‘Could it lead to fog, later, d’you think?’
‘Fog? I doubt it. See for yourself…’ I stepped to the rail, raised my arm to the stars. ‘Look at all that. See how clear it is. We don’t often get nights like this.’
He was not convinced. ‘Calm, though? That often leads to fog, doesn’t it?’
I could have happily knocked him overboard. ‘Look, Mr Stead,’ I said tersely, ‘I’m sorry we had our little spat, and I do appreciate your civility this evening…’
‘I’m proud of that prison sentence,’ he declared, as though we were just speaking of it. ‘You might not be aware of this, but I didn’t just claim – I proved how easy it was to buy a child and sell her into slavery. I did it! Where I fell down,’ he added ruefully, ‘was in not paying the child’s father as well as the mother. But then I didn’t know he existed until my enemies dug him out.
‘Nevertheless,’ he went on, halting me before I could interrupt, ‘my actions – dubious though some people thought them at the time – changed the law, raised the age of consent by three years to sixteen. You won’t find many child prostitutes on the streets these days – and that’s down to me. So yes, I’m proud of it.’
Surprised in spite of myself, I glanced at him, met that challenging gaze. I expected him to ask what I’d done that was half so important. He didn’t, but my own bristling sense of pride made me tell him anyway. ‘And I’ve spent 25 years ferrying people safely across the Atlantic, Mr Stead. Allow me to know my business.’
His sardonic smile looked like disbelief. ‘There really is no need to concern yourself,’ I said sharply. ‘If there should be fog ahead, we’ll have ample warning from other ships.’
As we parted, he turned his gaze to the dark ocean. ‘Hmm. Reliable, is it, the wireless?’
‘I’ve found it so, yes.’
~~~
Breathing hard with suppressed fury, I stepped smartly up to the bridge. The 1st Officer was on watch, marvelling at the clear night.
‘Everything all right, Mr Murdoch?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, giving me a keen glance. ‘A fine evening, good visibility, very little wind.’
I stood with him, breathing deeply, watching the ocean. ‘It’s certainly calm out there.’ After a few minutes, feeling better, I went inside, checking the course the helmsman was steering, and then the barometer. ‘Remarkably steady, Mr Murdoch – what do you make of it?’
‘I’d say it’s good sleeping weather, sir,’ he replied with gentle humour.
‘For which we must be truly thankful!’ As one of the juniors gave an involuntary grunt of agreement, I smiled. ‘Keep a weather eye open, gentlemen – you never know what’s coming next!’
It was good to be up here, amongst the kind of men I respected and understood. Trust and confidence: that was what ship-handling was all about. With a smooth, gentle swell under the keel, barely a ruffle on the surface, there was nothing to worry about. I might even get a decent night’s sleep myself tonight.
Almost like the Doldrums, I reflected, except for the temperature. Not really cold though. Not yet. We’d get the chill tomorrow, once we hit the cold currents off the American coast. I would never have admitted it to Stead, but no wind could well mean fog tomorrow night. That would slow us down. Bruce would fret his socks off at that.
Hearing footsteps coming along the deck I turned. One of the Marconi men – the thin-faced one, looked about 12 years old – with a white message-slip in his hand.
He spoke in an undertone to Murdoch.
‘What’s that?’ I said, intercepting him before he could slide away.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you…’
I held out my hand for the message and went into the chart room to read it. In the dim light I saw that it was not a greeting from some passing liner, but a bald announcement that the wireless was out of commission. I bit back a curse.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s – er – it’s the transmitter, sir. Mr Phillips thinks one of the condensers has gone.’
‘How serious is it? Can it be rectified?
‘I – that is, we think so, sir. I mean, it could take a while, but Mr Phillips and me, we’re working on it. Sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Carry on.’
As the skinny lad hurried away a chill entered my soul. What had once seemed no more than a novelty had proved its usefulness with regard to weather and sea conditions. Friday, there had been reports from other ships of ice in the vicinity of the Grand Banks – way ahead of us, and well to the north of our track. Nothing to get excited about as yet. But if there should be fog, too…
With Stead and his oracle’s warning still ringing in my ears, I swore under my breath.
Whatever the problem with the wireless, I hoped these youngsters could fix it.
25
Swathed in fog, like a blind beggar fumbling with Death, I paced from port to starboard and back again. Rolling billows of eerie, silent mist took the decks from view. Aft, the red and green haze of navigation lights; ahead, two silvery triangles, cut-outs in a sheet of black, lit up the haze.
Our deep-throated horn gave out its warning blare. There came the muffled groans of an answering signal. And then another, closer this time.
Fog muffles everything, distorts sound, but still I strained to hear, trying to identify distance and direction. Two steamships, one maybe on the starboard beam, the other further away. The junior spoke: I shushed him. Holding my breath I listened with all my being. No air, no light, nothing to be seen inside this dense, smothering blanket. Another groan, another echo. Was it close? How close? On the back of it I heard the ringing of a bell. Fear gripped, and all at once to port came the whisper of a wooden ship, her bulwarks grazing as the helmsman fought with the wheel, spars catching the bridge.
I ducked, heart pounding like a steam hammer; and at once glimpsed the phantasms of nightmare. I was tangled in bedding, fighting to free myself, twisting away from the image of Death at the helm, searching for me.
Gasping, I found the light-switch, slaked my thirst with water from the carafe. Listened, all was silence, the ship moving steadily. No fog signals. Of course not: they would have called me.
It was a while before I drifted off again. When I did it was to dream of Mel as a small child, climbing into my sea-chest like a stowaway. ‘Daddy, don’t go,’ she cried, repeating the words each time I lifted her out. ‘Don’t go!’ But then she was on the dunes in bright sunlight, with Ellie and a crowd of neighbouring children, getting smaller as I sailed away. They were waving flags as I sounded the horn… but that sounding of the horn threatened to take me back to nightmare… I fought it and suddenly I was awake again, breathing hard, thinking of my wife and child, of our home by the beach…
Did I do the right thing? The question leapt like a cat out of the darkness, pouncing on reasons I’d thought were so right. Leaving the Mersey, leaving waters I’d known since boyhood, for ambitions that pushed me further and further away from all I held dear. I remembered how happy we’d been after Mel came along, and how much had changed since the move to Southampton. Mel was growing up, at boarding school now. I hardly saw her now, except in the holidays.
Looking back on my life it seemed like a long, long voyage. I’d fought to get away from the smoky, small-town confines of places like Hanley. Like Joe, I’d wanted to see the world, wanted to experience the wonders of the ocean – the thrills and excitement of rolling waves, the open sky. Sky all around – if I could have been an untamed seabird, I’d have chosen that. Instead I aimed for the next best thing – the freedom of being a Master Mariner in charge of my own ship, my own destiny. I didn’t know that there is no such freedom in this world – we are all answerable. To ship-owners, passengers, lovers, children.
Some say the sea is a mistress, she gets in your blood and won’t let go. Maybe that’s right. If so, I was lucky, meeting Eleanor, marrying her. She understood, wasn’t jealous. She never seemed to reg
ard my work as a rival. Well, if she did, it was rare; and if she was unhappy, it was for other reasons. But even in that, thank God, we were blessed in the end. We had a daughter who was everything we could have hoped for. And I could see how our home was part of the contentment…
~~~
Memory flooded in like the Mersey tide. Born along by sadness, I felt tears of regret sting my eyes. And yet at the time it felt so good, so exciting! After taking command of one brand new ship, within a couple of years I was in line for the next. But the talk was not just of new ships – it was to be a new port, a new route. The only snag was that we would have to move.
When I told Eleanor, in confidence, her face fell.
‘But you know how difficult things are,’ I reasoned. ‘The Germans are picking up more and more of our business, and Cunard are beating us hands down at home. White Star wants the rich American trade to and from the Continent, but while ever we use Liverpool as our home port, we’re losing them to Norddeuscher Lloyd and Hamburg Amerika. You do see that – how necessary it is?’
‘So Mr JP Morgan wants us all to move to Southampton, does he?’
‘It makes sense, Eleanor! From Southampton, with new liners, we can hop across to Cherbourg for the Continental trade, and still pick up the Irish passengers from Queenstown…’
She stared out of the window. Across the dunes a stiff wind was blowing, whipping sand into a miniature storm, obscuring the estuary beyond. I knew what she was thinking: if I accepted, we would lose this house with its beautiful outlook, lose the friends she had made.
‘Mr Ismay must be turning in his grave.’
‘Ellie!’ I swallowed an exasperated sigh. ‘He was a businessman, first and foremost. He’d be the first to say we have to move with the times.’
She turned a cold grey glance upon me. ‘So we must move too – is that it?’
Hating the idea, she dug in her heels and refused to discuss it. For a while, with the American banking crisis denting confidence on both sides of the Atlantic, the whole thing looked more than a little shaky. Eleanor cheered every time doubts arose, and she was not the only one.
When the deal was finally done with the railway company owning Southampton’s docks, the men – sailors and firemen alike – claimed they’d been betrayed. Liverpool would lose at least four ships, and, with several hundred crew employed on each one, jobs would be at a premium. Yet the men still had families to support. They could not afford to move south – and why would they want to? They were Liverpudlians born and bred.
The senior officers would have no choice in the matter; but, as Eleanor was quick to point out, the officers were not the problem. Used to travelling the world, they could settle anywhere. It was different for the wives.
‘And I sincerely hope,’ she declared mutinously, ‘you’ve given Bruce Ismay no such promises, because I have no wish to leave here!’
But for once, Bruce was not the instigator, it was JP Morgan, the force behind IMM.
I could still hear that growling, distinctive voice. ‘I like your style, EJ,’ he’d declared over brandy and cigars – the very best – in the library of his Madison Avenue home. It was a great compliment, paid just after I retired from the Royal Naval Reserve. As was the custom, I’d been bumped up a rank.
‘Commander Smith, RNR,’ he repeated. ‘That’s great, EJ. It says background, discipline, Royal Navy, Britannia Rules the Waves – you know the score.’ He sucked on his cigar and raised another finger. ‘Second, you have the talent as well as the ticket – I have never seen a man drive a ship through a storm the way you do. And boy, do I hate storms. What’s more, EJ, you put confidence in the hearts and minds of White Star’s passengers.’
He grinned while ticking off a third point. ‘And speaking as a guy who is surely known for his pug-ugly mug, I just want to say this – you look the part. And the silver beard is perfect. Puts all these impressionable Yankees in mind of your great King Edward…’
That made me smile. I didn’t imagine the monarch would be too pleased, but I was flattered. Flattered, yes. Good word, that. So is vanity. And pride. I should have remembered they were two of Billy O’Loughlin’s ‘seven deadly sins.’ Usually applied to passengers, but if the cap fits…
Oddly enough, it was through Billy that I got to know JP Morgan. The financier travelled a lot but hated rough weather, so he mostly clung to his stateroom. During one of his early crossings aboard the Baltic, he was particularly ill, and somehow, Billy O’Loughlin worked his magic, made the great man feel better. After that they were firm friends. Of course, the reason he was so fond of Billy’s company was that he loved to discuss his ailments and Billy was a good listener. The great cure-all, he called it.
‘The man’s as strong as an ox,’ was our doctor’s private opinion. ‘Doesn’t he work everyone else to a standstill? I tell you, he’ll still be kicking when the rest of us are feeding the fishes…’
JP barely touched a drop, but his nose was as red and craggy as a Colorado cliff. Told Billy he could have had an operation to improve it, but he’d refused. Said folks knew him by his hooter, it was part of who he was. And JP was strong on character, proud of the fact that he’d bought and sold entire railroads on the strength of his personal judgement. When he related stories like that, you felt he was paying you a compliment. Yes, for all he looked like a pantomime ogre, the man knew how to charm.
Most significant of all, during the crisis of 1907, when there was a very real threat of the New York banks collapsing, he called in all his chips and bailed out the American government. Oh yes, Teddy Roosevelt owed a lot to old JP Morgan.
So when he talked about building new ships, and outlining the opportunities for advancement, I listened with all the attentiveness of an acolyte.
Fired with enthusiasm when I got back from New York that time, I faced an icy silence. In vain did I try to persuade Eleanor to see things from my point of view.
‘But JP wants me for the next new ship,’ I declared. ‘It’ll be bigger than Baltic – more powerful, too. It’s just the beginning, don’t you see? Bigger, better, and more luxurious – White Star will be ahead of the rest. And the way things are going, I could be senior master within a few years!’
That appeal, strong to my mind, fell on stony ground. I wanted it and expected Eleanor to understand. But all she could see was disruption ahead. Disappointed, even angry that she was being so obtuse, next time round I tried the practical approach. It would be a terrible waste, I said, to spend two whole days of my precious leave changing trains between here and there.
‘As a family,’ I said unwisely, ‘we need to be together in Southampton.’
‘As a family?’ she repeated, her voice low with suppressed anger. I turned to find her glaring at me, fists clenched at her sides. ‘We’re together five or six days out of the month, Ted – at best. When the weather’s bad you hardly manage a couple of days between trips. So don’t talk to me about family. Your family is aboard whatever ship you’re on!’
The accusation struck with all the force of a spear. She and Mel were all I thought of, all I worked for. Unable to speak I stared at her, wondering why she was behaving like this. So set against me it seemed hate was in her heart.
‘My life,’ she said in that same taut voice, ‘is here with Mel. We have friends. We take the train to see our relations. Mel loves the farm. It would be cruel to take her away from her school and her friends and all she knows…’
I was feeling like some species of snake when Eleanor went on, ‘And what about my mother? It would kill her if we went away…’
At mention of my mother-in-law all sympathy evaporated. Mrs Pennington spent a lot of time with my wife and daughter. Indeed, there were times when it was difficult to dislodge her and send her back to her cottage at Winwick. She had a knack of making me feel like an intruder in my own home, and now it seemed my wife was regarding me in the same light.
‘Your mother has a son and two other daughters, several grandchildren
and a perfectly good home of her own. She doesn’t have to spend all her time here. Anyway, we’re not talking about going to Australia!’
‘She’s getting old, Ted.’
‘She’s not that much older than me!’ I retorted, hating the fact that we were separated by not much more than 12 years. ‘Don’t I deserve consideration too?’
‘You’re a man,’ she said, turning away. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I’m your husband,’ I said heatedly, ‘and I’ll thank you not to forget it!’
Furious, Eleanor pushed past me, heading for the stairs. Mel was at school, fortunately. Grabbing my coat and a lead I left with Ellie’s golden retriever at my heels. For good measure I gave the door a hearty slam. I didn’t give a damn about the servants.
I walked along with Wagstaff, until the sandy road before the house became a track behind the dunes. From the highest point I could see the great expanse of the estuary, the dark line of the tide rushing in, and the lightships marking the dangerous shallows. How many times had I left the great River Mersey, to steam out into the Irish Sea and beyond? I could no more answer that than I could say how often I’d returned, safely but not always unshaken by the experience. For all the route was the same, the ships changed and every single voyage was different.
Why did I do it? It was not something I thought of while under way, but ashore – when Eleanor was making me ask such questions – I knew it was the challenge. The need to prove I could do it, that my skills were still sharp. There was nothing quite like coming safely into port after facing the worst weather the Almighty could throw at you. The tingling thrills of relief and satisfaction were euphoric. Like nothing else. Not alcohol nor tobacco nor the pleasures of sex. It lasted for days, made a man feel alive from his scalp to his toes.
Of course, once that feeling wore off, it was like losing the wind and drifting into the doldrums. With no control, at the mercy of hidden currents, life could be quite difficult. Even miserable at times, although it had nothing to do with Eleanor or Mel. I was glad of the retriever on days like that, glad of an excuse to walk. Eventually, it would pass, my spirits would surface and I’d feel tolerably easy with my lot. But I could never recapture that feeling of intense satisfaction except by going back to sea.
The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic Page 24