Lusitania Lost
by
Leonard Carpenter
Copyright © 2017 Leonard Carpenter.
Published by Mango Publishing Group, a division of Mango Media Inc.
Cover Design: Georgiana Goodwin
Layout & Design: Roberto Núñez
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Lusitania Lost: A Novel
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication number: LCCN 2017952095.
ISBN: (paperback) 978-1-63353-655-5, (ebook) 978-1-63353-656-2
BISAC category code:
FIC027260 FICTION / Romance / Action & Adventure
FIC027200 FICTION / Romance / Historical / 20th Century
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
May Day 1915
Chapter 2
Good Hunting
Chapter 3
Setting Sail
Chapter 4
Neutrals
Chapter 5
Troubled Waters
Chapter 6
Code Breakers
Chapter 7
Saloon Class
Chapter 8
Out of theBlue
Chapter 9
Marconi Waves
Chapter 10
Dark Seas
Chapter 11
The Hunted
Chapter 12
Outward Bound
Chapter 13
Gallipoli
Chapter 14
Deck Games
Chapter 15
Stowaways
Chapter 16
War News
Chapter 17
Central Powers
Chapter 18
Roll Call
Chapter 19
Bridge
Chapter 20
Dark Rooms
Chapter 21
Spies
Chapter 22
Cruiser Rules
Chapter 23
Unrequited
Chapter 24
Camouflage
Chapter 25
Openings
Chapter 26
The Plot
Chapter 27
Buddies
Chapter 28
Saboteurs
Chapter 29
Lace Curtains
Chapter 30
War Zone
Chapter 31
Kaiser William
Chapter 32
Hunter
Chapter 33
Landfall
Chapter 34
Fog of War
Chapter 35
Envoy
Chapter 36
Evasion
Chapter 37
Deck Watch
Chapter 38
Bearings
Chapter 39
Flight
Chapter 40
Attack
Chapter 41
Looking Ahead
Chapter 42
Stricken
Chapter 43
Crisis
Chapter 44
Abandoned
Chapter 45
Holocaust
Chapter 46
Rescue
Chapter 47
Mutiny
Chapter 48
Boats Away
Chapter 49
Chaos
Chapter 50
Survivors
Glossary of Characters and Devices
Bibliography
To Cheryl, in loving memory
“In spite of all its horror, we must regard the sinking of the
Lusitania as an event most important and favorable to the Allies.”
Winston Churchill, News of the World
Chapter 1
May Day 1915
Alma saw him coming a long way off, shoving his way through the crowd on Pier 54. She knew him, and the realization froze her with dread. It was Knucks, the killer.
Edging back into her group of nurse friends on the pier, she couldn’t take her eyes off the tall, hawk-nosed man. Of all Big Jim’s hooligans, Knucks was the worst. He certainly wasn’t there to admire the big luxury liner taking passengers at Chelsea Piers. Every New Yorker knew the Lusitania, even with the name on her bow painted over for secrecy in the Great War. She was still the fastest steamer on the Atlantic, and the most famous once again, ever since Titanic went down.
The hoarse blast of the steam whistle as the big ship called for departure brought Alma out of her momentary trance. The ruffian Knucks hadn’t seen her yet but kept coming, past the celebrities pulling up in their sleek motorcars and the reporters rushing to greet them. His ungainly height made him easy to spot as he pushed through the throng of passengers bound for Europe with their suitcases and steamer trunks.
Alma knew he wasn’t there just to warn her off, or to invite her back into the loving arms of Big Jim Hogan. It would be a snatch, as the hoodlums liked to call it. At gunpoint, if need be—unless Jim had given Knucks the okay to shoot her down right here on the dock, as punishment for running out on him. Or maybe knock her out with his brass knuckles and throw her into the Hudson–yes, Knucks would be just the one for that.
But was he working alone? Alma felt suddenly conspicuous in her white shoulder cape, with the blonde hair that wouldn’t stay put under her nurse’s cap. She ducked in to hide among her four female companions, all of them dressed in last-minute chic variations of nursing garb.
“What is it, Alma?” Florence’s pert face peered up from the shade of the enormous straw hat she’d insisted on bringing, even though it would never fit into a bandbox. “What’s the matter? Do you see someone you don’t like?”
“It’s Knucks—no, don’t look around—the long-necked palooka who’s too big for his suit!” Alma turned aside, raising a white-gloved hand to conceal her face as the big man passed along the dock. “He’s one of Hogan’s gangsters.”
“Where is he?” Demanded Hildegard, their chief nurse. “I’ll give him a talking-to!” The elder woman, who wore a dark-trimmed cape and a bronze Red Cross pin on her cap, wheeled her matronly figure around.
“No, Miss Hildegard,” Alma pleaded, “don’t even look! Let’s just make it aboard without him seeing me.” She kept out of sight behind her companions as the hoodlum moved off down the pier.
“Don’t worry, Alma,” Florence said from under her oversized hat. “We’ll soon be away from here. Won’t we, Hazel?”
“Yes we will,” Flo’s look-alike sister replied from beneath her equally extravagant flowered chapeau. “Far from New York and all its gangster troubles.”
�
�And off to Europe, with its war and Kaiser and Hun troubles,” the fifth nurse Winnie added defiantly.
“I’d rather face an artillery barrage and a cavalry charge than Big Jim right now,” Alma said, keeping her voice low to avoid drawing attention. “Whatever happens, I don’t want to go back.”
“Never you mind, girls,” the chief nurse declared. “Once our ship has sailed, Boss Jim Hogan and all his thugs can’t turn it around!”
Her words drew Alma’s attention at last to the imposing sight before them. It was the Lusitania’s hull of sea-stained black, crowned by sunlit gray decks. From here it looked like a fairy castle, steep and impregnable, so it seemed to her. Its long row of lifeboats took the place of battlements, and the tall smokestacks rose like towers. From the four evenly spaced gray funnels, smoke floated out over the river as the great ship built up steam. A tall mast on the foredeck, which faced in toward Manhattan’s fast-growing skyline, flew the British Union Jack above the red and gold pennant of Cunard Steamship Lines. Both flags fluttered in a light morning breeze that failed to reach the hurrying, overheated passengers on the dock.
Knucks had passed out of sight down the pier. So, even though their berths lay astern in Second Class, Hildegard led the nurses straight to the First Class gangplank. The line of well-dressed passengers took them smoothly along the ramp with very little waiting, up to the ornate vestibule on the ship’s Shelter Deck. Luckily for them, the crew in First Class seemed to be short-handed, with no ticket checking being done by the few blue-jacketed stewards. There was also no offer of help with their luggage.
Once out on the covered deck promenade, they carried their bags up to the less crowded Boat Deck, open to the sky. Then, to be inconspicuous, they climbed farther upstairs to the very top of the ship. The five of them headed astern past funnels and skylights on the nearly empty Marconi Deck, where the wireless antennas and stays crisscrossed overhead.
“Just look at the view from up here,” Florence said, stopping by the rail. But no sooner had the others set their bags down to rest, than a redhead holding an oversized camera appeared from behind a haystack-sized ventilator and snapped their picture.
Winnie challenged the intruder. “Young man, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Give me that camera plate immediately,” Hildegard demanded, moving out in front of Alma and the rest.
“Now, ladies,” the cameraman said, “I’m with the press. You wouldn’t want to stand in the way of the news, would you?” Removing the glass slide from his camera, the fast-talking youth shoved it into a bag at his hip and just as smoothly reloaded a fresh one. “Tell your friends they can see your May Day portrait in tomorrow morning’s New York Inquisitor.”
“Definitely not,” Alma said, stepping out from the others. “There’ll be no pictures of me, at least. I’ve got to insist that you destroy the one you just took.”
“Oops, sorry, too late,” the redhead said, edging back for another shot. “It’s already mixed in with my morning batch.”
Winnie appealed to him in a kind, big-sisterly tone. “Here now, what would your name be?”
“They call me Flash,” he told her with an impish smile. “No need for my flash pan today, though, with looks that shine out like yours. You’ll probably make the Sunday rotogravure section.”
“Indeed, young fellow!” Hildegard icily came to the bemused Winifred’s rescue. “We find that kind of talk most impertinent.”
“Excuse me, ladies. Is there anything I can do?”
The man who appeared before them was dressed in a brown suit and matching bowtie, in contrast to Flash’s shirtsleeves and suspenders. Above his pomaded black hair he tipped his hat–a brown bowler, more businesslike than the flat straw skimmers worn by most of the male travelers. His manner was serious, his gaze resting impartially on each of the women, until he addressed Alma at the front.
“I’m Matthew Vane, reporter for the Daily Inquisitor. This is my photographer, Lars Jansen–though he likes to be called Flash,” he added as the redhead winced. “It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you ladies.” He glanced up at Hildegard’s Red Cross hatpin. “Nurses, are you bound for the war?”
“Mr. Vane,” the chief nurse scolded, “whatever our business may be, we definitely aren’t here to give a press interview. Your assistant snapped a camera slide of my companions and hid it away in that bag of his.”
“Certainly, Ma’am,” the reporter said. “I apologize. His job is to capture anything that seems newsworthy, or that might appeal to our readers. But I can see to it that the photo won’t be printed, since you insist. If you’d prefer a posed group shot….” With a hint of humor in his eyes, he beckoned to Jansen.
“Most certainly not!” Hildegard rebuked him. “We have to hurry along and check into our accommodations.”
“Well, then, let me assist you.” Stooping, Vane snatched up the large traveling bag belonging to the head nurse, along with a satchel and hatbox. “Flash, let’s help these ladies with their luggage. Just sling your camera for now.” Starting astern, he said, “We’re passengers on the ship too, so we may as well get acquainted. This is my last day of reporting here in New York.”
Hazel asked, “Oh, really, Mr. Vane?”
The young nurses closed in quickly on the men, heading off any further protests by Hildegard.
“Are you going to be a war correspondent?”
“Which side will you be on?”
“Call me Matt, Ladies. I’ll be in London for a while, then to Paris and the war front. We may get to Berlin later, by way of a neutral country.”
As they moved chattering along the top deck from funnel to funnel, Hildegard followed with Alma, watchful but seemingly resigned to the intrusion. Matt Vane, lacking any formal introduction, asked where the women were from.
“I come from Concord, New Hampshire, where I took Red Cross training,” Alma’s brunette friend said. “I’m Winnie, short for Winifred, but don’t call me that! I’d rather go under an alias, like your friend Flash.”
The redhead beamed his approval as she went on.
“Florence, here, and Hazel are from Albany upstate.” Winnie indicated the two petite black-haired girls. “They’re sisters, as you can see.”
“So, is it just the nurse uniforms, or are you two twins?” Matt asked, looking at them over his burdens.
“People always ask us that,” Hazel said demurely.
“Yes, but we don’t tell them,” Florence added with a mischievous look.
The silent Alma, watchful at the center of the group, remained un-introduced by the others since she was supposed to be in hiding. She began to feel even more conspicuous because of this, and finally found something to say. “Shouldn’t these chimneys be red?” she asked no one in particular. “They are in all the Lusitania postcards I’ve seen.”
Matt turned to her. “The funnels were painted gray just after England declared war.” Stopping beside one and setting down his bags, he took out a penknife and scratched at the painted steel. “See, there’s red-orange paint underneath,” he said. “The color change has to do with the ship being under command of the British Royal Navy.”
“Does that mean we’re on a warship?” Hazel asked.
“Is it a dreadnought?” Florence eagerly chimed in.
“No, technically just a cruiser. Both the Lusitania and her sister ship Mauretania are.” Matt picked up the bags. “But no guns yet, not so far as I can tell at least. Maury was converted to a troopship, and Lusi has been kept in passenger service, but modified to carry extra cargo.”
“Why Maury and not Lusi?” Florence asked. “I guess they don’t draft girls,” she concluded, to laughs from the others.
“But how can the enemy tell them apart?” her sister asked. “If they’re really twins, I mean?”
“Mauretania is repainted in Royal Navy dazzle colors,” Matt explained.
“She’s camouflaged all over to blend in with the sea mists.”
“So, the enemy can’t see her at all?” Florence said wonderingly.
“We should have some of that paint.” Hazel said. “We could put it on Alma, to help her hide.”
Alma felt herself blush at this, but Mr. Vane politely seemed not to notice.
Amid the suppressed giggles, Flash announced, “I saw the Mauretania last year up in Montreal. I photographed her loading Canadian troops for the front. She was gray all over, with guns on the fore and aft decks.”
“Mr. Vane,” Hildegard interrupted, “what do you think about this U-boat scare?” Her grandmotherly gaze was solemn, with a glance to her young charges. “It’s overrated, wouldn’t you say?”
“They were posting German submarine warnings all over the dock,” Hazel chimed in. “And street peddlers are selling black-bordered funeral pictures of our ship.”
“Yes,” Flo added with concern. “‘Lusitania’s Final Voyage,’ the heading said. But you must know all about that, as a reporter.”
“I wouldn’t pay any attention to it,” Hildegard reassured her. “Would you, Mr. Vane?”
Still bundling their luggage along, Matthew Vane paused. Alma saw him hesitate as he looked around at the expectant faces of the young women, all of them volunteers for the greatest war the world had yet known. Finally he said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, ladies.”
“That’s right,” Winnie chimed in. “Lusitania’s still the fastest ship on the ocean. I’d like to see one of those sub tubs try and catch us!”
“Anyway,” Florence added, “we’re in the Royal Navy now.” She gave them all a snappy military salute.
Alma, still worried more about mobsters than any war, stayed separate from the rest. As they approached the stern companionway, she peeked down over the rail and saw something dead-ahead.
“Stop here,” she called to the others in an urgent, hushed voice. “We have to go down those stairs, over there on the port side.”
“That’s starboard,” Matthew Vane corrected her. “Port is this side–your left, if you’re facing forward with the ship. But why?”
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