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

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ~~~

  Past and present, pain and pleasure – memory would not let me rest until I’d sailed the full circle. Back to Stead and the wireless, at three o’clock I gave up, pulled on some clothes and went through to the bridge. Henry Wilde was on watch, taciturn as ever, but good at understanding the need for tea and company in the middle of the night.

  Calm, no fog. The atmosphere was clear, the constellations moving on their ordained paths across the firmament. Out there, all was as it should be. Only aboard did things seem set to go awry.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. They’re still working on whatever it is.’

  With modern communications we had the answer to safety at sea. I’d been so sure of it. Yet in the space of a day, Mr Stead and his doubts had not only lodged themselves in my mind, they seemed to have been transmitted to the collection of generators, valves and tuners that made up the wireless equipment.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve come across Mr Stead – little fellow, bushy white hair and beard?’

  ‘The newspaperman? I’ve seen him about,’ Wilde said as the quartermaster handed us our mugs of tea.

  ‘He’s an odd fish – big opinion of himself. Reckons he’s a medium or some such nonsense – receiving messages from the great beyond.’ At that my Chief Officer gave me a keen glance. Remembering his wife’s death, still so recent, I could have bitten my tongue. ‘And the live and kicking,’ I added quickly. ‘Automatic writing, he calls it. Reckons it’s better than the wireless!’

  ‘Aye, Mr McElroy said. Forever talking about it, apparently. If he’s that clever,’ Wilde observed dryly, ‘maybe we should set him to work?’

  ‘Maybe we should,’ I chuckled. Taking our tea, we strolled outside, viewing the magnificent array of stars. ‘He was warning me about fog, earlier. The old fool even had me dreaming about it!’

  Wilde grunted his disparagement. ‘Not tonight, sir.’

  ‘No, I said so.’ We stood in silence for a while, but I couldn’t get Stead out of my mind. Was he ill-wishing us? Acting as a channel for something malignant? I shook my head at that, thinking I was becoming as addled as he was. ‘Do you know, I couldn’t get over the feeling that he was just longing for something to go wrong?’

  ‘Maybe the weather’s been too good this trip, sir. He should have been with us last time round – he’d have been praying for his life like the rest of ‘em, not dreaming up mischief.’

  I nodded, seizing on the word. ‘Mischief – you’re right – that’s just what it is. Going on about fog, he was, and then the wireless. I couldn’t believe it, not five minutes later, the lad came up to say it was out of commission!’

  I caught the startled flash of light in Wilde’s eyes. He said, ‘No wonder you couldn’t sleep, sir.’

  ‘Oh, not that – it was dreaming of fog that woke me. I’m just hoping they get that transmitter fixed. Otherwise he’ll be sticking a feather in his cap and saying he can affect electrical circuits too!’

  26

  Hauling myself out of bed a couple of hours later, I rubbed the tiredness from my eyes. It seemed years since I’d had a full night’s sleep.

  On the bridge just before 7:00, Mr Phillips – the senior Marconi man – came to give me his report. He’d feared the repairs would have to wait until New York, but after working through the night he’d managed to fix the problem himself.

  I felt my stomach weaken with relief. For a moment I couldn’t speak, although no doubt the breadth of my smile conveyed much. These boys were used to working nights when the signals were strongest, but it proved their dedication. Of course, without being cynical, as we approached the eastern seaboard we were also coming within range of the wireless transmitting station at Cape Race. Passengers would be queuing up to have both personal and business messages sent on to New York; and each one of those telegrams came with tips over and above what Marconi paid them.

  My sense of well-being was dimmed a little when I returned after breakfast. At nine o’clock an envelope marked Captain was handed to me from the beardless youth I’d spoken to the night before. I remembered his name then – Bride – no doubt he was used to being teased.

  Inside was a telegraph form bearing a message from the Cunard liner, Caronia: ‘WESTBOUND STEAMERS REPORT BERGS GROWLERS AND FIELD ICE IN 42°N FROM 49° TO 51°W APRIL 12. COMPLIMENTS BARR.’

  Having sent an acknowledgement, I studied the position. Close to our projected route, and roughly 300 miles ahead. That was not good news. Westbound steamers encountering ice meant it was much further south than usual. Taking our usual course and speed, we’d be in the area sometime before midnight. Like every other westbound liner, we were on a modified Great Circle Route which ended at 42°N and 47°W. We referred to it as the Corner. From there, the route to New York turned almost due west, towards the Nantucket Shoal Light Vessel.

  No doubt there would be other reports to come, but it might be prudent to change course a little later than usual, taking us further south and west of the ice field.

  In the meantime, the sea was calm, the propellers were ploughing along at 75 revs, the engines were performing well, most of the boilers were running, and the Chief and Tommy Andrews were looking to bring them all on line for a full-speed run on Monday. Once we were clear of the ice-field.

  In the meantime it was Sunday morning and time to prepare for the services. Instead of morning inspections we held two Catholic Masses – courtesy of whichever priests were travelling with us – and two following the practice of the Established Church. McElroy took the 2nd Cabin service, while mine was held in the Saloon at 10:30.

  Tables were moved to the far alcoves, the small orchestra placed close by on my right, with chairs facing the lectern. That morning as I walked in, the sun was shining through the stained glass windows, throwing rainbow beams of light across the carpet. Almost like a real church, I remember thinking – there hadn’t been such a bright, steady Sunday for months. The size of the congregation reflected it, some 200 passengers rising with a shuffling of feet and chairs as the orchestra struck up the chords of the first hymn.

  ‘God moves in a mysterious way

  ‘His wonders to perform,

  ‘He plants his footsteps in the sea

  ‘And rides upon the storm.’

  Calm today, thank God… The voices rang out, some fine sopranos and a few heavy bass voices amongst the enthusiastic majority:

  ‘Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

  ‘But trust him for his grace;

  ‘Behind a frowning providence

  ‘He hides a smiling face…’

  I scanned the crowd for Lucinda, and found her three rows back. Wanting to smile just for her I dragged my eyes back to the words on my service sheet:

  ‘His purposes will ripen fast,

  ‘Unfolding every hour;

  ‘The bud may have a bitter taste

  ‘But sweet will be the flower.’

  I thought of Dorothea, and what we’d bestowed on each other – but in Lucinda there was sweetness. How she came to be aboard my ship was a mystery to me; and that we should find each other, even more so.

  As the service moved on, I led the prayers according to White Star’s direction. ‘We beseech thee to hear us, Lord… That it may please thee to preserve all that travel by water… and grant that in all our troubles we may put our confidence in thy mercy…’ Another hymn, and then those words from the psalm which always reminded me of Joe: ‘They that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy their business in great waters: These men see the works of the Lord: and his wonders in the deep… When they cry unto the Lord in their trouble. … he maketh the storm to cease… and bringeth them unto the haven where they would be…’

  Even at the worst of times those words seemed to calm everyone’s fears. My homilies were often based on it, but my address that day was largely in praise of the calm weather with which the Lord had seen fit to bless us on this maiden voyage, for the comfort we were enjoying as a
consequence, and for the dedicated staff upon whom we all relied.

  Afterwards, John Jacob Astor came up to say how much he had enjoyed the service, and his young wife gave me a shy smile. With colour in her cheeks I noticed she was rather pretty. Effusive as ever, Mrs Margaret Brown stopped to chat – and then came Adelaide Burgoyne. I asked how she was and in response received a very searching look. I was afraid she was going to tell me again that I was supposed to be dead. Fortunately, the sisters ushered her along. Lucinda’s shining smile warmed me; and as she pressed my hand I reminded her lightly that we had an appointment for lunch. Frank Millet, overhearing, made some comment about the privilege of rank which made the group around us laugh. If you only knew, I thought as they disappeared in the direction of refreshment.

  And then I saw Stead.

  ‘I was raised a Methodist,’ he declared. ‘But I came this morning because I wanted to hear you speak.’

  I found a smile. ‘I trust it was worthwhile?’

  ‘Do you truly believe?’ he asked when the last stragglers were out of earshot.

  ‘Come now, Mr Stead – do you think me insincere?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact your sincerity leads me to wonder why you refuse to listen.’ When I forbore to reply, he went on with quiet intensity, ‘I sense something in you – what is it? Surely you believe that beyond this material world lies another, as yet unseen?’

  ‘I do, sir, but where we differ – if you’ll permit me to say so – is with regard to what I see as the folly of trying to contact this other world. You’re very convincing in what you say, but how do you know – how can I know – that these messages and premonitions you refer to are real? Or if they are, that they mean us well?

  ‘You expect me to take notice, but I cannot do that.’ Rather more lightly, with Billy O’Loughlin in mind, I said, ‘I’m not a priest or a parson, I’m just a plain old seafaring man. I don’t have words to explain the dangers you run with this hobby of yours. I can only repeat what I said yesterday – we at sea do not play with the Devil.’

  ‘No more do I!’ As I tried to move away he turned with me. ‘What if the message is genuine – from a place where time means nothing? Where the future is as clear as the past? What then, Captain?’

  ‘Then I can only put my trust in God,’ I retorted. ‘And so should you, Mr Stead!’

  ~~~

  Seething as I headed for the stairs, it took me a while to calm down. I was in my office as another message was brought in. It did nothing to ease my mind, but at least the warning was realistic. From the Dutch liner Noordam, reporting ice in much the same place as before. I went through to the wheelhouse and spoke to Murdoch. I’m afraid I was a trifle curt, and he viewed me with surprise. But having drawn his attention to the ice warning and pinned it to the board, I returned to my charts to work out the change of course for later in the day.

  The ice would be drifting south on the cold Labrador Current. After some thought, I figured we could delay the alteration by half an hour, making our turning of the Corner a dozen nautical miles south and west of the usual turning point. I thought that should keep us clear of the ice field, without deviating too much from the westerly shipping lane. Having marked it on the chart I drew Murdoch’s attention to it.

  ‘We would have altered there – but instead I want to alter here…’ As he studied the position, I said, ‘I’ll pin the note to the board, but please inform Mr Wilde when you hand over.’

  At noon we shot the sun, worked out the position, and laid down the new sector of the Great Circle course to be followed for the next few hours. I calculated that we had travelled 546 miles in the previous 25 hours, which indicated a speed of 21.8 knots. Bruce should be satisfied, I thought, inscribing the figures for the notice board outside the Purser’s Office. The whistles and telegraphs were tested according to Company regulations, after which Boxhall wrote up the log book and I signed it.

  The ritual of everyday tasks calmed me, and with those completed I could turn my thoughts to Lucinda. I knew there would never be proof that we were father and daughter – only Dorothea could have said for sure – but I had certainty in my heart, and that was what mattered.

  With only a couple more days ahead of us, I wanted to spend every available minute with her. Sadly, those minutes were few: from this evening I would be thoroughly occupied with professional matters. The speed test on Monday, the busy shipping lanes off Nantucket and Long Island on Tuesday, followed by Sandy Hook and the approaches to New York, taking us through into Wednesday’s early hours. Barely time to eat or sleep, much less be sociable.

  As chance would have it, just as I came down to A Deck I bumped into Bruce and George Widener. He could be a bit of a bore on the subject of finance but was one of IMM’s major trustees; so when he asked would I join them for a drink in the Smoke Room, I felt I must accept. We took seats at a pleasant table in the bay window, and, as the steward brought me my usual ginger ale, I made a point of saying I had an appointment for lunch.

  Industrial unrest on both sides of the Atlantic was still a frequent topic, and the two men were soon discussing President Taft’s appeal for more brotherly love and understanding in the workplace. They were cynical in the extreme. Sighing, on the point of making my excuses, I noticed the thin-faced Marconi man hovering in the doorway, evidently looking for me. I raised my arm and he came across, rather self-consciously, with an envelope.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bride,’ I said as he stood watching me open and read the message, ‘send my acknowledgement, would you?’

  It was from Ranson, who had succeeded me on the Baltic. They were en route from New York to Liverpool. He reported moderate winds and clear fine weather since leaving. Then, ‘GREEK STEAMER ATHENAI REPORTS PASSING ICEBERGS AND LARGE QUANTITIES OF FIELD ICE TODAY IN LAT 41°51΄N LONG 49°52΄W. LAST NIGHT WE SPOKE GERMAN OILTANK STEAMER DEUTSCHLAND STETTIN TO PHILADELPHIA. NOT UNDER COMMAND SHORT OF COAL LAT 40°42΄N LONG 55°11΄W. WISHES TO BE REPORTED TO NEW YORK AND OTHER STEAMERS. WISH YOU AND TITANIC ALL SUCCESS…’

  Not under command – in other words, unable to manoeuvre. Ice was a hazard, but if the German steamer was without coal, without power, and in the midst of the busy shipping lanes, she was a positive danger. At night, with just her red NUC lights showing, she’d be difficult to spot. But still, from the co-ordinates it looked as though she was well ahead of us. We should be through the ice field tonight, but if Bruce was after a speed run tomorrow, we would have to watch out for two things: one, that we didn’t waste our precious coal, and two, that we didn’t run into that drifter.

  Hoping it might change the subject, I passed the message across to Bruce so he could take it into consideration. But he was listening to Widener expounding some theory or other. He took the slip from me, but as I waited impatiently for him to read it, a flash of light made me turn my head. Outside, on the promenade, Lucinda was walking past.

  ‘Would you excuse me, gentlemen? I’ve just spotted someone I need to speak to…’ Like a bored schoolboy, I made my escape.

  Not everyone went down to the Saloon for lunch – the Palm Court and Café Parisien were popular too. When Lucinda and I reached my table, the Saloon was almost empty, which was how I’d planned it. For a moment I simply sat and looked at her: winged brows above startlingly blue eyes, high cheekbones, a short, perfect nose, an expressive mouth above Dorothea’s determined little chin. Apart from the colour of her eyes, I could see little of myself in her – except she was clearly taller than her mother. Perhaps that was down to me.

  We ordered and, while waiting to be served, she asked how long I’d been at sea, and if I would tell her something of my career. Inevitably that took us back to Hong Kong, but the tale I told tale of Harry Jones was very much an abridged version. As to how I’d come to be with White Star – again, regarding the Lizzie Fennell, I drew a veil over the worst and put a humorous gloss on the tribulation of getting back to Liverpool. We were having quite a jolly conversation until she asked about Eleanor.
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br />   ‘Well now…’ I poured some water, wondering why it should feel so strange talking about my wife with this new daughter of mine. But almost before I knew it, I was telling her how I’d met Eleanor, and about the connection between Dorothea, the Jones family, and the Penningtons. Making the confession, I realized I would have it to make again – to Eleanor next time. How else could I explain about Lucinda?

  Suppressing that thought, I asked about her husband, the lawyer. He practised in his father’s law firm, she said, and evidently did not always see eye to eye with him. But the way she described Richard Carver – a kind man, espouser of causes, someone who took on cases of injustice, often for people who could not pay – made me warm to him. It pleased me that she admired him so much. Wives should admire their husbands, I thought – and then suffered another pang of guilt wondering how Eleanor would view me when I finally told her the truth.

  Lucinda began to explain her reasons for visiting London. ‘Only after I was married and living in Connecticut – and about to become a mother myself – did I really begin to wonder about Dorothea and her life in Hong Kong. It became very important to me. I thought Uncle Nicholas would be sure to help – that he’d feel able to tell me the truth now I’m no longer a child. Or at least throw some light on things.

  ‘Sadly, he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t, I’m not really sure. He said my mother had never confided in him – and anyway, my aunt refused to have the scandal brought up again. As far as the world was concerned, my birth certificate named Henry Curtis – it was all anyone needed to know. He said I’d be wise to leave it there…’

  ‘He was no doubt trying to protect you,’ I suggested gently.

  ‘But you do understand how important it was? You see now why I turned to Mr Stead?’