The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘It’ll be a Belfast job, sir,’ Bob Fleming said, outlining his estimation of damage to the starboard propeller and shaft. ‘Southampton can’t take us – their dry-dock’s too small.’

  ‘Expensive,’ I commented. ‘It’ll take time. She’ll be out of service for weeks…’

  ‘Aye, sir – they’ll have to find us a new prop-shaft, I’m thinking.’

  A shaft of late afternoon light cut through the water beside the boat. I looked down, trying to see where Hawke’s ram had broken off on penetration and was still embedded in the engine room. Fleming saw it first. As he pointed, I could just make out the device – like some huge, obscene penis wedged in Olympic’s most vulnerable parts.

  Gazing at it, the Chief muttered with bitter feeling, ‘Sorry, sir, but I’ve got to say it. I feel like I’ve been well and truly fucked.’

  His words broke the tension, prompting barks of laughter. ‘Never a truer word, Chief.’

  ‘I hope they strip his bloody rings off!’ Wilde had the Commander emasculated, reduced to galley boy and damned to hell besides.

  ‘Oh, they’ll have an enquiry,’ I prophesied gloomily, ‘and probably promote him.’ As it transpired, that was precisely what happened. But that was later – much later – at the nadir of my winter, which at that point had yet to begin.

  The thought of it – even now – drove the image of that ram right into my vitals.

  4

  Approaching the Solent – this time aboard Titanic – we were making that snake-like turn by the Bramble once more. I scanned the western Solent through the binoculars, seeing nothing more sinister than a few yachts coming up from the Needles.

  ‘No grey cats today, Captain,’ George murmured with a sly grin as we swept wide past Cowes.

  ‘No, indeed!’ But the close shave with the New York was still pounding through my veins. ‘Nearly caught a whale, though!’

  Despite the grim amusement, it struck me that George, like myself, must think of the Hawke incident every time he took a ship out towards Spithead. Or did he? Perhaps daily habit had dulled the smarting edge of memory. For me though, that collision was still fresh. In forty-five years at sea, I’d rarely put a foot wrong; and for such a thing to happen towards the end of my career was a terrible blow. But appearing before the Admiralty enquiry was even worse. Having every glance and judgement, every second of those few minutes examined by the Attorney General, three judges, and the newspapers to boot, was like trial by fire. By the end of it, not only did the judges’ conclusion blemish my reputation, I felt I’d let the company down.

  ~~~

  With the approach of the pilot cutter at the Nab Lightship, I realized this was probably the last time George would see me out. Perhaps he read my thoughts for his handshake was firmer than usual.

  He turned by the companionway. ‘Farewell, Captain. Have a safe voyage!’

  Escorted down by Mr Boxhall, moments later George had descended the pilot ladder, was aboard the boat and away. Returning his salute I felt strangely hollow, suspecting that the next three weeks were going to be a series of last things and heartfelt goodbyes.

  Even so, having just gone through the hardest winter of my life, I was yearning for peace. Turning my eyes to the curve of Sandown Bay, I longed for a few days with nothing to think about but Ellie and me. For a quiet, old-fashioned retreat where clocks were not in evidence and time was of no account.

  Ellie: of course. She would be worried. I glanced at my watch. The early editions of the evening papers would be out in a couple of hours, and if she hadn’t heard already about the kerfuffle leaving the dock, she would soon be reading a dramatic version in the evening paper. She, like me, would be remembering last September and the Olympic. For a moment I debated whether to send her a message; but then I thought not, it would give the incident more importance than it deserved. She would be sensible and telephone the office; they would explain and set her mind at rest.

  Normally, once our course was set for Cherbourg I would have quit the bridge, but my attention was caught by a three-masted barque running with the brisk south-westerly. Pitching and rolling she came swiftly towards us, sending great waves of spume across her foredeck. There’s somebody enjoys cracking on, I thought; and my heart lifted in response. For a moment I was a boy again, Cap’n Joe yelling at me to reef that sail and jump to it before the wind tore it to ribbons.

  ‘Swept along by the breath of God,’ I murmured, quoting my half-brother from all those years ago. To the 2nd Officer I said, ‘Give her ten degrees to starboard, Mr Lightoller.’

  As he repeated the order for the quartermaster on the wheel, I stood out on the port side to watch the barque come past. She had nice lines and a good set of sails. The men on deck waved to us and I returned their salutes with a grin. Nearby I heard a woman say with a gasp of astonishment, ‘Look at that ship – see how it’s rolling! But we’re not!’

  No, indeed. White Star’s aims were for smoothness, comfort and luxury: rather different from a sea-passage in the old days. As my eye followed the vessel, already some distance away, I remembered how it felt to be soaking wet for days on end, to feel your arms dislocating as you struggled with canvas in the teeth of a gale. And I knew how it felt to be Master of such a vessel, with your eye constantly raking sea and sky, judging the wind, measuring masts and spars and sail against it.

  In good weather there’s nothing like the soothing creak of ropes and timbers as a good sea-boat rides the waves, with an occasional flap of canvas to keep the man on the wheel awake. Get it wrong at the height of a storm and the wind could dismast you, never mind rip your canvas to shreds. While idling across a calm ocean with dwindling supplies and a cargo to deliver could turn out worse in the end. As Cap’n Joe never failed to stress, reading the skies and finding the wind was an instinct a good shipmaster worked hard to develop, just as he must read his men and be one with his ship if all are to survive.

  Instinctively, I patted the mahogany top of the plated bridge front, just as I used to pat the wooden rail of my first command, the sweet Lizzie Fennel. I’d talk to her, urging her along, guiding her through the weather. Ah well, she was gone now, lost to fire off Chile back in ’81, not long after I moved to White Star. Carrying coal from the Tyne to Valparaiso, another victim of spontaneous combustion in the hold. Her Master and crew were rescued, thank God, although it saddened me to think how I’d saved her from foundering with a cargo of cotton, only to have her burn under a man who took over.

  Coal: a great fuel but a dangerous cargo. Too much damp; a sudden shift in weight; a few chips ground to dust, and suddenly there’s a smouldering heart you know nothing about. Until it bursts into flame…

  With the bunkers in mind my prayer to this new ship was the same as ever: get us there safely. It was all I ever asked.

  ~~~

  The cliffs of the Cotentin peninsula were looming out of the gathering dusk and I was on the bridge again. With too deep a draft for the fortified harbour at Cherbourg we anchored in the roads, lowering the leeside gangway for our passengers to board from the tenders. Loaded with mail for New York, one of the boats came alongside with representatives of the French press. Eager, like their counterparts in Southampton, to see this brand new liner and garner some suitable quotes. It was good publicity, but after the Hawke incident, I preferred to steer clear of gentlemen with notebooks and pencils. Fortunately, Bruce Ismay was present to take the brunt of it. No need for me to say a word.

  If our noon departure had brought forth a cacophony of noise with whistles blowing and people yelling, Cherbourg after dark was less overwhelming but somehow more strident. Passengers of various nationalities were thrust uneasily together, a long wait ashore adding to nerves already stretched. All intensified after dark by a choppy journey out by tender, and the anxiety of crossing a swelling, watery gap in order to mount the gangway.

  A number of our English passengers were leaning over the Boat Deck’s rails, watching the new arrivals. A halo of silver hair
caught the light; when the man turned I saw his beard was of biblical proportions. Catching my eye, he nodded and came towards me. Normally, I would have bidden him good evening while making it clear I was on duty and not available for small talk, but in this instance there was no such option. I knew who he was before he extended his hand.

  ‘William Stead, Captain. How d’ye do?’

  His handshake was firm and dry, his glance of the penetrating variety. Interviewed by him, I felt no one would lie, and if so Stead would know it. No wonder he had earned himself a reputation.

  ‘Well,’ he began dryly, nodding at the action below, ‘I’m glad I boarded in Southampton – although I must say, Captain, I wondered for a while if we would make it as far as the Isle of Wight. The gunshots and all those ropes flying around were most alarming!’

  Feeling my hackles rise, I forced my tone to be even. ‘Ships not tied up very well, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘But no damage done, eh?’ He cast his eyes around. ‘She’s certainly magnificent – and an amazing size. Bigger than Olympic, I understand. And just as unsinkable, eh?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  His glance took in the bridge and boat deck; lingered on the lifeboats. Wondering where this conversation was heading, I drew breath, ready to make an excuse and depart.

  ‘You know,’ he went on pensively, returning that unsettling glance to me, ‘I don’t like the Atlantic. I’ve crossed before, several times… but I don’t like it. I’d much rather be at home.’ He seemed to shake himself, and with wry smile said, ‘However, when the President of the United States calls, one cannot refuse…’

  Wanting to say I’d read something like that in yesterday’s paper, I bit it back. ‘Well, Mr Stead, let’s hope we can give you a pleasant voyage to New York. And now you really must excuse me. I have duties to attend to.’

  ‘Of course, Captain – don’t let me distract you.’

  Turning, I caught the 5th and 6th Officers, Messrs Lowe and Moody, indulging in some unseemly whispering and smirking as they looked down on the passengers boarding. Lowe was a Welshman with a pugnacious look, while Moody – a handsome young man – was from Scarborough. Their names in conjunction had amused me when I signed them on in Belfast, although it was too soon to tell if they were suitably named. So far they’d seemed cheerful enough – decidedly too cheerful at the moment.

  Clearing them off with a sharp word, I looked to see what had tickled them. Below, illumined by the gangway lights, an overdressed matron with feathered headgear and fur-collared cape was refusing to cross the gap between ship and tender, despite sturdy sailors on both sides offering support. The tender was in the lee of the ship’s side, but inevitably there was some rise and fall, an odd wave splashing between the two vessels, nothing to be alarmed about.

  Several other passengers, with varying degrees of impatience, were urging her forward. I thought one woman was ready to give her a push; instead, she squeezed past and crossed the gap as though born to it. I was about to send one of the juniors down when I saw Mr Lightoller stepping smartly down the gangway. The 2nd Officer was not a big man but he had authority, and having taken charge he soon had the quivering matron on the right side of the gap. Moments later she was being escorted up the gangway.

  For the next half-hour, while stewards were sorting luggage and settling the new arrivals, I was busy in my office trying to dismiss the unease of my meeting with Mr Stead. Since he’d managed to get under my skin with no effort at all, I knew I’d do well to avoid him.

  A little later, McElroy chuckled when I asked about the problems boarding. ‘I am informed, sir, that our lady of the gangway – Mrs Adelaide Burgoyne – is tolerably well, and recovering in her stateroom.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Her late husband, I’m given to understand, was head of the Burgoyne distillery.’

  I groaned. ‘Not Burgoyne’s Bourbon?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ McElroy gave me one of his old-fashioned looks. ‘She insisted on changing her cabin – apparently the one she’d been allocated smells of paint.’

  ‘Hardly surprising. Did Mr Latimer oblige?’

  ‘He did. But then Mrs Burgoyne didn’t like the sofa – insisted on having the original one moved to the new cabin…’

  There were passengers of that ilk every trip. But with the busy English Channel ahead of us, and St George’s Channel beyond that, I put awkward passengers out of my mind and prepared for a watchful, wakeful night. Innumerable small craft going about their lawful business – while carrying less than adequate navigation lights – could make Cherbourg to Queenstown a hazardous passage.

  ~~~

  With 1st Officer Murdoch and Henry Wilde sharing the responsibility of the night watch, I managed to rest now and then on the day-bed in my office. Always with one ear cocked and half an eye for the ship. Up with the dawn, and needing a look at that bunker fire, before breakfast I went down in the lifts to F Deck, past the Turkish bath and swimming pool and along to the Chief Engineer’s office.

  Joe Bell and I donned boiler suits and made our way to the engine room’s upper level. Heat like a blast from hell whistled past my ears and sucked my breath away. As the great steel door clanged shut, the air vibrated around us. The Chief led the way down a flight of steel steps, the clang of our boots sharp against the whirring of the fans. Redolent of new paint and hot metal, air was being driven along huge ducts to the six boiler rooms below.

  Electric light was feeble here. On the lower deck it seemed feebler still, pinpricks in a glowing, smoky twilight. Silhouettes of men moving back and forth: trimmers shifting coal atop the bunkers, firemen feeding furnaces in the boiler rooms below: shovels driving, coal clunking, shoulders glistening with sweat. New blazing suns every few seconds; eclipsed as furnace doors clanged shut.

  Coal was the fuel, steam the driving-force, but what it took to keep this huge ship moving was manpower. And the heat was ferocious, 120°F and more. I was drenched in sweat as we reached the bottom plates, but Joe Bell was at ease in his own realm. In the sixth boiler room – furthest for’ard – he indicated two tall bunkers, being emptied lest heat from their burning neighbour cause further problems. I saw men standing by with barrows and water buckets while others hauled coals from chutes with rakes and shovels. From Bunker 10, smoke poured forth, stinking of soot and sulphur. Every now and then a lick of flame sent the men reeling back. Like the mythical Wayland’s forge, it seemed to me, with masked and blackened denizens toiling below. Across and into the boilers; back again to start the raking and loading and burning all over again.

  Between them, in four-hour shifts, our ninety firemen had been at this since the day before we left Southampton. There was clearly some way to go. Watching the men – and knowing something of what they endured, for I’d once worked in a forge myself – I felt both humbled and anxious. You can do a lot with a damaged ship, but a serious fire leaves few options.

  One man looked up, caught my eye. I nodded. A moment later they were all glancing my way. Joe Bell was their boss, a man known to many from other voyages. To them the Old Man was a remote figure, seen on inspections and then only briefly. Today, an encouraging word was called for. ‘Well done there. A brave job. Keep at it.’

  Grim though he often seemed, I could see Joe Bell was pleased. We carried on down the alleyway, nodding here and there to the men, stepping through the series of watertight doorways until we came out at last into the well-lit cathedral space of the engine room. There, I allowed myself to cough and blow my nose. My handkerchief was black.

  ‘So how is it?’

  The Chief shook his head. ‘Well, sir, as you probably gathered, that smouldering bunker’s afire. Tried pouring water into the hatch up top, but we’re getting steam explosions. So we’re trying to rake it from below.’ He sighed wearily. ‘What they don’t get out will burn. But then there’s the clinker to empty – it’ll take a while.’

  ‘And it’ll need to cool before Tommy Andrews can look at it.’ The moment was taut. ‘A lot of smoke in th
ere. Are they all right, the men?’

  He nodded. ‘They’ll do. I’ve got some men from each watch on rotation.’

  ‘What about coal stocks? Have we enough to see us through?’

  ‘Well, sir, we loaded plenty…’ He pursed his lips, his moustache squirming in tell-tale anxiety. ‘But the bunker fire’s already used more than we planned for…’ Finally, he said, ‘Yes, there’s enough, so long as we don’t go daft with it. I mean,’ he paused again, ‘begging your pardon, sir, but so long as Mr Ismay doesn’t want to break any records this trip, we’ll be fine.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Chief.’

  If coal was the food, and steam the life-blood, these huge reciprocating engines were the living heart of the ship. Shushing and thudding, the great crankshafts plunged up and down, working propeller shafts, driving us through the water at more than 20 knots. There was surprisingly little noise: it was more a powerful disturbance of air, felt through the ears and nose, the chest and the gut. An awesome power that instilled respect for the men who made those engines work.

  Tired after the long night, I was breathless before we were halfway up those interminable steps. Forced to pause, I pretended I was admiring the pristine engine room, but Joe Bell understood. ‘A fair climb, sir,’ he said gruffly as we continued up to his office.

  ~~~

  An hour later we held an emergency drill for the crew – alarm bells, followed by the closing of watertight doors, with sailors standing by the lifeboats. Mechanically, all went well, although the crew took too long to reach their stations. Of course, liners being what they are, most of the victualing department were excused the drill on the grounds of serving passengers. Not ideal.

  Afterwards I took coffee with the senior officers in my dayroom. Not simply to discuss the drill. In Southampton, with regard to the fitting-out, everything had been so last-minute, I needed an overall picture of our situation. Usually we were six in all, and the daily meeting was the means by which I kept a check on what was happening aboard; when I discovered what had or had not been done to rectify faults noted the day before. With a crack Atlantic liner, everything had to be up to the mark all the time.