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

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Stores were loaded and bunkers taken, we were allocated a troop transport number, and with all my officers and crew – although minus most of the cabin stewards – we prepared to greet our new passengers. 2,000 of them, mainly from northern regiments.

  Soldiers, I have to say, make a different kind of passenger, and after three weeks part of me was relieved to see them go. For airs and graces certain officers could have put a duchess to shame, while others were the kind of gentlemen I was proud to have aboard. Amongst the men we had the usual mixed bag of humanity; but apart from the NCOs they all seemed alarmingly young to be going to war. Watching as they clomped down the gangway at Durban, strung about with rifles and kit-bags, I wondered what the next few weeks would hold. The enemy, it seemed, was proving wilier than anyone expected.

  While they marched out to acquaint themselves with death, we returned to beautiful Cape Town and a two-week break. Our crew headed for local beaches while the Chief, the Doctor and myself did a little sightseeing and hotel visiting. Sitting outside on a shady terrace overlooking green lawns with blue seas beyond, was, I’m sure, the most perfect way to relax. Had it not been for a shared edginess and apprehension.

  It was almost a relief when the holiday came to an end. Then we loaded the wounded. Not from any recent battle – indeed most of them had been injured a month or more previously. Our 200 passengers were those who had been patched up on the field, transferred to local hospitals while they recovered sufficiently to travel, and were now bound for military hospitals in England.

  Making the rounds on a daily basis as I continued to do, it was impossible not to be stricken by these poor fellows. So much suffering, so much courage. Every face I looked into became that of Harry Jones. I felt their lives like a weight bearing me to my knees every night. I prayed as though they were my own.

  My pleas were answered in that the weather was kind on the way home, at least until we reached Gibraltar. Rounding Cape Finisterre into the Bay of Biscay at the end of January was a fight though, and one that did not ease in any marked fashion until we were into the Channel proper. Then there was something of a fiasco when we arrived in Southampton. The special train detailed to take the wounded to the Royal Victoria Hospital at Netley was waiting in a half-completed shed, which, in view of the bitter weather, was a ridiculous place for disembarkation. Thank heavens someone took note of our protests. Directed then to a more sheltered berth, it meant a long delay for those poor lads, ready and waiting since dawn. At last though, they were able to leave us for better facilities.

  I thought of them a few days later as we steamed down Southampton Water, carrying another 2,000 men bound for the Cape. The hospital grounds were covered in snow, the red-and-white buildings – almost a third of a mile long – stood out behind a veil of spidery trees and tall Scotch firs. Quite a few men were waving from the pier as we passed, and as our chaps began waving back I wondered at their thoughts. Were both sides thinking poor devils, or were they cheering each other on?

  It was Easter before Majestic’s stint as an army transport was done. Eventually a medal was issued to thank those of us who had served in that capacity, and, as I said to Ellie at the time, I felt I’d earned it. Not because I came under fire or did anything heroic, but simply because the strain of those four voyages was greater than anyone could have imagined.

  That the war had been a shabby, ill-judged affair, did not come out for some time. But it was too late then for regrets or the kind of crocodile tears that men like William Stead indulged in. Men of his ilk earned their living promoting causes of one sort or another, or exposing the follies of politicians. To my mind, it was almost shamefully easy to find the wickedness in war. Enough, as I saw it, to say, I did my best. I served my country.

  ~~~

  It was a difficult period. As the war began, we lost Thomas Ismay, the man who had made White Star what it was. In 1900 my mother died, peacefully in her sleep, which was how we should all end our mortal lives. Guilt weighed on me as I realized what little time we had spent together in my adult life. She was sharp and outspoken, and too often we rubbed each other up the wrong way. I wished it could have been different. Looking back it seemed I’d spent my entire life trying to win her affection. All I’d wanted was to please her, make her proud of me. Ellie said she was, but I couldn’t quite believe it. I missed knowing my mother was there, but most of all I was sorry for what we had missed. The arctic wind which had blown for Joe whistled past my ears again.

  These personal losses seemed magnified by the national one. Before the war had truly ended, in January 1901, we lost our Queen as well. She had been our monarch for 63 years and few people could remember a time before her reign. With Victoria’s passing it seemed a way of life had gone forever. The whole country was in mourning, wondering what the new century had in store.

  I imagine great thinkers would say our moral foundations had been shaken by the Queen’s death. Certainly, it was a time of political unrest, with workers’ strikes and demands for women’s suffrage. Ellie agreed with their aims – yes, she said, she’d like the chance to vote, and to see women in Parliament – but she was appalled at the way some of these so-called suffragettes carried on. Beyond telling her these things were happening in America as well, I thought it best not to comment.

  By contrast, life in the Atlantic service seemed to go on much as before. I made it home in time for my darling Mel’s third birthday, but was in New York for her fourth which was a disappointment. Shortly afterwards, Mr Lightoller joined me as 3rd Officer and served aboard Majestic until the end of that year. I liked him, although he sometimes set me wondering. To hear him speak you’d swear he was a Newfoundlander, yet according to his history he was born and bred in Lancashire. Of course, he’d knocked around the world a good deal – more than most, I’d say. Streak of independence a mile wide – not always a good thing – and he could certainly tell a good story. Having asked about his route to White Star, I was astonished to hear that he’d abandoned his sea-going career a few years previously for gold-prospecting in the Yukon.

  I wasn’t even sure where the Yukon was. With a rueful grin, he enlightened me. ‘Just about as far north-west as you can go, sir, without falling into the Arctic Ocean!

  ‘I met old diggers there,’ he went on, ‘with crabbed noses and hardly a finger between ‘em! So obsessed with the next big find, they didn’t care what else dropped off. Honestly, sir, they scared me. After three months, I came home before the winter set in – didn’t want to lose my family jewels to frostbite!’

  I laughed at that. Broke, young Lightoller had seen sense and headed south again, become a cowboy in Alberta, and then a wrangler, working his passage home aboard a cattle boat to Liverpool. The following year he’d joined White Star, which amused me even more. Clearly, Lightoller was a man who’d never be stuck fast, and the Superintendent who’d interviewed him must have seen his potential. I was rather sorry when the end of the year saw a parting of the ways. I forget where he went next, but when Majestic went into dry-dock for a major refit, I went home for a spot of leave.

  We had a wonderful family Christmas, made better by the knowledge that I’d arrived home well in advance and did not have to dash off immediately afterwards. Eleanor’s mother and Thomas Jones came to stay for a couple of nights, both of them eager to spend time with our little Mel, and to watch her opening her presents on Christmas morning. As ever I was her adoring slave, eager to do her bidding; even at four years old she knew it. Ellie got quite cross, telling me – and Uncle Tom – not to run around after her, or she would imagine that was what men were for.

  Mrs Pennington sniffed at the rebuke, encouraging her grand-daughter in all her imperious little ways. ‘She’s a true Pennington,’ she kept saying, ‘a Pennington from before the fall…’

  Quite what she meant, none of us knew – it sounded vaguely biblical to me, and this, coupled with a passion for churchgoing, made me wonder whether Mrs P was developing religious mania. But Ellie said n
ot to be silly, it was only Mother’s delusions of grandeur from which she’d been suffering for years.

  The biggest change of that year, of course, was on the shipping front. As Managing Director Bruce Ismay had been running the company for some time, and that he was in favour of expansion was no secret. With his more cautious father gone, Bruce was able to put his plans into action. In the person of the banker John Pierpont Morgan, he’d been courted by the Americans for some time. Morgan wanted to monopolise the Atlantic route, absorbing it into his group of railroads and shipping lines, and Bruce knew he was prepared to offer almost anything to see those dreams come true.

  With his younger brother James, Bruce Ismay eventually sold out for £10,000,000.

  ‘Pounds, that is, not dollars,’ I said to Ellie. Her eyes went wide with astonishment. ‘Quite a bargain,’ I added dryly, ‘when you think he’s managed to rake in the money but remain in charge…’

  ‘But I thought the rest of the family were trying to stop the sale?’

  ‘They were, but the shareholders voted in favour. Besides,’ I added, feeling a twitch of excitement even as I said it, ‘With all this money, Bruce will be able to order new ships…’

  ‘But what will happen to the company? Will it still be British?’

  With that, Ellie put her finger on the problem. It was just a trifle sticky – and most of us felt this – that although White Star’s ships remained under British flag, it was no longer a wholly British company. It was in effect owned by a New York trust whose investors were mainly American. Of course, we’d been seducing wealthy Americans from the beginning, but the Government didn’t like the new agreement. There were some very high-level negotiations before the deal went ahead.

  New ships, yes, it sounded good. The lads would continue to be employed, the shipmasters would continue drawing their excellent salaries, and Bruce could still be boss. Looking back on that time, I can almost hear Joe saying, ‘Careful now – they’ll take their pound of flesh…’

  24

  A pound of flesh. I’d been feeling the truth of it all winter. The price of ambition – not just mine, but Bruce Ismay’s too. Until last September, aboard Olympic, I’d never imagined how much I would be forced to pay. The last few months had left me in no doubt that it was time to say goodbye to what was, after all, a younger man’s game.

  Longing for this assignment to be over, suddenly I’d suffered a sea-change. Meeting Dorothea’s daughter – my daughter – was like being cast up on some tropical shore. Strange, beautiful, exotic – and utterly foreign. Uncharted territory to a man who had confined himself to the grey-green waters of the Atlantic.

  Following the afternoon’s storm of emotions, I found the evening a trial. The Saloon was gently buzzing with conversation as I joined my guests for dinner, but with Lucinda at the forefront of my mind it was difficult to keep up. While I longed to have her by my side, almost anyone would have been preferable to the strange Mrs Charlotte Cardeza.

  Tall and gaunt, her raised chin and haughty expression gave the impression that all around her were beneath notice. In Reception I thought she was some dowager duchess McElroy had forgotten to tell me about, but Mrs Cardeza was an American widow, rich beyond most people’s conception of the word.

  She was daunting – and different. Of the millionaires’ wives I’d met, most were society hostesses, devoting their time to charitable causes. Mrs Cardeza’s hobbies were ocean yacht-racing and big-game hunting. And, I guessed, indulging her son, the equally remarkable Mr Thomas Cardeza.

  Attempting to engage the lady in conversation, I asked about her yachting experiences. ‘I understand, ma’am, that you’ve skippered ocean-going yachts?’

  ‘One,’ she said in clipped tones. ‘The Eleanor.’

  ‘Ah, my dear wife’s name.’ I smiled encouragingly while tackling my coquilles St Jacques. ‘And where did that voyage take you?’

  ‘Hardly a voyage, Captain. We were off Cuba.’ She paused, studying the arrangement of smoked salmon on her plate. I thought she’d finished speaking, but then she said, ‘Came through a hurricane.’

  Amazed, I hardly knew how to respond. ‘Well then, dare I say it, ma’am – you are lucky to be here to tell the tale.’

  ‘Yes. So they tell me.’

  I tried prompting for further details, but it was her son who provided the story. Almost swamped by wind and waves, they’d battled on for most of the day and half the night – mainsail ripped to shreds and the rudder barely intact. But just as they thought all was lost, the wind suddenly dropped and they were able to make it to Havana Bay.

  ‘Lucky as always,’ Thomas Cardeza said, smiling fondly at his mother.

  He was probably in his thirties. Although not present aboard the Eleanor, he had accompanied his mother on most of her big-game-hunting expeditions. That did surprise me, since it was hard to imagine him roughing it in a safari tent. Even less could I see him stalking lions across the savannah. He seemed more of a lounge lizard, monocle in place, hair slicked back with pomade, lips as pink as a girl’s. My other lady guest – the elegantly-dressed couturier, Lucile – flirted with him outrageously. Fortunately her husband, the champion fencer Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon, appeared more amused than concerned.

  I had decided to tease the Duff-Gordons by pretending I didn’t know who they were, referring to them as Mrs and Mrs Morgan, the name under which they had registered; but my little joke fell on deaf ears. Only when young Cardeza returned to the subject of his recent trip through Africa, did it seem to have been noticed.

  ‘I must say Egypt’s getting to be like Broadway,’ he said dismissively. ‘We bumped into everyone, didn’t we, Mother dear?’ He listed several well-known names, including the Astors. ‘And Mr JP Morgan. He said he was intending to travel on his brand new ship, but he’s not aboard, is he?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’ I replied. ‘Business matters, I understand.’

  ‘Sir – if you’ll forgive me for saying – I think it more likely Mother upset him. Insisted on buying that Pharoah’s death mask he was after. Wouldn’t give us the time of day after that.’

  The young man evidently found that a satisfying tale, and Lady Duff Gordon laughed appreciatively. Mrs Cardeza raised an eyebrow. Only when I asked if she and her son were enjoying the voyage, did she give me a clear response. Hardly complimentary, since she judged the trip so far to have been rather dull.

  ‘A storm or two,’ she said, ‘would have been more exhilarating.’

  Feeling murderous, I responded with a taut smile. ‘Perhaps next time…’

  I was thankful when the meal came to an end. I thought I detected a sigh of relief from Sir Cosmo as Mrs Cardeza drifted off with her son – he still talking, she making no discernible response.

  My eyes turned towards the far end of the room, where Lucinda was sharing a table with her lady friends. Earlier, I’d despatched a note, begging her forgiveness for my abrupt departure that afternoon, and suggesting we might have lunch together the next day. As I caught up, she shot me a grateful smile and said she would like to do that.

  ‘By the way,’ she added quietly, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been saying you knew my parents in Hong Kong – the ladies were curious, you see. Mr Clinch Smith too. I said it’s been rather special to hear so much about them…’

  That tactful explanation covered a multitude of questions. I thanked her for it and asked if I might join them later. By the time we parted at the head of the stairs my anxious and uncertain mood had departed. I felt calm, restored to my old self, less daunted by the difficulties ahead.

  While the ladies went into the Palm Court for coffee, I headed next door for my after-dinner cigar. Despite its newness, the Smoke Room gave the impression of an old-established gentlemen’s club. Leaded glass, carved and inlaid panelling, leather armchairs and a discreet but well-stocked bar, made for a popular rendezvous. Frank Millet and Major Butt followed me in, and, as we looked for an empty table, Jacques Futrelle stood and offered us seats. N
oticing Stead nearby, I hesitated; but the morning’s interview seemed an age ago. I took a seat next to the Major, my back to Stead, and, as the steward took my order, reflected that after all I owed the newspaperman something. Except for the séance, would I have met Lucinda Carver? Stead had played his part. I should be thankful.

  Gratitude, however, did not make for liking. Stead’s voice, high-pitched, with its echoes of the north-east, intruded so much I could barely follow the conversation at my own table. Oddly enough, Frank Millet and Futrelle, both of whom had been journalists, were discussing their early days, while at the next table Stead was holding forth on the virtues of free speech and a free press.

  I heard him say how proud he was of having introduced the personal interview to journalism – and claiming he’d educated the American newspaper magnate, William Randolph Hearst, in what he called revolutionary reporting. I thought revolution a good word, considering the campaigns he’d run on the Pall Mall Gazette. But as Stead was taken to task on this very point, I realized my companions’ ears were also attuned to the debate.

  ‘Hearst is nothing but a promoter of sensational stories!’ one man protested. John Jacob Astor, I saw when I turned my head – while another spat the words yellow journalism as though they were fever-ridden.

  ‘But Mr Hearst,’ Stead responded, ‘put newspapers within reach of ordinary people. He made newspapers popular by publishing the truth about crime and politics and financial corruption. The kind of truths that ordinary people – the ones who vote – ought to be made aware of! It’s what I’ve been doing for more than thirty years.’

  There was some grudging assent. From our table Futrelle broke in with, ‘Don’t forget Hearst gave us Jack London and Mark Twain – you have to admire him for that.’

  ‘What about the truth, though?’

  ‘Yeah, Hearst sure don’t let truth get in the way of a good story!’

  Everyone laughed. Turning, I caught Astor’s eye, but with a wry smile he shook his head as if to say, ‘Don’t I know it!’ His divorce and subsequent marriage to the young Madeleine Force meant that his name – in certain newspapers – had been trawled through the mud.