I knew enough to be sympathetic. After the Hawke incident my name had been in print too. It was not something I’d enjoyed, but at least the newspapers had been kind to me. No comment from Stead as far as I knew, although he’d had plenty to say about ships in the past. Little of it worth repeating in my opinion, but it was bound to come up. Good sense said I should finish my drink and leave before I became drawn in. Even as it went through my mind, someone mentioned Stead’s interest in spiritualism – and then I couldn’t leave. I had to be sure last night’s episode did not get an airing.
I met Frank Millet’s glance as well as Futrelle’s – the Major too was suddenly alert. So he knew. Well, I imaged the President’s right-hand man could be trusted.
Turning my chair, attempting to catch Stead’s eye, I heard an English voice say, ‘Didn’t you write a story about one of the White Star ships, Mr Stead? The Majestic, wasn’t it? How did you come to write that?’ And before he could answer, someone else turned to me. ‘Have you read it, sir – what did you make of it?’
Privately, I objected to the way he’d used the name of a real ship – my old ship, the Majestic – as the centre-piece of a fanciful but alarming tale. I would have preferred not to comment but everyone was looking in my direction.
‘Mr Stead wrote his story before I took over the Majestic, so I don’t know what my predecessor thought of it. Was he the model for the sea-captain in your story?’ I asked, throwing the ball back to Stead.
With a sniff, he said, ‘Never met the chap. The whole thing came to me in a dream.’ He lit a cigarette, viewing me with narrowed eyes through the smoke.
After the morning’s sharp exchange, it was obvious – to me at least – that the man was throwing down a challenge. I was weighing my reply when Frank Millet said – with a mischievous glance at me – that they couldn’t be content with such an answer, Mr Stead must explain.
My adversary looked to me for permission. Refusing to play the spoilsport, I nodded, wondering just how far he would go. He knew he had his audience – by then the group had grown – and without further ado proceeded to give us the outline of the tale.
‘An old sailing ship, the Ann and Jane of Montrose, encounters fog while crossing the Atlantic – a common enough phenomenon as I’m sure the Captain here will testify.’ He paused to draw on his cigarette. ‘But lurking inside the fog bank is an iceberg. They are on it almost before it is seen. The ship runs along the berg’s hidden reef, and with her keel laid open. …’
Swept by superstitious dread, I held up my hand. ‘Mr Stead,’ I protested, ‘remember where we are – spare your listeners, please!’
There was laughter, but I caught flashes of alarm. Evidently, Stead did too. After a brief apology, he continued. ‘Well, in short, six men and a boy succeed in gaining a foothold on the ice – the rest go down, never to be seen again.’
‘Really, Mr Stead – I don’t think this is suitable…’
But the story-teller knew his audience. Chilled or thrilled, they wanted him to go on, while I was forced by some unwritten law to keep my seat and listen with the rest. Every nerve was stretched, awaiting the tale’s conclusion, anticipating the connections he might make.
‘Meanwhile, some hundred miles or more to the east, the crack liner, Majestic, is ploughing on through the Atlantic seas – and, as with this great ship of ours, passengers of various ranks and callings are aboard. There is an Irish lady, a Mrs Irwin, gifted with clairvoyance, and a man by the name of Compton, who is able to communicate with certain friends by means of automatic writing.’
‘Automatic writing?’ Astor queried, but Stead waved it away and carried on.
‘Compton and Mrs Irwin, although strangers to each other, have each received knowledge of the tragedy by occult means. By virtue of clairvoyance, Mrs Irwin had seen it happening. She is able to tell Compton the name of the ship, and to describe those who’ve managed to save themselves. One is a giant of a man, she says, with a red beard.
‘Startled, recognising the description, Compton tells Mrs Irwin the man is an old friend. Furthermore, at noon that day, he’d received a message from him, giving the ship’s name, and calling for help. Stranded on the ice, they are in urgent need of rescue – they were following the liner route, and must be close to the line of outward steamers.
‘Mrs Irwin insists on going to the Captain at once, to beg him to search for them. Compton is simply relieved to have what he sees as confirmation of his story from someone else. Otherwise, the Captain,’ and here Stead looked straight at me, ‘would almost certainly have ridiculed his story…’
There had been a case of survival on an iceberg, widely reported when I was a boy. I doubted most people’s ability to last more than an hour in such conditions, especially after being dunked in the sea. However, I nodded to Stead and he carried on.
‘It was fortunate that Compton was known to the Captain as a regular passenger – and that he had, more than once, been able to give the Captain information that had enabled the Captain to avoid certain danger…’
‘And what was that, I wonder?’ Frank Millet muttered from close by. If he heard, Stead ignored him.
‘As they meet the fog, Compton asks to speak to the Captain, telling him what he and Mrs Irwin have learned. But what do you imagine I can do? the Captain replies. I have 2000 passengers and crew aboard this ship, I cannot risk them all just for the sake of half a dozen castaways who may or may not be stuck on an iceberg somewhere in this great ocean…’
Everyone looked to me. ‘Just so.’
‘The Captain of the Majestic was about to change course for a more southerly route – to avoid the danger, you understand. But he is persuaded to keep to the course they are on, negotiating his way through icy clouds of mist. At last, dead ahead, the lookout spots the berg, and there, on the verge of death, are the survivors of the wreck. A boat is lowered, and the folk Mrs Irwin had seen, and with whom Compton had communicated, were hauled aboard and rescued…’
Astor raised his hand. ‘But how did they communicate with Compton? Am I right in saying this was before wireless?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Stead replied, barely batting an eyelid. ‘As I said, the message was received by automatic writing. I’m sure you’ve heard of it – as I’m sure most people could do it, if only they bothered to train themselves.’
‘Do explain, Mr Stead.’ Millet’s air of weary patience prompted smiles and a few smothered laughs, but Stead rose to the challenge.
‘Wireless – we all accept that it works on electro-magnetic waves, do we not?’ In response to general assent, he said, ‘Thought can be transmitted in the same way – just as animals communicate without speech, so do we, only half the time we don’t realize it.
‘How many times have you begun a sentence,’ he went on, ‘for your wife to finish it? Or felt impelled to do something or go somewhere, quite against your normal routine?’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘One of those situations where logically, you should stay at home, but you go out, and thence meet someone, or discover something that changes your whole life…?’
‘But what about the automatic writing,’ Millet declared, bringing him back to the point. Tell us, Mr Stead, how do you do it? How does it work?’
Stead sat up straight, took an audible breath and prepared to inform us. ‘Simply by making a habit – as I do, every day between one and two o’clock – of relaxing and waiting with an open, uncluttered mind, for messages to come through. It’s like wireless, except no equipment is needed, other than a pencil and paper.’
Astor spoke for everyone, I think, when he asked from whom the messages came.
‘Friends of similar mind – we attempt to receive and transmit in that hour.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes we get through – sometimes not. It often seems to depend on the urgency. One friend, for instance, was coming to see me on a particular train – but it was disrupted by the recent coal strike…’ At this there were nods and rueful smiles. ‘So she sent me a message from
the train, saying not to bother travelling to the station as she was stuck outside Watford…
Like the entertainer he was, Stead joined in the laughter. He waited for the amusement to die away. When all was quiet, he lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes, the messages come from other realms. How do I know? Well, they are clearly not from friends in this world. They are often specific and relevant to things happening today. Some messages are for other people, while others are prophetic…’ Stead looked hard at me when he said this.
Gritting my teeth, I waited for some reference to the séance, or even to our earlier spat, but he closed his eyes and seemed deep in thought for a while.
Another message? That question seemed to go around the table. Looks were exchanged. Were we receiving extraordinary insights by a man of genius, or being taken in by a charlatan?
‘People might not always have agreed with the things I have written,’ he declared at last. ‘I have been mocked for my beliefs and even imprisoned for things I’ve done.’ Again, his eyes bored into mine. ‘But I’m proud of it. The campaigns I’ve waged have been from the heart. I have always known that what I was doing was right. And I’ve been sure,’ he said, ‘because the message has come to me from above.’
He would never be wrong, then. He didn’t just look like a biblical prophet, he sounded like one. I felt he’d argue the point with Moses, but I did wonder why, of all the liners crossing this ocean, he’d chosen the Majestic for his unlikely tale. That, however, was a question for another time. Seizing my opportunity to escape, I thanked Mr Stead for his story and said that I too would be receiving messages from above if I didn’t take myself to the bridge.
Amidst some appreciative chuckles, I bade the gentlemen goodnight. What was it Futrelle had asked me earlier? Would I be persuaded to change course under similar circumstances? He was joking of course. At least, I hoped so. I could picture Bruce’s face if I said we were making an alteration in response to one of Mr Stead’s messages. And how did he receive it, pray? Oh, well, sir, it came to him automatically, as he sat there with pencil and paper…
He’d think I was mad.
As if responsible shipmasters could afford to be swayed by some crackpot scribbler. Only a ship in distress, or an emergency call over the wireless could warrant a marked deviation from the prescribed course. Such messages came in the form of a series of electronic sparks, the dits and dahs of Morse code, which the Marconi men translated into words for our benefit.
However, as I heard someone say as I was leaving, not every ship had such modern equipment. Sailing ships, tramp steamers, fishing boats, whalers – in fact just about any non-passenger ship – would not have wireless. In trouble, they had to fend for themselves, take to the boats if necessary, and pray.
Prayer? Maybe that was what he meant. Ah well, at least Stead hadn’t gone on about lifeboats and Board of Trade regulations. In that case I’d have had difficulty holding my tongue.
~~~
Relieved that the encounter had passed without ghosts, ghouls, or spirit guides being mentioned, I glanced at the time and went through the swing doors to find my neglected ladies. It was almost nine o’clock. Mortified by the delay – and only partly relieved to see they were being entertained by Gracie and Clinch Smith – I was surprised to feel a pang of jealousy.
They made room for me and we chatted for a while, Clinch Smith and I indulging in a long-running bit of banter about our names and whether or not we were related. It was unlikely: his people owned half Long Island and even had a town named after them, but we kept up the pretence. On the other hand, he was related – albeit distantly – to the Carvers of New Haven, and seemed eager, I thought, to cement that link with Lucinda. I recalled talk that his marriage was failing, and at once – like some aging knight – wanted to stand between them, protecting Lucinda’s honour.
Before long, the sisters were making their apologies. ‘These lovely evenings, Captain!’ Marianne explained with a smile. ‘We often say we could do with 25 hours in a day, but when we get it, we’re exhausted!’
The gentlemen said they’d been keeping late hours too, what with the fine weather and pleasant company aboard. Amidst desires for early nights and promises for the morrow we all headed towards the stairs. I turned to Lucinda, knowing she must be fatigued even though her smile belied it, but to my relief she shook her head. ‘It’s such a beautiful evening,’ she said, slipping a velvet wrap around her shoulders. ‘Could I beg a few minutes, Captain, and walk along the deck with you?’
The air was sharp and clear. I was afraid she might be cold but she denied it, leaning against the rail with her head back, staring up at the array of stars. All around us, from the arc above to the far horizon, the firmament was sparkling. ‘Like a Grand Duchess’s tiara,’ I said with a smile.
Wanting to share my knowledge, I pointed out the Pole Star and the Plough, and named some of the great constellations: Orion the Hunter, with Sirius the Dog Star at his heels; the group of 55 stars which made up Cassiopeia, seated in her Chair. Way off to the north, just visible, was Andromeda, Cassiopeia’s daughter.
‘There are lots of Greek myths attached to astronomy,’ I mused, ‘but the one about Andromeda claims she was chained to a rock and left to drown. Perseus rescued her, and afterwards they stayed together – when they died they were turned into stars. His constellation is close to Andromeda there – like a guardian…’
She sighed. ‘If only we could all be turned into stars when we die.’
‘Or sea birds,’ I said, smiling. ‘I used to think that, when I was a boy.’
‘Maybe it’s true.’ She sounded so like Mel, so young and wistful, it touched my heart.
‘It’s all a matter of believing,’ I whispered, thinking back to that moment of knowledge when it seemed the world stopped spinning and left us weightless.
‘And do you believe?’ She turned, suddenly intense, the stars forgotten.
I wanted to say that after the wonder of finding her, I was ready to believe anything, even that we might have a future as father and daughter. But she did not give me chance. ‘That the spirit goes on, I mean? Do you think there’s any truth in what Mr Stead says?’
‘Well,’ I said, struggling for an answer, wishing we could speak of other things, ‘if there is an afterlife, why would a contented soul wish to return? I suppose an unhappy soul, restless and tormented, might still be earthbound and willing to talk – but, given an audience, might not be so willing to depart. That’s my view.’
‘It’s just that I keep thinking of Dorothea…’
‘Ah, yes… Dorothea.’ I was silent for a while, contemplating her restless soul, for the first time wondering if Stead’s presence aboard had acted like a catalyst, drawing the dead and the living together. I recalled the strange moment I’d had, seeing the man and the young woman standing on deck just yards away. Two nights ago they’d seemed so real. I’d thought the man was Joe. Could the girl have been Dorothea’s ghost?
‘Was she very unhappy?’
Startled, I shook my head. Gathering my wits, I felt for my small cigars. ‘Unhappy? I think we both were. Happy one minute, miserable the next. Isn’t that the way of star-crossed lovers?’ With a wry smile, I said, ‘Besides, we were not often together – and she was married, of course.’ Striking a match, I set the flame to my cigar and drew deep, releasing a long, pale cloud of smoke which hovered for a moment, curiously, like a wraith.
As it disappeared, Lucinda turned to me, eyes wide and dark with appeal. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, sir, but I have a confession to make. I did offer to help the sisters in their trouble, but I thought – hoped – Mr Stead might put me in touch with Dorothea. Maybe it was foolish, but…’ She broke off, bit her lip.
‘You hoped she might tell you something? Give you a name?’
Miserably, she nodded. She was shaking with cold, and no doubt tension and tiredness too. Concerned, I put an arm lightly around her shoulders. Beneath the velvet she felt so slight and vulnerable I lo
nged to comfort her, warm her, hold her close. It was with difficulty that I steadied my voice.
‘Lucinda, my dear, I beg you not to go down that avenue. Don’t you see? Dorothea has brought us together. Less directly, perhaps, than Mr Stead would lay claim to, but still…’
She turned to me with a sudden, grateful smile. ‘You think so? I hadn’t thought of it like that. But you do understand?’
‘I do. Of course I do. But you’re shivering. We’ll talk again tomorrow. In the meantime,’ I said firmly, ‘I’m going to see you to your door. Take my advice and ring for your stewardess – ask her to bring you a hot drink. One way and another it’s been a long day – and at a guess I’d say you didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘How do you know that?’ she asked with a little laugh.
‘Because I didn’t sleep well either!’
~~~
We parted by her stateroom, I think with lighter hearts. Reminded of the night before, when I’d walked this corridor with heavier step, I reflected on the last 24 hours. In spite of fatigue, alarms, and the day’s stormy upheavals, I was in better spirits than I’d been all winter – certainly since leaving Southampton. I thanked God for a calm night and Joe Bell’s good news – most of all for my meeting with Lucinda. Somehow we would overcome the difficulties ahead.
Building castles in the air, I made my way back up top. By the main entrance, like a smiling demon ready with a pitchfork, a small, white-haired figure crossed my path.
Considering the way I’d insulted him that morning, Stead’s greeting was surprisingly civil. But perhaps he felt he’d delivered his message in the Smoke Room.
‘It’s a fine night, Captain – we’ve been fortunate with the weather so far.’
‘Indeed we have,’ I said warily. ‘Makes a pleasant change.’
The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic Page 23