by Jess Foley
He nodded in sympathy then asked: ‘Have we been officially informed that you are one of the survivors, ma’am?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My name is on the list at the front of the building – and that of my friend.’
‘And you have relatives and friends who are missing, you say.’
‘Yes, my husband and –’ She came to a halt. The police sergeant waited for her to go on. ‘And my sister and her husband,’ she added. ‘Also my friend’s husband and little girl. And the child’s nurse.’
The sergeant nodded. The situation, he said, was changing all the time. At that very moment divers were at work beneath the surface of the river, recovering bodies trapped in the wreckage. Every minute more bodies were being brought ashore. ‘And not only here at Woolwich,’ he said, ‘but all along the river. It seems that many were taken by the tide. We’ve had word that bodies have been recovered much further downriver. We’re making arrangements for them to be brought here as soon as possible.’
Abbie asked how one could go about searching at the present time and in reply he told her that temporary mortuaries had been opened at various places in the town. Some bodies were lying in the town hall, some in the local offices of the London Steamship Company and others at a nearby public house, the Ship and Half Moon. Others, he said, were lying in further-off places such as Barking, Erith and Rainham.
He handed her a piece of paper and a pencil, and from the information he gave she made some brief notes. When she had finished he in turn took down details and descriptions of those she was searching for. Now her work here was done, and she thanked him for his kindness and his help, and went out onto the busy street again.
After getting directions from a passer-by, she set off for the town hall where she joined the other searchers thronging the building – and not only searchers, for the morbidly curious were also out in force. There were many there who had come merely for the entertainment of the sights to be seen, and Abbie had to push her way through them in order to get into the building.
Inside, a police constable showed her to a room on the ground floor. Converted into a temporary mortuary, heaps of straw had been brought in and spread upon the floor. Laid in a row on the straw were six bodies – two men, three women and a little girl of six or seven. All lay uncovered for possible identification. The room was crowded with people coming and going, one by one filing slowly past the bodies, gazing with dread at the dead faces. Like the others there Abbie, as she moved past, shrank from the horrors of the sights. Through the manner of their deaths, some of the faces were truly shocking and she had to steel herself to gaze fully upon them. Not only were the bodies saturated with the river water plastering their hair to their heads, but their skins had taken on a strange, unreal coppery hue that she had never seen before. Worse than this, though, the faces of some of the dead adults were distorted beyond belief, their dreadful facial contortions fixed for ever in death. With relief Abbie made her way out again into the warm September air and, gaining directions from a passer-by, set off at once for the public house, the Ship and Half Moon.
The scene on her arrival was very much as at the town hall, and once again she almost had to force her way into the building. Watched over by a police constable, five bodies had been laid out – three women and two children – and Abbie joined the queue of people slowly filing past, all with the terrible fear that here at last they would find the dear ones whom they sought.
It was when Abbie drew level with the second corpse that she came to a stop, one hand moving to her throat.
She had met the girl so briefly, but she was quite sure that the body lying before her was that of Emma’s young nurse, Flora. She could see her again as she had stood on the deck the day before, wearing her neat blue and white uniform and holding Emma by the hand. Now the sight of the poor girl lying dead before her made her feel a little faint. She turned and moved on, looked quickly at the other three bodies lying there and stumbled out once more into the sunshine.
The London Steamship Company’s Woolwich offices were situated on Roff’s Wharf, where in the company’s boardroom another makeshift mortuary had been made. Here there was a total, so far, of nineteen bodies laid out side by side: nine women, six men and four children. As before, Abbie joined the slow-moving line of people filing past.
Seconds later she came to a stop before the body of a young girl. She had been arrested by the sight of the girl’s clothing. Although several hours’ immersion in the filthy river water had taken its toll, Abbie could not fail to recognize the red tartan costume, and on the now sodden hair the little red cap that was still secured. Abbie had a sudden vision of the girl as she had last seen her with her twin sister and their friends on the Gravesend pier. In her memory she heard again their good-natured, raucous laughter. The girl had been the very picture of life and energy and happiness. Now she lay dead in the straw, her cheap, fashionable clothes shapeless and bedraggled; her once pretty face hideously twisted and discoloured.
Averting her eyes from the dreadful sight, Abbie turned away. The next moment her heart was leaping in her breast while the blood drained from her face.
Like the others, the man lay on his back in the straw. He wore a brown, high-buttoned frock coat trimmed with fawn braid. About his choker collar was a two-toned blue cravat. She could not see his face for it was turned away from her. For some moments she could not move, but then she steeled herself and stepped forward.
And . . . no, it was not Louis. The man was of Louis’s build and of about his age, but it was not he. And now she could see also that the cravat was not quite like the one Louis had been wearing. The dead man was some poor stranger – some other woman’s husband or lover.
Standing in the middle of the boardroom while the grieving men and women went by in their searching, she wondered how it could be that there were so few bodies recovered. There were nineteen bodies in the room, and a dozen or so that she had seen at the inn and the town hall – and apparently there were a further score lying in the more distant places that the sergeant had spoken of. But there had been at least eight hundred souls on board the steamer. Where were they now . . . ?
She moved on. Reaching the end of the room she turned and started back along the right-hand side, and eventually came to the last body but one lying in the straw. It was the body of a small girl. And as recognition came to her she staggered and gave a gasp while tears sprang to her eyes. There was little about the child’s sodden clothes that was particularly distinguishing – the blue dress with the embroidered bodice, the straw hat still on her head, the ribbon under her chin. Unlike that of many of the others lying there, however, Emma’s face was a picture of peace; there was no distortion there; the only thing awry was her hair – once so curly and bright, it now lay plastered to her cheeks. Had Abbie been in the slightest doubt that it was Emma she had only to look at the dead child’s right hand. Attached to it by a string still wound around her wrist was a little toy wooden horse.
With a cry of anguish she took her gaze from the terrible sight and, throwing a glance at the last body in the line, stumbled out into the sunlight. At the roadside she stood hugging herself, her head hanging, the tears pouring down her cheeks. Emma . . .
Gradually her tears lessened and she glanced about, taking in the scene around her again. The wharf was crowded with people milling about, some of whom seemed to be in a state of near collapse while others were clearly there only as spectators of the misery and the drama. She felt weak; her knees seemed to have no strength in them. Moving unsteadily along the wharf a little way she came to a stop and stood gazing out over the river. A steamboat sailed slowly past, her flag at half-mast, on her decks people crowding at the rail to view the scene of the recent disaster. Much of the surface of the water was still covered with bonnets, hats, bags and articles of clothing, bobbing up and down on the swell. There was no sign of any part of the steamboat, though in the centre of the river where it had gone down a barge was anchored with tugs alon
gside. That must be where the divers were working, she thought, where they were trying to bring up the bodies from the river bed. And even as she stood there she saw the body of a woman being pulled out of the water and laid in one of the tugs.
‘Abbie . . .’
A man’s voice was calling to her.
She turned her head at the sound. And saw Arthur coming towards her through the crowd.
‘Arthur . . .’
She spun, and with a cry ran towards him. He took her in his arms and held her, and giving herself up to her relief at finding him alive she clung to him, weeping against his shoulder. ‘Oh, Arthur . . . Arthur . . .’
Looking up at him she saw pain and misery in his eyes, the same haunted look that she had seen in the eyes of hundreds of people she had passed that day. He looked haggard and drawn, too, as if he had not slept.
‘Jane,’ she said, and gave a hysterical little laugh, ‘– she’s safe. She’s safe. Did you know?’
‘Safe?’ He closed his eyes, throwing back his head. ‘Safe . . . Oh, thank God.’ Tears of relief ran down his cheeks and, seeing them, Abbie knew that very soon he must have his brief happiness dashed away, for he must learn of Emma’s death.
They stood there together, she leaning against him, his arms around her, his chin against her forehead. After a while he let fall his arms and said sorrowfully, ‘I went to the pub where some of the bodies have been taken – the Ship and Half Moon. Flora – Emma’s little nurse. She’s dead.’
‘Yes, I know. I saw her there. I thought I recognized her.’
‘I’ve just been to inform the authorities – to give formal identification of her. Oh, Abbie, she was the sweetest young girl. Her family – they’ll be devastated. What a dreadful thing this is.’ Abbie said nothing. After a little silence he went on, ‘I haven’t long been back in the town. I got off the train just an hour ago. I managed to get ashore last night, and a kind old gentleman took me in and gave me dry clothes. But then I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking that if Jane and Emma were all right they might have gone on home. So that’s what I did. I managed to get a train and then a cab, and got home eventually. But they were not there, of course. I sat up all night, waiting. But they didn’t come.’ He remained silent for a moment, then turned and looked apprehensively towards the building of the Steamboat Company. ‘They tell me there are more – more bodies there in the boardroom. And more still at the town hall.’ There was a look of fear in his eyes. He took a half-step away. ‘I must go and – and look and . . .’
‘Arthur . . .’ She reached out and clutched at his arm.
He frowned, and looking down at her saw something in her face that brought fear starting in his eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘Arthur – wait . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘Oh, God . . . I don’t know how – how to tell you . . .’
‘What is it?’
While she tried to frame words he said softly, ‘It’s not Emma, is it?’
She could not speak, but her silence told all.
‘Emma,’ he said softly. ‘You’re telling me it’s my little girl.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Abbie accompanied Arthur, who seemed stunned with grief, into the boardroom of the Steamboat Company’s offices and waited while he formally identified Emma’s body. Then, outside on the street again, as if in a dream, he stood by while Abbie summoned a cab. His overriding anxiety now was to see Jane. When a cab came to a halt beside them he prepared to help Abbie inside, but she stood back, urging him to go on without her.
‘You go on alone,’ she said. ‘Go on and be with Jane. I’ll join you later. I’m going to try to get to Rainham. There are more – more bodies there – carried there by the tide.’
The small village of Rainham was situated on the north side of the river. Isolated by surrounding marshes, it was accessible only by the river itself or, once on its shore, by taking a very long and circuitous walk. Abbie chose the more direct route and, going back to the wharf, hired a boatman to take her across.
On the opposite bank the man tied up his craft, helped her ashore and assured her that he would wait for her return. On making enquiries in the village she was directed to the Rainham Ferry public house where, she was told, eight bodies were lying.
Although the village’s inaccessibility made reaching it relatively difficult, nevertheless it was receiving a steady stream of visitors searching for lost loved ones. Abbie was surprised at the numbers arriving there to view the bodies. The dead, lying side by side in an outhouse at the rear of the public house, were six women, one man and one baby boy. Unlike at the other temporary mortuaries, the faces of the corpses had been washed to aid identification. Abbie needed only one look at them to see that they were all strangers and then left. Minutes later she was sitting in the dinghy again, being rowed back to the southern shore.
By the time she arrived back at the Union workhouse she felt exhausted. As she entered she was met by Dr Rice who told her how relieved he was that Mrs Gilmore’s husband was among the survivors and, furthermore, had arrived at his wife’s side. How tragic it was, however, he added, that their small daughter had been found among the dead.
Moments later, looking into the females’ ward of the infirmary, Abbie could see Arthur sitting at Jane’s side, holding her weeping in his arms. It was clear that she had been given the news she had so dreaded. Abbie tried to imagine her feelings – relief and joy at finding that Arthur was safe, but heartbroken at the news he had brought. Abbie turned from the sight; this was no time to make her presence known to them.
As she moved from the doorway, Miss Wilkinson came by. Glancing into the ward she gave a nod and sighed. ‘Yes,’ she murmured softly, ‘Mrs Gilmore’s just been told about her little girl.’ She shook her head then looked at Abbie with questions in her eyes. ‘And how are you, Mrs Randolph?’
‘I’m all right,’ Abbie replied. ‘I’ve just been out, searching. And I must go back. Tomorrow. Perhaps later today. I shall keep going back.’
That afternoon journalists came to interview some of the survivors. One reporter, a middle-aged, sandy-haired man from The Times, told Abbie that another dozen or more bodies had been recovered from the river at slack of ebb and laid out with those lying in the boardroom of the Steamboat Company’s offices. Still more bodies, he added, had fetched up at Erith and Rainham. To her relief, he said that to facilitate identification all the bodies were to be taken to one central point – the dockyard pier at Woolwich – and that the removal of them would be made by military ambulances that night under cover of darkness. The man went on to say that an inquest was being opened that afternoon at the Woolwich Town Hall.
Apart from the journalists who came seeking sensational stories of courage and escape, there came many friends and relations of those still missing, all with the desperate hope that those they sought would be among the few lying in the wards of the infirmary.
The inmates of the infirmary were a varied gathering, and in various states of health, ranging from those suffering from shock to others who had been quite severely injured in different ways. The elderly woman, Abbie learned, was a Mrs Childs. Over sixty years of age, it was a miracle that she had been saved from the water. She was, however, now suffering from acute bronchitis, brought on by her immersion. She lay in her bed, eyes closed all the while, her breath rasping in her lungs.
In the males’ section of the infirmary, Abbie learned from Arthur, the little dark-haired boy had still not spoken a single word, neither spontaneously nor in response to anything that was said to him. His rather sallow skin had led some to believe that he might be foreign and the doctor had tried speaking to him a few words of French. The little boy had responded by bursting into tears.
Not every story appeared so tragic, however. Abbie witnessed a moving scene that afternoon as a young man came into the ward and, seeing there a middle-aged woman, a newcomer, cried out, ‘Mother – oh, Mother!’ and ran to her and wrapped her
in his arms. To add to the woman’s joy, he had brought with him a letter from his father telling her that he too had been saved. There, at least, Abbie observed, was one story with a happy ending.
That night Abbie lay in the quiet of the infirmary ward. Turning her head, she looked to the right and in the faint glow of the gas lamp saw Jane lying in the next bed. She appeared to be sleeping, albeit fretfully. Arthur had been given a bed in the men’s ward. Tomorrow, he had told Abbie, after making arrangements for the removal of Emma’s body, he and Jane would be going home.
Earlier in the day, while Arthur had been out trying to deal with official matters concerning Emma’s death, Abbie had spent time with Jane. But there had been nothing that she had been able to say that could give comfort.
In the morning, at the first opportunity after breakfast, Arthur was there to see Jane again. The bruising she had suffered still gave her a good deal of discomfort and the doctor advised that she should remain in the infirmary for another two or three days. However she was adamant that she wanted to leave. Abbie could not blame her; she herself could not wait to get away from the depressing environs of the workhouse with its ambience of grief and loss.
Abbie was ready to leave soon after Arthur’s arrival in the ward and, having borrowed a sum of money from him to cover expenses and other necessities, left the building. Outside she bought a copy of the Morning Post and stood reading it while waiting for a fly to take her into Woolwich.
According to the newspaper fewer than a hundred souls had been saved. A list was given of their names along with the names of those bodies so far recovered and identified. Confirming what The Times journalist had told her, the newspaper reported that all unidentified bodies could, from Thursday morning, be viewed in one of the drill sheds at the North Woolwich dockyard pier. It was also stated that photographs were to be taken of bodies recovered that had so far remained unidentified; with decomposition proceeding apace they needed to be buried, whether or not they had been named.