when we dock. They need to be prepared. Mr Latimer – will you see to it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I saw him making a note.
‘Better do it now, Mr Latimer – in five minutes they’ll be gone and you won’t know who they are.’
Nameless, seen but once, yet how their earnest faces lingered.
~~~
Powdered cheeks, rows of pearls, a bosom plump as a partridge. Her looks spelled wealth not poverty. She looked hard at me, but the lady’s face was not familiar. Over lunch in the Saloon with Bruce Ismay, I kept catching a glance from three tables away, a narrow smile and the slightest of nods when I met her gaze. It seemed as though she knew me. Discreetly, I enquired of the steward. Her name was Mrs Burgoyne.
Ah. Our lady of the gangway, as McElroy had dubbed her. The bourbon widow who could not endure the smell of paint. I would have to speak to her at some point, find out when and where we’d met. I glanced here and there, wishing I could see the young lady I’d glimpsed at noon the day before.
Bruce barely turned his immaculately-groomed head. He wasn’t interested in passengers – not unless they were multi-millionaires with a stake in White Star. He wanted to know the state of play in the engine room. That was exactly how he put it: state of play, as though the fire and the men who battled it were opposing teams in a game of cricket. I would have liked to despatch him below to see the situation for himself, but that would never do. Bruce liked to impress people; he liked to chat. Nothing vital or confidential, just odd crumbs of inside information to be lapped up greedily by his cronies and passed on yet again. I felt sure the fire was one thing he wouldn’t like to chat about, but there was a danger he might let something slip. So I told him there was no need for anxiety and covered the white lie with something positive.
‘We’re up to 21 knots now, and Mr Andrews thinks we’re ready to bring more of the boilers on line.’
‘Really? I must say, that is good news!’ Bruce almost smacked his lips over the pudding, and proceeded to wax lyrical about Olympic’s record-breaking maiden voyage.
‘There is just one thing, sir,’ I interjected, lowering my voice. ‘About our speed trial. We may have to be careful about fuel stocks.’
He set down his spoon as though nanny had whipped away a special treat. ‘Careful?’ he demanded. ‘Why?’
I raised my brows. ‘Well, Mr Ismay, sir, the bunker situation has taken more than we bargained for.’
‘Oh. Really?’
Really, for an intelligent man, Bruce could be slow. ‘It would be embarrassing,’ I said carefully, ‘were we to run short…’
He looked aghast. ‘You don’t seriously think…’
‘No, sir, I do not. Not for
one moment. But more speed requires more coal – that’s the truth of it. The Chief needs to look at things. Once everything’s cooled down, that is.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Smoothing first his moustache, and then an eyebrow as he considered this, he suddenly said, ‘I suppose – I mean, there’s no doubt, is there, that this situation will be resolved by the time we reach New York?’ As I hesitated, he added, ‘It would be deuced embarrassing to have to call in the fire brigade.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ I replied, more sharply than I intended. Just the thought of it made me sweat.
He looked hard for a moment, then glanced around, catching Mrs Burgoyne’s eye as she left with a female companion. Having nodded, he enquired of me who she was. ‘Do I know her?’
‘She seems to know me, sir.’
Bruce viewed me speculatively, as though I might once have conducted an illicit liaison with the lady. I gazed back, hoping he could read my thoughts. Evidently, he could. He looked away. ‘I’ll speak to the Chief,’ he said, as though that would solve everything.
We parted by the lifts. I was about to take the stairs to the upper deck when I noticed Mrs Burgoyne close by. With a sense that I should gird myself for this encounter, I bade the ladies good afternoon.
‘How are you, Mrs Burgoyne?’ I was about to ask where we’d met before, but she didn’t give me chance.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she said accusingly.
Astounded, I felt my smile slip. I made a show of pulling at my beard. ‘No, I think I’m alive…’
‘Your name meant nothing to me, sir – Smith being so common, you understand. But then I saw you, and recognized you. I have to say, sir, it was a dreadful shock.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Burgoyne, you have me foxed. Clearly you remember me, but…’
‘Savannah, Georgia…’ She paused, but I was still in the dark. ‘You came courting my dear sister – and then disappeared without a word.’
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