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

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘Sit down,’ he said gruffly, waving me to the seat beside his desk. Captain Kidley was a man I respected; tough but not unkind. Mostly, discipline was left to the Mate, which was how it should be; only when things were serious did he intervene, so I knew I was in for some hard talk.

  ‘I want to keep this informal, Mr Smith, because in spite of evidence to the contrary, I believe you have a future with this company.’

  That was an opening to gain my full attention.

  ‘I do not like to presume upon a man’s private life,’ he went on, eyes glinting beneath bushy brows, ‘but in this case, I gather your private life has become public knowledge in Hong Kong.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘I tried to warn you before, but I fear it is starting to impinge. Not just upon your reputation, Mr Smith, but upon the reputation of this ship – and, by association, White Star.

  ‘We cannot allow this situation to continue. The woman you are consorting with…’ I noticed he used the word woman, rather than lady, ‘is married to an important Hong Kong resident. I cannot comment on their personal arrangements – that is beyond my knowledge – but if necessary I can prevent you from continuing an association that I consider detrimental to good order…’

  There was no need for him to spell it out. As the ship’s Master he could refuse permission for me to go ashore; and if I should be foolish enough to disobey, the reprimand would be official, and entered in the ship’s log book to be submitted the Registrar General of Shipping at the end of the voyage. That would mean dismissal. An end to my career as a ship’s officer.

  ‘It hasn’t gone that far – yet. But from what I hear it seems to be heading that way. Your work is suffering. I imagine as a result of this unfortunate liaison. Am I right?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well then, Mr Smith. I advise you – most strongly – to end it.’

  I nodded and made to rise. Captain Kidley waved me back down. Addressing me again, his tone was a degree or two less frosty.

  ‘Life, for a seafarer, is hard. You know that. You’re not a boy, you’ve been a shipmaster yourself. You know the pitfalls. If you were faced with this situation you would say what I am about to say: do not let this woman ruin you. No matter what you think and feel at the moment, she isn’t worth it.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I want your word, Mr Smith, that when we return to Hong Kong, you will behave with discretion, be prompt about your duties, and give me no more cause for concern.’

  I nodded, weak with relief. There was only one answer. ‘You have it, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ The Captain turned to his desk. The interview was over.

  ~~~

  Returning to my cabin, I sank down on the bunk and buried my head in my hands. There was no choice. I knew the truth of what the Old Man was saying. In a way, it was almost a relief. He was right: I would say the same to any man in my position.

  I had no claim on Dorothea. No future. She’d made that plain. And the Old Man had made it clear that I couldn’t have her and my career. But how was I to give her up?

  I rolled over, smothering painful gasps in the pillow. That it should come to this! She had me, right where she wanted me – only had to crook her finger for me to jump and do whatever she wanted. What was I to her? Excitement to liven the dull days, something to look forward to when the ship returned. And when we lay together, bathed in each other’s sweat, while I pleasured her, loved her, longed to make her mine, did she never think what she was doing to me?

  Time was running out. She knew that as well as I did. Two, maybe three more visits and Coptic would be leaving. Did it matter to her? It didn’t seem to. That was my problem, the reason I was in such a mess, not sleeping, making mistakes, barely able at times to drag myself out of my bunk. The Old Man was right: it had to stop.

  ~~~

  It was one thing to make that decision, another to live with it. After leaving Shanghai for San Francisco, I expected we would be back in Hong Kong within our usual nine or ten weeks, but it was longer than that. In the vicinity of the China Sea on our return we were hit by an early typhoon, the whole ship struggling against the battering of enormous seas. Sky and sea were one. Impossible to see further than a few yards as wind and rain and spray lashed the open bridge. We were pitching and rolling, a dangerous spiral motion that lifted the stern clear while the prow buried itself, sending huge green waves rolling down the foredeck.

  Each time the propeller came clear and raced madly, the engineers below struggled to control the revs. When she smacked down, the engine groaned like an animal in its death-throes. There was a danger she would break in two. With every massive sea the Old Man yelled warnings to the Chief down the chartroom speaking tube. I couldn’t think what conditions were like below – it was a bare-knuckle fight on deck.

  The quartermaster’s veins stood out with effort as he fought to control the wheel. An hour was as much as he could stand without a break. Changing lookouts every two hours, we officers did the usual four-hour stint in our oilskins, clinging hand over hand from one side of the open bridge to the other.

  Just like sailing-ship days, I thought; not exactly enjoying it, but finding perverse satisfaction in a hell that mirrored my inner turmoil. Until, that is, Coptic pushed her nose into the kind of wave that had turned Lizzie Fennel on her beam ends.

  Luckily, I was off watch and in my bunk when it happened, but the force of the blow landed me on the deck. I scrambled to my feet. A few paces to the bridge and I saw Hines was down and bleeding profusely, the lookout trying to hold him as he slid about amidst great shards of glass. The chartroom windows were shattered.

  The Old Man was all right but Hines was out cold, his face badly cut. He came round a minute or so later but the doctor discovered he also had a broken arm. After that, the Old Man and I hardly left the bridge, and when he did, to grab a couple of hours’ rest, he left me in charge.

  Suddenly, after two full days and a night of it, the wind died away. By the second evening we were still being thrown about on disturbed and massive seas, but the rain had stopped, the clouds had lifted. We even saw the stars again. As young Cooper and I attempted to establish just where we were, Hines staggered to the bridge, his splinted arm in a sling.

  We were all grey with strain, but Hines, his face criss-crossed by scabs and stitches, looked infinitely worse. ‘Thank God that’s over.’ Through swollen lips, the words came out like a groan.

  I shook my head. ‘I doubt it, sir. Give it a few hours, we’ll be in it again.’ He denied it, said I was wrong; in his opinion we were through the typhoon. But past experience told me there could be a hellish couple of days yet to come, and I was too tired to be tactful. ‘No, sir. Just look at those seas – coming from every direction. It’s the eye of the storm. I’d get back to bed if I were you. Get some sleep while you can.’

  He eyed me for a moment, disliking my tone I think, as much as the contradiction. I half expected a caution for cockiness, but he let it go.

  We had much to follow, though not as bad. But if the first blast had caught and measured my anguish, strangely, that small respite in the eye of the storm was a turning point. There had been no time to think while we were battling for survival – I’d simply accepted that the Old Man had to grab an hour’s rest here and there, and with Hines laid up, I was the logical replacement. But the fact that the Old Man had trusted me – after his reprimand – was almost overwhelming. I knew at last that I’d begun to redeem myself. Not just in his eyes, but my own.

  ~~~

  Between Shanghai and Hong Kong I was deeply apprehensive. Fearful, yes, but mainly of my own emotions. Dorothea could be cold and cutting when she chose, and I almost prayed for it, knowing it would make the parting easier.

  After much deliberation I sent a note ashore shortly after we docked, asking her to meet me at one of the better hotels in town two evenings hence. Circumstances, I added, made it impossible for me to come ashore earlier than that. I hoped she woul
d read the message between my brief lines. I wanted her to be prepared.

  The chosen evening did not augur well. It was mid-June, bucketing with rain as I left the ship. Despite a borrowed umbrella I was soaked before I arrived. Booking a room, I asked for some drinks to be sent up and poured myself a stiff gin, adding a splash of tonic water as I rehearsed what I would say. Something along the lines of my career and future against no future at all. We must say goodbye, because even if I ditched White Star and tried for a position out East… But no, that must not be said; that direction was a blind alley. I must stick to goodbye.

  Having arrived early, I felt my heartbeat quicken as the appointed time came. It passed, and I poured myself another gin, consulted my pocket-watch, checked the time every few minutes for more than an hour. Concern mounted to anger, and descended to anxiety. I went down, enquired at the desk: there were no messages. Undecided, I stood by the door for a while, knowing I could not return to the ship without finding out what was wrong. If Curtis was at home – well, so be it, I would face him too. Since the rain was passing, I set off to walk up to the house.

  Apart from one small light, the place was in darkness. I rang the bell and Dorothea’s Chinese manservant answered, his smooth old face impassive as he asked me to wait in the hall. He left me there a moment or two, returning with two envelopes: the one I’d addressed to Dorothea, and another bearing my name.

  ‘Madam gone to London,’ Li said as I gazed at it. ‘Brother sick. She say sorry, Mr Smith.’

  Speechless, my head full of questions, I could only turn the envelope over in my hands. The old man bowed, indicated a chair, asked if I would like tea. I said yes and sat down to open the letter. It was just one page and dated some three weeks previously.

  ‘Dearest, this will come as a shock I know but I have to go home to England. Nicholas is very ill. So things must be arranged with regard to the business. With no idea when I might return I have closed up the house as far as possible and left Li in charge. Curtis will come and go as he sees fit. He has taken up residence in the apartment above the office – says he prefers it so while I’m away.

  ‘I know your time with the ship is coming to an end. We would have had to say goodbye sooner or later… better we part now…’

  Several words were smudged. Suspecting tears were the cause, I felt my own throat tighten as I struggled to make out her meaning.

  ‘… may not believe me perhaps but it is true. What we had, my love, will never be again. I shall remember you always. Ever yours, Dorothea…’

  Tension leached away as I read. Re-read and read again. Drained, I sagged forward, staring at the paper between my hands. It was over. She had ended it, and I thought my heart would break.

  Li brought tea and went away. It was only as I roused myself to push the letter back into its envelope that something fell out – a fine gold chain, one she had often worn around her neck, but minus the small gold locket I had given her.

  On the back of the letter, she had written a post-script: ‘The chain for you – the heart for me.’

  14

  Next time round in Frisco, I behaved like a fool, drinking and whoring my way round all the sea-front taverns and bordellos. At the time I thought it made me feel better. Certainly it relieved a lot of anger, although I’m not proud to think of some of the things I did. And then, regretting it, I went through a mawkishly sentimental patch, wearing Dorothea’s gold chain all the way back to Liverpool.

  With the familiar waterfront ahead of me, the tower of the Sailor’s Church looked like a beckoning finger. As soon as I had a free hour I went in, as I had with Joe as a boy, and thanked God for bringing me home. Counting my sins while I was at it, I knew I would never willingly go back to Hong Kong. Dorothea and my frustrated longings were too strong. I put the gold chain in a small box at the bottom of my sea-chest and decided it was best forgotten, but it was years before I ceased to think of her. Every now and then I’d come across it, or something else would remind me, and I’d be back in that small hotel with Dorothea beside me…

  Gradually, as these things do, it ceased to hurt.

  I didn’t go to London, didn’t try to look for her. There was nothing to be gained, only the opening of wounds not yet healed. The affair was over. One lives and learns, and no doubt Mr Dickens would have had a thing or two to say about it. Joe too, except I kept it to myself. Remembering what he’d said in the beginning, pretty coral will rip your keel out, I was too ashamed to tell him what a fool I’d been. Now, all these years later I had questions in my mind, and wished I could have confided in him.

  By the time Coptic and I reached Liverpool, Joe had swallowed the anchor, opened a chandlery business in Birkenhead and, with his wife and sons, become quite the family man. Susanna was a kind woman, unflappable it seemed, willing to make my mother as welcome as she did me. And Mother was not the easiest guest.

  Nor was Mother the easiest company for me. I cannot say that we had ever been close, yet of all the family, she it was who saw the change in me. She held me at arms’ length when I went home to Hanley, examining me for an uncomfortable moment with those sharp blue eyes of hers.

  ‘She turned you down, then.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  My breath caught. How could she know? ‘Please, Mother…’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said, releasing me. ‘I’m saying nothing. It’s your business, not mine. But whoever she was, I’m sorry. We all go through it, you know.’

  I could not speak for the lump in my throat. She patted my arm and turned away. It was never mentioned again.

  If she said anything to Joe, he never let on. Mostly, I stayed with him and Susanna when I was in port, and somehow, the hours spent reminiscing over a pint or two in Joe’s local were just what I needed. Brought me back to reality.

  Another Pacific voyage had been mooted, but I refused, asking to be returned to the New York run. Apart from a couple of interruptions I’d been crossing the Atlantic ever since. A few trips on one ship, a few years on another; but all the while the liners had been growing in size. Last year, Olympic had been the biggest in the world; but somehow Tommy Andrews had found a way of making this new ship even bigger.

  Next year – or the year after – there’d be a bigger one still. I didn’t want to be around for that.

  Except – except for some strange reason the past was becoming stronger, intruding on the present, making me examine everything in an attempt to solve the mystery of who I was, what I had been, and where I would go from here. Was it just age and retirement beckoning, or was it the girl I’d seen with Stead? I hadn’t thought of Dorothea – consciously, that is – in years. Yet now, all the old questions arose. What had happened after we parted? Had she gone back to Hong Kong? Was she still living there? I couldn’t imagine her as a woman of my age. In my dreams – and yes, once in a long while she came to me in sleep – she was as young and lovely as the girl in the lavender gown.

  ~~~

  Mesmerised by the ploughing of the foam, I pictured the engines below and wondered where this journey was taking me. But I’d lingered too long. Reluctantly, I turned away.

  The navigation lights were on, the officers’ accommodation suitably darkened. Having done a round of the Boat Deck, I went down by the portside steps, unhooking the chain with its sign, Ship’s Staff Only, to access the softly-lit Promenade, where Bruce’s plate glass windows allowed passengers to walk in what he was pleased to call safety. They still gave me a shiver when I thought of those massive seas smashing through Coptic’s chartroom window. If I’d been in Belfast while Titanic was fitting out, I might have prevailed upon him to change his mind. But no, Bruce wanted me to remain aboard Olympic while the Atlantic weather was so bad. The passengers feel safe with you, he’d said, overriding all my arguments.

  Thankfully, for this trip at least, the weather was calm. If a storm blew up, I’d simply ban the passengers from walking here, and Bruce could protest till he was blue.

  I glanc
ed to left and right, my eyes accustomed to what was normal, ready to notice anything untoward. Ahead, two couples were coming towards me, catching the light from a pair of bay windows. With the blueprints in mind I guessed they were passing the Smoke Room, while the bay window to my left must be the Reading Room. Glancing in to confirm it, I paused, noticing a pale figure against a kaleidoscope of moving shadows. I paused, almost certain it was Mrs Carver in that distinctive gown. Others were present, arranging chairs – what were they doing? Was that Frank Millet? And Stead was there too – what was he up to?

  Aware of people approaching, I forced myself to move on – wouldn’t do to be seen spying on my passengers. I bade them goodnight as we passed and wondered when I could decently go back. Telling myself they had every right to be in the Reading Room, I tried to reason it out. The Smoke Room was no place for ladies, while the Palm Court was lively and popular for its music. Perhaps they wanted to talk. But why not the Lounge, where both sexes tended to congregate? Why the quiet Reading Room? It didn’t make sense.

  I went in through the Palm Court entrance. The orchestra was playing something soothing, the strains of which could be heard in the Smoke Room next door. In there, the Philadelphia banker, George Widener, was drinking with Charles Hays, the railroad king; as they spotted me I knew I should have avoided cutting through. I stopped by their table, said I just had a few minutes as I was doing my nightly rounds, but before I knew it I was involved in a discussion about the next new ship, already under construction in Olympic’s old berth. George Widener – a major shareholder in White Star’s parent company, IMM – was in sentimental mood, singing my praises and bewailing the news he’d heard of my retirement.

  ‘The only way to say goodbye,’ he insisted, breathing whiskey fumes in my face as he grasped my arm, ‘is to have commanded each of these three great ships. Next year, Britannic – just think of it! Another maiden voyage – another success! Then you can retire, sir!’