Lusitania Lost

by Leonard Carpenter

  Winnie in particular felt carefree and a bit flirtatious, and she knew that her lighthearted banter showed it. Whether it was the attentiveness of the reporters–especially this charming boy Flash, who’d taken such a shine to her–or just leaving old North America behind and venturing out into the wide-open vistas of a broader world, she found it liberating.

  Not that her home was a bad place. Concord, New Hampshire combined the advantages of city and small-town life. But it was a bit too small-townish for her. The staid Puritan values, complacent morality, all that neighborliness and prudish gossip, made Winifred Dexter impatient for something more real. As for the town’s name—well, there wasn’t much Concord in the world lately, so she gathered. Discord, to the contrary, was the order of the day, complete with war and its profiteers, marauding Huns and poor suffering refugees.

  Winnie couldn’t just ignore the larger reality, this new menace. Instead she felt she had to understand and deal with it. If that meant going over there and becoming part of the great tragedy, to try and change things, so be it.

  For now she could enjoy her newfound freedom. The spring day felt so fresh, with a westerly breeze gently urging them along, that there was no need to shelter down below on the Shelter Deck.

  “There’s Liberty again, still waving,” Flash said to her, beaming his boyish smile. He tugged softly at her arm as the ship’s stern cleared the now-miniature statue.

  “Goodbye to Liberty!” Winnie called out, waving back. To Flash she added in a whisper, “And hello, United Nursing Service League!” By rolling her eyes back over her shoulder, she indicated Hildegard. The head nurse was still engaged in conversation with her new European acquaintance, the dapper Dutch merchant.

  Flash laughed in sympathy. “I know what you mean. My boss is along too. But look.”

  Placing careful, respectful hands on Winnie’s shoulders, the young news hound adjusted her position to face forward with the ship. “Here comes the Royal Navy, already keeping its eye on us.”

  A warship was closing with their course. Now Flash readied his camera, stepping up on a cable mount to take a picture. The ship was the first of three vessels whose approach was pinpointed by smoke plumes off the port bow. The two-stacker in the lead flew a large, stately Union Jack from its masthead. But the pattern on its hull was a crazed array of stripes, checks and angles in blue and gray tones, like the most modern cubist paintings.

  Winnie looked on in surprise. “What is that paint job?”

  “It’s called dazzle paint,” Flash explained, stepping down from his perch. “It’s wartime camouflage.”

  He lowered his voice as if to keep from frightening the other nurses, who were deep in conversation with Matt.

  “In fog or battle smoke, those bright, sharp angles hide where the ship begins and ends. It’s supposed to make it tough to target guns or torpedoes at her.”

  “Again, why not give the Lusitania some camouflage?” Winnie said, matching his muted tone. “What ship is it, I wonder? I can’t see any name on the prow.”

  “Actually, it’s a passenger liner like ours.” He leaned close to her, propping an arm against the rail. “The Caronia, if I’m not mistaken. Converted to a cruiser last August, when the war broke out.”

  “You mean, it’s Cunard Line’s Caronia, from our very same shipping company?” Winnie resolutely kept the topic on business, though very much aware of her male companion’s nearness. “They ought to rename her the Zebra, with that paint. Is she going to be our escort?”

  “No, I doubt it,” Flash said. “Not this far from the war zone. She’s probably just patrolling New York harbor.”

  “Why? To guard it from submarines?” Suddenly reminded of the danger, Winnie scanned the water around them for periscopes.

  “No, just to keep the German ships from leaving.”

  “What German ships?” Winnie felt scandalized at the idea. “Do we let German warships in our ports?”

  “Not warships, no. And the German merchants almost never show up anymore, with the British blockading the continent.” Leaning in close, Flash set out to explain. “There are some German liners that we just sailed past, docked right back there in Hoboken. They’re interned by the US government because they could be converted to cruisers just like this British one here. Technically, all of them now are warships under command of the German High Seas Fleet. If they ever do get up steam and try to leave, these armed Royal Navy ships are ready to sink or capture them.”

  “We’d let the British do that, in our waters?” Winnie asked. She didn’t want to argue with Flash, but she didn’t see the justice of it. “Not that the lousy Boches don’t deserve it,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Well, the Royal Navy stays just outside our three-mile limit. So we can’t stop them, not unless we want to fight. This is open sea.”

  Florence, who had been listening in, piped up with a protest, “That doesn’t seem fair. Does America have any British or French ships interned?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Flash sighed and turned to her. “What happened is this. The Caronia was a passenger liner in New York last August. She received a coded message that war was about to be declared, and she left port before anyone else knew of it. She made it home to England to have her guns fitted, get the fancy paint job and all that. Now she’s back as a Royal Navy ship blockading New York harbor. The German liners didn’t get away from port in time, so they’re stuck.”

  “But they let the Lusitania come and go,” Winnie said a bit mischievously.

  “Yes, they do!” Florence’s small stylish heel stamped the deck. “We’re standing right on a British liner that could just as easily be made into a cruiser, too…couldn’t it? Her sister ship was, wasn’t it? That’s definitely not fair.”

  “Yes, but…technically, she’s still a passenger ship.” Flash took a long breath. “It’s all about the rules of engagement.”

  He obviously found it hard to explain naval doctrine, even at close quarters and with such charming debaters. But he went on.

  “The real story is that our ship, the Lusi, burns too much coal—twenty-some trainloads of it, just for a one-way trip to England. She’s too expensive for this kind of patrol duty. So they enlarged her cargo hold instead and returned her to passenger and freight service.”

  “Well, fine. But doesn’t the Mauretania burn just as much coal?” Winnie turned to him as she delivered her next salvo. “Lusitania’s a cruiser too, and she’s just as big and fast, or even faster. I thought speed was a good thing for navy ships.”

  “Yes but with no armor above or below the waterline, she can’t stand up in a fight.”

  “Neither can the Mauretania, then!”

  “Sorry, Win, you’ll have to ask the Captain about that one. You’ve got me stumped.” Flash gave up with a shrug. “Look, they’ve lowered a boat while we’ve been talking.”

  He moved aside and snapped another picture, catching the crew of jolly white-clad British tars on the job. Toiling at the oars in the ocean swells, they didn’t look quite so jolly.

  “Feels like we reversed our engines to meet them,” he added. “We’ve stopped. I wonder what’s up.”

  Steadying themselves against the rail as the two ships slowed and wallowed together in the ocean swells, they watched the launch row up and exchange mailbags with Lusitania’s foredeck.

  Their own Captain Turner, a squat seamanlike figure in his blue coat and white hat, came out on the portside wing of the command bridge to wave. He hailed across through a speaking trumpet to the Caronia, but his words couldn’t be heard astern, and no sailors came aboard or left their ship. It was all a mystery.

  “Just exchanging mail, I guess,” Flash said. “RMS Lusitania stands for Royal Mail Ship.”

  “How interesting,” Winnie said with a yawn. Standing close to Flash, but not too close, she took care to observe her own rule
s of engagement.

  * * *

  After the mail transfer, with Lusitania picking up speed and Long Island dwindling away to port, the party broke up. They’d missed lunch; but since their departure had been so late, Hazel thought something might still be had in the second-class dining salon.

  Hildegard’s new friend, Mr. Kroger from Holland, shoved off soon after the British blockader did. Now, seeming suddenly to regret having left her girls to the mercy of the Daily Inquisitor staff, the chief nurse led them away below deck.

  At their departure, Matthew Vane felt almost relieved. Alma, the main focus of his interest, had wholly withdrawn from their chat, and the younger nurses’ eager questions and gossip had for once overloaded his reporter’s patient ears.

  “What a bunch of babes,” Flash remarked to him as they headed forward. “Even the old one is still in circulation.”

  “You don’t seem to be having a tough time taking your pick,” Vane said.

  “Nah,” his assistant confessed. “That Winnie is a peach. The girl has a head on her shoulders—and what shoulders, so nice and soft! Seven days to England should be fairly interesting.”

  Matt said, “I’ve got to get the blonde, Alma, alone. She could be a useful source.” He knew there was more to it, but then, he’d never seen any real need for detachment in his job. On the contrary, passion for the news was a better guide. “Those two young sisters, now, it’s a shame to think of sending them off anywhere near the front. Imagine what they might run into over there! And your friend too, Winifred, is it? I hope she’s as tough as she sounds. But that Alma—she doesn’t say much, but she’s been around the block. I know she’ll have a story or two for me from her time with Hogan. Purely professional interest, of course,” he added, smiling inwardly.

  “Yeah, sure!” Flash said as he headed off to find the First Class eatery.

  Matt returned to their cabin, or rather, their suite. He’d had to start a war of his own to get a First Class booking from the Daily Inquisitor. It cost him as well, but he needed the space for his photographer and to secure his own gear and papers. He set about unpacking, arranging their belongings between the two rooms, and making sure all the manuscripts, passports, letters of introduction and banknotes were locked away.

  His so-called Saloon Class accommodations were all that Cunard promised, lavish as anything else on the Atlantic. Matt paid only passing attention to the decor—the creamy-looking paneled ceilings laid out in gilded ovals and rectangles, the mahogany furniture and silk hangings over doors and portholes. The rooms had been designed to attract wealthy passengers in an era of what his writer friend Thorstein Veblen had famously called “conspicuous consumption.” RMS Lusitania marked the high point of a quite literally Gilded Age.

  The decorative feature that Matt valued most was their private bathroom. But the bedroom too, when sealed off with wartime blackout curtains over the windows, promised to be serviceable as a darkroom.

  As he finished tidying, a sharp knock came at the outer door. Matt opened it, expecting to see a uniformed steward. Instead there stood a large, mustached man in a tan tweed suit. The gray homburg hat in his hand was shiny in places with long use.

  “Excuse me, Soor, are you the ticketed occupant—Mr. Vane, is it? Might I come in?” The man’s northern Brit accent was thick and none too cultivated.

  Matt stood fast in the doorway. “And who might you be?”

  “Detective-Inspector William J. Pierpoint, Soor, on detachment from the Liverpool Police.” The big man touched his hat brim with one finger. “You should know this ship is British territory. I’ve been assigned to keep an eye on things during the voyage.”

  Matt grinned and moved back to let the man in. “Ship’s detective, huh? Well, I guess with all the war doings, you must be busier than ever.” He extended his hand as Pierpoint stepped over the raised doorsill. “I’m Matt Vane, reporter for the New York Inquisitor. My job used to include the police beat. Can I call you Bill?”

  “Pierpoint will do.” The handshake was beefy, powerful but careless. “Mr. Vane, I’m told that you’ve been taking pictures around the ship, and my job is to enforce security.” Still wearing his hat, Pierpoint looked around the parlor. “Might I see your camera?”

  “What?” Matt stalled him, thinking fast. “Nope, sorry, my assistant has it with him. He’s off somewhere just now. What’s the matter, has there been a complaint?”

  Pierpoint waved a large hand dismissively. “We’ll be sailing into a war zone, and there may be vessels or installations that are secret. I’ll have to ask you to keep any photography strictly to passenger areas, interiors and so forth.”

  “Well, sure,” Matt said. “Always glad to oblige. Anything else?”

  Pierpoint took his time while moving about the cabin, which was too roomy for Matt to block off with his body. The ship had a slight roll, and the cop used it to amble around the place like a sailor. By casually shoving the inner door wide, he managed a look into the bedroom. He finally paused at a sideboard where Matt had set out the morning news.

  “The Daily Inquisitor,” Pierpoint observed, picking it up. “That’s a Socialist paper, isn’t it? I see here they’ve announced today’s May Day rally in New York’s Central Park. Too bad you missed it. Are you a socialist agitator, Mr. Vane?”

  “I just report the news,” Matt said carefully. “It’s best to avoid any political bias.”

  “Oh, aye. We have our Social Democrats in London, and a few out on the Liverpool docks.” Pierpoint squared on Matt. “They stir things up, talking against the war, pushing for strikes and the like. Just a lot of German sympathizers if you ask me.” He pronounced the nationality Joor-man.

  “No sympathies here, old chap.” Keeping his irritation in check, Matt managed a shrug.

  “What about these Bolsheviks who’re making trouble for our Russian allies and the Czar? Are you in league with them?”

  Matt felt himself turning red, though not necessarily Communist red. “I’m a neutral…an American, remember, the kind that Cunard Lines likes to have as passengers.”

  At this jab to his employer, Pierpoint looked almost offended. “There are a good many Joor-man sympathizers in America, I know that. And plenty of them are active Joor-man agents as well.”

  “Yes, and a lot of just plain Germans too,” Matt said. “The agents, I might add, are all trying to stop my country’s massive support for your country’s war effort. But without much success, so far.” Matt resolved to be patient with this stubborn British Bobbie. “Tell me, really, what’s the problem? Sit down if you want.” He waved toward a plush, green-patterned Louis-the-Something settee, but the big copper remained standing on the carpeted deck.

  Matt went on, “I know the Germans have been claiming there are guns mounted on the Lusitania, but frankly I haven’t seen or heard of any—sounds like baloney to me. What is it that’s going on, spy stuff?”

  Pierpoint reddened a little and looked exasperated, but he finally spilled. “Just after leaving port we caught three stowaways, all Germans, hiding out in a kitchen pantry aft. They had a camera, the newest sort with a film roll inside, and had already taken some pictures. Until we get the film developed in port, who knows what they were after?”

  This last question had a ring of untruth, but Matt said nothing.

  “Do you know anything about it?” the detective pressed him with a challenging look.

  “No, I don’t even speak German. But if it’s photo developing you need…” Matt added, smelling a story.

  “Too late, I’m afraid,” Pierpoint said with an almost regretful tone. “We handed off the camera and film to the blockade ship Caronia to send back to New York.”

  “Nobody went over with them,” Matt recalled. “So the stows must still be on board? What’s their story?”

  “They’re in the brig. They’ll be interrogated in Liverpool. They�
�re not saying much, not even in German.” Pierpoint removed his Homburg and scratched his pomaded scalp. “But you know, there could be other agents on board that we didn’t catch.”

  Matt was considering. “You mean to say, if they got the picture they wanted out to the press, or to the German embassy, it could be used to justify some kind of attack on this ship?”

  “That’s why I want you to be careful with that camera of yours,” Pierpoint said. “You’d best turn it over to me for safekeeping.”

  “But there are no guns aboard, aren’t there?” Matt evaded. “No troops, and no contraband cargo, I’m sure,” he innocently added. “So what could be the problem?”

  “Just you have a care, Mr. Vane, Soor.” Pierpoint donned his hat and turned to leave. “Keep your eyes and ears open for the good of this ship, and keep me informed. How do you Yanks say it? …we’re all in the same boo-at.”

  He glanced back from the door. “And don’t forget, I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

  Chapter 6

  Code Breakers

  Admiral Reginald “Blinker” Hall was late getting across to the Old Building at the Admiralty in London. Many of his days ran late; as Director of Naval Intelligence in wartime, he was expected at every port of call. But he controlled the demands on his time, striding the dark-paneled ancient corridors without undue haste. It was wise to keep irregular hours now and again, just to take your minions by surprise—and maybe your enemies, too. He felt confident that Room 40 would be fully active, even this late on a Saturday afternoon.

  As a very recent recruit to this intelligence role, appointed by First Sea Lord Churchill at the outbreak of hostilities last August, he was yet no rank beginner. His father had held the same post in decades past. Reggie was literally bred to this spy game, long before he’d earned his Admiralty rating as a skilled sea captain.