I worried that it was too big, that Mel and Ellie would rattle round in such a place, but, ‘I love the bathroom,’ Ellie breathed. ‘Imagine – a shower-bath! And water-closets upstairs and down – what luxury!’ She looked up at me with shining eyes. ‘Oh, Ted – could we?’
With more than a dozen rooms it would cost a fortune to heat the place, but it was the brightest smile I’d seen on Ellie’s face for months. The asking price was just affordable, although it would take most of our savings and I hated not to have money behind me. On the other hand I wanted her to be happy. For what felt like an age the pros and cons went back and forth in my head, while Ellie fairly bounced with expectation. At last my anxiety burst forth into laughter. ‘Yes,’ I said, shaking my head at the folly, ‘yes, of course we will…’
~~~
Having handed over my old command, I prepared myself for a journey to Belfast. While I stood by for the final few weeks of the new ship’s fitting out, Ellie was packing for the move south.
I got home in time for moving day. The house we’d loved was as bare as the day we bought it. Taking a final look round, somehow it felt very sad, as though we were leaving our best years behind. In what had been our bedroom, looking down at the neat little park with the untamed dunes beyond, for a moment I wondered what we were doing. All these years I’d lived within sight and sound of the sea. It seemed inconceivable that I should give it up.
‘I shall miss this.’
‘Me too,’ Ellie confessed.
‘I hope we’ve made the right decision,’ I muttered, turning to take her in my arms.
‘Why, Ted,’ she whispered, ‘of course we have.’ But she couldn’t quite meet my eyes when she said it, and a moment later I saw her wiping away tears.
~~~
Despite my forebodings, we became familiar with our new home. If Mel and the family dog missed their daily frolics on the beach, at least our garden here was bigger and more secluded. We were surrounded by trees, and when Ellie suggested naming the house Woodhead, after the Penningtons’ farm, I wasn’t sure if she was really reminded of her childhood home, or because she was homesick.
Between trips, as a family, we took advantage of train rides through the New Forest, and I must say, compared to the austere watering places of the Lancashire coast, the quaint little port of Lymington had an old-world charm that captured all three of us. Even better, from there we could take the ferry to Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight; and, as Mel declared, that was almost like going abroad.
As for me, that summer, each time we came up Southampton Water, I found the intense greens of the woodland on either hand a pleasant shock to eyes attuned to the tones of blue and grey. It was uplifting to the spirit.
I grew used to the new ship, the new port, the new passage in and out. Passing the Hamble with its fishing boats, and the Royal Hospital at Netley, I often thought of Majestic and my time in South Africa. It seemed such a short time since, and yet, as I fingered my service medals I realized it was almost ten years ago. Time seemed to be speeding up. Certainly, between voyages, my days flew past like swifts on the wing. Before we knew it, we were celebrating Mel’s tenth birthday and our first anniversary in the new house.
~~~
Ellie took frequent trips home to begin with, but gradually the visits became less. She and Mel settled in, made new friends. Life was sweet.
But then came Olympic, and with it a class of ships named to evoke the gods of ancient Greece. Olympians, Titans, masters of the universe. Grand in name, grand in concept; but like many such ideas it came to birth at a bad time. Industrial unrest, the financial world still jumpy, meant the fight for domination of the Atlantic trade was increasingly centred on profit and loss. Faced by commercial rivalries, Bruce Ismay, backed by JP Morgan, was determined to grab the world’s attention. This new class would be bigger and better than anything else afloat. The rich and famous would clamour for tickets, eager to be seen and photographed against backdrops so luxurious their friends would scarce believe they were afloat. Gods indeed. With White Star’s best crews working night and day to maintain the illusion.
At 45,000 gross tons, Olympic, the first of the new trio on order, would be almost double the tonnage of the previous Big Four. By far and away the biggest ship in the world, she was already on the drawing board before they thought to consult the men who would be handling her. My early effervescence quickly gave way to a not inconsiderable anxiety.
It came down to practical and unromantic issues. I had to explain to Bruce – and to Lord Pirrie in Belfast – that the increase in length and depth presented their own peculiar problems. Handling something so big would be a huge challenge, for me as well as the pilots. The approaches to most ports were generally along narrow channels, dredged to keep them clear. As it was, Southampton’s Bramble and New York’s Sandy Hook required some tricky navigation to avoid grounding. A new vessel with much deeper draft would be looking for a lot of dredging. Port dues would be more expensive.
Then there was the length of the berth to consider. Not a problem at the new White Star dock in Southampton, but Pier 59 in New York was only just big enough to accommodate the current big liners. Discharging passengers and cargo from a vessel whose proposed length was close to 300 yards from stem to stern would be impossible from the present pier. The New York Dock Commissioners would have to be consulted; although as far as I understood it, the ultimate decision rested with the US War Department.
‘And if they refuse?’ Bruce demanded, suddenly anxious because he hadn’t given that aspect much thought.
‘Well, we might have to move.’
‘Where to?’
I shrugged. ‘Brooklyn, probably.’
‘Brooklyn?’ It might have been Outer Mongolia.
‘Or Staten Island.’
‘Oh, please, EJ, be serious.’
‘I am, sir.’
‘No, it won’t do. We must remain on the Hudson – our passengers won’t tolerate having to travel into town from such outlandish places…’
Such matters were perhaps not the concern of Harland and Wolff – their job, after all, was simply to build a seaworthy vessel. But Bruce’s conviction that he just had to express a wish and all would fall into place infuriated me. I knew my job, and I knew the officials of the Port of New York. White Star was just one company amongst dozens. They would not be told, by Bruce Ismay or even JP Morgan, what they must or must not do. Applications would have to be submitted with due formality, and in good time.
I knew it would be a last minute job. The unresolved situation made my blood boil. I would be the one held to account if things didn’t go well for the maiden voyage. There we were, with the world’s biggest ship in the final stages of her fitting out, and across in New York the new pier – for which we had temporary permission only – was just begun.
By the beginning of May, 1911, I had spent the greater part of two months standing by ashore, dividing my time between Southampton and Belfast. Discussing draft depths and dredging with George Bowyer and the Harbour Master at one end, and getting to know the ins and outs of this massive new ship at the other. Cargo holds, lifting gear, winches, anchors, chain lockers, capstans; fresh water tanks, pipes and electricity circuits; cold rooms, dry stores, galleys and laundries, Royal Mail post rooms and crew accommodation, all to be checked and fixed like a mental map. New navigation instruments to be installed, telegraphs to test and compasses to correct, maintenance manuals to read and certification to be sure of.
The Chief Engineer was with me, and two White Star Superintendents – but, as we kept saying, Olympic was a huge ship, 882 feet long and immensely deep. ‘Who needs the gym and Turkish bath?’ was a regular complaint as one or other of us arrived, gasping, having climbed nine decks and innumerable flights of stairs from the engine room to the bridge. The alleyways seemed to go on for miles.
Sailing day – the 31st of May – was getting closer, and the date for the maiden voyage, two weeks later, was already emblazoned across e
very major newspaper in the known world. Pictures were appearing in illustrated periodicals, showing Olympic in various stages of completion, her iron hull painted white to show more clearly on the photographs. She was a graceful ship with long, elegant lines and a lovely 18th century stern, and I couldn’t wait to get these interminable preparations over. After all the hard work I wanted some pleasure, to get away to sea, discover how she would handle.
It didn’t help that Bruce was fretting like an expectant father, suddenly afraid that our civic welcome in New York would be spoiled by unsightly scaffolding on an unfinished pier. Meanwhile he was busily contacting Lord Mayors’ offices and organising grand send-offs from both Liverpool and Southampton. As if that were not enough, additional pressure was suddenly applied by the threat of a general strike. And the heart of the trouble was being fomented in Liverpool.
The day we sailed from Belfast for our courtesy visit to Olympic’s port of registry, the new Transport Workers Federation held a massive demonstration, marching through the city to St George’s Hall. The Sailors and Firemen’s Union, together with the Union of Ships’ Stewards, Cooks, Butchers and Bakers had called a strike and the TWF was calling for the support of all transport workers. The march was evidently a ploy to attract publicity just as a civic welcome for White Star’s grand new liner was going on. Certainly it took the edge off things, and needless to say, Bruce was furious. You’d have thought it was personal.
It was certainly cleverly organised. But there was a vast amount of trouble that day, and with a hand-picked crew we only just managed to escape the consequences.
A few days later, on the 14th of June, with the aid of 5 tugs, our pilot, George Bowyer, took us gingerly out of Southampton’s White Star dock. I was with him every inch, but he was so careful I did begin to wonder whether we’d ever get under way. Finally we did. With all Southampton and half the world’s press turned out to cheer us, the excitement was overwhelming; and with every ship in the harbour sounding as we turned and moved forward, it seemed the noise would raise the dead.
As everyone said, the view from the bridge was like gazing down from Mount Olympus. I looked back to see the old walled heart of the city spread out like one of those medieval maps, dotted with rooftops, towers and spires. Steaming down Southampton Water in daylight was another new experience: everything seemed so much smaller. We took the turns around Calshot Spit and the Bramble like a duchess curtseying to royalty. Ahead, on the Isle of Wight, Cowes, with its hundreds of onlookers, looked like Lilliput as we came round into the Solent.
Friends of ours had driven Ellie and Mel down to Stokes Bay, from where they could see the extraordinary array of warships gathered in the eastern channel at Spithead. We were only a matter of three weeks away from the Coronation of our new king, George V, and in the last few days, while we had been taking on stores and cargo, dozens upon dozens of British and foreign warships had been arriving at the anchorage between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. More were yet to arrive for the Coronation Review, but the sight was already awe-inspiring.
George had warned me, but for a moment I simply gaped; and then he said: ‘Hope they’ve left us room to get past…’
Mr Murdoch, my 1st Officer, had drilled the most junior deck officer in the etiquette of salutes between naval and merchant vessels. It was a pleasant formality, generally. But in this instance there were rather a lot of navy ships before us.
‘Right, young man,’ I said to the 6th Officer standing just a few feet away, ‘off you go. Don’t forget – you dip our ensign first, and don’t you dare raise it again until the other fellow’s dipped and raised his…’
‘Yes, sir. Every single one, sir – Mr Murdoch said, sir.’
‘Off you go, then.’ I couldn’t help but smile as he hurried away.
George chuckled. ‘You’ll need new ropes, Captain, by the time you’ve saluted this lot!’
‘Worth it, though!’
I was as proud as the King himself as we progressed between the rows of warships at anchor. With whistles blowing their distinctive whoop-whoop, every single one responded to the dipping of our blue ensign, ratings stood to attention as we passed, the officers saluting. Our passengers were out in force on every deck, their voices a wordless babble of excitement. This was a maiden voyage with all the extras.
Looking through binoculars towards the Island, I could see Ryde, thronged with onlookers, while across on the Portsmouth side the crowds were almost as thick. I searched for Mel and Ellie; suddenly, right on Gilkicker Point I spotted the open-topped car, bonnet gleaming in the sunshine, with figures standing up and waving. I waved back, hoping they could see me, knowing they’d be thrilled by this display of courtesy to a wonderful new ship.
As we reached the Nab, George Bowyer left us, his handclasp warm and firm. ‘Have a safe voyage, Captain.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bowyer…’
Watching the pilot cutter drop back and the warships recede as we picked up speed, I heard Bruce call to me from a few yards away on the Boat Deck.
‘… but we won’t be able to lay this spread on again, more’s the pity.’
I looked at him, still thinking of George and the admirable job he’d done, easing 45,000 tons of ship and cargo around the inverted S of the Bramble, not to mention our slow passage before all those warships.
‘The Coronation, EJ – the Naval Review. Can’t arrange one of these for every new ship, you know…’
I told myself that Bruce was Bruce and turned away.
~~~
Maiden voyages can be difficult, I knew that from experience, and the sheer size of Olympic was a problem in itself. The crew – sailors and firemen alike – kept getting lost, while the stewards – our front line where passengers were concerned – seemed to take an age to find their way around. Bruce was annoyed by the number of complaints.
To balance that, with mainly fair weather and little fog, we averaged just short of 23 knots on the crossing. A speed to be proud of. Arriving early off Sandy Hook, we picked up the pilot at first light, and took the turn into the Ambrose Channel with care. While our passengers were enjoying breakfast we proceeded in stately fashion through the Narrows, which since my previous trip seemed so much narrower, as though a giant had been out and pulled Brooklyn and Staten Island together. I was sweating like a man in a fever by the time we got through. Fortunately, I’d cooled off by the time we reached the Quarantine Anchorage. Port Health officials boarded; and with the crew examined and cleared, we were able to proceed to Manhattan.
Passing Liberty and Ellis Islands as our First and Second Class passengers were being cleared, fifteen minutes later we were passing the Castle and Battery Park. At the foot of Broadway, where the old shipping offices had stood for most of my life, I could see the bulk of the new US Customs House, flanked by a variety of tall buildings. Crowds of cheering sightseers lined the shore like foamy waves, eager to greet Olympic, the world’s biggest and greatest ship. Overwhelmed, we felt like gods indeed.
With horns and whistles blowing, it might have been a royal procession as Olympic headed a fleetof tugs and small boats up the Hudson River to White Star’s Pier 59. The pilot had assured me it was fine, but it wasn’t until I saw the pier for myself – looking complete and perfectly sound – that I was entirely convinced. Coming in, amidst orders being called back and forth, I prayed we wouldn’t disturb so much as an inch of its paintwork as the tugs nudged us gently alongside.
Against the barriers a great crowd was waving and jostling, impatient for us to tie up. Avid with friendship and curiosity, they flooded around the passengers as they disembarked, almost as though they would swallow them whole. Watching from the bridge, a strange sensation seized me. Maybe I was simply overtired – it had been a long night on the bridge – but I felt unnerved by all that humanity. I longed to escape, recover my balance, but as soon as US Customs and Port Officials were done, newspapermen flocked aboard. For the next hour or so, at least a dozen of these scribblers were constant
ly on hand.
‘How many dinners do you serve, sir, on an average day?’ This to Hugh Latimer, the Chief Steward.
‘Sir – Captain Smith – how far do you walk to conduct your daily inspections?’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘at a sixth of a mile long, and taking into account our walks fore and aft, and up and down eight decks, I should think we walk two or three miles at least – although we haven’t actually measured it. Keeps us fit!’ I said with a smile; but while O’Loughlin and McElroy indulged in their usual witty repartee, I was itching to get away.
One fellow, having asked about the ship’s dimensions, went on to press about lifeboats and safety at sea, and how would we deal with, say, a collision in fog, which had claimed so many lives in the past? I don’t recall the questions exactly, or quite how I replied, but I was reminded of how – thanks to the modern miracle of wireless – passengers on the Republic had all been saved after a recent collision. The Master had escaped with his life just before she went down. I’d been standing by aboard Baltic as his passengers were brought into New York.
That extraordinary story had captured the attention of the world’s press, and I wanted to emphasise the progress we’d made in recent years. Also, I’d just been given command of the world’s newest and biggest liner. The modern design, with watertight compartments in the engine room, was another step forward in shipbuilding.
Maybe I was too confident in my reply. Next day, in black-and-white, I was reported as having said, ‘Modern shipbuilding has gone beyond the absolute disasters of yesteryear,’ and, ‘Whatever happens, there will be time enough before the vessel sinks to save the life of every person on board…’
The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic Page 27
