the company of the dead
david j. kowalski
TITAN BOOKS
The Company of the Dead
Print edition ISBN: 9780857686664
E-book ISBN: 9780857686671
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: March 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
David J. Kowalski asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
© 2007, 2012 David J. Kowalski
Map copyright © 2007, 2012 Laurie Whiddon, Map Illustrations
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Printed and bound in the USA.
For Lisa
Tables of Contents
Overture
I
II
III
The burial of the dead
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
A game of chess I
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
A game of chess II
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
Interlude
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
A game of chess III
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
Prelude
I
II
III
IV
A game of chess IV
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
A game of chess V
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
A game of chess VI
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
The fire sermon
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
Death by water
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
What the thunder said
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Coda
I
Acknowledgements
About the Author
OVERTURE
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
I
April 14, 1912
North Atlantic
Jonathan Wells stood by the starboard railing, a gaunt figure in a dinner jacket. His coat billowed gently, borne by the ocean liner’s rapid passage. His hair, thick and black, lay damp against his brow. His eyes blinked and watered in the frigid air. The strains of a Strauss waltz rose from somewhere behind him, a low, soft melody that was swiftly surrendered to the night.
I’ve entered uncharted waters, he thought. Hic sunt dracones. Here there be dragons.
The magnitude of his undertaking began to dawn upon him. Tentatively he placed both hands on the ship’s rail. It was one final test of reality, one final test of faith. Cold steel retaliated with teeth of ice. He held his grip till the burn of it receded to numbness.
Two hours earlier he’d found one of the lookouts, alone on the forecastle deck.
“A cold night, isn’t it, Mr Fleet.”
“Aye, sir,” the man had responded with steady deference. “And it’s going to get colder.”
“I believe it’s your watch.”
Fleet nursed a steaming mug of coffee. He nodded between mouthfuls.
Wells withdrew a package from under his coat. “I’ve been asked by Mr And
rews to supply you with these.”
Fleet’s eyes widened at the shipbuilder’s name. Since leaving Southampton four days ago, Thomas Andrews had busied himself about the vessel, attending to minor design flaws and overseeing last-minute repairs. Wells hoped that the delivery of these binoculars would be seen as merely another example of Andrews’ attention to detail.
The crewman turned them over in his hands, studying them in admiration. The binoculars were remarkably compact and extremely light by comparison with the standard issue.
Drop them, Wells thought, and it simply wasn’t meant to be. His pulse was racing now. He realised he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly. “They’re German,” he said. “The latest design.”
“Bugger me if I can’t see all the way to Dover,” Fleet marvelled. He reddened at the sudden outburst and doffed his cap, apologising.
Wells, concerned with other white cliffs, offered a polite smile. He’d seen this night play itself out a thousand times in his dreams. He fought the urge to tell the lookout everything he knew. “Just keep a sharp watch, Mr Fleet,” he murmured. “Good night.”
He walked away briskly, mute fears clawing at his resolve. He had two hours to kill.
Seeking distraction he toured the Café Parisien and the first-class lounge. He tried to appear relaxed. In the mahogany-panelled smoking room he bought a round of drinks and spoke with a number of its regulars. Even to the last he maintained his one strict, if morbid, rule. His one pessimistic precaution. Captain Smith, Thomas Andrews, Harry Widener, Isidor Straus, Benjamin Guggenheim, John Jacob Astor: he only kept company with the dead. There’d be time enough to forge new acquaintances when the deed was done.
He returned to the boat deck, his agitation mounting. He could feel the bourbon’s warmth slowly leaking from his bones. He glanced towards the ship’s stern and watched as a young couple emerged from the aft stairwell, their burst of laughter cut short by the sudden cold. They huddled together and after a brief exchange returned to the warmth within.
Wells allowed himself a moment’s pride. They’d never know how cold this night could get.
Resuming his vigil he was startled by the brittle clang of the ship’s bell. Three sharp reports issued from the darkness above. The final peal still rang over the waters as he reached for his watch.
Half eleven. Nodding slowly to himself, he replaced the timepiece. His hands shook violently.
“Steady,” he murmured.
He was almost certain that he could feel the ship altering course beneath his feet. Somewhere, orders were being given and received, calloused hands were straining against levers. Fleet must have accomplished his task, for slowly but inexorably their course was shifting.
“Steady...”
He could feel it. The flutter of butterfly wings that would herald a brighter, better world. He looked out to the flat, calm ocean, the moonless night. Beyond the ship’s illumination the dark waters rose up so that he felt as if he and the ship lay at the centre of a vast opaque bowl. Then, at a distance, under the starlight’s dim flicker, he saw it. First, a jagged edge, then two irregular peaks, riding black against the black night sky.
Long minutes passed as the iceberg faded from view. A new melody coursed up from behind him: ragtime. He found himself tapping his foot to the muted rhythm. He turned so that his back now rested against the railing and his face basked in the reflected light of a multitude of windows.
Towards the ship’s bow two crewmen shared a cigarette. They stamped their feet while talking, the cigarette smoke mingling with their fogged exhalations. He approached the entrance to the Grand Staircase, a smile slowly forming on his lips. By the time he reached the crewmen he was laughing openly. They glanced in his direction, nodded respectfully, and returned to their conversation, hushed and conspiratorial in the cathedral night.
Entering the Grand Staircase he peered upwards. The glass dome filtered out the night sky. A chandelier illuminated the room, its own constellation. One of the stewards silently appeared at his side. “Up late, sir?” he said.
“Just taking a turn on the deck. It’s a beautiful night. Almost perfect.”
The steward nodded doubtfully and vanished into the first-class lounge.
Wells descended the stairwell two steps at a time. Down three flights and he was on C deck. The door to the purser’s office was ajar, the elevator unattended. Here, apart from the soft footfall of other passengers and crewmen down other corridors, and the low steady thrum of the engines, all was silent. He walked down the hallway, withdrew a key from his coat pocket and entered his cabin.
The room was cool and dark. He lit the lamp. He crossed to the porthole, placed an outstretched palm against the wall and opened the window, taking in a lungful of cold, crisp air before closing it. Removing his scarf, he drew an ornate chair up to a table that was bare apart from a dog-eared journal. He took a pen from his breast pocket, inspected its nib, and turning to a blank page began to write.
II
April 14, 2012
North Atlantic
The night had passed without incident.
Lightholler decided to take advantage of the forenoon watch’s arrival to spend a few moments on deck. His mug of coffee sat on a window ledge near the ship’s wheel, a film of condensation blooming on the thick pane above it. Picking up the mug, he ran a fingernail in lazy swirls on the misted glass. He gazed seawards and spied the bridge’s reflection: his spectral crew superimposed upon the Atlantic dawn. He focused on the image. Men stood gesturing animatedly against a tableau of gauges and switches; Johnson was handing the ship’s wheel over to the first officer. He caught a glimpse of himself and examined the square-jawed, sloe-eyed face that belonged more to a prize fighter than a ship’s officer.
He moved away from the window and stepped out onto the deck. He walked over to the first of the lifeboat davits and glanced back over his shoulder at the squat tower of the bridge. The sun crept weakly across the officers’ promenade. Lightholler let its warmth seep into his bones and looked out to sea. The tapered ribbon of land that had drawn his eyes at first light was now a thickened crust on the horizon. Above it the threat of thin dark cloud mirrored the image below.
He stood for a while, taking occasional sips from his coffee. He didn’t hear the approach of footsteps behind him until he saw a taller shadow engulf his own.
“Almost there, sir,” came a familiar voice. Lightholler turned and had to raise an arm to shield his eyes against the morning sun.
“Not long at all now, Mr Johnson,” he replied to his second officer. “We should make harbour by noon.”
“We’re still riding low in the water, sir.”
“I know,” Lightholler replied carefully.
The two stood in silence for a few moments.
“Aren’t you even curious, sir?” Johnson ventured finally.
“We’re ferrying eight of the world’s most important political figures across the Atlantic, Mr Johnson. Curiosity is a luxury we can hardly afford.”
“Sir, we’re riding low in the water, and I can’t account for it in our cargo manifest. We’re carrying something we don’t know about.”
Lightholler remained silent.
“I’m talking about E deck, sir,” Johnson pressed, his voice low.
“E deck has been sealed off for repairs, Mister Johnson, and we have our orders.”
“I’m an officer of the White Star Line, sir, so why do I feel like a smuggler?”
Lightholler turned again to survey the darkening shore and frowned. “Smugglers usually know what they’re carrying.”
Johnson excused himself and left. Lightholler listened as the footsteps faded away behind him and took another mouthful of coffee. It was cold.
Seabirds could be seen wheeling and hovering over the ship’s prow. As she drew nearer to shore, their numbers swelled, driven by the oncoming storm. The morning’s breeze rose to a brisk wind that raced along the decks and howled through the maze of her superstructure.
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