Lusitania Lost

by Leonard Carpenter

  Ahead of them spread the flat, blue-on-blue horizon, blank as the map, and featureless as the view in any other direction. What good is a map, Turner wondered, if it doesn’t show what lies beneath the surface?

  It had been a fair voyage, though too eventful at the start. Far too much so, with all this stir about U-boat warnings, telegrams, press reporters, and the delay for last-minute transfer of passengers, crew and cargo from another ship. And then came a further delay, a personal embarrassment when his own niece Mercedes, now a New Yorker performing on the Broadway stage, had overstayed her onboard visit with him. He’d had to order the gangplank re-lowered to let her off the ship. Doubtless some of the onlookers had believed her to be his pretty young doxy.

  And then of course, the German spies. But that matter had been handled quietly and expeditiously. Now those three were interned below, safe on their way to a full interrogation in England, which lay somewhere beyond the cloudless eastern horizon.

  Just outside his inner window ran the glassed-in officers’ bridge, centering on the steersman’s wheelhouse to the right. Before him in line, as if saluting, stood the bright brass engine telegraphs with their crank handles, speed-setting dials, and chimes for alerting engineers and other key officers. Telephones and electric indicator lights were mounted close by to command and monitor the rest of the ship. And from each end of the control room, covered walkways extended sideways, bridging the vessel’s entire width of eighty-seven feet and overhanging the outermost rails. From those vantage points, an officer could look aft along either side of the ship, from the rows of covered lifeboats right down to the waterline. He could also see, signal, or telephone the equally wide docking bridge some six hundred feet astern, just short of the vessel’s overall length of seven hundred eighty-seven feet.

  Captain Turner’s officers, standing forward watch on the military-style bridge, shared his broad view, with three-fourths of the world laid out before them. But they could not easily peer into his sanctum, the room with charts and weather maps where the course was set, and where ultimate responsibility for his ship lay…not unless he invited them in, to be instructed or made privy to some of his innermost thoughts.

  Now one of those, his new Junior Third Officer What’s-his-name, was tapping at the door, sticking in his white-hatted head and saluting.

  “Sir, a deputation of passengers is waiting to see you. I believe you were told of it earlier.”

  “Yes, yes…is it this Scotsman, then?”

  “Aye, sir, with another man and a lady. There has been some disagreement among the passengers, I’m told.”

  “Has there, now?” Captain Turner sighed, having long since lost track of the fine difference between boredom and impatience. “I’ll see them in my day cabin. If you would kindly have them wait there, Mr.…Bissett, is it?” Waiting might settle them down a bit.

  “Bestic, sir. Aye aye, sir.” The mate’s head vanished as Turner watched in approval. A new young officer, this Bissett, but straight out of the old sailing ships, like himself. That gave Turner hope for him.

  Captain Turner hated dealing with passengers—the bloody monkeys, as he’d been known to call them in a vexed moment. He much preferred letting his Staff Captain Anderson, the suave fashion-plate, distract them. Better to tell them as little as possible. But this Holbourn, a stubborn Scottish lord, couldn’t seem to be put off. Sometimes the customers insisted on going all the way to the top, and Cunard Lines had to keep them happy. They weren’t under full naval discipline, not quite yet.

  Turner’s recent predecessor aboard the Lusitania, Captain Dow, would have been more ready to deal with pushy passengers. He was a suave, sociable fellow who liked to hobnob with landlubbers, the elite travel set, simpering womenfolk and even their pesty children. “Fairweather Dow” needed no staff captain to cater to them.

  The former Captain Dow also put the passengers’ concerns first, above his own command–as when, during a torpedo scare a month ago, he’d hoisted an American flag to the mainmast for the final dash into Liverpool harbor, to confuse a lurking sub. His posing as a neutral ship had raised international protest from Americans and Germans alike, but old Fairweather didn’t care. He’d resigned his captaincy, so great was his dread of U-boats and of losing a ship full of passengers…along with the knowledge that such brazen false-flag tricks couldn’t be repeated forever.

  Captain Turner, when asked by Cunard to return to his old post, hadn’t hesitated a moment. Lusitania had always been a successful command for him. He’d polished his reputation by setting new speed records and tightening up the Atlantic Ferry run. Nowadays, as to enemy action, he didn’t worry much. He had faith in this big vessel’s speed and durability, in the protection to be afforded by the Royal Navy, and most of all in his own seamanship. Any captain who wanted to serve during this war, merchant or military, would have to get used to dodging U-boats, as Turner had already done successfully aboard Cunard’s Transylvania. If Dow didn’t have the stomach for it, he certainly did.

  After waiting a decent interval, he went down the adjoining stair to his day cabin. It was a good-sized room with divans and a locked desk, formal if not quite Spartan. At his order, the former captain’s more lavish furnishings had been removed.

  As Turner entered, there stood the young Scotsman in his Highland cap, breeches and knee-socks, a compact-built fellow like Turner himself with a serious look. Seated by him were two others, a red-haired Yankee youth and a lovely young lady resembling the captain’s own niece, a brunette with a saucy American look about her.

  Turner judged that it might not be too trying an interview, since they didn’t appear stuffy and pompous, or wide-eyed with awe. But these Scots could be a handful.

  “Good day to you,” the Captain greeted them, walking up to the leader. “I heard that you wanted to see me—Mr. Holbourn, is it?”

  “Ian Bernard Stoughton Holbourn, Laird of the Isle of Foula in Scotland. We’re away up in the Shetlands, sir, in case your voyages haven’t taken you so far north.” The young lord took the captain’s hand, shaking it a bit too energetically for Turner’s liking. “I’m just returning home from an American lecture tour on classical Scottish literature.”

  “Pleased,” the captain said, escaping from the handshake. A backwoods nobleman, yet traveling Second Class at the wartime fifty-dollar rate, according to the passenger list. A typical thrifty Scot, Turner told himself as the fellow spoke on.

  “These are my friends, Miss Winifred Dexter of Concord, New Hampshire, and Lars Jansen of New York, a reporter.”

  “Call me Flash.” The redhead reached out to shake hands, evidently abashed at the use of his given name.

  “Oh yes,” The captain said, shaking his hand minimally. “I heard there was a press photographer on board.” He was relieved not to see a camera pointed at him. “And you, ma’am?” He turned his gaze more congenially to the young lady.

  “Call me Winnie,” she said, putting out her gloved hand. “I’m a nurse, just a trainee really, traveling to the front.”

  “Good for you, Miss,” he told her, allowing himself a smile as he pressed her delicate fingers. “That shows spirit. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ll get right to the point, Captain,” Holbourn said. Reaching to the chair behind him, he took up a life jacket that he must have brought in.

  “There seem to be plenty of life belts, and I’ve seen crewmen showing people how to put them on.” He held up the bulky fiber-filled vest before his host. “But half of the time, the passengers try to don them upside-down. If it’s done wrong, it won’t save your life–it will positively drown you, if you’re unlucky enough to go into the water.”

  Turner was quick to respond. “These are Boddy’s Patented Jackets, the Cunard standard. I’ve seen them used with good results. Instructions for putting them on are posted everywhere, on all the decks and in the cabins. There shouldn’t be any diffic
ulty.”

  “Yes, Captain, I agree there shouldn’t,” Holbourn respectfully said. “But then, most people pay the written instructions no heed. In emergencies there’s always a scramble, and some of these passengers may not follow any directions that haven’t been practiced in advance. In this state of war, it could cost lives.”

  “It’s true, Captain,” the one called Flash added. “I’ve even seen some of the crew start to put them on the wrong way, while they’re trying to show us how.”

  Captain Turner felt himself growing impatient. There were deficiencies with his hastily assembled crew; he knew that only too well. But it wouldn’t do share them with this lot.

  “I’m told there’s some disagreement among the passengers about this,” he said coldly.

  “Yes, sir,” Holbourn admitted. “I was pointing out the problem to some of the officers, and showing people how to wear them properly. Several of the male passengers approached me and said I was frightening the women.”

  “Yes, precisely,” Captain Turner said, deciding to use this argument. “If people become too frightened and any small thing happens, it could cause a panic, which might have far worse consequences than a delay in putting on belts. Such talk can lead to no end of trouble.”

  “But Captain,” the girl Winifred spoke up indignantly, “isn’t it better to frighten us a little if it keeps us alive? Women aren’t children, to be sheltered from the truth!”

  “Why no, of course not, madam,” the captain said, putting on a comforting face to answer this new challenge. “But these passengers, men and women alike, can’t walk around in a constant state of alert. That’s my job, and the crew’s. Why spoil everyone else’s voyage?”

  “Worse than a German torpedo would spoil it, you mean?” Flash blurted out. The red-haired Yank evidently saw the effect of his remark in Turner’s face and coloration, for he added, “Captain, sir,” several seconds too late.

  While Turner recovered from this impertinence, the Scot was on him again. “Sir, these men who don’t want to know, they’re the real alarmists. I call them the Ostrich Club. They try to hide from danger by burying their heads in the sand and not seeing it. But if the instruction came from you, Captain, they would respect it. Why not have mandatory life belt lessons to make sure everyone learns the proper way? Then at least, if some of them want to be blind, it’s their own fault, and others will be there to show them when the time comes.”

  “Yes, Captain, he’s right,” the Yankee maiden chimed in. “And the lifeboat drills are a joke too, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Instead of just climbing in and saluting, they should swing out the boats for the practice, and lower them, if only partway. Then we’d know what to expect in an emergency.”

  “Hmmph. Should they, now?” Having heard enough, Captain Turner did not intend to describe to them the kind of chaos that could result from unlimbering lifeboats in open sea, with a rolling swell, under full steam. And far worse too if he were to stop the ship for a drill.

  “Well,” he declared, “you have some very interesting ideas, I must say. But as to their practicality, I’ll have to consult with my second officer, Mr. Hefford. He’ll know more about crew availability and scheduling. I’ll have a word with him about it, so you needn’t trouble yourselves any further. Now, thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention. I’m glad that you’re going to be prepared, all three of you, in the unlikely event of anything happening.”

  As ever, the captain’s authority worked. His full uniform, firm step, and tone of command overrode any further objections as he strode forward and ushered his visitors out the door.

  Chapter 20

  Dark Rooms

  Will you have another glass of White Seal?” Matt asked, pouring at the sideboard in the stateroom. “Nice of Kessler to supply us with a free bottle.”

  He turned to Alma where she sat on the sofa, and felt a pleasant sense of vertigo as he looked down on her elegant beauty from his swaying height.

  “Just a half glass, please,” she said, passing him her goblet. “We’d better save some for our friends, if they ever come out of there.”

  The two waited alone in the parlor while the other couple used the bedroom. Flash was showing Winnie how to develop photo slides, and they had sealed the space under the closed door against light with a rolled towel. Muffled wisecracks and giggles filtered from within; otherwise they were cut off.

  “Or else,” Matt said, “we could kill the whole bottle ourselves, and they’d never know.” He handed Alma her glass and sank down beside her. He found her especially lovely in the close-fitting deep red gown she’d worn to dinner, with the ruffled hem that flared around her delicate ankles, over mid-heeled black pumps.

  “Oh, I think they’d know just from looking at us,” Alma said.

  “We’d be rolling more than this ship,” Matt added.

  “So much for being chaperoned,” Alma said. “We can get drunk and do anything we want.” Leaning close she stole a kiss, a firm peck on his lips.

  “Anything?” He pulled her to him in a close embrace, her fragrance engulfing him, the tidy weight of her body falling against his chest.

  After a long, wine-sweet kiss, she relaxed in his arms, and it was Matt’s turn to break off for air. He didn’t want to push too far, too fast. Letting Alma rest on the sofa with eyes half-closed, he forced himself to rise, light-headed. He walked across the cabin almost reeling, whether from champagne or amour or the Lusitania’s surging progress over the waves. When he came to the bedroom door, he steadied himself and rapped on it. “How are you two doing in there? Almost finished?”

  “Don’t open that door,” Flash’s good-natured voice came through. “You might expose something!”

  “No, don’t rush us,” Winnie called out in equally high spirits. “We’re just fine in here. Things are developing very nicely.”

  Matt looked back at Alma, who was also laughing. Steadying himself against the roll of the ship, he returned to the sofa and into her welcoming arms.

  After another interlude, she stretched luxuriantly and smoothed her evening gown, then ran the fingers of one hand through his rumpled hair. “This is really too much, Mr. Vane. A first-class dinner with dancing, and now champagne and romance. You know just how to treat a lady.”

  “I hope it meets your highest expectations,” Matt said, stroking the dark tresses that lay against her lily-pale neck.

  Alma laughed. “You’re better at it than Jim ever was,” she said. “I keep waiting for the cigars and cards to come out.”

  At that moment the bedroom latch turned, and the door pulled slowly open. “All right, you two, here we come,” Flash announced. A discreet moment later his carrot-topped head appeared in the doorway. “Photo operations are complete, and the lights can come back on.” He entered with Winnie close behind him. Each of them held up a pair of print papers, still damp, which they laid out on the coffee table.

  “Good work,” Matt said, inspecting them. “And you prepared fresh slides?” he asked, to Flash’s nod.

  “This one of the ship is lovely,” Alma said. “Oh, and Winnie, what a stunning portrait of you! I wish I dared to have Flash make one of me.”

  “When you’re ready, just say the word,” Flash said. “I could shoot a special one for Matt,” he added with a wink.

  In due time they filed back into the bedroom to look at the other prints hanging over the sink: deck scenes, photos of the crowds at launch, the British blockaders, and a feral-looking candid shot of Knucks stalking aft.

  “That’s from before we left port, right?” Alma asked with a shiver.

  “Yes,” Flash reassured her. “Haven’t seen hide or hair of him since.”

  The four of them cleaned up and removed the photo gear, then returned to the parlor to finish the wine. Matt and Alma clung close on the divan as the group gaily talked, while Winnie occupied Flash’s lap
in one of the armchairs.

  * * *

  Alone later, getting ready for bed in their reclaimed boudoir, Winnie asked Alma. “How is it with Matt? Have you two gone far?”

  “Oh, no,” Alma said innocently. “Matt’s been very gallant. He’s one heck of a kisser, though,” she added, slithering into her nightgown. “Ready, willing, and able. What about Flash…he’s not too pushy?”

  “Oh, plenty playful, I like that in a fellow.” Winnie leaned away from the mirror, then shut her eyes dreamily. “He’s all man, though. I could feel it.” She turned to Alma. “Would you…would you give yourself to Matt?”

  Alma caught her breath and then sighed, wondering what to tell her younger friend. “Why, yes, I suppose I could.” Thinking: he’s as good a man as I’ve ever known…not married, it seems sure. And he knows my secrets. What else is there to hold out for?

  At the realization, a thrill passed through her. “I guess it’s just a matter of time for me and Matt,” she said aloud.

  “There isn’t a lot of time left,” Winnie observed, switching off the electric lamp and groping her way to bed. No light came from under the men’s door.

  “You’re right,” Alma had to agree, easing beneath her own blankets. “The Lusitania travels fast.”

  “Yes, and it’s wartime,” Winnie said in the dark. After a long moment she added, “I think I could be with Flash.”

  “Oh,” Alma breathed. “But wouldn’t you worry?”

  “What about?” Winnie asked. “It’s not as if a nurse doesn’t know birth control. We both took Hildegard’s classes and read Margaret Sanger’s book.”

  Alma said nothing. She lay there for some time, dreaming awake. She imagined Matt’s firm body, his thrillingly prickly jaw line, his bay-rum-and-tobacco man-smell—not from smoking, she was sure, but from being among smokers, in the places he went. Her thoughts flickered off the ship, to the past and future, the strange, nighted continents lying before and behind them. But her wistful mind recoiled from all that. She stirred restlessly in bed, and she heard Winnie still wakeful in hers.