In Southampton, when I was showing her the new ship, she’d admired my quarters with its soft carpeting – another of Tommy Andrews’ innovations – and said the dayroom with its oak panelling and easy chairs was most attractive, reminding her of my study at home. All it needed, she said, arranging some of my favourite reading matter on the bookshelves, was the scent of cigars to make it mine entirely.
‘That won’t take long,’ I replied with a chuckle, following her through to the bedroom.
‘This room looks lonely, though,’ she’d commented, giving me one of those quick upward glances that said so much more than words. She meant she was feeling lonely; and guilt swept over me because I’d hardly been at home all winter. Thinking of that moment, overwhelmed by love and longing, I gazed at her portrait by the bed. I needed her so much I ached with it.
Paintin straightened the bedcover and replaced the eiderdown. ‘I understand we’re in for a calmer voyage, sir?’
‘Well, the next day or so, certainly,’ I replied, startled out of my reverie. ‘Make the most of it while you can.’
The weather reports we had received so far from other ships crossing the Western Ocean were good, extraordinarily so for the time of year. Mad March gales had given way to a period of calm. After a winter spent battling some of the worst storms in living memory, the entire ship’s company needed this respite. With a sense that I might just be able to relax a little over the next few days, I went through my office to the bridge and had a word with 2nd Officer Lightoller, told him that if I was needed, I’d be eating in the Saloon.
A few days before, there had been tools and wood shavings wherever we looked, men working, rolls of carpet and furniture stacked up, the smell of paint overpowering. It was still detectable, but as far as I knew Adelaide Burgoyne had been the only one to insist on being moved to a different cabin. As Chief Stewards often claimed, running a liner was like running a grand hotel with 24-hour service – in this case, a brand new one with unfamiliar staff.
But still, after the last few days of strain and anxiety it was good to see things looking as they should. Carpets plush underfoot, woodwork gleaming, glass shining and enough mirrors – as someone said – to rival those at Versailles. Well, that was an exaggeration, but aboard Olympic, some thoughtless aristocrat, used to the grand halls of stately homes, had complained the ceilings were rather low, and wondered why the builders couldn’t have made them higher. ‘Because it’s a ship, sir,’ I said briskly, and moved on.
Since this was my first social evening I marked the occasion by taking the grand staircase down to D Deck, running my hands down its gleaming oak balustrade. The great clock on the half landing was impressive with classical figures carved either side in sharp relief. It was grander by far than Olympic’s clock – and to my eye the proportions were better. But when Tommy Andrews told me in Belfast what the figures represented – Honour and Glory over Time – I thought it rather ironic. In my experience, Time was king in every case.
Descending to the Reception Room, I slowed my steps to identify familiar faces. I spotted John Jacob Astor’s birdlike features – I’d met him before, but not his new young wife. Dr O’Loughlin said she was pregnant, which would set the scandal sheets ablaze again. They’d not long settled down after his divorce. The Astors were in company with Mrs Margaret Brown, her purple satin gown almost as strident as her voice.
Ellie, not usually a snob, said Mrs Brown was a common woman whose domineering character had been given untold licence by untold riches. Well, it was close, but still didn’t describe her exactly. She was an intelligent woman with more force and energy than a steam train: fuelled, in her case, by a gold mine in Colorado. Get her rolling on the subject of women’s rights and I felt she’d quell a riot – or, more likely, start one. That aside, she could be very amusing and I rather liked her. Even so, I was surprised to hear from McElroy that she was travelling with the Astors – I’d always thought John Jacob rather grand. But perhaps his affair with the 18-year-old Madeleine Force had cost him more dearly than I knew. Maybe he was glad of Margaret Brown’s support.
The tall figure of Major Archie Butt stood out. The Presidential aide to Mr Taft was in conversation with his old friend, the artist and writer Frank Millet, another regular with White Star. But suddenly heads were turning as a small man with bushy white hair came into view. As someone moved I saw it was William Stead, smiling at all around him, shaking hands. There was a young woman at his side.
I halted, mid-step. In a lavender gown, her dark hair swept up, she was so like Dorothea. Not an illusion, after all, but flesh and blood. Smiling, her glance moved first to Major Butt, and then to Frank Millet. They were clearly charmed – and why not? Looks like hers had always turned heads.
A little shaken, I made my way down. A steward was passing with a tray of drinks. Champagne. I took a glass, heedless of my usual habits, and drained it almost in one.
What was she doing with Stead? As I wondered, they were joined by Colonel Gracie and James Clinch Smith – both regular patrons – and two ladies in black. The groups melded, stood talking. Dorothea – or so I named her – seemed to know the others, which was puzzling. Stead was English, Gracie from the southern States. I was planning a strategic walk through the crowd when Mrs Burgoyne hove into view, pearls gleaming, feather boa trailing.
She joined them, simpering up to the Colonel as though he were the late Mr Burgoyne’s best friend. He may have been, but somehow I doubted it. As I hesitated, a voice beside me said lightly, ‘Good evening, sir. Is anything wrong?’ And I turned to see Billy O’Loughlin, the one man aboard I could count as a friend.
I hesitated, but something deeply personal prevented me from mentioning Dorothea. ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘Mrs Burgoyne over there – she collared me at lunchtime. A strange lady. Remembered me from my sailing ship days!’
‘Ah, but did you remember her, sir, that’s the question?’
I laughed. ‘No, Billy, I did not!’
We stood for a few minutes, Bruce Ismay joined us, and together we went through to our respective tables in the Saloon.
The great Jacobean dining room looked magnificent. Jewels shimmered under our bright electric lights, silks and satins rippling and glowing as stewards in white jackets saw guests to their tables. Bruce Ismay and Dr O’Loughlin were shown to theirs, and, accompanied by the senior steward, I walked the length of the room, nodding to familiar faces along the way. I noticed Mrs Burgoyne was at the Chief Purser’s table, as was William Stead. But not my Dorothea.
Appearing unruffled in company could be difficult sometimes. Even conversation could be a trial. Understanding nothing of a subject – and there were almost as many topics as passengers – the trick was to pay attention and look wise, asking just enough to keep the other person rolling. But of course there were general topics too and over the years I’d become superficially knowledgeable about many things. My darling daughter thought I was the fount of all wisdom, but I assured her there was only one subject I knew inside out, and that was being the Master of an ocean-going liner. And even that, nowadays, was becoming hard work.
That first evening in the Saloon, I was fortunate in that my two gentlemen guests were well known to me. Major Archie Butt had been wintering in Italy after a particularly difficult couple of years in Washington. He’d travelled aboard Olympic in January, while his artist friend had crossed a month later. After terrible journeys out from the States, the two were keen to offer congratulations – as though I’d arranged it personally – on the present millpond calm.
A New Englander with an impeccable pedigree, Frank Millet was sharp and witty, not known for his tolerance of America’s new-made millionaires. Raised voices at the next table drew forth a comment. ‘Calm weather’s fine, Captain,’ he said dryly, ‘just a pity it couldn’t be a little more rough this evening…’
I felt myself bridling, until I caught his glance at Bruce Ismay’s table, where a vociferous Mrs Brown was making everyone laugh.
Bruce, not known for his sense of humour, seemed to be enjoying himself.
Archie Butt frowned. ‘Now, Frank…’
I busied myself with the hors d’oeuvres, and turned to my neighbour, the pretty young Countess of Rothes. I asked about her forthcoming journey across Canada to Vancouver, which managed to draw my other guests into the conversation. As they compared cultures and tossed relative values back and forth, I glanced around, noticing fewer tables than usual. The ones set out appeared fully occupied, but I could not see the lady who’d caught my attention earlier. Where was she? Surely I hadn’t imagined her?
An hour later, the meal over, people were beginning to rise. Someone passed close by my table. Colour caught my eye. I glanced up, seeing a profile and the line of a cheek-bone – suddenly my heart was leaping in recognition. A moment later she’d disappeared amongst a group at the far end of the room.
It cost me something not to follow at once. Hoping to catch sight of her again, I took coffee in the Lounge with the Countess and her companion. As the ladies retired to the Palm Court to listen to the orchestra, I retired to the Smoke Room. Spying Colonel Gracie alone at one of the other tables, I went to join him. We had been in conversation for a little while when I mentioned Mrs Burgoyne.
The Colonel – a gentleman of the old school – assumed a bland expression. His acquaintance with Mrs Burgoyne was slight, he said, but her connection with his wife’s friends, the Enderby sisters, obliged him to offer his protection to all three ladies.
‘Quite an entourage,’ I remarked lightly.
‘An honour, sir, as well as a responsibility, but my old friend Clinch Smith has offered to share it.’
‘Did I see you earlier with a younger lady in a blue gown?’ I asked. ‘I meant to come across and say good evening – felt sure I knew her, but then my attention was distracted, and…’
‘Oh, I think you must mean Mrs Carver,’ he said, smiling. ‘We hadn’t met before. I believe her people have some connection with Clinch Smith’s.’
‘Ah, I see.’ After a moment’s reflection, I said, ‘In that case, I must be mistaken.’
Puzzled by the mystery, and no less intrigued by the likeness to Dorothea, I bade the Colonel good night. Before making my way up to the bridge, I went along to the Purser’s office and asked to see the First Class Passenger list. Carver: yes, there she was. Mrs Lucinda Carver, travelling alone, with an address in New Haven, Connecticut.
If she was a New Englander, I could see no connection with the Langs of Hong Kong. The link with Stead was equally baffling.
~~~
It was almost 10:30 when I reached the bridge, and 1st Officer Murdoch had taken over the watch. A border Scot from a long line of seafarers, he’d been with me since my time on the Adriatic. Could be dour at times, but a good man, dependable. I knew he was disappointed at having to step down again after standing by as Chief Officer in Belfast; but I’d assured him it was only for this one trip. As soon as we got back, Wilde would be going on leave, and Murdoch’s promotion would be confirmed.
Boxhall and Moody, both East Yorkshiremen, were the juniors. I’d not known them previously, but they came with excellent reports and seemed to have struck up an easy comradeship – no doubt because they shared a similar background.
Murdoch and I went through the usual exchange: weather, sea conditions, course and position. No problems there. I looked at the chart, checked Mr Boxhall’s calculations, and went outside.
Light cloud had come in again after sunset, darkening the horizon and obscuring the stars. There was a slight swell running, with a cool wind behind it. Calm enough though. Looking forward to a good night’s sleep I set off on my usual rounds, a habit I’d picked up from Joe when I was first at sea. Sailing ships were smaller, granted, but the principle was the same: see and be seen. Let the crew know you don’t leave everything to Mate or the Bo’sun or even the Chief Steward. You use your own eyes and your own instincts to measure the atmosphere aboard.
I paused to look aft, admiring the wake’s straight lines of foam curling away as we steamed along, every turn of the screws taking us closer to our destination.
No strange figures tonight, but then I didn’t need ghosts to remind me of the past. Not when the image of Dorothea was here in person.
12
Wherever I went ashore, be it St John’s or San Francisco, Liverpool or Valparaiso, it seemed Dorothea’s face was the one I searched for. Savannah too. Looking back, even Marcia bore a passing resemblance: dark hair, dark eyes, a sweet, seductive smile. But none of the ones I briefly courted – even less the ones I bedded – could hold a candle to the original.
Many were the times I picked up my battered copy of Great Expectations – first of a collection of novels – and thought about that afternoon. I did not seriously expect to meet Dorothea again but, having joined White Star to further my career, in the spring of ’82 I was assigned to a ship heading for Hong Kong.
It had been a tough couple of years. With a lot to learn about steamships, I began my time over again as a lowly 4th Officer. The familiar creaks and groans of a wooden ship were exchanged for the heartbeat of reciprocating engines and the hollow ring of an iron hull. For all its sooty grime, its knack of leaving black smears across decks and passengers alike, coal was an expensive commodity. So when the weather was favourable we used sail. But coal gave us steam, provided power to the steering gear, power to winches to haul up the anchors, lift the sails, wind the ropes. We even had steam-powered derricks to handle our own cargo. Most important factor of all however, steam drove us on through those head-on Atlantic storms.
The engine room was a brutal place, the men who worked there a hard lot. They had to be. If it was common for sailors to fall to their deaths from the topgallants, in feeding the furnaces of steamships men collapsed and died from the heat. And burns – so many burns. You could tell a fireman from a sailor any day of the week – not just from the pallor of his skin, but the scars on his face and arms.
It was an education, working my first steam ship. If I never forgot my first sight of the Britannic from the wallowing Lizzie Fennell, the first time I saw an engine room working at full stretch was a revelation. Everything aft was pounding steel – so close, like the snapping jaws of some mechanical monster – tended by engineers on narrow walkways, adjusting valves, monitoring dials, greasing rods. Hissing bursts of steam as the ship rolled first one way, then another. Adjustments all the time when she started to pitch. Amidships, the big scotch boilers – hot, so hot – and forward, the furnaces where men heaved and shovelled in a glowing, ceaseless battle to make more steam.
It made me think a sailor’s job was easy. Instilled respect, too. Made me understand what it meant when we up top asked for more speed.
By the time I was promoted to 3rd Officer, I felt I was getting a hold on the job. Even so, in the spring of ’82, it was a surprise to be promoted again and detailed to join SS Coptic in Liverpool. Less than a year old, combined sail and steam with some fine passenger accommodation, she was bound for San Francisco and Hong Kong, and expected to remain in the Pacific service for two years.
An exciting prospect. I ordered 2nd Officer’s uniforms and told myself I was keen to see how the island colony had changed. But the thrill of anticipation was more fundamental. Dorothea, rather than Hong Kong, was at the heart of it.
~~~
Even by the shortest route, via Cape Horn and Peru, the voyage from Liverpool to San Francisco took three months. Some weeks later, having crossed the Pacific, I saw at once that since my last visit the little colony had expanded all directions, while the busy harbour was more crowded than ever.
This time there was no hanging around for a berth. As a passenger ship, Coptic took on a pilot, steamed boldly past the anchorage and docked on arrival. The central quay was alive with people as we came in, the noonday air buzzing with excited voices. It seemed half Hong Kong’s population had turned out to welcome us in. After an official reception that evening, the C
aptain’s plan to throw the ship open to visitors promised to be a success.
The Governor arrived to greet the Captain and senior officers, and, with an entourage consisting of Hong Kong’s most important officials and their wives, they were entertained to a buffet-style supper in the Saloon. Once the speeches were over, our musicians – a string quartet – played some lively airs while the guests enjoyed their coffee. Afterwards the Governor’s party was given a tour of the ship.
I was stationed on the bridge. Behind the windows of the chart room to be precise, with the large-scale chart of Hong Kong open on the table, pretending to be making some corrections with the aid of the latest Admiralty notices. In reality, of course, I was simply waiting for the Old Man to arrive and take over the show.
If I’d spent many idle moments wondering about Dorothea – whether she was still there, married, a mother, even – I have to say the shadow of her father, David Lang, was never far behind. I imagined his position as banker and bullion dealer would warrant an invitation to this little shindy, and with that in mind I’d polished my buttons to a blinding shine. I looked forward to the pleasure of meeting him eye to eye and reminding him who I was. No longer a boy to be dismissed, but a man on his way to the top.
With eyes and ears on the alert, I waited for the tour to reach the wheelhouse, ready to scan the gathered faces as the Old Man began his little speech. I’d often heard him giving passengers a similar lecture, and he was right, a chart was just what it seemed: a map in reverse. Instead of land features, it showed the coast and settlements in simple terms, reserving its detail for what lay below the sea, the shallows, the wrecks, the coral reefs and hidden rocks. And most important of all for a ship entering port, the markings of the deep-water channel which allowed safe access to the harbour.
The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic Page 10