Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure

by T. L. B. Wood

  “I’ll check the registration book later and see where Littleton’s room is located. He’s traveling first class but probably didn’t land one of the more elite, higher cost rooms, such as ours or a stateroom.” Peter tipped his hat at a couple of women who passed us. Another woman approached, a huge black Great Dane walking calmly at her side. The woman caught our gaze and smiled, fellow dog lovers, or so she thought. Of course, the Dane was utterly confused by the lupines who were leashed, despite Kipp’s annoyance over the constraint. I knew what ultimately happened to the poor dog and his loyal mistress. Hardening my resolve, I pushed down the disturbing thoughts and kept walking.

  We found a small vacant area and took up position at the railing. As Peter checked his timepiece—the one belonging to his grandfather–tethered by a fine gold chain that looped across the wool of his weskit, the steam whistle of the Titanic blew once, the sound reverberating off of the dock as well as the surrounding buildings. The intensity and strength of the whistle caused the wooden deck to tremble slightly beneath our feet. Kipp’s ears went flat as he cringed at the volume of the sound. Then, the whistle blew two more times in quick succession. The massive mooring lines were dropped as the pilot vessels began to push the ship from the dock and nudge it gently down the River Test.

  Since we knew what was about to happen, it was no surprise when the displacement of water caused by the enormous bulk of the liner created suction that pulled another smaller ship, the New York, from her mooring, causing the tethering lines to snap with sounds that resembled gunfire. Several of the people around us cried out in alarm, not certain what was happening. As the Titanic continued to move with the river current, the New York swung out into the waterway, uncontrolled and at the mercy of fate; her stern missed hitting the hull of the Titanic by no more than three feet. Even though I knew the outcome, I felt my face flush with alarm as I clenched the railing where we stood, observing. Peter glanced at me, trying to suppress the huge smile on his face. Yes, it was all exciting and lovely but ultimately that would change, I thought darkly. A quick thinking tug boat skipper adroitly moved in and prevented the unthinkable by snagging the New York and nudging her safely back to her berth.

  That singular event would have been enough to make some people leave the ship since there was always superstition associated with water travel and boats in general. But then the moment occurred when a stoker from the boiler room, who obviously had a mischievous streak a mile wide, stuck his head out of the fourth funnel, which was a dummy vent for the kitchen. One woman dropped into the arms of her male companion in an honest to goodness faint, while others were horrified and alarmed at the man’s face suddenly appearing out of nowhere, his flesh covered in black soot.

  “Good joke!” Kipp giggled, pushing his head up under my hand for a caress.

  We turned to walk back along the Boat Deck, eager to explore, when a tall, well built man almost collided with me, his pace fast, head down as if deep in thought. Kipp adroitly jumped out of the way so his feet wouldn’t get trounced.

  “I beg your pardon!” the man exclaimed, glancing up, his face flushed.

  The apologetic man, easily recognized from photographs, was Thomas Andrews, and I paused to wonder about kismet, destiny and just plain old good luck. Without breaking a sweat, we’d managed to meet the ship’s designer within our first few moments aboard. Peter, thinking quickly, stuck out his hand and introduced us.

  Andrews did the same, his handsome face smiling as he recognized the name of Keaton. “Oh, yes. I recall you are special guests of Mr. Morgan,” he said, his voice pleasant but neutral. His thoughts didn’t betray any agitation but rather a sense of resignation that those in power would always control pieces of his world. But in his fair minded way, he didn’t hold our badge of distinction as friends of Morgan against us.

  I immediately liked him, as I thought I would from my reading of his life story. He’d worked hard to get to this point in his life and was well respected by men from all walks. A perfectionist by nature, the Titanic was his glory. But because he was a perfectionist, his mind was already swirling with things that needed to be done to improve the ship. There was a sister ship on the drawing board…the Gigantic.

  “I like him, too,” Kipp chimed in.

  “What magnificent dogs!” Andrews exclaimed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any quite to match.” Kipp and Elani responded to his praise by acting dog-like and wagging their tails, showing off a little with a couple of acrobatic spins. “Perhaps, later in the voyage, you can visit my cabin and bring along your furry friends. Tea?”

  I didn’t know at first if he was just being cordial because of Morgan but immediately recognized that he was just a very nice man. He liked people, we were Americans traveling in an odd manner with our big dogs, and he thought we seemed rather quaint and funny. More than curious, he was hoping we’d like his wonderful ship.

  “This is an amazing accomplishment, Mr. Andrews,” I gushed, before I realized I’d spoken too soon and was responding to his unspoken thoughts. Andrews face became confused as he tried to figure out how I knew his role in the ship’s creation.

  “Mr. Morgan mentioned you to us,” Peter smoothly inserted as I shot him a glance of gratitude.

  With an invitation to join him in his cabin the following day for afternoon tea, Andrews darted away as we continued walking along the deck. I almost forced myself to glance at the lifeboats which hung empty, carefully fastened in place. Any idiot would have clearly seen that there would not be enough seating for all the people aboard the ship. I felt my lips turn down in a frown as I tried to bite back my critical thoughts. The Titanic finally cleared the river and was ocean bound to Cherbourg, where more passengers would board. Glancing back, I took a last look at England’s coast line, which shimmered prettily in the glare of the bright sun hovering overhead. The ship, with its tragic destiny, was underway.

  Chapter 19

  The weather was brisk but still pleasant, cooler than usual for that time of year. The water was relatively calm, as the huge ocean liner surged effortlessly forward, leaving a surprisingly small footprint in the water in her wake. The size and construction made the ship so stable, that it felt as if one were walking on solid land versus the horizontal planking of a ship. The turning of the three enormous propellers in the water was evidence of underlying immense power and machinery at work; otherwise, all was quiet and still, save for the voices of the people aboard. After taking on passengers in Cherbourg, the ship would head for Queenstown, Ireland. The true elites, Benjamin Guggenheim, accompanied by his mistress, and John Astor with his teenage pregnant wife clinging to his arm, boarded from tenders that shuttled people to and from the port in Cherbourg. A ship the size of Titanic could only dock at ports deep enough to handle her massive size, and there were few enough of those, so she was forced to wait in the bay while the smaller tenders served as water taxis. Along with people, the tenders delivered huge bundles of mail to be taken to New York. Margaret Brown, the Denver mining heiress who’d been traveling with the Astors in Egypt, also came on board with their party. She was a larger than life figure, tall, powerfully built and with a natural charisma that some people possess through no effort on their part. It didn’t take much telepathy to pick up on some of the more unpleasant thoughts and even whispered comments about the woman, who was not considered to be polished. From what I read, she managed to pursue knowledge, had mastered more than one language, and probably was much more educated than many of the women who stood looking down their collective noses at her. With my love of the underdog, I took to her immediately, although I suspected she didn’t need my help.

  As we stood on the Boat Deck while the tender relieved herself of the precious burden she carried, Peter propped his elbows on the railing, watching the smaller boat sway in the slight swells that surged against the black hull of the Titanic. “I located Littleton’s room,” he said. “Charles told me he is on C Deck in cabin 83.” He started to say more, but a tall, handsome
man with the most amazing, sweeping full mustache I’d seen in some time, approached, hat in hand. Of course, I knew him from pictures but meeting him was interesting, nonetheless.

  “I’m Bruce Ismay.” His voice was deep, his manners impeccable, and it was apparent that he’d been “finished” as far as secondary education went. “I understand you are the special guests of Mr. Morgan.” I quietly admired the perfect tailoring of his fashionable wool coat and the gleam of dark hair swept into place by delicately scented pomade.

  As Peter stepped up and did the manly thing by acting obsequious, Kipp studied Ismay intently, doing what Kipp could do and the rest of us couldn’t. With his curious telepathic mind, he pushed past the superficial thoughts and feelings available to us and dug down into Ismay’s mind to see what made him tick. The story of how he managed to survive the sinking would be debated until the end of time, and the fact he did live when so many others perished managed to follow him for the remainder of his life. In many ways, his choice to not stay on board with a stiff upper lip, listening to the orchestra play as the ship slipped beneath the frigid water, ruined an otherwise charmed life. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he departed, leaving us to stare after him.

  “Well, he is a little resentful we took the parlor suite from him, but he’s not too bothered,” Kipp remarked. “All things considered, he’d rather be seen in a positive light by Morgan than to cause a fuss over a room. And he figures he can get it back on the return trip.” Taking a seat on the deck, Kipp glanced up at me. “He carries feelings of responsibility shoved on him from the time he was young. His father, who was rigid and controlling, piled a burden of responsibilities on his shoulders, and he never could meet his father’s standards. None of this,” Kipp said, moving his head to indicate the ship, “would have been his, uh, cup of tea. But he’s not a bad man, despite what history might show. He’s a weak man, in many ways, defensive and on guard.”

  “There are a lot of interesting thoughts and feelings that I’ve detected,” Elani said. I was glad she was contributing, since it was easy to get lost in Kipp’s effortless ease of just being a superior symbiont. “When we were on the Promenade Deck near the bridge, I realized that some of the crew–specifically Chief Officer Wilde and Second Officer Lightoller–did, indeed, have what they might call bad feelings about this ship and having been transferred to her.” She looked up at me, blinking her eyes against the glare of the sun. “Is that some kind of precognition or just superstition?” Her thick fur rippled as it was snagged by the ocean breeze; a stray ray of sunlight caught itself in the reflecting pool of her dark eyes. “Lightoller thought he’d be First Officer until the captain insisted that Wilde bump Murdock from the Chief Officer spot. There’s some mild resentment against the captain but nothing serious…kind of what you might expect with the competitive nature of some humans.”

  I didn’t have a good answer. History told of more than just those two who had anxiety about being on board the Titanic. There was at least one passenger cancellation due to a “bad feeling” and some fortunate abandonments by crew and passengers alike.

  We were on day two of the voyage; it was Thursday, April 11, 1912. The previous night, dinner was served in the First Class Dining Room, and it was, per tradition, casual wear. But even at that, it didn’t meet my idea of casual since there was not a pair of blue jeans or a sweatshirt in sight. Their idea of casual made me frown and worry over having to get dressed up in my finery. After that first night, first class passengers would be expected to dress in formal clothing for dinner and the activities that would stretch late into the night. Because of the lupines, we ate in our rooms. But we did, at some point, walk close enough to hear the music concert by the ship’s orchestra and hid out, for a while, on the C Deck just off the landing of the Grand Staircase, listening to the strains of popular ragtime as well as classical music drift up to our ears as if it were lifted on wings. There was a part of me that wanted to go to steerage and enjoy the excitement of a multitude of people from different cultures mixing in music and dance, but I knew we had a specific mission and our man was in first class, as were we. But, hopefully we’d get a chance to see other parts of the ship as the days passed.

  As we waited in Queenstown’s harbor for the tenders to again ferry passengers to and from the waiting Titanic, I noted John Astor purchasing a piece of Irish fine lace work for his young wife. The times were odd and very hypocritical. It was well known that wealthy men could be permitted to be married and have a mistress; such behavior was acceptable and didn’t affect one’s social standing. But Astor had divorced his wife and later married his teenage love interest. The divorce ruined him socially, and he’d finally fled to Europe and the Middle East for a long period abroad, hoping when he got home all would be forgiven. It was characteristic of Molly Brown that she would travel with the couple, despite the disapprobation of society.

  After procuring the lace cape, he walked towards us, tipping his hat as he passed. He had a long, narrow face and sad, dark eyes; his build was slight, topped off by narrow, sloping shoulders. There was nothing about his presence that spoke of charisma or energy. At least with Morgan, I knew there was some fire within his soul. I didn’t bother to ask Kipp to do a deep dive but privately wondered if Astor was another one propelled by family to become this man who passed us on the Promenade Deck. His pretty Airedale, Kitty, walked politely at his side; her hackles rose at the sight of the lupines, but she was too well mannered to engage in a rumble.

  “And I thought she’d like me,” Kipp whined, disappointed, since he’d been eager to meet the famous Kitty. “What is it with the dogs?” he asked. “And Astor is a bit of a, uh, hound dog,” he added unnecessarily. “Did you follow his thoughts about you, Petra?” Peter was grinning as I tried to keep my face from turning red. Yes, it appeared that John Jacob Astor had a full and vigorous appreciation of what he thought to be the opposite sex.

  Standing at the rail, I turned my face towards the breeze, which threatened to pop my hat off of my head. With one hand on the crown to steady the hat, lest it become an airborne missile, I gazed at the steep Irish hillsides where green grass covered the curving slopes, only to be broken by the gleam of rocks beaten white by centuries of wind and water. The thick grass glistened in the light where the sun teased dew drops tangled in the dense growth. There was one lonely white house perched on a cliff, a monument to isolation. I could live like that, just me and Kipp, away from the busy world. Feeling a rumble beneath my feet, I realized the three massive propellers were turning, and the ship began to move forward, surging against the gray water. The Titanic pushed her nose towards the deepening Atlantic, and we were underway again.

  “I hear a sad song,” Kipp commented, tilting his head to one side. With the superior lupine ability to discriminate sound, both he and Elani picked up on the notes drifting from the aft section of the ship. I listened in to his thoughts and perceptions, and I could, also, hear the soulful sound of uillean pipes. An Irishman was giving his own private sendoff to his homeland; the wailing sound pulled at the heart and left me feeling pensive and somewhat empty.

  We decided to break up, and I was reasonably okay with letting Peter freewheel. After all, how much trouble could he cause on a ship? As I asked myself that question, I tried to not recall what had happened in regards to the General. There were only so many places he could go, I figured. But we needed to expand our opportunities to run into Littleton, so off he and Elani went with heads up, searching for history and adventure. I was so busy watching them while walking in the opposite direction–never a good idea–that I stumbled over the leg of a deck chair, and before I could catch my balance, I went flying to the deck, hitting with that nauseating jolt that one experiences with the sudden and unexpected cessation of locomotion.

  “Oh, my goodness!” a man’s voice exclaimed. “Let me help you, my dear,” he offered in a pleasing baritone. A strong hand gently reached underneath my arm, while the other lightly touched my back as he help
ed me prepare to stand. Kipp hovered, his face full of concern, amber eyes wide.

  “Petra, are you okay?” Kipp asked, leaving wet nose prints on my cheek.

  “Yeah,” I replied in our private manner of speech. “Just feel like a stupid clodhopper.”

  “I’m Archibald Gracie,” the man said, and I couldn’t have been happier. Here was a man I’d hoped to meet and engage. “Are you injured? May I go fetch the doctor?” His eyes stared intently at my face.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gracie,” I replied, wanting to draw him out. From my knowledge of him, it would not be difficult since he was a garrulous man. “I am unhurt,” I added, smiling at him. I took a moment to introduce myself before, with a little coquettish tilt of my head, adding dramatically, “Don’t tell me that you are the Colonel Gracie who wrote The Truth About Chickamauga.!”

  “Why indeed, ma’am, I am that person,” he replied, a slight flush appearing on his cheekbones, pleased at his notoriety. “And how would it be that a gentle lady such as yourself would be familiar with my work about the war?” He smiled down at me, enjoying the moment and his fleeting fame. With a flourish of his hand, he indicated we should occupy a couple of deck chairs.

  “Well, Colonel, I’m an avid student of the war,” I replied truthfully, “and found your book to be filled with delightfully meticulous details.” His gold stick pin was set with what appeared to be a fine sapphire that caught the light and winked at me; the ocean breeze carried with it the scent of expensive cologne that hinted of amber, woods and spices. The Colonel was well dressed in a fashionable Norfolk tweed jacket, similar to the one Peter wore. He had a handsome face and remarkable eyes that met my curious gaze as the wind teased a lock of hair free from the confinement of the bowler he wore. He was just old fashioned enough to not be certain he approved of a woman being so heavily invested in war trivia, but his need to be appreciated won the day, and he beamed at me.