by Joan Lock
‘He’s slept most of the day and now chooses to wake up!’ the fellow exclaimed when Best lent a hand in engaging the boy’s attention by dangling his silver watch and chain and allowing him to grasp and examine it with utmost concentration.
‘It wasn’t this crowded on the way up,’ said Best, making polite conversation. ‘Where have all these people come from?’
‘The other boats,’ the man replied. ‘They like to come back on the Princess ’cos she keeps better time on the home stretch,’ he explained, pulling his overcoat around him. ‘Besides,’ he smiled, ‘the Alice is favourite, ain’t she? Smarter altogether.’
Despite the boat’s superior speed, the journey was now becoming tedious, thought Best, and it was chilly. Perhaps he would get off at North Woolwich and take a train the rest of the way.
He shivered. Had he realized he was going for a jaunt on the river he would have brought his overcoat.
‘Think I’ll go below,’ he said. ‘It’ll be crowded but at least it’ll be a bit warmer.’
The band was receiving some spirited opposition from a large group of middle-aged and elderly ladies on the centre of the foredeck. They were singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ with great gusto.
Best got up, smiled and nodded at the family group. Even the lively toddler had begun to fade now and the mother’s head was also slipping sideways.
He was about to go down the stairs to the lower saloon when he saw Martha, sitting in a lonely niche beside the paddle box. She was leaning forward, her elbows tight into her sides. Her hands were screwed into balls and she was sobbing bitterly. Best hesitated. Then shivered again. He was in need of a hot toddy and the comforts of a warm saloon bar. But he hesitated again, sighed, shrugged, and sat down beside her.
*
‘I could find you a pie tray,’ offered Alfredo helpfully. ‘Tasty meat and potato.’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ said the worried young constable gratefully. Then he had second thoughts about venturing into this more substantial end of the food business. He might look less suspicious with the tray than just loitering around, but wouldn’t it be unusual to be selling such wares in such a spot at such a time?
Doubts about the efficiency of his day-long observations on number seven had also begun to set in. Could he have missed Best leaving and his return? Surely not? But he might have been diverted while reaching for some penny lick glasses as trade became brisk or bending down to hand them to beguiling tots. He liked children and tended to give them his full attention. Could that have been his undoing?
But he had to do something to sort out this dilemma. He decided to act decisively. Best had always told him that you could go anywhere and do anything without worrying about looking suspicious as long as you looked as though you should be doing what you were doing and had a convincing excuse ready if you were challenged.
So now, out of sight of 7 John Street, Smith removed his white apron, his cap and his red neckerchief, put on his black jacket and bowler, combed his fair side-whiskers and stood up to his full impressive height. He looked a different man. ‘Your decent, upright and honest look is your best disguise’ Best had always teased him. ‘That, and the innocent, boyish look in your eye.’ So Smith stopped frowning and put on a half smile, rounded the corner into John Street and approached number seven.
‘I never realized what was goin’ on!’ Martha sobbed. ‘An’ when I did – it was too late!’
When Best had sat down beside her he’d expected he would have to provide explanations for his action. Instead he had instinctively touched her arm and looked sympathetic and everything had come tumbling out unbidden.
‘That baby-farming they was singing about on the way up,’ she gulped. ‘Then those hymns just now! I didn’t mean to be bad – I just needed the money for my baby!’
‘What is it that’s going on?’ Best asked quietly.
‘They’re killing them babies!’ she cried.
Her exclamation penetrated over competition from the clunking paddles above her, the jollifications of the nearby band and the joyous, ‘Yes, Jesus loves you!’ emanating from the Bible class and caused other passengers to glance around sharply.
Best patted her hand soothingly, adopted a sad, rueful half-smile and gave a gentle shake of his head, indicating to onlookers that Martha was drunk. It seemed to be an increasingly common failing in working-class women these days so the other passengers merely shook their heads at this further sign of the continuing degradation of the female sex.
‘Just take a deep breath,’ he instructed in his most commanding but fatherly fashion. Hailing as he did from a half-Italian family, his English side was more than used to coping with dramatic behaviour. ‘Now,’ he said quietly but firmly, ‘tell me all about it.’
She did. She told him everything.
‘Good evening,’ said Smith, raising his hat and flashing as wide-open and innocent a smile as he could muster. ‘You must be Mrs O’Connor.’
‘That, I am,’ the lady replied. ‘And who might you be?’
‘I’m Ernest Best’s cousin,’ he replied. ‘Come up to see the Mohawk Minstrels at the Aggy and just stopping by to say hello. Is he in?’
She shook her head. ‘Usually, he would be. But aren’t you just out of luck today. He dashed out this morning without so much as an “I’m going then, goodbye”, and we haven’t seen sight nor sound of him since.’
‘That’s not like Ernest,’ said Smith shaking his head with concern. ‘Not a bit like him.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ rejoined Mrs O’Connor. ‘That’s my opinion, too.’
‘Is he all right, do you think?’ Smith asked, unconsciously adopting the vaguely interrogative Irish manner. ‘He’s not been at all well, you know.’
‘I think he must be better. Don’t you? Dashing about like a madman. So maybe it’s a good sign, after all.’
‘Yes, yes maybe.’ Smith smiled warmly. What a nice woman. He was uncertain what to do next and Mrs O’Connor seemed about to close the door.
‘Tell him John George called will you?’
‘I will. I will.’
The door was almost shut when she hesitated and said, ‘Now why don’t you call back after you’ve been to your show? He’ll be in for supper, no doubt. He enjoys his food, that one.’
‘Well, thank you, Mrs O’Connor. I’ll certainly do that if I can.’
The Princess Alice was now following the long curve of the Thames northwards as they approached Tripcock Point. Ahead, the surging flares of Beckton Gasworks intermittently lit up the gathering dusk. To the left, over the misty marshes, glimmered the distant lights of Woolwich. A large, Cardiff-bound collier passed to their right followed by a tug going so fast that, Best noticed, the barge it was pulling was lifting out of the water.
As they rounded the Point into Gallions Reach they swung outward towards the north bank to avoid a huge, red-painted powder barge, the Talbot, and the row of colliers, moored near the south bank.
The band were rounding off this part of their programme with a jolly polka, ‘Good Rhine wine’. There was much hearty singing along and some young ladies were even attempting to dance to the lively tune but finding it difficult to get going on such a crowded deck. One of the laughing dancers was very fair and delicately pretty, reminding Best of Helen’s young sister, Matilda. She wore a pink bonnet trimmed with a deeper pink cluster of flowers which kept bouncing as she moved. Best smiled at such high spirits. A couple just beneath the port-side paddle box made no attempt to join in the jollity. They were too busy having a bitter row.
As for Best, he was content. He had his evidence and a splendid witness, providing Martha did not renege on him. Even if she did, matters had moved much further forward and this business would shortly be over. He could return and be with Helen. He smiled as he imagined their long-awaited reunion. It would all come right he felt sure, his natural optimism returning. His day had been worthwhile after all.
The band cease
d playing, leaving only the rhythmical pounding of the engines and swish of the paddles to fill the gap. All but one musician had gone below. Only the double bass player was waiting at the top of the stairs until there was room enough for him and his bulky instrument to descend.
Suddenly there was a commotion up front.
‘Ease her!’ a man’s voice was shouting urgently. ‘Stop her!’ Then, frantically, ‘Where are you coming to? Good God! Where are you coming to?’
The steam whistle screeched out a long warning and passengers began to scream.
Best rushed forward where, to his amazement, like a towering cliff hanging above him was a huge, red, ship’s hull. Louder and even more frantic yells from many other voices did nothing to stay the large ship’s progress. She smashed straight into the side of the Princess Alice, just forward of the starboard paddle box where Best and Martha had been sitting.
The initial impact was oddly soft. ‘Like a hand pushing through a bandbox’ someone said later. Then, with a terrible crunching and grinding the invading hull met the Princess Alice’s engine-room framework.
The crashing and splintering of saloon windows and the smashing of saloon glasses and ornaments was overlaid by the repeated wailing and screeching from the vessels’ warning whistles and the dreadful and endless screams of terror from the passengers.
The front of the Princess Alice began to tip forward and to the left. Best tried to maintain his balance then tried to run back up towards the paddle box and Martha, but was driven back as a great gush of scalding steam shot out from the engine room with an ominous roar as the water rushed in.
The foredeck was now standing almost upright alongside the invading hull. As Best was propelled downwards past the ship’s bow chains he leaped sideways and managed to grab at one of the huge links – just as the Princess Alice broke in two beneath him and the screech of her whistle was finally silenced by the rushing water.
The chain links were large and Best’s grip precarious. He wedged part of his left foot into the loop, rammed his back into it in a twisted stance then tried to drag in his right leg and the rest of his body.
Suddenly, the big ship shuddered, the chain swung forward and began tipping him downwards towards the grinding, thrashing maelstrom beneath. He clung on for dear life, desperately shoving his wrists and forearms in the links and thrusting his whole body backwards so that it curved into the loop.
The chain stopped swinging and settled back. Best pulled out his arms one by one, leaving pieces of skin behind. He dragged his right leg back on to the chains, got a grip with his feet and, with a last tremendous effort, struggled upwards to where the chain entered the eyehole in the ship’s side.
Hands reached down to haul him on board where he lay exhausted. When he managed to drag himself to his feet he stared wide-eyed in horror at the ghastly scene below.
Hundreds of people were in the water, struggling for life. They were packed so close that as they struck out wildly to save themselves they pushed others under.
Some managed to grab the ropes thrown over the side of the vessel and were trying desperately to cling on. Men on the deck attempted to pull the ropes up but they were too heavy and some of the people began to fall off. More clung to a rope ladder but when they began climbing up it gave way under the weight and they were thrown back into the water.
Of the Princess Alice, the pleasure steamer that had carried them all, there was no longer sight nor sound. All Best could hear were the heart-rending cries.
‘Help!’
‘Save me! Save me!’
‘My baby! My baby!’
In the background the continuing wail of the big ship’s warning whistle echoed like a dirge over the water and the desolate marshes beyond.
Chapter Nine
‘Help us!’ yelled one of the sailors breathlessly. ‘For God’s sake help us!’
They were dashing about throwing lifebelts, planks and ladders over the side.
‘Anything that will float!’ the crewman yelled, as he grabbed a hen coop and tipped out its occupants.
Best found a carpenter’s bench, lifted it up and threw it over – trying to aim for one of the gaps now opening up among the bobbing heads, but he closed his eyes as it fell.
‘We must get these out,’ shouted another crewman, chopping with a hatchet at a lifeboat’s lashings and canvas covers. Best turned to help haul an exhausted passenger over the rail and on to the deck from one of the ropes before rushing to assist with the loosening of the chocks holding a dinghy. When it was free they dropped it, too, over the side and he, with two other men, climbed down into it.
As they pushed clear and started to row, they were almost overwhelmed by exhausted and drowning passengers clutching at the oars and trying to drag themselves aboard, some falling back and going straight under – finished by this final effort.
Best leaned over and grasped a woman around the waist when her arms gave out. Instantly, his right shoulder was grabbed by another pair of hands and he began to topple sideways. To save himself he was forced to push the second person – another woman – away. She let go and went under but, too late to regain his balance, Best fell into the filthy, stinking water.
With the aid of one of the other rescuers he managed to drag himself and the first woman into the boat, almost capsizing it in the process. He couldn’t believe how hard he found the task. Of the second woman who had pulled him in, there was no longer any sign.
They had now saved seven people and the sides of their small craft were hung with several more who clung on desperately, pulling the dinghy down, dangerously low in the water, until it was almost swamped. There was no choice but to push two of them away so that they could row back with their pathetic cargo. Four more in the water hung on tenaciously. Two of these were pulled aboard one of the small rowing boats which had just reached the scene from nearby moored vessels and the river bank. The third managed to grab on to the floating bench Best had thrown overboard but the fourth’s grip broke and, with a last strangled gasp, he slid under the water.
As they bumped against the ship’s side, willing hands, now better organized with a ladder, pulled the seven survivors aboard. Best’s little crew went back for more from the now rapidly thinning, murky waters.
The other two men busied themselves in the middle of the dinghy while Best, at the prow, grabbed one young woman who was frantically attempting to keep herself afloat by thrashing and paddling. As he did so he spotted a middle-aged woman on the other side, seemingly about to give up. He strained across and managed to grab her as well. As he lay stretched out between the two he thought that at any moment he must be torn apart and was almost relieved when the older woman began slipping out of his grasp due to the slime on her clothes and arms.
‘Here, give me one of those,’ panted one of the young sailors. Between them they managed to haul both women aboard. They plucked off the man hanging on to the bench and two desperate sodden people still clinging on to the bottom of the ropes which festooned the sides of the vessel that he now knew to be the collier, Bywell Castle. Sailors had tried to persuade some to climb up the ropes but few had managed. None who had was a woman: they were too weighed down by their heavy wet skirts and insufficient strength in their arms.
By now they had their full load of seven and water was spilling over the sides.
‘For God’s sake, save the child!’ came a desperate cry.
Best recognized the gentleman he had been talking to as he played with the children. He rowed their overloaded boat the few yards to the man who struggled to lift the bedraggled and almost senseless small boy up to them. With the boy safely aboard, Best turned round but the man had gone.
It was time to retreat again to unload their wildly swaying and tilting craft. A sailing barge picked up the three passengers who had fastened themselves to the dinghy’s sides before they began to row towards the Woolwich shore.
Floating on the water around them was a heart-breaking layer of flotsam: shawls,
umbrellas, a toy trumpet and a scarlet toy locomotive and many, oh, so many, hats, including a pink bonnet with a deeper pink bunch of sodden flowers drooping over the brim.
The despairing cries of those they were unable to save would remain with Best for the rest of his life. As they rowed away the last cries began to fade and an unearthly silence settled over the river. The only sound came from the direction of the North Woolwich Pleasure Gardens – the distant strains of a gay, Strauss waltz.
Smith was fond of Best. The man had not only given him his chance to become a detective but also, by doing that, to meet the woman he had married. He also looked upon the sergeant as a sort of substitute father, his own being long gone, but at the same time he felt protective towards him.
Smith realized that as the result of the man’s volatile foreign ways Best was not always understood and appreciated as much as he should have been. As far as Smith was concerned, the Italian blood did occasionally cause him to behave irrationally by British standards, but it also gave him that liveliness and flair which Smith loved.
Smith also knew how Best felt about Helen. Was that where he was now – with Helen – unable to drag himself away? Had he thrown caution to the winds? Taken a chance he wouldn’t be found out? It was possible. He didn’t know, of course, that Smith had been instructed to report back to Cheadle that very evening when the Cheadles would be coming for supper.
Much as he would like to, he saw no way that he could cover his sergeant’s tracks. In any case, Best could be in danger and hiding the fact from his superiors could make things worse.
But what should he do now? It was a problem. To leave it and go back to John Street later would not be a good idea, he decided. Best had once told him that sometimes it is better to take some action, even if it turns out to be wrong. That was preferable than just letting things slide – not knowing what was going on – losing control of the situation. Smith was not sure he agreed but he took a deep breath and made another firm decision.