“Whew!” I called out. “Looks like we missed her!”
“Well,” the Irishman said, grinning, “that was certainly a close shave, as you say in America.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and we say that in Canada, too.”
“You’re a Canadian! I do apologize,” he said. “It’s just that everybody from your side of the herring pond sounds the same to me.”
He introduced himself as Frank Browne and said that he was only travelling as far as Queenstown in Ireland, where the Titanic would stop tomorrow. “I only have a day and a night on board this marvellous ship,” he told me, “so I have to make the most of it. This is my first voyage on an ocean liner.”
The Titanic had now stopped. As we looked over the side again, we saw that the tugboats were attaching lines to the breakaway steamer in order to tow her away.
“This may hold us up for a bit,” said Frank. “But in the meantime,” he added, pointing to a steward holding a bugle, “we can have some luncheon.”
The steward put the bugle up to his mouth and played a little tune to signal that lunch would soon be served. As I walked back toward the entrance to the grand staircase I ran into my parents.
“Jamie, what happened to your school hat?” my mother asked.
“Oh, the wind blew it off,” I replied, telling only half a lie.
My parents decided to take the elevator down to the dining saloon, but I wanted to take the stairs.
“It’s four flights down,” my father said. “Wait for us in the Palm Room, where we came in this morning.”
As I walked down the stairs I could overhear people talking about the near collision and how it seemed rather bad luck for a maiden voyage. At the bottom of the staircase I stepped onto a deep, red-and-blue-patterned carpet and walked over to some wicker chairs with potted palms around them. A waltz tune was being played by a string trio nearby. The smell of food from the dining saloon made me realize that I was starving. I looked around for my parents and soon noticed them walking from the elevators with two gentlemen. When I waved, the four of them came over. While my father went to see about a table for us, my mother introduced me to one of the men, a Mr. Molson from Montreal.
“Do you make the beer?” I asked him.
“Jamie!” my mother said, flushing slightly. “Mr. Molson is the president of the Molson’s Bank!”
“That’s true,” Mr. Molson replied. “But the Molson brewery is a family business as well. So I suppose you could say I do make the beer,” he said with a smile.
“But you’re a little young for that particular beverage, I think?” asked the other man, whose name, I soon learned, was Major Peuchen. When I told the Major that I was fourteen, he said that he had a son that age back in Toronto.
“I wish he were here,” I said. “I haven’t seen many people my age on this ship.”
“I’m sure you’d be great friends,” he replied.
Very soon, though, I began to think that if Major Peuchen’s son was as boring as his father, then maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t on board. During lunch, the Major talked almost non-stop and it was hard for anyone else to get a word in. When I asked him if he was a major in the army, he told me that he was a volunteer officer with the Queen’s Own Rifles, a militia regiment in Toronto. He also had to tell us about how he had accompanied the regiment to the coronation of King George in London last year, and how he had met the king, and how he had ridden in the coronation parade, blah di blah blah.
The Major was obviously a rich man, since he owned his own yacht, as did Mr. Molson, so there was a lot of nautical discussion about this morning’s near accident. Major Peuchen’s small grey goatee wagged continuously as he told us that he had crossed the Atlantic many times on other White Star ships with our captain, E.J. Smith, and how he thought Smith was much better at flattering rich Americans than he was at navigating a ship.
Mr. Molson interrupted him to say that the captain had made a smart move in firing up the port propeller this morning, since that had allowed us to squeak by the breakaway ship. But Major Peuchen countered by saying that “in his humble opinion” that particular manoeuvre was likely the harbour pilot’s doing … Blah di blah blah. Then he told us that Smith had been the captain of the Titanic’s sister ship, the Olympic, when it had collided with a British warship named the Hawke just seven months ago.
“It makes me wonder whether these giant new ships are just too big for ‘old E.J.’ to handle,” he concluded.
“But you don’t think we’re in any danger, Major, surely?” my mother asked with a smile.
“Oh certainly not, dear lady,” laughed the Major. “They say this ship is unsinkable, and I’m sure she is!”
“But what makes her unsinkable?” I asked.
“A double hull,” replied Major Peuchen. “The Titanic has watertight compartments with doors that can be closed by a switch on the ship’s bridge. So if, God forbid, another ship were to ram into us, they could simply seal off the damaged area and prevent the water from spreading throughout the ship. Modern shipbuilding really is a marvel.”
The Major could have gone on about this for much longer, but my father changed the subject. As I looked around at the huge dining saloon — the largest room afloat, according to the brochure — it seemed like we were in a very grand hotel rather than on board a ship. And I was enjoying the food so much that I only half-listened to Major Peuchen’s monologue. Our dining steward kept bringing course after course on silver serving trays and I was happy to try everything. I started with what the menu called Hodge Podge soup (and which turned out to have chopped vegetables and beans in it), then I had a plate of Dover sole, followed by grilled lamb chops with baked potatoes — and still had room for some samples from the cheese tray. There was tapioca pudding for dessert, but I didn’t care if I ever ate that again.
“Hold on, there, Jamie!” my father said as I helped myself to a second pastry. “You’d think they starved you at that school of yours!”
“But they did!” I replied as I popped some lemon tart into my mouth.
“Boarding school food, how well I remember,” said Mr. Molson, giving me a sympathetic smile.
After lunch my parents said that they were ready for a nap, but I wanted to see what was happening up on deck. During lunch I had felt the engines starting up and the ship beginning to move again. When I stepped onto the boat deck, smoke was pouring out of the first three funnels.
I ran into Rosalie walking on the deck with another maid that she had met in the servants’ dining room. She agreed that the food at lunch was very good and said that her room down on E deck was small but comfortable. I walked forward on the boat deck until I came upon a sign that said For Use of Crew Only — I was near the Titanic’s bridge. A man stood at the ship’s wheel, guiding our course. Through the large windows in front of him I could see the coast of England off to one side and some land appearing in the distance on the other. I wanted to get a closer look at the coastline, so I walked aft to the grand staircase and then down one level.
“Jamie!” a voice called out as I entered the A-deck promenade. “Come and meet Jack!”
I turned and saw Frank Browne, who had just been shooting a photograph of the promenade deck underneath the ship’s bridge. There was a boy with him who looked to be about eleven. Frank introduced him as Jack Odell and said that Jack and his family were going on a motoring holiday in Ireland and that he was accompanying them as far as Queenstown.
Jack had a camera hung around his neck and Frank was helping him to take some pictures.
“Here’s a good photograph coming up for you, Jack,” Frank said, pointing to a round object in the distance.
When we drew closer I saw that what had looked like a channel marker was actually a round stone building rising up out of the water.
“What’s that supposed to be?” I asked.
“A fort!” said Frank. “There are four of them, built years ago to guard Portsmouth harbour from attack. Portsmouth
is a huge naval base.”
He told me that we were in a channel called Spithead and that it was here that the king came when there was a big naval review, like the one held last year for the coronation. “His Majesty gets to see hundreds of Britain’s mighty ships all lined up,” Frank continued. “‘Britannia Rules the Waves,’ don’t you know.”
There was an edge to his voice. I wondered if he was one of those people who wanted Ireland to have more independence from Great Britain. After the way I’d been bullied and called Colonial Boy at Winchester, I could understand not wanting to be told what to do by the English.
As we walked forward on the promenade I saw land on the port side and asked what it was.
“That’s the Isle of Wight, my boy!” Frank replied with a small chuckle. “Don’t they teach you any geography in Canada? I just spoke to an American chap,” he continued, “who thought it was the coast of France!”
“Well, I’ll bet you don’t know where Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, is,” I retorted.
“He’s got you there, Father!” Jack Odell said as Frank broke into a wide smile.
I wondered why Jack had called Frank “Father.” Noting my puzzled look, he said, “I’m not really Father Browne yet, but I will be when I’ve finished my studies for the priesthood.”
“A priest?” I asked, a little taken aback. “Well, uh, I’m sure you’ll be a good one.” Since we were Anglicans, I hadn’t actually met any Catholic priests. And Frank seemed very fun-loving for a priest.
“Come on, boys,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go and see more of this ship!”
As we entered the grand staircase it seemed like every other passenger on the Titanic had had the same idea. There were crowds of people going up and down to each deck. I could hear them ooh-ing and aah-ing about all the splendid rooms they had seen.
“It’s just like a floating palace!” one woman said in a plummy English voice.
“It’s just like a floating palace!” I repeated to Jack in a whispered imitation. He giggled and Frank turned to look at us quizzically, so I called out, “I’d like to see the swimming pool!”
“Very well,” replied Frank. “We’ll go on down to F deck and work our way up.”
We walked down the grand staircase until it ended and then took an elevator down two more decks. The pool was empty, but a steward explained that they would open up a valve tomorrow morning to let sea water into it. I shivered, thinking of all the freezing baths I’d had to take at school. But the Turkish Bath next door looked like a good place to warm up. On entering its main room all three of us just stood and stared, dazzled by the gilded ceiling, brightly patterned tiles and bronze hanging lamps.
“It looks like a sultan’s palace!” Frank said.
In another room Jack found a weird contraption called an “electric bath.” You sat in it with your head sticking out, and the heat from the light bulbs inside was supposed to be good for your health — at least, that’s how the bath attendant explained it.
Nearby was the ship’s squash court. Jack and I went to take a look at it, though we both admitted that it wasn’t a game we’d ever played. Afterward, we found Frank standing in the corridor, talking with a tall man who also had an Irish accent.
“Come on, boys,” Frank said, turning to us. “While we’re down here, you should see how the other half lives.”
The tall man had rolls of paper under his arm and a pencil placed behind his ear. He waved to a steward, who quickly unlocked a door that let us into the third-class dining saloon. It had white-painted steel walls and long tables with black wooden chairs — quite a contrast to the luxurious room upstairs where we’d just had lunch. We walked through another large room with plain wooden benches in which some third-class passengers were playing cards. The tall Irishman also let us look into an empty third-class cabin that had four bunks and a white sink in the middle. Jack and I both said that we wouldn’t mind sleeping in one of those bunks!
“It’s a far cry from the comfortable rooms you two are in,” said Frank. “Still, it’s better than what most of these people have at home.”
“And far better than they’d find on any other ship, I’m pleased to say,” said the Irishman. “After Queenstown, these cabins will be full of Irish emigrants leaving for America.”
“That’s the land of hope for our countrymen, I’m afraid,” said Frank.
On our way back upstairs Frank told us that our guide had been Thomas Andrews, the Titanic’s chief designer.
“He works at Harland and Wolff, a huge shipbuilding firm in Belfast,” Frank explained. “He’s on board for this first voyage to make sure everything is up to snuff!”
A few minutes later, Frank suggested that we also take a look into the second-class lounge. Its comfortable sofas and chairs seemed to me every bit as nice as the first-class lounge had been on the Empress of Britain. From there we walked to the aft grand staircase, which wasn’t quite as fancy as the one farther forward, and had a slightly smaller glass dome overtop it. We took it up three flights to the boat deck and then stood by the railing, looking off into the distance.
“I think we’re well past the Isle of Wight by now, so that must be the coast of France ahead,” said Frank, pointing forward.
“I’ve never been to France,” I said.
“Well, we won’t actually be landing there,” replied Frank. “The Titanic is too big for the docks in Cherbourg. So we’ll anchor offshore and they’ll send new passengers out to us in boats.”
I was interested to hear about new passengers. Maybe there would be a boy nearer my own age coming on board. With Frank and Jack leaving tomorrow, I really hoped to find someone to have a little fun with on this ship.
CHAPTER THREE
CHERBOURG TO QUEENSTOWN
Wednesday, April 10, 1912, 7:00 p.m.
“Come and meet the Fortunes!” Major Peuchen called to us as we arrived in the Palm Room before dinner. The Fortunes were from Winnipeg, where Mr. Fortune, according to the Major, had “made a fortune to match his name.”
His son Charles asked me how I liked the ship so far.
“It’s just a floating palace!” I said in my imitation English accent.
Charles laughed. “I wish I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that today! But she is an amazing ship. Did you see the squash court?”
“Yes,” I replied, “although I don’t really know how to play.”
“I can teach you!” Charles said. “It’s really not that hard to learn — as long as you can whack a ball!”
I was surprised that he would want to spend time with a skinny kid like me. Charles was a big, handsome fellow who would be going to McGill University in the fall. Talking to him reminded me just how friendly Canadians can be. He mentioned that he had played on the hockey team at Bishop’s College School in Lennoxville.
“That’s my new school!” I replied. “I’m going there in September.”
“You’ll love it!” said Charles, flashing his big grin. “It has acres of land all around it — and lakes right nearby.”
I instantly wondered if freezing skinny dips were required and told Charles about the cold baths at Winchester. He laughed and said that there were plenty of hot showers at Bishop’s. Charles, his parents and three older sisters were on their way home after doing a grand tour of Europe — including a trip down the Nile in Egypt. When Charles described how very hot it had been in Cairo, he added, “It’s a good thing Father brought along his winter coat!” His sisters smiled at this. It turned out that there was a running family joke about the huge buffalo coat that Mr. Fortune had insisted on bringing with him. But Mr. Fortune just grinned and replied that you never knew when you’d need a warm coat.
It would have been fun to sit with the Fortunes at dinner, but my father had already signed us up to share a table with Major Peuchen and Mr. Molson for the whole voyage.
“For the whole trip?” I whispered to my mother when I heard this, but she quickly said “Shhh” and rolled her ey
es. Luckily, Major Peuchen didn’t talk quite as much at dinner as he had at lunch, so Mr. Molson was able to tell us about his yacht, the Alcyone, which he said was seventy-five feet long. I whistled at this, which drew a frown from my father.
Mr. Molson’s family also owned a shipping company and he told us how he had once been on a ship in the St. Lawrence River when it was rammed by a coal freighter.
“I was in bed when it happened,” he said. “I managed to throw on a shirt and pair of trousers before I jumped through my stateroom window into the river.”
“I’ll bet that was cold!” I said.
“Like ice!” he replied. “But luckily I was picked up by a lifeboat, or else I might not be here to tell the tale.”
The food at dinner was fancier than it had been at lunch. The menu offered chicken à la this and duck à la that. It was all delicious, though, and I enjoyed listening to Mr. Molson’s stories.
As we left the dining saloon, I noticed that some of the Cherbourg passengers who had just come on board were being ushered to their rooms by the chief steward and his staff. A boy about my age was walking by with his family, so I gave him a small wave and he nodded back.
Back up on deck, I saw a few passengers leaving the ship via a gangway from D deck to the tender waiting below. One was wheeling a bicycle and another carried a canary in a cage. I watched the tender pull away from the side of the liner and continue around the breakwater toward the lights of Cherbourg. The glowing portholes of the Titanic reflected in the water and I thought what a beautiful sight she must be for the people on shore. The deep-toned whistles atop the funnels suddenly blew three times, followed by the rattle of the anchors being raised and the rumble of the engines starting up. Before long the lights of Cherbourg became smaller and smaller, until they finally disappeared into the darkness behind our wake.
* * *
I awoke early the next morning to the thrumming sound of the engines. When I looked out the porthole a pink sky lit the horizon and I decided to go out on deck before my parents were up. Perhaps I could get my first look at the coast of Ireland.
Deadly Voyage Page 2
