by Chris Pauls
Captain Smith stood. “Mr. Ismay, I agree. Mr. Weiss has much to answer for, but this is not the time. We must first contain this disease, and swiftly. Mr. Wilde, you will assign a crew of our strongest able seamen to accompany Mr. Weiss, Mr. Andrews, and myself down to Deck E. Once there, we will do our level best to isolate the healthy and lock up any infected persons until we reach New York.”
“Captain, the sick must be destroyed,” said Weiss. “There is no cure, and they’ll only infect more!”
“You have no cure,” said Ismay. “We’ll find out what American scientists say when we get to New York.”
“Mr. Andrews,” said the captain, ignoring the bickering. “Deck plans, if you would.”
Still pale, Andrews returned from the lavatory. The ship’s designer retrieved a canister from the corner of the room and pulled out a set of schematic drawings, with separate pages for each of Titanic’s ten decks. Seven decks above propulsion crew areas held passenger cabins, with Deck E right in the middle. He unfurled the Deck E plan, and the men closed around it.
Andrews said, “Deck E is one of the most heavily populated areas on Titanic. A very dangerous place for an epidemic.”
“Our hope is that the disease is contained among passengers located here,” said the captain, pointing to a series of third-class cabins lining both sides of the ship’s aft.
Andrews pulled a grease pencil from behind his ear. “There are five ways to access Deck E from the aft part of the ship,” he noted, making a series of circles on the blueprints. “We’ll need two men at each of these stairwells, as well as this elevator. That should provide safety for passengers on the three decks above, and if we do our jobs well, on the three decks below.”
“Many of the men are off duty for the night,” cautioned Wilde. “Some will be sleeping, some might need to sleep off their evening, if you get my meaning. It might take some time to assemble and coordinate such a sizable team.”
“Then get at it,” said Captain Smith. “If we’re quick about our work, we should be able to assess the danger and, if necessary, enact our quarantine before the passengers start waking for the day.”
“And just how do you propose to do that?” asked Ismay, unbuttoning his top collar button.
“With welding torches from the Deck E electrical supply,” Smith replied. “We’ll use a porter’s key to access the rooms. If the passengers inside show signs of the illness …”
“Surely we won’t imprison them inside,” protested Andrews, who was reminded of the stories of “the Tomb.”
“In lieu of other, more permanent measures,” said Weiss, “locking them inside their cabins is in the best interests of every healthy person on the ship.”
None of this sat well with Ismay. “What do you expect me to communicate to the rest of the passengers who request access to their bought-and-paid-for amenities on the lower decks?” he asked. “And what about the healthy? Surely they won’t remain trapped with the sick!”
“We may have to set up some sort of area for them, perhaps in the second-class dining hall,” Dr. O’Loughlin offered.
“Certainly not!” said Ismay. “Imagine the press! The gossip!”
“If this disease spreads,” replied Smith, “the press will be the least of our worries.” Ismay reddened but said nothing.
“Mr. Wilde, you will man the bridge,” ordered the captain. “Mr. Murdoch, assemble an arsenal consisting of guns, clubs, and whatever else might serve. Just in case matters are worse than we anticipate.”
“If I may, Captain?” said Mr. Andrews. “I think it’s important that we give the able seamen joining us a healthy fear of what they could face down below.”
With his grease pencil, Andrews drew a line through “Deck E” atop his deck plans. Then with a careful architect’s hand, he wrote in a new name for the infected area: Deck Z.
20
TITANIC BRIDGE.
SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 12:55 A.M.
Exposed on all sides to the elements and frigid air hovering above the Atlantic, Titanic’s bridge should have been uncomfortably cold for anyone without a heavy coat. But for J. Bruce Ismay, a dinner jacket provided more than adequate protection. In fact, it felt a little stifling as he paced the open area in front of the ship’s wheelhouse. The ramifications of the captain’s meeting were sinking in, and they fueled Ismay’s fire.
Titanic’s maiden voyage was to be a triumphant confirmation of his business acumen, his decisiveness, his talent, his intuitive eye for the future. Building Titanic was his master stroke, capturing several lucrative areas of transatlantic shipping all at once. Shuttling passengers across the Atlantic was an obvious source of revenue, but the contracts for hauling mail and beef, of all things, were profitable as well.
Ismay loved a good game of pool, and he had maneuvered his father’s company into a spot at the biggest game of shipping billiards in the world, with giant players like J.P. Morgan betting that Ismay could beat all comers. Finally, he was in position to run the table! But now, he saw that the German’s cursed plague could cause a horrible miscue. One scratch would destroy all he’d worked for. He wasn’t about to let that happen.
Ismay believed the plague’s threat was real—Mr. King’s head was all the evidence he needed for that. But after giving it some thought, he found Captain Smith’s plan lacking. Titanic was the most powerful force in the Atlantic, and by God, he would use its muscle to get them out of this fix. At a speed of 22 knots or higher, Titanic could reach New York on Monday, ahead of schedule and during the dead of night. An army of White Star security, if necessary, could deal with any sick passengers away from the prying eyes of newspapermen.
Chief Officer Henry Wilde was at the helm as Ismay approached. He said discreetly, “I want additional boilers lit. Increase our speed to seventy-eight revolutions at once. We’re not sitting atop this much power to float across the sea like a stick of driftwood.”
Wilde responded in a firm, low voice. “Those are not the orders I received from the captain, sir.”
“Mr. Wilde,” Ismay replied, “those are the orders on the bridge now.”
“Perhaps we’d better speak privately, sir,” recommended Wilde, and he gently led Ismay away from the other men. Ismay did Captain Smith’s second-in-command the courtesy of following him out onto the relative privacy of the deck.
Standing under a moonless sky, Wilde said, “I understand your position in all this, Mr. Ismay, but …”
“Mr. Wilde, you were at that meeting,” interrupted Ismay. “You saw what was left of Mr. King. So you must have arrived at the same conclusion I have: We need to get to New York as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir, of course, but …”
“But nothing. What’s our best chance? To muddle along in the water, hoping to outlast whatever horror is aboard? Or to steam hard for New York, where we can evacuate the ship? I know the captain didn’t give you a direct order to increase speed, and I appreciate your respect of maritime tradition, but sometimes the rulebook must be revised to fit the situation.”
“Sir, in times of emergency, only the captain has the prerogative to rewrite the rulebook.”
“And in his absence, Mr. Wilde, you are captain. Smith is on his way down into the bowels of this ship to risk life and limb for it, and we’re all in his debt. Do you really want to keep arguing against using the full powers of the greatest seafaring vessel ever created? The longer we’re at sea, the more time this thing has to spread. Running at full capacity is the only way Smith or any of us is going to survive this voyage.”
Without giving Wilde a chance to respond, Ismay turned and walked back toward the bridge. The ploy worked.
The chief officer followed him into the wheelhouse. “Alert the firemen,” ordered Wilde, straightening his cap, “and tell them to light as many additional boilers as necessary to achieve top speed.”
“Excellent,” said Ismay, then he added loud enough for all to hear, “Men, we’re about to set a new record for
crossing the Atlantic. Do your job, do it well, and you’ll be the toast of New York.”
Ismay felt satisfied. Yet again, he had acted boldly and effectively. His play had been well thought out and executed. Now the balls just had to roll into place.
21
DECK C. TITANIC SURGEON’S QUARTERS.
SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 2:20 A.M.
Dr. O’Loughlin coughed. Rancid phlegm filled his throat. He was packing his medical bag to join the captain’s quarantine party on Deck E. He quickly removed his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and expectorated into it. He looked down to find his death sentence.
On the white cloth, the great gob of mucus was stained black. Hours earlier he’d felt the onset of what he considered exhaustion, perhaps only a cold. Now he knew better.
O’Loughlin understood the way his story would end. Indeed, was the examination of King’s severed head how he’d been infected? He had worn gloves and taken every precaution. There’s much about this sickness that Mr. Weiss still does not understand, he thought bitterly.
O’Loughlin’s bones ached as he slowly made his way down the promenade deck. At least he would have some say in the way things played out. And why shouldn’t he? The doctor was an orphan, raised by an uncle long since passed; there were no blood ties to be concerned with. William Francis Norman O’Loughlin. His parents had gone to an awful lot of trouble thinking up names before leaving him to fend for himself in the world.
He had never married, and at age sixty-two, there was little likelihood he ever would. There had been women, yes, but after forty years at sea, they were mostly of the “ships passing in the night” variety. Married to the sea, O’Loughlin often thought. Tonight he would tie that knot hard and fast.
To think he’d initially refused service on Titanic, having been quite content with his duties on Olympic. The doctor had discussed those reservations with his friend Mr. Andrews. “I’m too tired at this time of life,” O’Loughlin argued, “to be waltzing from one ship to another.”
“You’re old, true enough, but no need to be lazy as well,” Andrews had chided. “Pack your bags and have an adventure.” O’Loughlin relented and agreed to serve aboard Titanic.
It had been his job to examine the crew muster sheets with the immigration officer from the Board of Trade. “It’s a healthy crew,” O’Loughlin had pronounced, which had been accurate at the time.
Given that his symptoms weren’t yet severe, O’Loughlin determined he was still early in the infection cycle. But he couldn’t confess to his malady. Captain Smith would lock me in a cabin, where I’d turn into a ghoul. It served no purpose telling anyone, not even Andrews. Goodbyes were never a strong suit.
Weiss and the rest would have to identify the sick on Deck E on their own. O’Loughlin would defy his captain’s command in order to follow an oath he’d taken long ago: to first and above all else, do no harm. There was only one way to keep that promise.
Arriving at the railing, the surgeon reached inside his coat, withdrew a bottle of well-aged rye he saved for special occasions, and pulled the cork with his front teeth. He leaned over the bar, peering down at the black water rushing beneath Titanic. He took a long swig and quickly spat it out—his personal brand of medicine had turned on him. It now tasted acrid and bitter to his diseased tongue.
He kissed the bottle—he didn’t know why, perhaps for luck?—before flinging it into the sea. And then William Francis Norman O’Loughlin jumped.
22
DECK Z, AFT PASSENGER CABINS.
SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 6:17 A.M.
“Mr. Clench. Good to see that you’ve finally sobered enough to join us,” snapped the captain.
Joe Clench, a seaman who looked to be strong as an anchor and nearly as heavy, belched. Squinting at the light, he joined three other rugged able seamen by the names of Harry Holman, Bertram Terrell, and George McGough.
The men, along with the captain, Weiss, and Andrews, huddled in the stairwell outside Deck Z. They were outfitted with buckskin officers’ gloves, and were dressed to expose as little flesh as possible. Each possessed assorted clubs and cudgels for the night’s work, which were tucked into belts and pockets. Captain Smith also distributed short-barreled Webley handguns, the words “White Star Lines” ornately etched into them. Andrews had taken his carefully—it was his first time holding a firearm.
“This has all taken far too long. We have to pick up the pace,” said Captain Smith.
“What about O’Loughlin?” asked Andrews.
Captain Smith pushed the men on. “There’s no more time to wait, and no time to search for him,” he said. “If O’Loughlin’s not here, he must have good reason. We’re going in.”
Weiss, Andrews, and Smith, followed by the able seamen, stepped through heavy doors and into an open foyer that surrounded the stairwell.
Passenger cabins lined the outside walls of the foyer, forming a box around the stairwell. The complete lack of noise was unsettling, even eerie, despite the early hour. The able seamen lit gas lanterns, sending flickering light dancing against cabin doors. Smith broke the quiet with a voice low and urgent. “Remember, men: Should a sleeping—and healthy—passenger wake up in a huff while you’re inspecting their room, explain that it’s a routine safety check. Leave the healthy to sleep until we determine the extent of the danger.”
“But if you find something, anything like the symptoms I’ve described to you,” said Weiss, “call my name immediately.” By the scowls on the able seamen’s faces, it was clear they weren’t keen on taking orders from a passenger.
“I can handle those things without your help,” mumbled Clench.
“Listen up, Mr. Clench,” said the captain. “These creatures aren’t as easy to stop as you seem to believe, especially for a man in your condition.”
Clench held up a meaty fist. “This ought to do the trick.”
“You’ll be a dead man if you try,” warned Weiss. “No, worse. This disease is spread when that black fluid gets in your system. If you cut your hand splitting some zombie’s lip, you’ll be as good as gone.”
Clench’s face soured. “If we can’t touch ‘em, how do you expect to stop ‘em?”
“If you’re attacked,” Captain Smith said, “dispatch them with your firearm.”
“And aim for their heads,” Weiss added. “I can tell you from hard experience: firing at the chest won’t slow zombies down but for a moment. To fully dispatch these creatures, you must destroy the brains.”
“Blimey,” whispered seaman Holman, eyes half-hidden beneath a navy-blue knit cap.
“Bullets straight between the eyes, men,” commanded Smith. “Leave nothing to chance.”
“I must confess,” Andrews interrupted. “I don’t know if I could bring myself to shoot someone in cold blood.”
Clench pushed his cap back in disgust. “Can I suggest, Cap’n,” he said, “that we send Johnny Grease Pencil up top. I, for one, wouldn’t want to be caught in a scrape with this fellow by my side.”
Andrews drew himself up to full height, which was a good six inches below Clench’s. “Are you calling me a coward, sir?”
“A coward runs from a fight,” said Clench, eyes narrowing. “I don’t believe you’ve ever seen one.”
“I’m not running now,” said Andrews, glaring up at Clench. Andrews adjusted his bowler hat, the one he wore to communicate authority. Its effectiveness was lessened by his baby face.
The seaman brought his shoulders back, and feinted a blow. Andrews flinched, prompting a guffaw from Clench and the other sailors.
“We’ve no time for this, Mr. Clench, no time,” barked the captain.
“Don’t mean nothin’ by it,” laughed Clench.
“Yes, let’s get on with the task at hand,” said Andrews, attempting to recover his dignity.
Weiss said, “Remember, if you run out of bullets, use your truncheons. Bludgeon the zombie’s skull.”
The able seamen grunted. Andrews turned to the capta
in with concern. “No pistol for you, Sir?”
“I’ll defend myself without one,” Smith replied. “It’s time, men. Go quietly, door to door. If you find anything out of the ordinary, call for Mr. Weiss so he can evaluate the situation.”
The men nodded, fanning out in different directions to search the cabins in the foyer. They inserted their passkeys, lightly turned them in the locks, and slipped into the rooms with lanterns held high.
Less than a minute later, Seaman Holman called out in an exaggerated whisper, “Mr. Weiss, I think you should have a look in here.”
Weiss broke for the door, surprised at how little time it took for him to be summoned. Then he heard his name called again, in quick succession three more times.
“Mr. Weiss.”
“Mr. Weiss.”
“Mr. Weiss.”
He continued into Seaman Holman’s room. Weiss pushed open the half-closed door with a damp palm. The lantern’s faint glow drew him to a bunk on the cabin’s right.
“Here, sir,” whispered Holman. Weiss moved closer.
The lantern rattled anxiously in Holman’s shaking hand. Black splotches dotted a white sheet like a Dalmatian’s coat. Weiss carefully pulled back the sheet to reveal a woman, her face fouled with black sores. She reached up for the men.
“Please,” she said, burping up black bile, “my baby, you have to help her!” She gestured toward the other bunk and then grabbed both her ears, grimacing in pain.
Weiss moved quickly to the other bed and pulled back another black-stained sheet. A little girl lay curled in the fetal position, her face looking angelic and unmarred. Perhaps she’s been spared, thought Weiss. He gently turned her over, only to find sodden sores oozing on her hidden side. He pulled back and gestured for Holman to join him in the hall. The infected woman was too overwhelmed with her own struggles to notice them leave.
