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

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  I tensed, wondering what was coming next. But after a short pause my interrogator went back to the distance between us when Hawke was running abreast. I said it seemed perfectly safe; he pursued the point, suggesting I was mistaken and that our close proximity had caused Hawke to be drawn in by suction. Had I not considered this possibility?

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Absolutely not.’ I could not believe he was introducing that argument as a cause of the collision. It was ludicrous.

  When pressed about the effects of suction in confined areas, I agreed that if a vessel was particularly close I would be concerned. At that, the President admonished Sir Rufus for introducing theories into the argument. Changing tack, he returned to the issue of time. To the moment when I noticed Hawke had dropped back and was starting to turn. How long did it take from that observation to the moment she struck?

  I could see it when I blinked, like a fragment of nightmare: Hawke’s stem dropping back, turning in, a great spume of foam leaping along her port side. Starboard side sweeping round, looming close – bridge, masts, funnels; guns angled as though for attack. Catastrophe inevitable.

  ‘Under a minute,’ I said, drawing breath. ‘It seemed a long time, but under a minute.’

  ‘It must have appeared to you the maddest thing possible for this vessel to have come round at that moment.’

  I nodded. ‘Inconceivable.’

  What more was there to say? But the Attorney General had not finished. He drew my attention to the chart, and, like a swordsman cornering his victim, pressed that I might be a cable out – some 200 yards – in my estimate of the position. He seemed to be implying that Olympic was closer to where the channel shelved, and had thus given Hawke no sea-room.

  I had no clear reference for the point of collision. All I could see was the cruiser’s burgeoning shape, closing in by the second. Skewed by the impact, unable to stop dead, Olympic had ended up in Osborne Bay.

  I said, ‘I can only give my impression immediately beforehand.’

  ‘Having regard to some fixed object?’ the President asked.

  ‘Yes, a general view – looking over Cowes Harbour.’

  With that, to my surprise and relief, the Attorney-General nodded to the bench and sat down.

  After a short but welcome adjournment, our KC, Mr Laing, returned to the fray, enabling me to state my long years of experience as a shipmaster. He asked whether I had noticed any effects of suction while traversing narrow channels in the past. I said not. He enquired the width of the Ambrose Channel, going into New York, and I said, 1,200 feet.

  Looking mystified, the judge raised his pencil. ‘Is it a channel between walls?’

  The Elder Brethren chuckled. After a lifetime spent navigating that awkward stretch of water, I had a mad desire to laugh. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it is a dredged channel.’

  When Mr Laing resumed his seat, I hoped the interrogation was over, but then the President himself took up the enquiry, returning to all the vital points already made. He finished with the question of clocks and time. I repeated what I had said in the beginning, that our bridge clock jumped visibly from minute to minute. As did the engine room clock by which the engineers kept their log. Therefore, as the judge himself was at pains to make clear, our recorded time could be up to a minute out in every case. Which would mean an appreciable difference in the average speed as worked out by the Attorney-General.

  ‘So when you put down 12:40,’ the President said, ‘that may be 55 seconds out?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ At last!

  ‘Or,’ he added with the ghost of a smile, ‘5 seconds out only…?’

  My spirits plummeted. Dismissed, I climbed down from the witness stand.

  Passing George Bowyer going in, I wished him luck. In the waiting room my legs suddenly gave way and I almost fell into a chair. I looked at my watch and was astonished to find almost three hours had passed. Trying to light a cigar, I realized I was shaking like a man with palsy.

  ~~~

  Next day it was the turn of Olympic’s officers, starting with Hobhouse, the young junior who’d been taking notes that day. I told him to stick to his guns, and not let them rattle him. It was the most I could do. Then there was an adjournment while the top brass went to the National Physical Laboratory in Teddington to watch some scientist’s experiments on suction and displacement. Apparently it boiled down to laws of attraction and repulsion between the wakes and bow-waves of vessels of differing sizes. It was a fascinating point, explaining things I’d observed in the past – but somehow it failed to convince when distance came into the argument. Both George and I were adamant – there had been too great a gap involved to affect the Hawke in such a way.

  Then it was the turn of Commander Blunt and his officers, counterclaiming that we had damaged their boat by excessive speed and faulty navigation. Sir Rufus Isaacs and his supporting legal brains were trying to prove that we were negligent, while making out that the RN officers were the true professionals because they had their answers pat.

  A little too pat, if you ask me. I didn’t hear their evidence, of course – one doesn’t. But I read in The Times afterwards that their Navigating Officer lost his notebook through what he described as, the shock of the collision. How very convenient! I bet that caused some roars of laughter over the breakfast-tables of the world. Odd too that no one had written up their bridge log immediately after the event. We had our log, as well as knowledgeable, independent witnesses – both aboard and ashore – to describe what they saw: namely, that Hawke was running parallel and dropping back, before suddenly and inexplicably turning to port.

  It was interesting to read that the 20-year-old cruiser had just come out of refit and was undergoing speed tests on the day of the collision. The Navigating Officer was on loan from some other ship, and Blunt, a destroyer man, had only recently been assigned to Hawke. The speed trial was their first trip together. And – even more revealing – it was their first acquaintance with the cruiser.

  They said their helm jammed. Maybe it did. Refits are notorious for leaving spanners in the works. But Blunt also said they were not attempting to overtake, and that we were steaming too close. Arrant nonsense. Blunt would not have it that he’d miscalculated or given a wrong order – or even that the helmsman had turned the wheel the wrong way. Furthermore, the Admiralty claimed we were the overtaking vessel and – by maritime rules – should have kept out of Hawke’s way.

  But still I worried about that question of headings. George could scoff all he liked – and his reaction to the question of Hawke’s heading, S74°E, had caused merriment in the court – but nonsensical though it seemed, I felt threatened by it. Crossing vessels: if that was the way the argument was going, they could have us for not slowing down and allowing Hawke to pass.

  29

  Olympic’s repairs were being completed as the court case ended. For White Star, speed was essential. Every day she was out of service, Olympic was losing money. To save time at Harland and Wolff, they raided the new sister ship – Titanic – still fitting out in dry-dock, for spares. The work-force was diverted to the more immediate task, and ultimately Olympic’s water-tight bulkheads and outer plating were repaired and the sister-ship’s unused prop-shaft fitted. I remember thinking that this would cost time elsewhere. Titanic’s maiden voyage, due in March, would have to be delayed.

  As Olympic came out of dry-dock, I travelled north to Liverpool and across to Belfast to take her out on trials before steaming back to Southampton for the next Atlantic crossing. By the end of November she was bunkered, stored, and loaded with cargo, ready to welcome the next set of passengers.

  For many years we had operated a four-week schedule – roughly two weeks at sea and six days in port at either end. It was a rhythm that worked. It allowed for delays due to bad weather, it gave the people who crewed and ran the ships on a 24-hour basis, time to recover between voyages that were sometimes extremely difficult. And it gave ample time for cleaning and replenishment at either end. Bad
weather not only slows the ship, it affects everyone from the Master to the lowliest galley-boy. And lack of sleep affects passengers too. Added to which, on the eastward journey, an hour is lost every day. Even on a relatively calm crossing that can result in fractious passengers and a worn out crew.

  Maybe it was a necessary way of recouping the losses, but when White Star’s board decided to change the four week rhythm in favour of a three weeks’ round trip for the foreseeable future, it felt like they were taking a pound of flesh. Our liners were not Cunard’s greyhounds, we were limited as to speed – and on the very first voyage we came straight out of Southampton into head-on gales. That trip was a slow, uncomfortable slog to New York. We did get blown back rather more speedily, but at both ends of the voyage we were left with just half a week to load bunkers, cargo and stores. It was a very tight schedule that didn’t allow for unforeseen delays. On top of which the dockers didn’t like having to work round the clock, while the crew wondered what they’d done to have seven days a month knocked off their shore leave.

  Strikes? Ellie was ready to organise one herself.

  I’d done one round trip and – just two days later – was preparing to set forth on the next when the Admiralty’s verdict was delivered. It was 19th December. I got the news over the telephone from London.

  It was a shock. Despite my fears and apprehensions, I had hoped that common sense would prevail. But, in his summing up, the President of the court had accepted conjecture as fact. He and the Elder Brethren found for the Admiralty, taking the view that the two ships were crossing vessels, and by such maritime rules, Olympic should have kept out of Hawke’s way. They even cited pilot George Bowyer as negligent in his navigation.

  It didn’t matter that the world’s biggest ship could have ended up aground, blocking the main channel in and out of Southampton. His Majesty’s Navy could not be seen to be in the wrong. That was the nub of it.

  ‘Bloody rules!’ I swore to Eleanor. ‘Rules were made for the guidance of wise men, and the blind obedience of fools!’

  I don’t know what angered me most, the slur on George’s reputation as one of the finest pilots it has ever been my good fortune to know, or the sheer bias of the finding.

  The costs were massive. When Bruce Ismay came down to Southampton next day, he could barely speak for rage. But, as he ground out between clenched teeth, at least Olympic was under compulsory pilotage at the time. Chief Officer Wilde and myself were not responsible in White Star’s view; nor was George Bowyer, come to that.

  ‘But we must be thankful for small mercies, EJ. At least we can blame the pilot and save White Star’s reputation.’

  ‘You can never blame the pilot,’ I retorted. ‘The pilot only ever tenders his advice. It’s up to the Master to accept it or reject it. I accepted it,’ I added tersely. ‘The blame, sir, rests with me.’

  ‘Does it really, EJ? Well, don’t let me hear you say that in front of a reporter!’

  I’d been on my way out of the office, but I spun to face him. ‘Do you want my resignation, Mr Ismay?’

  For a moment I thought he was going to accept, but he lowered his gaze, the waxed moustache twitching as he pursed his lips. ‘No, no, of course not – that’s the last thing I need.’ He looked up, light glinting in his eyes. ‘White Star is supporting you, EJ – we stick together. Understood?’

  It took a moment, but I nodded. ‘Understood. Sir.’

  White Star’s reputation: that was all Bruce thought about. George Bowyer could have lost his job had Trinity House been so inclined. That they did not sack him said a lot.

  The look on George’s face; that travesty of justice; Bruce’s self-centred concerns: I was reeling from a sense of betrayal. It seemed to me that all I had believed and trusted and worked for, the principles of honesty and right action by which I had lived, had just been thrown overboard.

  I was getting old. My principles were no longer the common currency they used to be. I spoke to Eleanor about retirement.

  ‘But not yet,’ I said grimly as I was packing my things. ‘I will not let these clever, conniving, truth-twisting blackguards destroy me!’

  ‘You’re right,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘How dare they!’

  ‘I’ll wait till I’m ready, Ellie – by God I will!’

  She came to hug me and I held her tight, taking comfort from her strength, from her unquenchable belief in me. ‘Just remember, dearest, everyone knows it wasn’t your fault!’

  ‘But a court of law said it was faulty navigation. That’s damned hard to accept!’

  ~~~

  The day I left was the day of the winter solstice, as short and gloomy as one might expect. In the dark before dawn I kissed my darling girls farewell, and – if only for form’s sake – wished them a happy Christmas. We were all wearing long faces.

  Anger got me back on board and through the next trip to New York. Similarly, Wilde and Murdoch. Having thrashed it out over a couple of days – done our jeering, expressed our ridicule – after that the topic was barely mentioned. Except we were closer, somehow. Still professionals – always that – but, like good friends in adversity, they showed their sympathy in small ways. Considerate, kind, eager to spare me time on the bridge whenever possible. Billy O’Loughlin was clearly concerned; but in weather like that I couldn’t take pills or medicine. A whisky before bed was as much as I dare risk. But as anger wore off and gave way to numbness, I felt exhausted.

  Christmas Day 1911 was not particularly cold, although we were hammering into another gale. Tablecloths were damped down to prevent glassware and cutlery sliding; even so, a spectacular roll was often marked by a crash from some nearby pantry.

  In my cabin, the books did a regular shunt against the batten holding them in; contents of drawers shifted back and forth; the wooden panelling squeaked in protest. I had so many slips of paper jammed in drawers and cupboards, my bedroom looked like a betting shop. But we could not slow down. With a deadline to meet we kept ploughing on, past Nantucket – no fog, heaven be praised – past Fire Island and on to Sandy Hook. All night on the bridge as usual, and finally to Pier 59. It was a relief to reach New York for a couple of nights’ rest.

  I hadn’t forgotten the verdict: how could I? But I failed to consider its effects upon the maritime world. When I raised my head to take notice, I realized the shock waves had travelled – and thanks to White Star’s appeal the heated debates went on for months.

  No doubt it was being discussed by Olympic’s passengers even as we docked, but as far as I was concerned it was over. The blame was on me, and that was that. I did not wish to discuss it further, yet it was the one topic on everyone’s lips. When JP Morgan’s invitation to dinner arrived, I groaned inwardly. He would want the story from the horse’s mouth, and in all conscience I could not refuse. It was with a heavy heart that I dressed the following evening.

  Paintin, my steward, tried to cheer me. ‘Never mind, sir – it’ll be a good dinner at the Metropolitan, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘And a late night,’ I grumbled as he fixed my waistcoat.

  ‘Well, the good Doctor will see you home, sir, and you can lie in bed tomorrow.’

  ‘You sound alarmingly like my wife, Paintin!’

  He laughed. ‘I do my best, sir.’

  The story went that JP Morgan had founded the Metropolitan Club in’91 after certain of his newly-rich friends had been black-balled by the old-money Union Club. In response, JP had commissioned the eminent architect Stanford White to design the building. Whatever his outrageous private life – or perhaps because of it – Stanford White knew a thing or two about outward appearances. As Frank Millet once pointed out, seen from the Park, the Metropolitan’s white marble exterior on 5th Avenue was as restrained and elegant as an Italian Renaissance palace; only the entrance on 60th Street gave an inkling of what it might be like inside.

  Those wrought iron gates topped with gilded curlicues were high and wide, while the courtyard presented a barrier no uninvited p
erson would dare to cross. Once inside it was a place to leave you slack-jawed with amazement. Elaborate staircases, painted ceilings with clouds and cherubs, gilded pillars, dark portraits and classical landscapes: the interior had all of JP Morgan’s taste for opulence. A taste he’d managed to impart to his newly-rich friends; and, more importantly, to Harland and Wolff’s interior designers.

  ‘Ostentatious, Frank Millet calls it,’ I muttered to Billy as our cab pulled up. ‘He reckons it’s the kind of place that started the French Revolution…’

  ‘Jaysus!’ Billy exclaimed, laughing. ‘After the summer we’ve had, he’d be wise to watch his tongue! Is he not a member?’

  I shook my head. ‘Oh, come on, Billy, Frank Millet’s old money, he wouldn’t be seen dead in here!’

  ‘Is that so? Well, sir, I don’t know about you, but I’m not complaining…’

  There had been unrest in America too, but amidst the opulence of New York’s Metropolitan Club, the idea of insurrection seemed ridiculous. As our overcoats were taken, we were greeted by other guests in the lobby and ushered through to the lounge. Suddenly there were smiles and cheers.

  Surprised, not a little confused, I looked over my shoulder to see who had followed us in. But no – the welcome appeared to be for us – no, for me. Billy’s grin was as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge. He was in on the secret, that much was obvious – but until that moment I’d had no idea the dinner was being given in my honour. After a tiring voyage – after the trials I’d left in England – it was overwhelming. All the cheers and back-slapping, all the big smiles and for-he’s-a-jolly-good-fellow bursts of song were almost too much. I could barely see for the salt in my eyes, could not speak for the lump of emotion lodged in my throat. It took a generous shot of bourbon to clear both, to enable me to do more than merely nod and smile. I think I swore under my breath as I dug Billy in the ribs, but all he would do was smile and nudge me towards the next man eager to shake my hand.