The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Catch a bite at the saloon, check out the lounges and the smoking room, and then turn in early. My watch starts at five.”

  “Three of us,” Doc shook his head miserably. “Searching the largest ship in the world for one man.”

  Morgan couldn’t think of a response. Someone had once said, “History repeats itself. The first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.” It certainly seemed true enough this cold, black night. Surely, he mused, by the time you had gone through the motions of uncountable revolutions, returning and returning and always getting it wrong, you were left with something far worse than that.

  Kennedy had said this would be their last chance. The next step was oblivion.

  They shook hands.

  “Good luck, Doc. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He traversed the second-class promenade and took the aft stairs down to C deck. He walked the port-side corridor, stopping outside Wells’ cabin just to give the door handle a cursory twist. It was still locked. He reached the Grand Staircase and descended to the first-class reception room.

  Kennedy was waiting for him by the elevators. “See anything?” The question was voiced with little expectation.

  “Nothing.”

  “We need to eat.”

  Morgan followed him into the saloon. They took a corner table by one of the colonnades. Arched windows, sealed against the night, reflected the room’s glow. Kennedy ordered the lamb. Morgan ordered the beef.

  “Who’s that?”

  Morgan turned to follow Kennedy’s gaze. A thin gentleman, with brown hair and a thriving beard, was observing them over a pair of narrow glasses. He held their stare for a moment too long before turning away.

  “That’s Stead.”

  “The mystic?”

  “The very same.” Morgan prodded some vegetables, chasing them around his plate.

  “Considering his choice in ocean liners, he’s no Nostradamus.”

  Morgan laughed briefly. Stead was on Wells’ list. So were Andrews, Smith, Murdoch, Wilde.

  Astor.

  “Joseph, whatever Wells plans on doing is subtle.”

  Kennedy gave him a look.

  “I know that must sound crazy in light of these last few days, but look at his list. The guy’s a catastrophic thinker. He wants to save the ship, but he only communes with the people he knew had died. Maybe he’s superstitious. Maybe he’s overly cautious. I don’t know.”

  “Subtle.” Kennedy seemed to be testing the word.

  “Whatever he has in mind has to take place with the barest of notice. Nothing drastic. He won’t sabotage the engines or brace the crew, nothing like that. He’s the same as us. We’re all creeping through history like it’s hallowed ground, because we know that’s exactly what it is. He’s only looking to cause the shallowest ripple.”

  “Using something he had in his trunk.”

  “Something that might have been lacking on the ship.”

  “You mean apart from enough lifeboats.”

  Morgan mustered a tight smile. “Apart from that.”

  “Something that might make the smallest, yet most pertinent of differences.”

  “But nothing too reliable. Remember, the ship struck an iceberg in our world too.”

  “Three hours later.”

  “Which reminds me,” Morgan said, “you have to relieve Doc at midnight.”

  Kennedy shook his head.

  “You’re not going?”

  “The lookouts. This ship has the most lookouts of any vessel at sea. They’re on a rotating watch.”

  “But there were no functioning binoculars in the crow’s nest. That came out at the tribunals. A damaged pair had been lost by Fleet earlier in the evening. They’d supposedly been the latest design.”

  They were both smiling now.

  Kennedy said, “That stupid little shit. Whatever he gave Fleet didn’t last the night.”

  “Think he’ll try again?”

  “He didn’t have us to contend with last time, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Nothing tonight, we need to conserve our energy. We should go get Doc and bring him in out of the cold. Tomorrow, one of us watches the crow’s nest and forecastle, another watches the bridge and wheelhouse. We’ll do it in overlapping shifts to avoid fatigue and suspicion.”

  “Looks like we’re going to have ringside seats.”

  Kennedy nodded dolefully.

  “And what happens after midnight? What happens after we strike the ice?”

  “It’s women and children first, I guess.”

  XVII

  April 14, 1912, 2230 hours

  RMS Titanic, North Atlantic

  Wells had washed his old clothes in the sink and left them to dry overnight. They could have done with ironing but they’d pass muster. All he needed was a few moments on the boat deck. Just long enough to pass on his message.

  After that he would try to conceal himself in one of the lifeboats. He’d be quite safe there. No drills would be held today. Captain Smith, entertaining little desire to distress the sensibilities of his passengers, would cancel them.

  It was ten-thirty. Most of the first- and second-class passengers would be at Sunday service, along with the senior staff. Their hymns would include prayers for the safety of those travelling at sea. He might not have shared their faith but he had every intention of seeing their prayers answered.

  Wells reread the communication he had penned. It was cryptic enough to endure a rudimentary scan by the wireless staff without attracting too much attention. The recipient wouldn’t know what to make of it at first. It wouldn’t prevent any collisions but it should guarantee the timely rescue of everyone aboard.

  He thought of it as his insurance policy.

  He made his way to the third-class promenade on C deck. He wore an old black coat over his shirt and trousers. The brim of his cap was pulled low over his forehead. The binoculars were strapped to his waist.

  There was an electric crane by the entrance to the second-class promenade. He stepped behind it, removed the coat and smoothed the creases from his shirt. He pulled back his cap and adjusted the ragged mop of his fringe. A metal gate, guarding access to second class, was unlocked. He swore to himself that there would be no need to bolt it shut tonight. Climbing the aft stairwell to B deck, he spotted the picture of himself outside the second-class smoking room. It was a line drawing that had been pinned beneath a warning posted by the entrance. The warning informed the reader that certain unscrupulous gentlemen had boarded the ship. It cautioned against playing at cards or gambling with unfamiliar persons. It identified him as Jonathan Wells. Anyone sighting him should notify the master-at-arms at once.

  Wells almost smiled. Kennedy certainly was a piece of work. Thankfully, the deck was bare. There might still be time to reach the Marconi Room, two decks above. Dealing with the wireless operators, possibly forewarned of his arrival, would be another problem altogether.

  Head down, he ascended to A deck. He didn’t see her till they collided at the top of the stair.

  “I’m so sorry.” He crouched to the floor and retrieved the book she’d dropped. It was a volume of psalms.

  “Mr Wells,” Marie said, “it appears as though clumsiness is the least of your transgressions.”

  He flinched, but her smile softened the censure.

  “Really, I may just have to turn you in and have you charged with neglect.”

  He gave her a questioning look.

  “You were supposed to join me for a stroll along the ship, sir. I even recall the promise of a shared meal.” Her eyes flashed. “If you can spare the time from fleecing the innocent rich.”

  His initial impulse to elude her was replaced by a new strategy. Her dark, secretive eyes offered new hope.

  He said, “I assure you, my transgressions are entirely manufactured. My name will cleared by morning, Marie. And when that ha
ppens, I’m hoping that a pleasant lunch might follow.”

  “Indeed, and how do you hope to clean the ledger of your misdeeds?” Her tone was somewhat playful.

  “With this.” He held up the letter. “The thing is, I need to have this sent off ship.” He made his face a mask of discouragement. “And, unfortunately, I’m not certain how to accomplish that.”

  “That would seem to be a dilemma. I see that you have no stamps, and you will have a hard time finding a postal box before we reach New York.”

  “The wireless room, Marie. I intend to have this sent as a Marconigram, but I don’t know how to deliver it safely.”

  She crossed her arms and lowered her head, presenting him with the wide brim of her hat. “If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting, I assure you that I am no accomplice to criminals, sir.”

  “Of course not,” he protested. “I envisioned you more as a saviour.” He didn’t need to work at the sincerity of his declaration.

  “It all hinges on this then?” she asked, glancing at the letter. Her look became almost eager.

  “You can’t imagine how much so.”

  “Who is it to be sent to?”

  He pointed to the destination. The message itself was concealed beneath a fold of paper.

  “Why, this is intended for another ship.”

  “I have friends aboard her. Friends who may be able to assist me in clearing the record.”

  “I see,” she responded. “There is much more to you than meets the eye, Mr Wells.”

  He offered a mock bow. His relief was a spring of the purest joy welling up within him. “I try, ma’am.”

  She snatched the letter from his hand and placed it within the pages of her book. “Where are you going now?”

  “I need to ... lie low, as they say.” Catching her look, he added, “Until this message has been acknowledged and acted upon.”

  She smiled, glanced at his clothing, and said, “I do hope that you are better attired for our luncheon.”

  “Marie, if you deliver this successfully, I assure you that I’ll greet you in white tie and tails.”

  “I shall hardly recognise you.”

  The sound of returning passengers filtering into the Palm Court brought back all his fears. “Tomorrow then,” he said quickly, doffing his cap.

  She smiled. “Perhaps even earlier. Good day, sir. I have an appointment to keep in the wireless room.”

  She vanished up the stairs.

  People began to file past, and he was already receiving some curious looks from the attendants in the Palm Court. There would be little chance of gaining one of the lifeboats undetected now. He descended to third class with hasty steps. The memory of an earlier incident had sparked an idea.

  XVIII

  Kennedy inspected himself in the mirror. His figure cut an incongruous image within the splendour of the stateroom. By starlight he would have no trouble navigating the decks.

  He removed the uniform and selected a suit from his wardrobe, then packed a few items in his trunk. Patricia’s photograph lay on top of a stack of folded clothes. He placed it in his shirt pocket.

  It was late afternoon and the Atlantic had already assumed the flat and smooth aspect of a lake. Morgan had assured him that the only commotion the ocean would see tonight would be the ship’s death throes. He’d expanded on the subject, detailing the bodies in the water. Their cries, ignored by those in the lifeboats, would remain to echo throughout eternity. It was Morgan’s last attempt to play devil’s advocate. A half-hearted attempt to test their resolve.

  Kennedy had been unable to picture it. All he saw were his ghost dancers, silent among the sands. All he considered were the accounts of those who’d facilitated his journey back. If they were right, eternity itself might be numbered in hours.

  He left the cabin and went to join the others in the first-class smoking room. He checked the day’s postings. As Morgan had predicted, they’d made five-hundred-and-forty-six miles in the last day. He stood for a while among the gathering passengers, impatient for the gleanings of post-luncheon hearsay. All talk centred around the pace the ship had set. Some spoke about the meal, some complained about the weather. They had no fucking idea.

  Morgan and Doc arrived together. They wore heavy coats over their attire. They were due to start their watch at sixteen-hundred hours. He led them out to the promenade deck. It may have already grown colder.

  “I tried to inspect the lifeboats,” Morgan said. “No go. Wells would have a hard time concealing himself up on the boat deck. Those boats are sealed up tight.”

  “I did a round of the lounges,” Doc said. “I checked with the pantries and all the restaurant staff I could find. No food has gone missing.”

  “Good,” Morgan said. “He’ll be hungry and tired. He won’t be thinking straight.”

  “No, by now he’ll have found a berth in second class or steerage,” Kennedy said. “He’ll have a full stomach and have slept like a baby. This guy thinks he’s on a righteous crusade.”

  “But he doesn’t know what we know, and there’ll be no convincing him,” Doc said. He sounded a little mournful.

  “Well, would you take a look at that.” Morgan was peering towards the bow of the ship.

  Ismay was there, conversing with a young couple. They all watched as Captain Smith made his way aft and stopped to talk to the small group. Smith handed Ismay a folded sheet of paper. Ismay pocketed it with barely a glance.

  Morgan snorted.

  “What?” Doc asked.

  “Looks like we get to watch while Wells misses his last golden opportunity. That was an ice warning, from the Amerika or the Baltic, I’m not sure which. Ismay is going to keep that little message all to himself. One more nail in the coffin.”

  Smith had continued his progress, and was making his way towards them. He might have been heading for the well deck. They stood aside, and Kennedy averted his glance. He caught Morgan eye-fucking the captain.

  He gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs and whispered, “Behave, Darren. He’s dead in twelve hours.”

  Morgan snarled back through gritted teeth, “Maybe so, Major, but I’m not too pleased about being dragged along for the ride.”

  Smith gave them an absent nod and disappeared beyond the Palm Court.

  Kennedy said, “Gentlemen, you know the plan. I’ll be back on deck at seven. I want one of you snatching some rest at all times. We need to be as fresh as possible for tonight.” He put a hand on the railing. “And try to find yourselves somewhere warm.”

  He went below to check in with the firemen standing watch over the engine rooms. Morgan had urged that Wells would be subtle, that sabotage was out of the question, but nothing was impossible just because it was improbable.

  Besides, he could always put some of the crewmen to better uses.

  XIX

  It was colder than Wells could have imagined. The aft funnel had been designed as a ventilator shaft rather than a smokestack; erected more for show than function. The gusts that drifted up from below provided only the barest warmth. He was perched on a ladder just beneath the lip of its opening. He watched the stars sail past the lids of its metal eye, measuring the moments until he could act.

  He’d lifted the idea from a stoker who’d given more than a few people a scare back at Queenstown. The crewman had surfaced, coal-smeared, from the funnel’s brim and waved at the passengers. His sour joke, once recalled as an ill portent for the journey, would hopefully be recast as a humorous anecdote once they had safely arrived in New York.

  The Californian must have received his warning long hours ago. Should the worst occur, they wouldn’t shut down their wireless set at eleven-thirty-five, thus missing word of the disaster. They wouldn’t confuse the distress rockets with a celebration. And they would arrive with ample time to take on all the passengers.

  Should the worst occur.

  He brought the binoculars to his eyes and stared up at the night sky. He went through all the set
tings. The stars glittered back at him, clearer; resonating his own sparkle of anticipation.

  He’d never dreamt that his desires would be so hard won. That he’d be contending with men from another time, content to see the ship doomed. It made the struggle all the more worthwhile. After all, nothing worth having was ever gained simply. He’d be back and warm in his third-class bunk by midnight.

  He bided his time, filling the hours with his own studied recollection of the events. White-tie dinner served in the first-class saloon, fresh daffodils on white linen, while Wallace Hartley and his band provided the entertainment. He pictured the decks, clearing one by one as passengers sought the warmth of their cabins and lounges. The ocean, calm and black, and only barely disturbed by the ship’s passage.

  The iceberg would be seen long minutes before it posed any danger. The wireless warnings would be reviewed and the Titanic would follow a safer, more reasonable course; through the ice and beyond.

  Finally, he climbed down, prised open the metal plate, gaping slightly where the stoker had loosened it, and emerged from the funnel’s ash ejector onto the boat deck at nine-thirty. The lookouts would soon be due to change shift. He needed to intercept Lee or Fleet, the two crewmen assigned to the ten o’clock shift. They’d be standing close by the gantry of the crow’s nest.

  He crossed the engineers’ promenade, hugging the boiler casing of number two funnel. He concealed himself within the deckchair storage area as a crewman ambled by. He waited for long moments before dashing across the length of the first-class promenade, skirting the lifeboats.

  No one was in sight.

  He raced down the two flights of stairs to the forecastle. Two men stood beneath the lofty rigging of the foremast. He examined them carefully. Most of the lights had been turned down to aid the lookouts. There was no moon and the stars offered little ambience to the chilly night. In the distance, they strode the horizon.

  Nothing moved over the empty expanse of the deck.

  One of the crewmen had sighted him, and both appeared to be gazing in his direction. Mustering his excuses, he fought the urge to flee. They lost interest, turning away to complete some exchange before separating. Wells gave the deck a final survey. Kennedy and his men had to be close by. It was a matter of acting now or finding himself a seat in one of the lifeboats.