Deck Z - The Titanic

by Chris Pauls

  “You deserve worse,” shouted Lou. She turned and ran, sprinting up a set of stairs just down the corridor from the watertight door. Weiss started after her, but Captain Smith extended an arm to hold the German back.

  “Let her mourn,” counseled Smith. “Later you can make your peace with her, if she’ll allow it.” Captain Smith motioned with Kabul to the stairwell where Lou had just made her escape. “I believe you had no intention to set this scourge loose, but there’s still a ledger to square. Begin by stopping this man from bringing it into the world.”

  Weiss bowed his head and nodded. “Up top is as good a place to start looking as any.”

  “I’ll escort you, Mr. Weiss,” said Hargraves, bouncing the fire ax in his hands. “Till we find him. Wherever you want to go.”

  “Good man, Hargraves,” said the captain. “As for me, I need to remind Mr. Ismay who is in charge of Titanic.”

  “Let’s hurry then,” Andrews said. “I doubt the straightest path to the boat deck remains to us. It may take some minutes yet to reach the bridge.”

  Bruised and fatigued, the four men hobbled up the stairs together. Weiss was uncertain where he should begin searching, but the German agent was likely to be among the top decks, as far from the contagion as possible.

  The floor suddenly lurched as they reached the first landing, sending the four men sprawling. The ship groaned from deep within, structural and ominous, accompanied by a long echoing screech. The stairwell railing vibrated violently with a low metallic hum as the men found their bearings.

  “My God,” said Hargraves. “What have the monsters done?”

  Smith shook his head. “No zombie can rock a ship like that.”

  35

  DECK B. CAFÉ PARISIEN.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 11:45 P.M.

  Ismay was enduring a brandy while a wealthy Indian doctor explained to him how he could cure aching joints, rheumatism, and a variety of other maladies with some sort of needle nonsense. Ismay hadn’t heard a word, his mind preoccupied with preparations for docking in New York. Even arriving in the middle of the night, it was hard to see how he could avoid a press nightmare.

  The jolt caught both men off guard, forcing them to catch their balance. The Indian didn’t miss a beat, continuing to jabber on about the therapeutic effects of his stickpins. It was the chandeliers that worried Ismay with their sharp swing forward and the anxious tinkling of the glass. Ismay knew that rough waters would only cause a sway—and on his way to the lounge, the ocean’s surface had been as smooth as a shaving mirror. Ismay mumbled an excuse and headed toward the wheelhouse.

  Outside, he stopped in his tracks at the sound of scraping on the open promenade. A great mass of ice leaned against the rails. As the iceberg passed, bits sliced off and scattered across the deck. Just up the way, a few night-owl passengers picked up the shaved ice and made snowballs, playfully tossing them at one another. One of the gentlemen hollered to Ismay: “Say, is there any danger from this?”

  “None!” returned Ismay through a clenched smile. “Just a bit of ice is all!”

  Anyone could have followed Ismay’s path to the wheelhouse: A deck chair kicked into the rails. The fragments of a clay water pitcher bashed off a table. A dented whiskey flask rifled off the bridge’s steel exterior. He arrived to discover that First Officer William Murdoch had relieved Officer Wilde and was now at the command.

  “For the love of God what’s happening!” Ismay’s eyes were wild, and his face was colored an unnatural shade. Murdoch had always been intimidated by J. Bruce Ismay; now the tycoon was absolutely frightening.

  “We received an urgent notice from the crow’s nest of ice straight ahead,” replied Murdoch. “I gave the order ‘Hard a’starboard,’ but we still seem to have collided.”

  “I can bloody well see we’ve collided! What of the damage!?”

  “We don’t know yet, sir,” admitted Murdoch. “The phone’s just been repaired. Shall we alert the passengers that we’ve encountered an iceberg?”

  “The passengers are enjoying winter sports on the promenade!” yelled Ismay. “I think they have an inkling we’ve hit ice! I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  “Mr. Ismay,” said Murdoch, trying to remain composed. “I’m going to have to ask you to please leave the bridge so we can right this ship.”

  “I’ll leave when I’m damn well ready! Has there been more word from Smith?”

  “Nothing as yet,” said Murdoch. “Please remove yourself, sir. We’ve important work to do.”

  The crew stared at Ismay as if he were some sort of animal. “What are you lot gawking at?” he barked. “Full speed ahead!”

  36

  STAIRWELL BETWEEN DECK F AND DECK Z.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 11:47 P.M.

  “Could that have been another vessel, Captain?” Andrews asked.

  “I know what it feels like to collide with another ship. That was ice, sure as fate, and what lurks under the waterline is far more dangerous than what’s seen floating above,” replied Smith.

  The four men got back to their feet in the stairwell. Captain Smith nodded to the architect. “Change in plans, Mr. Andrews. We must head below and assess the damage.”

  “Titanic is safe, Captain, that I can assure you,” said Andrews definitively. He freely admitted ignorance and doubt about many things, but his faith in the ship’s design was resolute. “Even if we’ve struck ice, as you say, it would have to be a more violent collision than the one we just felt. Besides, the watertight doors are already lowered. She’ll make it to New York, I’ll wager. You’re better served up top where—”

  “You and I are going below,” the captain retorted.

  “Yes, Captain,” said Mr. Andrews. “Of course.”

  Smith turned to Weiss. “And you, Mr. Weiss, must delay your search. I need to enlist your services. Mr. Andrews, your notebook.”

  Andrews handed the captain his notebook and pen. Smith thumbed his way to an empty page, scribbled a command, and signed it.

  Weiss’s face collapsed. “Respectfully, Captain,” said Weiss, “I believe my focus should be recovering the vial of the Toxic.”

  “By the time you find that needle, this haystack could be at the bottom of the ocean. Locate Mr. Murdoch on the bridge and deliver this order. I want lifeboats prepared as a precaution. He should expect to hear from me soon. Once this message is delivered, then you and Mr. Hargraves are free to search for your thief.”

  Weiss agreed reluctantly. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Very good,” said Smith. “Mr. Andrews?”

  Andrews nodded, summoning the will to plunge yet again into the unknown. “Below we go.”

  Neither Weiss nor Hargraves spoke as they made their way up the stairs. Following Mr. Andrews’s directions, they were to proceed to Deck Z, down a narrow hallway, then straight up a series of hatches directly to the bridge. Weiss was happy to have Hargraves along in case of more monsters, but even more to help with the thief. He could prove more dangerous than Weiss could handle alone.

  As they ran, the adrenaline that had fueled Weiss through the previous twenty-four hours quickly gave way to fatigue and an overwhelming guilt. The child’s accusations cut deep, and his wounded shoulder throbbed with each step. Weiss was sure he’d never been on his feet so long without rest, and his thigh muscles ached.

  Weiss looked over to Mr. Hargraves, who appeared nearly as exhausted. His fine clothes were ripped and stained, and the gentleman’s hair was wild. I can only pray that none of us have been infected through a scratch, doomed like all these poor souls. Then Weiss’s thoughts ran to the first person he’d known to die from the plague—his sister, Sabine.

  Six days after their twelfth birthdays, he fell ill with fever, chills, and muscle cramps. It was the bubonic plague. The doctors were never sure how he survived; they only said that some percentage always did. But Theodor was certain that he infected Sabine. She simply would not leave her brother alone and allow h
im to be sick all by himself.

  The twins drew each other pictures from their sick beds—the two of them flying over mountains or taming lions—but the fun lasted only two days before they succumbed to painful swellings and dreadful aches. After more than a week passed, Theodor felt his strength begin to return, though he remained far from whole.

  Theodor wasn’t allowed to hold Sabine’s hand. Instead, he stood outside her door and whispered encouragement, knowing that somehow she would hear. He could feel Sabine succumbing to the fever. He could hear her breathing, ragged and labored as the disease ravaged inside her. He filled his own lungs with air, trying to breathe for his twin.

  As he felt her slip away, he promised to cure the sickness. Theodor imagined Sabine smiling at the sound of his words. There was nothing else he could do.

  How would Sabine judge him now? He remained so far away from keeping his promise.

  “According to Mr. Andrews, here’s where we veer off for the bridge,” said Hargraves.

  “Yes, of course,” Weiss said. “To the bridge.”

  Weiss and Hargraves made their way along the narrow Deck Z corridor that led to the hatches. They scanned their surroundings constantly, alert for sounds or signs of movement. Pipes painted bright white hung overhead, reflecting the light and making the hallway appear longer than the others. Weiss caught his breath and wiped his face with a ragged sleeve. Pull yourself together, he told himself. There’s still a chance.

  Weiss and Hargraves suddenly heard the pounding of feet running toward them. Not shuffling, but running. They stopped and prepared to meet whoever it was. Around a corner up ahead a man emerged. It was Emil Kaufmann. He was carrying a gun.

  Kaufmann stopped running and smiled—a tight, smug grin—then approached confidently. “You’re a hard man to track down, Herr Weiss,” said Kaufmann. He raised his gun and trained it on Weiss’s forehead. “But surely you knew there was no real chance of escape to America. It’s time to end this. The Kaiser would like the Toxic back, if you please.”

  Weiss stared blankly at Kaufmann. “I … I don’t have the Toxic, of course. You took it from me.”

  Hargraves set down his ax and reached inside his coat.

  He must have one of the captain’s guns, Weiss thought desperately. The odds are even.

  But Hargraves did not withdraw a gun. He produced a stainless-steel cylinder, ten inches long, and slightly bigger than the glass vial it contained. “I have the Toxic,” he said in fluent German.

  “You? You have the Toxic?” asked Weiss in shock.

  “Ah, so it’s you,” said Kaufmann. “Excellent. This will be even easier.” Kaufman chuckled. “From the looks of you, I can see why you’ve had difficulty reporting to Herr Moltke.”

  Hargraves slipped the cylinder back into his jacket, joining the laughter. “I’ve had an eventful voyage.” Then he swiped the knife-stick from a stunned Weiss and threw it behind them, back into the stairwell.

  “Please, both of you, listen to reason,” pleaded Weiss. “Don’t take the vial back to Germany! Mr. Hargraves or whoever you are, you’ve seen its horrors firsthand!”

  The Agent ignored Weiss and addressed Kaufmann. “May I have the honor of silencing this traitor with your pistol?”

  Kaufmann considered the request, then handed his revolver to the Agent with a nod. “Certainly. You’ve earned the right. Let justice be served.”

  The Agent took the gun and promptly shot Kaufmann in the chest. Kaufmann’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened to speak, but only a gurgling sound emerged as he slumped to the floor.

  “But …” Words failed Weiss. Nothing made sense.

  “Herr Moltke has different ideas than I about how to use your discovery. I have certain needs that must come before Germany’s. We are both traitors in our own way, Herr Weiss. We are both interested in doing what is … right.”

  Weiss still didn’t understand, but he knew the Kaiser’s man meant him ill. Weiss glanced down the corridor to the hatch that led, eventually, to the bridge. He could make a break for it, but he would be gunned down inside of ten steps.

  “I need to conserve my ammunition, Herr Weiss,” said the Agent, sliding the revolver inside his jacket. As his hand emerged, it held a familiar tool, the corridor lights glinting off its needle-nosed tip.

  “Since you have fought bravely beside me, I will try to make this quick.”

  37

  DECK F. SQUASH COURT OBSERVATION AREA.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 11:58 P.M.

  “Oh my,” said Andrews.

  The squash court was deserted. Smith and Andrews stood alone on the observation level where they could peer down into the mail room below on Deck G. Water was flooding in, perhaps a foot deep already. Letters and assorted small packages were floating on the floor as men tried to scoop them up.

  “Aye, it’s worse than I feared. We need to get a better look. Let’s head for the fireman’s tunnel below.” Captain Smith broke for the stairwell, but Andrews didn’t immediately follow. The ramifications of what he was seeing weakened his legs, which would not move.

  Titanic was the crowning achievement of Andrews’s life. He drove himself for years to make it the finest ship in the world. He had often envisioned her steaming majestically into the safe harbor of New York, and he’d gone so far as to select a painting for the first-class smoking room depicting such a scene.

  Though it felt a lifetime ago, it had been only a handful of hours since he had stood on nearly the same spot and noticed the loose joint on a corner piece of window trim. He’d recorded it in his notebook. Looking down at the rising water covering the squash court, Andrews felt the pad of paper in his pocket. He wondered if his attention to detail had been reduced to irrelevancy. Then he ran after Captain Smith to find out.

  The seawater was so cold the firemen’s hands were blue. Undaunted, crewmen rushed back and forth, valiantly trying to string together enough hose to pump out the areas taking on water. One of them, a young fellow with a full head of copper-red hair, saw the captain and ran over to give him the report.

  “How bad is it, lad?” Smith asked.

  “We’re in a tight pickle, sir. Numerous compartments are flooding.” The young man wiped a stream of dark blood from his nose and onto his pants. Smith and Andrews exchanged a dark glance.

  “How many?” asked Andrews.

  “Six is the last number I heard.”

  Smith looked to Andrews, but hope had drained from the designer’s face. He gave the smallest, most imperceptible shake of his head. The captain nodded his understanding. He gave the seaman a reassuring smile and said loudly, “You men are doing your captain proud.”

  “Thank you, sir. To top it all, there’s this bad flu going around.” The sailor launched into a string of uncomfortable hard coughs, doubling over.

  “How many are ill?” asked Smith once the man recovered.

  “Pretty much all of us, sir. Some worse than others, but to a man everybody’s puny with it. To be honest, some more than puny.”

  Smith lifted his chin. “Carry on. Mr. Andrews and I need to finish our inspection.”

  When the sailor was out of earshot, Andrews confessed, “She’ll float with four compartments flooded but no more than that.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “This ship will sink, sir.”

  “How long do we have?” the captain asked.

  “An hour, perhaps an hour and a half, no more.”

  “Even with the pumps?”

  “Those will only buy minutes. They’re rated to handle two thousand tons of water an hour. From what I’ve seen, that amount is flooding in every five minutes. And not to put too fine a point on it, sir, but the men. Everyone down here is doomed.” The tears finally broke through.

  For a moment, Captain Smith felt angry. What had Ismay been thinking, running Titanic full bore? At that speed, Titanic had no chance to evade an iceberg. Smith’s anger waned as he watched his crew, working valiantly but in vain to contain the flooding. In their condition
, Titanic would have been doomed, no matter her speed. At least drowning would spare them from the infection’s horror.

  Smith put his hand on Andrews’s shoulder. “It’s a tragedy, Thomas,” the captain said. “We have to save who we can. Agreed?”

  Andrews wiped the tears from his eyes and collected himself. “That, sir, is why you are captain of Titanic. All that matters is to save as many as possible. I’ll follow you to the bottom of the Atlantic.”

  “Then let’s go. We must get the healthy passengers off this ship—while ensuring that the infected stay aboard. If Titanic is going down, we’ll make sure this scourge sinks with it.”

  The captain led the way to the stairwell, but once again, Thomas Andrews hesitated. Surveying the havoc a final time, he pulled the small notepad from his pocket and pitched it into the knee-deep water, leaving the details for the devil.

  38

  DECK Z CORRIDOR.

  MONDAY, APRIL 15, 1912. 12:13 A.M.

  The Agent sprang with his pliers, bearing down at the base of Weiss’s throat.

  Desperately, Weiss grabbed the Agent’s wrist with both hands, stopping the weapon. Without hesitation, the Agent violently slammed his forehead into Weiss’s nose with a sickening crack. As if observing the scene from above, Weiss thought, “seeing stars” isn’t just a figure of speech.

  “Why?” Weiss managed to grunt. “Why were you helping us below?”

  “Quite the contrary,” said the Agent, his breath cool and stale against Weiss’s skin. “You helped me. After confirming you lied about the cyanide, and finding you gone from the linen closet, I thought simply to hide till we reached America. But the infection was more powerful than I imagined. I was surrounded by the sick and running for my life when we met. Joining your band was my best chance.”

  The Agent pressed harder with his tool, relentlessly, and Weiss gasped as the cold steel met his throat. Weiss grunted, “Don’t leave this ship with the vial. Mothers have been transformed into monsters, for God’s sake. No one deserves such a fate.”