by Evelyn Weiss
cabin boy, from the days of sailing ships.”
“Indeed. But he’s sixteen – old enough to go to sea. I’m using him as a runner for messages, because we can’t use the ship’s address system. Confidentiality, you see.”
“I do see. And, I wanted to say something else. To thank you. For your part in helping me and others survive the Titanic.”
“I only did my duty, Miss Frocester. Everyone that night simply did the best they could. Such a strange night, like something that happened in someone else’s life.”
“I recall you on the Carpathia, they said you were a hero.”
“I remember being brought up from the lifeboats onto the Carpathia. At that point I still thought that I was going to die: the effects of freezing for so long.”
“You had been in the ocean, hadn’t you?”
“Yes. After we had sent our last radio signal, Captain Smith came and told us our duties were done, and that we should seek to save ourselves. All the lifeboats had gone, of course, but Jack Phillips, the Senior Wireless Operator and I and some of the officers found one of the collapsible lifeboats, which was stowed upside down on the roof of the officers’ quarters. At this point the Titanic was beginning to tilt more steeply into the water, and the wires holding the forward funnel into place began to snap. The wires were shooting towards us like metal whips, and handling the lifeboat was a horrendous struggle. In the end we managed to rig up a makeshift ramp from oars, and slid the lifeboat onto the Boat Deck, but it broke through the end of the ramp and landed upside-down in the ocean, with us clinging to it. I went into the water, and there was just blackness, and the awful freezing sea. I was just wondering how I would die – from cold, or drowning, of the falling of the funnel which was about to crash down on us.”
“But you did survive.”
“I could feel the cold right through to my bones. I don’t know what happened for a few seconds. I even wondered if I’d died: or perhaps I’d gone blind, because I could see nothing at all. But then I realized that I was breathing air. Then I understood: I was inside an air pocket, trapped under the upside-down collapsible boat, now floating on the ocean. I managed to swim out from under the boat and climb onto it. There were maybe thirty of us on the collapsible boat, and after a time a lifeboat came alongside and we climbed into it, and so we were rescued when the Carpathia came along.” He looks at me. “So – Miss Frocester. What happened to you?”
“What happened when?”
“That night, of course.”
I pause. In my mind I see in front of me, as if it’s real and solid, a locked door. A place I dare not go.
“I – can’t remember. No, that’s not quite true. My mind chooses not to remember. I just try to live like it never happened.” I change the subject. “But you – as I say, one of the heroes of the disaster. I heard that even on the Carpathia, despite the effects of the freezing ocean on you, you helped send telegrams.”
“I did – although in fact I was much less busy with telegrams, compared to the messages that we had to send before the sinking.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well you see, on the 14th April, the day before we hit the iceberg, the wireless equipment wasn’t working for a while. Once we got it working, there was the backlog of messages to send, plus incoming messages warning us about the ice. And in the middle of all that, there was a gentleman wanting to take over the entire wireless transmission, with the longest message I’ve ever seen. I told him No, it would have to wait until the next morning when the backlog was cleared.”
“Who was that, then? The gentleman with the message?”
“I don’t recall his name, but he was a very aristocratic gentleman, very refined face. Long nose, high cheekbones. Piercing eyes. But when I saw the size of the message he wanted to send, I had to tell him that it wouldn’t be possible, not on the 14th, anyway. He was holding pages and pages in his hands – it would have taken hours. I told him that I could send it for him the next day.”
“What did he say when you refused?”
“He just said, ‘Oh, well, I guess it can wait until tomorrow morning. The message is of extreme importance – but it will keep until tomorrow. It’s not as urgent as keeping the lines open to receive information about the icebergs.’ You see, a telegram warning us of ice had just come in from the United States Hydrographic Office in Washington. The gentleman saw the transcript of the Hydrographic Office telegram on my desk, and he realized that there were risks to our safety, and that I had urgent work to do. So he went away, and took his papers with him. I never saw him again.”
I sense someone behind me, and turn round: Chisholm and the professor are at the door of the wireless room.
“News. Gwyneth has found the cabin where the explosives were kept.”
“Were kept? You mean, they’ve gone?”
“We’ll explain later. Right now, we need to get there and assist Gwyneth.” We’re heading towards the stern of the ship, and now we’re hurrying down stairs, descending to the lower decks. We reach a doorway into a corridor, and I smell an awful whiff. Chisholm whispers to me.
“E Deck: that smell is the third-class lavatories. And down that corridor is the doorway that the Gophers came out of onto the gangway at Chelsea Piers.” It’s noticeably less well illuminated down here, and I notice, with a slight sense of disgust, that the room opposite the toilets is labeled “Potato Store”. We turn along a different corridor, pass through a heavy metal door, and then carry on. Off to the right is an even narrower and more dimly-lit corridor. I see a tall, white figure in the gloom, like an angel standing in the dark. Gwyneth stands in the doorway of a third-class cabin. She calls out to us.
“Thank you: well done for getting here so quickly. Is Inspector Trench coming too?”
“We’ve left word with the wireless operator, to call the inspector urgently.”
I sense another person’s shadow behind me. I turn in the narrow corridor, and look into the sharp eyes of Lord Buttermere.
Gwyneth’s voice rings out. “Lord Buttermere. You wanted to be able to question people. Well, I’ve found one for you to interrogate.”
Buttermere steps past me, and we all follow behind his shoulder, peering through the narrow door into the cell-like cabin. I can see that the bunks have been removed – unscrewed, dismantled and stacked against one wall – in order to make an empty space along three walls of the tiny two-person cabin. Against the far wall, a portly middle-aged man, white-faced with shock, stands. His face reminds me of a scared rabbit.
Gwyneth speaks. “Mr Sullivan. Tell these people exactly what you told me.”
“It’s nothing to do with me. Honest, honest. I’m travelling to London – sales samples.” He glances towards a bulky suitcase on the floor of the cabin.
“Samples?”
“Yes… to show, in shops, in London. I go to the shops, Liberty, Harrods, Selfridge & Co and so on. I ask to see the sales manager, I show him our products. That’s all I do. A travelling salesman.”
“And what happened? Before you embarked on the Olympic?”
“I was over in Brooklyn, seeing my parents, the night before the Olympic sailed. A little farewell supper, we have them every time I travel to Europe. There was a knock on the door: a man came to my parents’ house. I’d never seen him before, but he said he knew my father. He stood on the doorstep, he wouldn’t go away. After a while, my father admitted that he and this man, they came over to America together, many years ago, from Ireland.”
“And?”
“The man asked to come in. We weren’t really happy for him to be interrupting our farewell supper, but he made a big play of my father and him being old acquaintances, I think my father felt guilty. But all the same it seemed strange, we were uneasy… anyway, he came into our parlor, where our supper was laid out, half-eaten. He looked at the food and the crockery, and then he wandered around the room, looking at our furniture and our pictures and ornaments and so on. He said ‘Nice life you’ve made for
yourselves, since leaving Ireland. I bet you’ve forgotten all about the old country. But some of us haven’t.’ And then, after he said that, he took a knife from his pocket, and very deliberately, he pulled the tablecloth up, spilling everything on the floor, and he slashed the cloth with the knife. And then he spat on it. ‘Looks like filthy Ulster Protestant linen’ he said.”
“What happened then?” Gwyneth is urging him to get to the point.
“The man – he told us that there would be a fire. My parents’ house would be burnt down, they might be killed, if I didn’t co-operate.”
“So he threatened you.”
“Threatened me and my parents. I know, I know. We should have gone straight to the police, but we were all scared.”
“So you did what the man wanted.”
“Yes. The man said ‘Mr Sullivan, we know that you’re travelling to London aboard the Olympic. You have a booked a bunk in a third-class two-bunk cabin. We’ve also heard that there’s no-one sharing that cabin with you. Is all that true?’ And I told him yes, everything he’d said was correct. Then he said ‘Now, when you are aboard the Olympic, you find some crates hidden in your cabin. You see, we need to smuggle some American Bourbon to England. The crates will be full of whiskey. It’s harmless, we’re just avoiding some English taxes.’”
Chisholm interrupts. “Mr Sullivan. We’ll send an immediate wire to New York. To
