“A precaution,” Kennedy replied. “We need to talk to you about the Titanic.”
“I thought I made it clear that I’m not doing any more interviews.” Lightholler forced his expression to appear amiable, keeping it light.
“Not your Titanic,” said Kennedy. “I’m talking about the original ship.”
This was becoming ludicrous, Lightholler thought. Confederate security agents in his hotel room, with a letter of authority from the palace demanding his assistance, here to discuss a matter that was the focus of every magazine and news programme across the planet.
He forced a laugh. “Surely you didn’t cross half the continent to listen to stories about the original ship.”
“No, Captain.” Morgan spoke up. “We crossed half the continent to tell you one.”
Lightholler let his gaze fall on each of the men in turn. “Must be one hell of a story.”
“It has its moments.” Kennedy rose out of his chair. He straightened his jacket. “But this isn’t the place to discuss it.”
“Where did you have in mind?” Lightholler took a bite from a slice of toast.
“Dallas suits our purpose.”
He almost choked. “Texas?”
“You have three days. I’ve arranged a flight for Tuesday.”
“That’s impossible,” Lightholler spluttered. “The Titanic is due to sail this Friday, after the Berlin peace talks have concluded.”
“She’ll sail without you,” Kennedy said. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to return to the ship later.”
Lightholler stood quickly and walked over to Kennedy. “I’m going to contact my embassy, Major. Perhaps I should have a chat with the local authorities too. They might be interested to hear about your little invitation, not to mention your presence here in the Union.”
“That wouldn’t be very wise, Captain. I’d hate to think of the complications that might cause you.” There didn’t seem to be any threat in Kennedy’s voice. If anything there was a touch of sadness. “You have three days,” he repeated. “Contact your superiors at the White Star Line. Get in touch with the Foreign Office in London if you need to confirm the letter’s authenticity, but be discreet.”
Lightholler felt light-headed. It was all happening too fast.
“Meet me here, Tuesday, two o’clock,” Kennedy concluded, handing Lightholler a card.
Lightholler examined the piece of paper. The words “Lone Star Cafe” were pencilled in broad strokes. The address was in Osakatown, in the East Village.
Three days would be more than enough time to extricate himself from this predicament. He said, “I’ll consider it.”
“Come alone. Don’t worry about your belongings—they’ll be taken care of.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Hardas and Morgan rose from their seats. They moved towards the hallway entrance.
Kennedy nodded at the letter in Lightholler’s pocket. “I’m afraid it’s out of your hands, Captain.” He pressed his lips together in a tight smile. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
In the hour that followed, Lightholler checked his hotel suite door twice, making sure it was locked. He paced the floor and slammed his fist into the wall of his bedroom, leaving a faint impression in the plaster. He smoked seven cigarettes, lighting one from the other.
He stood in the bathroom before the full-length mirror. He ran the palm of his aching hand over a stubbled chin, teeth clenched. Snatches of the conversation repeated themselves in his mind, the words playing over and over till their meaning was lost.
White noise.
You have three days...
He went over to the shower, a glass-walled cubicle that took up nearly half the room. He ran the water cold at first, sending a shock through his frame, then slowly increased the heat. He looked up at the showerhead and screwed his eyes up tightly, letting the furious stream blast into his face.
He stood there, eyes closed, hands braced against the wall, and pictured the great ship as his great-grandfather had described her, all those years ago.
II
April 15, 1912
RMS Titanic, North Atlantic
Wells sprawled over the cabin’s table, one hand outstretched on the journal, the other cradling his head. A tumbler lay on its side. An amber slick traced a pathway across the creased paper. At the table’s edge an empty bottle rolled precariously.
He woke to an explosion of sound at the door. Muffled shouts came from without. Unsteadily he rose and eyed the clock on the mantle: three o’clock, and still dark outside.
He leaned heavily against the door as he opened it. Crawford, his steward, framed the doorway. Behind him, Wells could see passengers in various states of undress moving hurriedly back and forth.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you at this time, Mr Wells,” the steward said.
Wells swayed at the cabin’s entrance, rubbing his eyes. “What’s happening?” he slurred.
Crawford glanced nervously over his shoulder. “We are experiencing a small difficulty. No need for alarm, sir; however, Captain Smith has asked that all passengers make their way to the boat deck till matters are sorted out.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.” His smile was strained and unconvincing.
Wells noticed the thin line of perspiration moistening the elderly man’s moustache. Slowly his back straightened, his mind cleared. Despite the noise of scurrying passengers, he realised that the ship’s engines had fallen silent.
The air was pierced by a sudden shriek that filled their ears.
“They’re venting the steam,” Wells said. “We’re not moving. Why have they stopped the ship?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” Crawford replied hurriedly. “However, if you would please make your way topside, I’m certain we will be under way again in no time.”
The ship was not moving. Wells had an unpleasant sensation of déjà vu. “Crawford, have we struck something?” His voice was almost lost in the din.
A look of surprise flickered over the steward’s face. He lowered his eyes. “I believe we may have grazed an iceberg, Mr Wells.”
“Grazed?”
“That is my understanding.”
“Motherfucker,” Wells hissed to himself.
Crawford’s face registered shock. Only his unfamiliarity with the term seemed to hold him in place. Wells realised another slip like that would not be tolerated. “How long do we have?” he asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Crawford’s curt reply spoke of more than just dismay. He departed quickly and silently.
Wells stared for a moment at the open doorway. Turning back into the cabin, he glanced at the journal and swallowed a harsh laugh. He went to the cabinet and removed a fresh bottle. He righted the fallen tumbler, placed it on the table’s edge and poured himself a measure.
Staring at the glass, he noticed a slight tilt in the fluid level.
“I’ll be damned...”
He folded the journal under his arm. Taking his scarf and coat from where they lay on the bed, he strode out into the vacant hallway.
I have to assess the damage, he thought. Just keep calm. Yet it beggared belief. He’d stood on the boat deck at eleven-forty, and watched the iceberg slip past with hundreds of feet to spare. There’d been no collision. Surely they couldn’t have struck a different iceberg, later in the night? The possibility was outrageous.
He had to speak to Andrews, Captain Smith, Officer Lightholler... someone. But first he had to deal with the journal. It was his only link to the world he’d known. The thought of losing it was unbearable. He had to place it where he could reclaim it later, when he had used his knowledge of the ship to save it.
He entered the C deck stairwell to find a small queue forming outside the purser’s office: mainly servants and maids along with the occasional bewildered first-class passenger. Glancing at his watch he saw that it was ten past three.
A woman’s voice, sharp and penetrat
ing, issued from the office. Wells tapped his foot, muttering to himself, “No good, this is no good.” He shouldered past the crowd and moved towards the entrance, ignoring the disgruntled mutterings behind him.
Within, a middle-aged woman in a nightdress leaned over the purser’s desk. Behind the glass the purser’s face was a glazed veneer of sweat.
“Madam, may I be of assistance?” Wells interrupted.
“This... fellow,” she indicated the purser with long, outstretched fingers, “cannot find my jewellery box.”
The purser began to splutter a response. Wells raised a hand to stop him. “Why on Earth would you want your jewellery box at this hour, madam?” he asked gently.
“Because I am not leaving this ship without it.” She spat the words out with venom.
“No one is leaving the ship.”
“Have you been on deck, sir? They are uncovering the lifeboats as we speak.”
“I’m sure it’s just a precaution, madam,” he replied, echoing the steward’s lie.
The woman paused to examine Wells’ calm mask. He held it together. They might still be saved. All of them.
She turned to toss the purser a final scowl and swept out of the small office.
“Thank you, sir. It’s been like that ever since they started waking the passengers.”
Wells nodded absently. He reached under his jacket and withdrew the crumpled journal. “I represent Mr Ismay. This contains all my notes, ship modifications, everything. It must be secured in the ship’s safe. I must find Andrews and I don’t want the damn thing lost in all the confusion. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” the purser replied, accepting the book carefully.
Relieved, Wells slipped from the room.
III
Wells pushed past the growing queue. The banshee’s cry of venting steam struck his ears again, louder now, rattling the teeth in his jaw.
It was less crowded on A deck. A few people wore dressing gowns. The majority were still in evening wear. Colonel John Jacob Astor stood by his wife, Madeleine, outside the entrance to the first-class lounge. A young couple, clutching each other like honeymooners, were comparing notes with one of the stewards. The man was describing how he’d been woken by an unusual scraping sound at around half past two.
“It sounded like a huge nail being scratched down her side,” he said, demonstrating with an outstretched hand.
Some of the passengers were dismayed at the delay. Others looked excited by the prospect of an adventure at sea. Wells smiled at those who smiled at him, hoping fervently that he, too, would have stories to tell when they arrived in New York.
If they arrived in New York.
He tried to cast the bitter thoughts from his mind as he climbed to the top of the stairs and stepped onto the boat deck. The evening had grown colder. Earlier, the deck had been desolate and silent as he watched the iceberg drift by. Now, crowds thronged the open promenades. Children clung sleepily to their mothers’ coats, or ran about the boat deck laughing, pursued by their nannies. Men in dinner jackets stood quietly in small gatherings, smoking and peering out to sea.
He approached the port-side railing as if in a dream. Noise swelled up from below as the passengers lined the walkways and gazed up at the lifeboats. He could hear music: Wallace Hartley had assembled his fellow musicians by the gymnasium and they were playing “Oh, You Beautiful Doll”.
He could sense the slight list of the floorboards beneath his feet and it was almost too much for him. He’d wanted to prevent all of this; had come aboard specifically to stop this from taking place. He felt dizzy, nauseated. A tide of fear rose in him.
He’d seen the iceberg with his own eyes. What could possibly have gone wrong?
He peered out over the still waters. They were drifting in a field of ice. He stared at the small icebergs, the growlers, the field ice that dotted the flat, coal-dark sea. To the north and west an unbroken field stretched out to the horizon. He tore himself away from the railing and worked his way along the promenade towards the second-class stairs.
“Jonathan,” a voice cried out. “Thank God it’s you.”
He turned and saw her standing a small distance from the crowd. A slender woman with an oval face. A white shawl was wrapped tightly around her head and neck; fugitive wisps of auburn hair trailed her lined brow.
“Virginia, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you on one of the lifeboats?”
He’d met her in the Café Parisien on their first night aboard. Unsure of her place on the list of the damned, he’d pursued a cautiously detached flirtation.
“I was about to climb into one when I saw you rush past.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Are you insane? Why did you follow me?”
She drew back from him, stunned. “I couldn’t find you earlier this evening. You disappeared straight after dinner.” She made a vain attempt at a smile. “I thought you might have resumed your mysterious little exile.”
“You must get off this ship.”
“What is the urgency? Mr Murdoch told us that everything would be alright.” She stared up into his eyes. “Everything is going to be alright, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. She was trembling with the cold and new fear. “Take this.” He removed his heavy coat and threw it over her quivering shoulders. He turned to leave.
She took a step to follow him. “Jonathan? Won’t you need it? Where are you going?”
His shoulders slackened but he didn’t look back. “Get into one of the boats, Virginia.”
He approached a group of passengers trying to return to their rooms. Two crewmen barred their way.
“Has Mr Andrews been here?” he asked.
“Went below not ten minutes ago, him and the carpenter,” the taller man replied.
“Where were they going?”
“I heard them say something about the boiler rooms,” the smaller one piped up.
“Then I have to join them immediately,” Wells said firmly.
“No one’s allowed below decks.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I don’t care if you’re Mr Bruce Ismay himself. I have my orders.”
Wells’ voice dropped to a hiss. “And who do you think gave those orders?”
The two men glanced at each other in confusion and parted sheepishly. Wells turned to face the crowd. “You there,” he said, raising his voice. The din subsided for a moment. “All of you, please assemble by the lifeboats. You’ll all be able to return to your cabins shortly.”
The passengers remained there for a moment, muttering and grumbling. They eyed one another with suspicion and slowly thinned out towards the lifeboat davits. The taller of the two crewmen raised a hand to his cap.
Wells passed carefully between them and into the stairwell. Bright light assailed his eyes. He raced to the staircase and descended rapidly, his feet beating a staccato on the wooden stairs. This part of the ship appeared deserted.
He encountered a group of crewmen on the D deck landing. “Andrews,” he gasped. “Where is he? I must find him.”
“Follow me, sir,” a crewman responded.
Glancing over their shoulders, he could see the steerage passengers standing quietly behind a single velvet rope. He stood transfixed by the vision.
“Sir?” the crewman said.
“Sorry. Thank you. Lead the way.”
The crewman winked at one of his fellows and guided Wells down the stairs to E deck. “We can’t go via F on account of all the riff-raff down there. This way then.” He led Wells to Scotland Road—the crew’s nickname for the passageway that ran the Titanic’s length, permitting crew and staff to traverse the ship out of the passengers’ sight.
“Down here, sir.” The crewman pointed to an unmarked iron doorway in the wall. “This will take you through to the engine room. Mr Andrews should be there.” The young man chuckled, “Be glad when you gents have the ship running again.”
Wells let himself thro
ugh the iron door. It clanged behind him, ringing in his ears. He found himself in darkness. A wave of heat swept over him. Crewmen’s voices wafted up from below. He stamped down a thin metal stair onto a narrow walkway, then wound his way into the depths of the ship, keeping one arm on the banister for guidance. He crossed the metal causeway that led to the first of the boiler rooms.
Andrews was there, hunched in conversation with an older frosty-haired man in a crumpled brown suit. He glanced up at Wells’ approach, rolled up the set of blueprints he had been studying and tucked them under an arm. “What brings you down here, Wells?” he asked. He looked appalling. His brown hair hung in thin damp clumps, his shirt was stained with perspiration and oil.
Wells was now more thankful than ever that he’d made the man’s acquaintance earlier in Belfast. “I came to see you,” he said. “To see if I could help. The steward said we’ve struck an iceberg.”
Andrews sighed heavily. “And so we have. Short of manning the pumps, however, I don’t think there’s much you can do down here.” He turned and said something quietly to the older man, who made a small bow and disappeared down the walkway. “Ship’s carpenter,” he explained, and headed towards the forwards boiler rooms.
Wells dogged his heels.
The elevated walkway was dimly lit by the occasional lantern. Most of the light came from below. He followed Andrews from boiler room to boiler room, glancing down at the piles of black coal, the shadowy black-masked faces of men under-lit by the red stage lights of the furnaces. Their inarticulate shouts merged with the rising shrieks of the boilers. He looked to his guide and thought of other guides and infernos. Recalling that Dante’s vision of Hell ended in a lake of ice made him shudder.
They stopped in the fourth boiler room. Charles Lightholler, the ship’s second officer, stood in the middle of the passageway, his eyes fixed on the scene below. Engineers struggled to repair the frothing mouth of a wound that coursed along the visible length of the bulkhead. Firemen manned the pumps. Inches away from the tumult, sweat-soaked boiler men continued shovelling coal into the furnace’s gaping mouths.
“It’s the same in boiler room five,” Andrews said. “Number one hold, number two hold, boiler room six, the mailroom...” His voice trailed away.
The Company of the Dead Page 3
