Lusitania Lost

by Leonard Carpenter

  “Well, Lippmann and Mencken, my writer colleagues, would have something to say about that. They’d probably argue along those same lines. But I’d still say that Americans, if they have access to all sides of a story, can form their own opinions.”

  “I hope you are correct in that, Matt.”

  They talked on for some minutes, a little light morning sparring. When he’d finished, having jotted down Kroger’s cabin number and his business address in the Netherlands, Matt went off in search of his secretary.

  * * *

  Alma had crossed through a passage to the sunny starboard promenade where morning games were in progress. She didn’t want to confine herself to the stateroom just yet on this bright day. And she knew that the first place for Matt to seek her should be, under what had become protocol for the nurses and their male protectors, the side of the ship directly opposite.

  In any event, rather than hiding away, she felt safer being seen and accepted here in the First Class milieu. As much as she feared exposure, a part of her dreaded solitude even more. Matt had already gone a long way toward restoring the pride and confidence she felt in male company. And now her need for his protection was growing into something more, small rhapsodies of girlish urgings and yearnings that she’d left so far behind she’d almost forgotten them. Would there come a time when these feelings again drove her to risk everything?

  As she emerged onto the deck promenade, a race was underway. Six women were running and stooping to pick up potatoes, which they placed in baskets carried under their arms. The spuds were laid out at regular intervals along painted on deck, which ended at a finish line attended by a Cunard officer with a whistle.

  As Alma watched, a spry young woman in a long cloth coat bent to scoop up her last potato. With a final dash she reached the finish line, her shoes clattering on deck along with those of the other racers. When the last contestant crossed over, a whistle was blown to scattered applause. The deck officer recorded the winner’s name and handed her a small prize. Smiling, the woman scanned the dispersing crowd, looking for some face but not finding it. She then wandered alone to the rail near Alma.

  Alma felt attracted to the pleasant-looking girl, perhaps because she seemed slightly out-of-place in First Class. Her brown Oxford shoes, brown coat and hair pinned up in a simple bun were ordinary–not dowdy, but déclassé for the setting. Yet her manner, as she shaded her eyes to look out over the bright sea, was simple and youthful. On an impulse Alma said to her, “Congratulations! You race very well.”

  The woman met Alma’s smile with a frank look. “The game wasn’t so different from working on the farm, really, back in Manitoba. We grew no end of potatoes there.” She glanced up and down the promenade. “My…Robert, my husband, wasn’t here to see me win. He was called away when I’d already joined up for the race. But I have the proof right here, to give him when he’s free.” From her coat pocket she took the silver Lusitania medallion with a blue ribbon that read: “First Prize Ladies Potato Race.”

  “Very nice, Mrs.…Matthews,” Alma said, reading the name inked on the ribbon. “My name is Alma,” she added.

  “Mine’s Annie,” The Canadian farm girl put away her medal and pressed Alma’s extended hand. “Annie Matthews,” she added somewhat needlessly, glancing over her shoulder for the one she missed.

  “Is your husband an officer, then?” Alma asked.

  “Oh no, not on the ship,” Annie said, looking a bit flustered. “He’s not one of the crew, I mean. He was just called off on business with some friends of ours, below.”

  “Why are you two going to Europe?” Alma felt herself moved by sympathy and curiosity to ask. Evidently, too, she was picking up some of Matt’s questioning habits. “Is he planning to enlist?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly,” Annie answered in a rush. “Well, not exactly, not really,” she added. “It’s just that—” She stopped in confusion, a blush spreading over her fair features.

  Alma felt sorry for the simple farm girl. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to pry,” she said, moving close and touching the young woman’s shoulder to put her at ease. “I was just making conversation.”

  “No, it’s all right. It’s just that…” she blushed more deeply, and then blurted out her confession in a whisper. “Robert and I aren’t really married–not yet, anyway. But we will be soon, in England, before he joins his regiment.” Clinging close to Alma’s sleeve, she spoke in an urgent murmur. “He’s really very kind and attentive, but he owes his first duty to God and King and Country, of course. I’ll stay over there and see him when I can.”

  To Alma’s relief, the girl stopped speaking before any tears poured forth. “Oh, my dear,” she said, putting her arm around both of Annie’s sturdy shoulders. “It must be sad for you. So many of us are in the same…situation.” She stopped then, not wanting to be too confiding.

  “Well,” Annie said bravely, “it all will work out just fine. It’ll be so much better once we’re married.”

  “Oh yes,” Alma said, giving Annie a final pat on the back. “It will be just wonderful, I know.”

  As the two disengaged, a brisk male figure strode up and took possession of Annie. “Well my darling, your games are over, I see.” Tall, short-haired and hatless, he looked around, his gaze seeming to pass right over Alma’s head.

  “Oh yes, Robert,” Annie breathlessly said, turning to give him a hug. “I won the race, in First Place…Alma here is my witness,” she added, beaming in pride at her new friend.

  “You did? Very good, then. We’d best be on our way.” Turning ramrod-straight on his heel, he led bride-to-be off as she chattered happily, showing him the medal she’d won.

  Alma was left alone to muse about the strange, confessional meeting she’d just had. She debated going back to the cabin, but it wasn’t long before Matt found her there on deck. As he breezed up, she took his arm and fell into stride with him.

  “I’m glad you remembered our system,” she said.

  “Flash’s system, you mean,” Matt answered. “He’s a resourceful lad. I could use more of his techniques. Who was that couple you were talking to?”

  “Oh, that was Annie from Manitoba. Her boyfriend came and got her. They’re not really married, but don’t tell.”

  “He looks military,” Matt said.

  “Yes, well, he is, or soon will be. They’re going to tie the knot in England. Or so she was telling me, while he was off on some kind of business below, with some friends.”

  “Hmm, suspicious,” Matt said. “Makes me wonder if the Lusitania really is serving as a troopship, as the Germans claim.”

  “Fine, just what we need, troops to protect us,” Alma said with a shiver. “What about Mr. Kroger? Did he ask about me?”

  “No,” Matt said. “But he recognized you and noticed your hair. He didn’t press me about it.” With a confiding glance he added, “These Continentals tend to be broad-minded about male-female relations.”

  She didn’t react to his implication. “He’s for real, then?”

  “Well, he’s European. But his accent sounds Hochdeutsch to me, more High German than Nether-landish. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s a dueling scar on his cheek.”

  “So he’s really a German,” she mused, “like so many of our ‘Pennsylvania Dutch’ back home? I can’t say I blame him for hiding it, if he wants to do business in England or the States.”

  “I think he’s military, too. At Prussian officer’s schools, they wear special fencing masks with cutaway cheeks, to give each other what they call a beauty mark. Then they rub salt in the wound to make it really pretty.”

  “You think he’s a German spy, then?” Alma asked, amazed.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Matt said. “Being a Dutch fur trader sounds to me like a good cover story for getting all over the world and meeting every sort of person.”

  “Strange
to say, that sounds like a relief,” Alma decided. “He’s not so likely to be after me, then.”

  Matt laughed. “Maybe we all should be relieved. With a German spy on board, the U-boats may not try so hard to sink us.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “Have you decided what to do about Jim Hogan?”

  Alma suddenly felt on her guard again. “Other than just disappear, you mean?”

  “Well, there’s a fair chance of that, in this war. But you’ll still be looking over your shoulder.”

  She could see him preparing his sales pitch, putting on his reporter’s face.

  “The question is,” he said, “do you want to hit him back?”

  “Try to ruin Hogan, you mean?” Oddly, she didn’t feel particularly frightened by the idea. “And then not worry about the consequences?” she added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Sounds to me like it wouldn’t make much difference,” Matt said with evident frankness. “At least, if you hurt him enough, he may not want you back anymore.”

  His keeping up the pressure like this made her think with a perverse touch of pride that he really was good at his job.

  “What is it he wants from you anyway, exactly?” Matt was saying. “Do you know for sure? It’s more than just revenge, isn’t it? And not just ownership of you personally?”

  “You’re right,” she finally had to admit. “There’s something I took. He wants it back, or maybe just wants it destroyed.”

  “It’s information, then?” Matt’s voice managed to sound casual, or at least not too terribly greedy.

  “Yes, maybe…I’m not sure,” Alma admitted. “I’ll show it to you when we’re alone later.” She gripped his arm. “You could make it public…but not too public.” She clung to him, not caring if her closeness made her seem desperate.

  * * *

  On the Boat Deck, standing well astern near the Verandah cafe, Winnie huddled with Flash over a cherry phosphate. The small tables of the Saloon Class diner were open to the air like a Paris café, but sitting there would have been less private. She wouldn’t have minded it, but he preferred to stand in the lee of a lifeboat a little way off.

  Winnie enjoyed sharing her personal history with the intrepid young reporter. “Concord is the state capital, you know. Miss Hildegard came there on her speaking tour. My parents were so impressed that they gave a hundred dollars to her United Nursing Service League. But I don’t think they ever expected to donate their daughter to the cause.”

  The intimate press interview was great fun. Flash even took notes, jotting down names and dates. But when a commotion of shrill piping and stamping feet broke out nearby, Winnie stopped suddenly.

  “They’re manning the lifeboats,” she said, gazing astern.

  Flash turned to look at the small group of stewards and crewmen assembled by the rail. “It must be a drill.”

  “Let’s hope so,” she said, watching how perfunctorily they gathered around a single rowboat. With much grunting and scuffling, they pulled the heavy canvas cover off the craft and laid it aside, then turned in a ragged line to salute their officer.

  As the two watched, the pipes shrilled again. The crewmen began climbing one-by-one into the boat as it rocked on its wooden cradles. “Aren’t they going to practice lowering it?” Winnie wondered aloud.

  “If they did, they’d need more men on the ropes,” Flash said. “And maybe five times that many more to haul it back up again.”

  He pointed up at the block-and-tackle moorings of the heavy boat right next to them. “Those tackles are set up to lower boats, not necessarily raise them. Especially not with a load of passengers aboard.”

  Another whistle sounded, and the men in the boat held their oars vertical while seated, sitting upright as if at attention.

  “Anyway,” Flash added, “They can’t lower any boats into the water while we’re moving. The hulls would drag behind or swamp in the bow wake.”

  “Well, if there’s danger, at least the crew knows how to save themselves,” Winnie said, laughing. “What a relief–will they have boat drills for the passengers, too, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know,” Flash said. “They may not want to frighten us.”

  “They’re doing a fine job of frightening me already.”

  As they watched the boat being covered up again, another passenger standing near them caught Winnie’s attention. He appeared to be dressed in Highland fashion, not in a kilt but short breeks buckled at the knees, a wool jacket and a tam-o’-shanter cap. Under his arm, instead of bagpipes, he held a life vest. It was of the ship’s standard type, trademarked as Boddy Belts, that were stored in racks around the decks and in all the staterooms.

  “I wouldn’t worry about putting that on,” Winnie reassured the man. “It’s only a drill, after all.”

  The young Scotsman smiled back. “I know, but judging from that sorry performance, we’d all best learn to use these—if only for jumping into the sea before we crawl into the boats.”

  He slipped the jacket on over his head. “See here, it’s not as easy as it looks. If you put it on like a coat, you’ve got it upside-down and you’ll end up floating that way. My name’s Holbourn, by the way, Ian Holbourn from the bonny isle of Foula, off the Scottish mainland.” He extended his hand. “So you see, I know my way around boats.”

  The couple shook hands with the slight figure, smiling at his appearance in the bulky jacket on top of his other regalia.

  “I’m Winnie, and this is Flash. We’re from America.”

  “Well, I think the crew should give lessons in how to use these…what are you Americans calling them, Mae Wests?”

  “You bet,” Flash said, “ever since Mae introduced the Shimmy last year on Broadway.” For his enthusiasm, he received a mock-jealous pout from Winnie.

  “Well, these life belt instructions are far too easy to miss,” Holbourn said. He pointed to an illustrated placard on the wall nearby. “See here, the main part goes over and the straps go under.”

  He turned to one of the blue-clad officers leaving the just-completed boat drill. “Excuse me, this is the correct way, isn’t it?”

  “Looks fine to me, sir,” the man said.

  “Really, you should offer lessons in putting these on, and make sure that everyone attends and learns how. It’s not as simple as it looks.”

  “I wouldn’t worry, sir,” the crewman said politely. “In one hundred years at sea, Cunard’s never lost a passenger, sir.”

  “Well, I doubt that the submarines were quite so formidable a hundred years ago,” Holbourn replied. “There really ought to be lessons for these. Tell me, to get approval for my suggestion, whom should I speak to?”

  “Why, the captain, sir,” the crewman said respectfully. “He’d have to approve any scheme like that.”

  “Right enough,” Holbourn said. “Then I’ll be having a chat with Captain Turner.” He turned to his newfound friends. “How about you two, are you with me?”

  Chapter 15

  Stowaways

  Steward Smyte carried his tray of warm suppers below, riding the service elevator down to E Deck. The food smelled good…sausages with fried potatoes, green beans, and even a small helping of plum duff for dessert. Along with it came a big pot of steaming tea. It was ample fare for prisoners, and for non-paying German ones at that. They could hardly complain about their treatment aboard the Lusitania. A sight better than he himself, Jeremy Smyte, had gotten last year while in German custody.

  Their temporary brig was in Third Class. Steerage, it once would have been called, though it was far from the creaking, leaky rudder gear of the old sailing-ship days. This improvised lockup lay well forward under the bridge, in easy reach of the Captain and deck crew. Though, like as not, they never visited down here.

  Third Class was sorely under-booked in this direction, with so very few homesick emigrants traveling bac
k nowadays to visit a war zone. The ship was losing money, the older hands said, even with a large share of the lower-paying cabins knocked out recently to expand the forward cargo hold. The increased transport was for war shipments, of course…but no one would discuss that.

  The guard on duty at the brig was Clive, another lowly steward. No surprise, with so many of the deckhands and officers drawn off to the Royal Navy and the merchant fleet. Jeremy greeted him in a playful Cockney accent as he drew near. “’Ey, Guv’nor, ’ow goes it?”

  “Oh, Smyte, is it?” Clive straightened on his stool against the corridor wall. “Bringing supper, are we?” Standing up from his stool as Smyte approached, he lifted the lid off one of the plates, peeked in and sniffed it. “Not a bad supper, for rats.”

  “How are they behaving?” Jeremy asked. “Is it safe to open the door?”

  “Oh, one of them’s a bit ’round the bend,” Clive said, reaching into his pocket for the key. “But I imagine the two of us old tars can handle any three sneaking German spies.”

  As he brought out the key with his right hand, his other hand patted the steel marlinespike that sagged out of his left pants pocket.

  “You swabs in there!” he announced loudly. “Are you ready for mess call?” He put an eye to the peephole that had been cut in the door. “Stand well back, if you are…aye now, and sit! Down on your bunks, the three of you!”

  His commands were greeted with murmurs in German, including one shrill, plaintive voice that rang through the bulkhead. But after a moment the big steward grunted in satisfaction, applied his key to the lock, and pushed open the door. Leading the way in, he announced, “Here comes your vittles. Stay put, now.”

  Maneuvering his tray through the entry, Jeremy saw three pale faces fixed on him. He set out the plates, cups, and spoons, all the utensils the prisoners were allowed, and poured the tea for them. Then he backed out through the door, with Clive following and locking it after.

  “A pity the blokes don’t speak English,” Jeremy said.