by Joan Lock
‘They could have been held up by late boarding,’ Helen panted breathlessly, as she strove to keep pace with those around her.
‘Or some mechanical failure,’ agreed Smith.
‘It’s not like the railway.’
She was right. Terrible accidents seemed to be daily occurrences on the railways and even those were rarely as bad as first reported. In comparison, river accidents were few and much less serious. This was all a fuss about nothing. Crowd mania.
As they reached the pier, Smith realized that most of those tramping down the gangway and on to the wooden jetty were men. Not surprising, really. It was a weekday and these men would have been at work whilst their wives, children and grandparents took the opportunity to enjoy a fine, late-summer day out.
The lamp was still glowing over the doorway of the London Steamboat Company’s ticket booth, but the quayside remained empty. There was no sign of the Princess Alice.
There seemed to be a commotion near the booth. Voices were raised and hands thrown in the air. There was shouting and crying out. Those at the back began pushing forward to find out what was happening.
‘What’s going on!’ exclaimed an elderly man with a blotchy red face and rheumy eyes. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Just what I want to know,’ said Smith. But nobody was listening.
In an instant, those at the front of the crowd turned as one and began to rush straight towards those still approaching. At first it seemed as if there might be injury or even loss of life in the ensuing mêlée. But the rear of the crowd parted to let them through, shouting questions at the frantic looking people pushing past them.
‘Accident,’ was the word which Smith caught. Then louder. ‘There’s been an accident!’
But where were they all going?
An obese, middle-aged woman wearing a black silk bombazine dress and using her umbrella as a battering ram was holding her handkerchief to her mouth and exclaiming, ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ But her girth slowed her down. Smith managed to grab her arm and yelled, ‘Where are you all going?’
‘To the steamboat offices,’ she panted. ‘Off Cheapside.’
‘They don’t know nuffink here,’ put in a weedy little man indicating the ticket booth with his backwardly extended thumb. ‘Nuffink at all. Just a h’accident, they says. No more information.’
Smith sighed. All this panic before they even knew anything! It was probably nothing more than a bump which had damaged the paddles. But, since it was too late for his hotpot they might as well join the march heading north-west through the city to Cheapside.
‘How far do you think it is?’ panted Helen as she tried to keep up with John George’s long strides.
‘I don’t know. A half-mile, maybe more.’
She shook her head at the surrounding throng. ‘It’s going to be chaos when we get there.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get through showing my police identity.’
He grabbed her sleeve to prevent her stepping into the path of an empty hawker’s cart galloping along Upper Thames Street. ‘Be careful! Sergeant Best will kill me if anything happens to you,’
He realized instantly he’d said the wrong thing. It wasn’t just the street lighting that had drained her face of colour.
‘You don’t think anything has happened to him, do you?’ she whispered.
‘No! Not Best. This is all a fuss about nothing, you’ll see.’ He guided her between a too-leisurely brougham and a fourwheeler cab loaded with luggage, dashing for the nearby railway station.
He could see she was not comforted.
‘Best can swim,’ he said stopping abruptly to face her. ‘He told me so when we were on the canal case. And, anyway, if there has been an accident, why should it be him out of hundreds … ?’
He had always thought her a rather unemotional woman but now she was gripping his wrist with such ferocity that it hurt.
‘But we don’t really know, do we?’ she said, taking a deep breath and clearly trying to quell rising fear.
‘No, we don’t,’ he admitted finally.
This seemed to calm her a little. ‘I think,’ she said firmly, ‘that you will make much better progress alone. Go on ahead, John George, I’ll follow the crowd and see you there.’
Smith took off, dodging in and out of the crowds up Queen Street, turning left into Maiden Lane then right into Garlic Hill – where few impeded his rapid progress. Despite his bravado a nasty feeling was developing in the pit of his stomach. And it wasn’t only hunger.
Chapter Eleven
The Martha huddled in a blanket before the fire in the Steam Packet public house was not the Martha Best had been talking to just before the Bywell Castle struck its deadly blow. This Martha was thin and fair and weeping bitterly for the baby which had been swept out of her arms as she fell into the water. Her husband and three more children she believed drowned.
Indeed, Best knew it would be a miracle for the other Martha to have survived, given where she had been sitting at the time of impact. But, nonetheless, he felt obliged to go in search of her. Partly, of course, because she had been telling him so many important things about the case, but also for decency’s sake.
In a way, he felt responsible and a little guilty. If he hadn’t been talking to her in that spot she might have moved and sat somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Then he deserted her just before the impact and, thereafter, had acted on the urge for self-preservation. While, deep down, his common sense told him that it wasn’t his fault and he couldn’t really have done anything else, he still felt guilty.
Joseph’s mother wasn’t in the Steam Packet pub nor was his grandpa. The landlord couldn’t stop weeping. He’d been aboard the Duke of Teck steamboat which had trailed behind the Princess Alice, but had arrived in time to see some of the final, ghastly moments. His brother and sister-in-law had been aboard her. He couldn’t find them and feared them lost.
*
W.T. Vincent was sending the first of his dispatches to London. His report, he later pointed out, was read at morning light in more than 3,000 newspapers by ‘the people of every civilized land throughout the earth’.
The readers learned that, so far, only about twenty survivors had been counted and it was thought that around 500 people were lost. Afterwards, he was to claim that in this first frantic dispatch the only errors were the statement that the Princess Alice had been struck on the port side, when it should have said starboard – and that his estimate of the numbers lost was too conservative.
Helen arrived at the steamboat office to be greeted by a sombre Smith who averted his eyes as he informed her, ‘It’s pretty bad, apparently. There’s been a collision with a collier. They think a lot of people have been drowned.’
‘Oh, dear God.’ Helen sank back against the wall. ‘Dear God – why did I make him wait so long … ’
Smith didn’t know what to do. She had slumped down, closed her eyes and turned so pale he thought her insensible.
But, suddenly, she pulled herself up. ‘Survivors. There must be some news … ’
‘There is a list,’ Smith admitted carefully. ‘But it’s very short.’
‘Yes, and … ?’
He forced himself to meet her pleading gaze and shook his head. ‘He isn’t on it.’
Best gazed out across the Thames. The stillness and utter silence amazed him. The smooth, moonlit Thames was only disturbed in the distance by small, dark silhouetted boats, circling the spot where the tragedy had occurred. Now and then, one of them broke away and headed back, doubtless to unload its sad cargo.
It felt almost as if the whole thing had never happened, the Princess Alice had never existed, never been cruelly struck, leaving people to scream and struggle for life in the water. He rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe it hadn’t happened. Maybe it had all been some dreadful nightmare, a mirage, a moment in hell. If he pretended it hadn’t occurred maybe it would disappear.
The idea certainly helped him to stop thinking about what he should ha
ve done or could have done, and about those he had been forced to push off the sides of the dinghy, leaving them to drown. He couldn’t bear those thoughts.
‘Mr Best,’ called Vincent, coming up behind him. ‘I’ve sent your telegraph to Scotland Yard. And I’ve just heard that about twenty-five more survivors were landed at Beckton Gasworks. There are also a few more down at Erith.’
The exhausted Best gazed at him, frowned, then for once let uncertainty show. ‘I should go there and see … I don’t know … if it would be better … ’
‘No,’ said Vincent, touching Best’s arm gently. ‘I expect they’ll send them over. Anyway, we can tap the police for names in the meantime.’ Best didn’t know Joseph’s second name but was too tired to argue or to move.
The next couple of hours turned into a blur of unbearable sights and terrible stories: bodies brought ashore with their arms raised aloft and hands clawed, still reaching for salvation, babies and toddlers as though asleep, but asleep forever.
Male survivors told of how they had tried to save themselves and their loved ones. A young steward had leaped overboard with his ladyfriend on his back but she had slipped off as he struck out for the shore. She was not found again despite his desperate dives in search of her. A husband had jumped overboard, instructing his wife to throw their three children to him before jumping in herself, but all had been lost in the mêlée.
At three in the morning, the London Press and the first relatives arrived on the hop-pickers train, to which extra carriages had been attached. So began the swamping of this strange riverside town with anxious, bereft faces and prying eyes.
Best, back on the quayside, felt a tugging at his hand and looked down to see Joseph, now arrayed in blue-checked knickerbockers, newer than the boy’s own light-brown suit but of not quite the same quality.
‘He woke up and kept screaming for his mother,’ George explained. ‘We couldn’t comfort him and we thought he might be better back with you.’
‘What a splendid suit!’ Best said smiling at Joseph, looking him over appreciatively. The child smiled back and held up his right foot for Best’s inspection. The kind clothier obviously knew something about children for the boots were of the shiniest, black, patent leather.
Joseph was calmer once he was with Best who was surprised to find the boy had suddenly found his tongue and used it in a very confident, very precise and adult manner. The only problem was that most words were totally incomprehensible toddler talk.
The ante-room to Woolwich Steamship Company’s boardroom looked like a cross between a drapers and a jewellers.
Umbrellas of various sizes and colours stood to attention in the corner next to a pile of hats from derbys to fragile white straws garnished with feathers and flowers. Alongside were cane picnic boxes and baskets, and handbags. Some were neat: and simple, some fringed, some hefty and masculine, some tiny and childlike.
A clothes line festooned with shawls, capes and scarves, knitted, patterned and fringed, lent a macabre, festive look to the scene. One dramatic, black silk, shawl was emblazoned with large, yellow sunflowers while a black beaded mantle glinted as it swung gently when yet another group of grieving friends and relatives entered the room. Small triangles of wool which had once kept children and babies warm and safe, now acted as punctuation marks between the larger shawls.
Displayed in glazed cigar boxes were watches, jewellery, cigarette cases and other small items. Each box carried a number, as did each item of clothing. The numbers corresponded with those on the bodies in the boardroom. The idea was that relatives could first try to identify the clothes and trinkets, saving them the ghastly business of searching along the lines of gruesome and foul-smelling bodies to find their loved ones. If they recognized a piece, the number would take them straight there. Once identified, the body could be put in a coffin shell for handing over to relatives.
Best had been troubled about bringing Joseph into this place but an attempt to leave him in the care of someone outside produced a flood of tears and determined little grip on his trousers.
Now, Best was desperately trying to remember what Martha and Joseph’s mother had been wearing. The only sound in the quiet room was that of suppressed weeping and the clink of spurs as two army officers searched for one of their own.
‘Why does everything smell so foul? They weren’t in the water that long,’ he said to a policeman whose depressing duty it was to act as usher. Like everyone else in the room he was holding a handkerchief to his nose in a vain attempt to block the stench.
‘The outflow from those wonderful sewage palaces they blessed our manor with, and chemicals from all them Silvertown factories and gasworks,’ the policeman replied grimly.
‘Oh, God!’ Best felt sick. ‘How disgusting.’ Wasn’t that the final ignominy and horror – drowning in such filth?
‘We’ve got one of our own in there.’ He nodded towards the adjoining room. Obviously, he, too, was feeling the need to talk. ‘Just a young fellow he is. Name of Briscoe.’
Best gazed at him, stunned. ‘Not Cornelius Briscoe?’
‘That’s him,’ the constable nodded. ‘You look a bit sick. You know him?’
Best nodded dumbly. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said quietly. ‘I took the lad learning beats when I was on N division.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘But Corny was a champion swimmer. Got a medal for saving a little boy from drowning in the Regent’s Canal.’
‘I ’spect he went under trying to save his wife and two kids.’
‘They in there too?’ Best knew Jane, a friendly and lively young woman.
He shook his head. ‘No. Not been found yet.’
Best turned away in an attempt to regain control and spied an elderly blind man, feeling some trinkets from one of the cigar boxes.
‘He’s trying to identify his wife’s jewellery,’ whispered the constable.
Best’s face began to crumple. He felt he could bear no more of this and stood immobile trying to pull himself together.
It was at this moment that Helen saw him. Saw her, smart, polished, alert and confident Ernest, overwhelmed. His boots were filthy, he wore a cheap, black, crumpled suit, his face was grey with shock and fatigue and a small, solemn, little boy clung to his leg.
He was alive and she had never loved him so much.
‘Oh my dearest,’ she said softly and held out her hands.
It was then that Best began to cry. Silently at first, then great gulping sobs rose from his chest and almost choked him as he desperately tried to hold them back.
Chapter Twelve
It was a steady beating sound and it was growing louder. Best opened his eyes cautiously. His gaze lit on a heavy oak wardrobe which he did not recognize. The mahogany chest of drawers and washstand were not familiar either. Nor the large brass oil lamp. Where was he?
His blurry eyes roamed the room: crimson wallpaper and a matching damask bed cover and heavy curtains around which only tiny slivers of light could be glimpsed. He recognized nothing. The noise was growing thunderous and was now punctuated by low voices and occasional shouts.
As he struggled out of bed he glanced down at his clothing with surprise. He was wearing a mottled grey vest and drawers. He didn’t own a grey vest and drawers! He drew back the curtains. In a square below hordes of men were rushing by as if on some urgent communal errand.
‘The Arsenal workers going home,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘They’ve just been let out the gates.’ He turned to see Helen standing by the door, his suit over her arm. His heart filled with joy at the sight of her. ‘I’m told they are usually much noisier but they’re trying to keep quiet – out of respect.’
‘Respect?’
Then it all came rushing back. The whole terrible business. He also recalled crying and being comforted by Helen and, dimly, her bringing him here, to the Royal Mortar Hotel, and lying down beside him – along with little Joseph.
He sank down on the bed, murmuring despairingly, ‘Oh God. We should
have saved more! All those screaming people!’ He put his hands over his ears as though to block out their cries.
She sat beside him and took his hands. ‘You did what you could, dearest. I’m sure of that.’
‘I had to push some of them away from the boat!’
She was silent for a moment then, holding his eye and gripping his hands, said firmly, ‘You did what you had to do, you must always remember that. They tell me you saved a good many people.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now we must do what we can for the living.’
He nodded and looked about him. ‘Where’s Joseph?’
‘In the landlord’s bed.’
‘No one’s claimed him?’
‘Not yet.’
He began to reach for his clothes. ‘I must find his mother.’
‘You must come and have something to eat,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll decide what to do next.’
As always, her calmness began to soothe and envelop him. Nothing was as terrible, now that she was with him. He couldn’t stop looking at her. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he whispered.
She smiled, patted his hand and leaned against him. ‘So am I, my love. So am I.’
‘It’s chaotic and dreadful out there,’ said Helen. ‘All those fearful and anxious relatives tramping back and forth from the Town Hall to the pier. So much sorrow. The air is thick with it.’
They were sitting in the publican’s private parlour eating mutton chops and potatoes. Despite the pall hanging over him Best found he had to stop himself from gobbling it down – he felt ravenous.
He made himself pause, put down his knife and fork and reach for her hand. ‘Do they know why it happened?’
She covered his hand with hers and shook her head. ‘They are blaming each other. The captain of the Bywell Castle says the Princess Alice starboarded its helm when he shouldn’t have done, whatever that means. The Captain of the Princess Alice seems to be lost so can’t defend himself, but his crew says it was the Bywell Castle’s fault because it ported its helm. And the collier’s own stoker is claiming it was because their crew was drunk.’
