Lusitania Lost

by Leonard Carpenter

  At last she pivoted in her sheets, swung her feet over the side, and sat up. “Shall I go?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, do,” Winnie’s reply came back faintly. She added with a brave effort at humor, “You might just tell Flash I want a word with him.”

  Standing up, Alma went to the door. She opened it quietly, expecting to hear deep breathing or sleepy murmurs of surprise.

  But in the faint light coming under the passage door, she found the blankets still folded, untouched on the sofa and cot. The men were gone.

  Chapter 21

  Spies

  The pair of idlers ambled down the third-class corridor as if they belonged there. They wore drab, nondescript clothing and rubber-soled work shoes. If anything betrayed Matt as being the more posh of the two, he supposed it would have been his recent haircut, which he’d taken pains to rumple. Flash, who was burdened with his leather shoulder bag, wore a close-fitting wool watch cap that made him look like a deckhand.

  “It covers you up nicely,” Matt told him. “Where’d you get it?”

  “From a talented young lady we know,” his friend discreetly answered. “She knitted it for me on our deck walks. I didn’t tell her what it was for, just that photography takes you to chilly, breezy places. But she must have guessed I need it to disguise my hair, like our other mutual friend.”

  As usual, Matt was impressed by his helper’s resourcefulness. “Well, if we’re spotted, keep on wearing it, at least till you’re back in First Class. If they chase us, three things: split up and let me be the decoy. Hide the camera bag where we agreed. And head for the Third Class Saloon if you can—that’s the only place where men gather at this hour who’re not overly friendly to authorities. If they’re still after you in First, change your appearance and act stuffy. These coats can go overboard, if need be.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” Flash said. “It should be easy to get through at the watch change, I’ve cased it…the evening watchman always has to go and fetch his replacement.”

  “Maybe,” Matt said, thinking ahead. “But there could be more guards inside, especially if they’re shipping contraband. Be on the lookout for Pierpoint, the ship’s cop.”

  Passing between rows of Third Class cabin doors, close-set due to the small size of the rooms but seemingly unoccupied, they stopped where the passage turned toward the center of the ship. A stairwell on their right led upward, but no steps sounded on the metal stairs. Flash peeked around the corner and then made way for Matt to look.

  Ten yards away, under an electric light at the ship’s midpoint, a crewman slouched on a stool before a closed door leading forward. The two men pulled back and assumed a pose of idle conversation, in case anyone happened along. Loitering was hard work this far forward, with the pitch and roll of the ship more noticeable.

  “That’s new.” Matt nodded at the freshly painted bulkhead that blocked the passage before them. “When the war came, I’m told, they cut into Third Class to enlarge the cargo space.”

  He glanced at the empty corridor behind them. “Even so, they’re having trouble filling up steerage on the eastbound run.”

  Flash peeked around the corner, checking his pocket watch at intervals and occasionally letting Matt look. They saw the guard waiting at his post, obviously bored and growing impatient. Finally, at the faint chiming of a midnight bell, he strode off toward the port side of the ship and up the far stairwell.

  “Go,” Matt said.

  The two went around the bend, not hiding their hurry. At the entryway, Flash took a slender steel pick from the outside pocket of his satchel and went to work on the lock. It was no mere door but a stoutly made, water-sealed hatchway, most likely put there for safe access to the cargo hold in bad weather. A small glass peephole in the top half was blocked from the far side.

  Matt watched until he heard the snap of the latch and then helped Flash raise the lever that drew out the floor and ceiling bolts. Together they pushed the panel open on a dim, silent interior.

  “It’s an easy lock,” the young burglar remarked, after they’d crossed the sill and levered the hatch shut behind them. “This side doesn’t need a key,” he pointed out. “But I think I can make one for you, if we want to get back in.”

  “Great, but let’s see how we get out first. We’d do better to find a different, unguarded route, instead of waiting for the six a.m. watch change.”

  The room they’d entered was a storehouse lit by an electric bulb in the ceiling. A small watchman’s booth was set up in the vestibule before the door, its table and seat fortunately vacant. Reaching into his shoulder bag, Flash took out a battery lamp and used its beam to brighten the dimness.

  The room was crowded with crates and barrels small enough to be shifted by one or two men. Most of the cargo here was tied down to brackets in the deck by ropes and netting, to secure it against the ship’s roll. From what they could see without disturbing things, it was all labeled as crockery, canned and bottled foodstuffs, linens and patent medicine. One box was stenciled “Vermont Maple Syrup,” and the next, “Soothe-All for the Cough.”

  “Fragile goods for special handling,” Matt said. “Not passenger baggage—that’s in separate holds fore and aft for quick unloading, along with the transatlantic mail. I don’t think we’ll see much to interest us here. But have your camera ready.”

  Taking the lantern from Flash, he led the way forward through the maze of small crates. The feeling of creeping through the storehouse was that of being a thief, although what they were looking for he wouldn’t want to steal.

  The next door, unsecured, led not to a room or passage but to an open stair landing. A section of E deck had been cut away to provide cargo space of double height, twenty feet or so, stretching forward into darkness. The pair of bulbs hanging from the ceiling didn’t light this main hold’s farthest recesses. And they didn’t show the floor, tightly packed as it was with oversized crates and bundles. There was another watch station here on the landing, again unoccupied. Thanks to the Great War for causing a crew shortage, Matt thought.

  “I see ambulances over there,” Flash murmured, shading his eyes against the electric light. He pointed to a pair of white automobiles lashed down on planks laid atop other cargo crates. “Is that what you’d call war materiel?”

  “No, not medical goods…military stores or ammunition, maybe. Guns would be the clincher. But we’ll shoot pictures of them anyway.” Matt shrugged at the sight of the white-painted fenders and headlamps. “Careful from here on, in case any crew can look in on us.”

  The two descended silently on their rubber soles. On leaving the stairs they had to climb over the close-packed cargo. As they went, they examined what was under them, which was generally labeled in stencil on top of the crate or bale. Of course, there was no telling what might have been mislabeled to deceive the customs inspectors in New York or Liverpool.

  There were sounds here in the dimness, even this far from the engine throb: the faint metallic slap of waves against the ship’s bows, for they were now at or below the waterline, and the creaking of wooden crates as the ship rolled. Most of the goods weren’t tied down, but set or wedged together in the hold, with some timber braces added to prevent the cargo from shifting in rough weather.

  The smells here were also muted—seawater and damp wood overall, but with an occasional waft of spices, sour vinegar from pickle kegs or the musty smell of fur bales. There was a faint scent of gasoline or lubricants…could it be gun oil, Matt wondered?

  Some bulk cargo was lashed to pallets. He had to flick on his lamp to read stencils and manifests tacked to the boxes, which could not always be checked by sight or smell. Still, he jotted down items in his notebook while Flash held the lamp. With a pry bar produced from his colleague’s camera-and-burglar bag, Matt was able to peer into a few cases and verify the contents…leather goods, cheap tableware and salt-packed beef tongues
. The loosened lids could easily be pressed back down again or pounded shut, using the same nail holes.

  Finding little out of the ordinary, Matt grew impatient and moved them along faster. They climbed around the ambulances, looking in only to see that the interior of each was empty. He didn’t consider them illegal, since they were well-meaning donations to alleviate the sufferings of war. Their intended drivers might even be among the passengers, and he made a note to try and find out as he hastily checked the cargo.

  Looping back along the starboard side of the hold, they found crated motorcycles, barrels of live oysters, and then a large pile of boxes and kegs stamped with numbers prefixed by RA, which Matt thought could mean Royal Arsenal. As he pried up the lid of one shallow crate and peeled back the rubber sheeting, Flash gripped his shoulder.

  The photographer pointed silently to the silvery dust that was packed inside, and tapped on the stenciled lid which read, “Handle with Care.”

  “Why, what is it?” Matt whispered.

  “Aluminum dust, highly flammable…it’s what I sometimes use for flash powder,” he whispered back. “It’s also added to high explosives like Amerol, so I’m told. It goes off better than gunpowder, but quiet, pfft, bright white for the pictures. And don’t get it wet.” He eyed the gray-painted hull plating nearby, which was damp with condensation or seepage. “That’s when it really gets unstable.” He pointed to a red stencil on the box which read, “Keep Dry.”

  “We’ll leave it, then.” Matt carefully replaced the liner and lid and tapped the nails back in place with his pry bar. “I doubt if it’s for taking flash pictures.” The case was one of a dozen or so of similar size and labeling.

  Nearby, another consignment looked official but was labeled only by bracketed numbers. The foot-high crates were small enough for two men to lift, so they dragged one out of the close-packed pile and pried it open.

  Seeing the contents, Matt turned abruptly to Flash and whispered, “OK, set up.”

  The case contained artillery shells, four of them, each as big around as Matt’s forearm. He touched the steel shells in the wood bracings, with plugged holes in the round nose. That was for fuse detonators to be fitted at the battle front. He couldn’t tell if the shells were filled with explosives or shrapnel, and he didn’t particularly want to find out. They definitely were packed with high-explosive propellant charges inside their brass cartridge casings, each with its own detonator set in the base. He carefully pulled out two and stood them up in the box, set against dozens of identical boxes, and he propped up the numbered lid so it could be read.

  Meanwhile, Flash set his camera tripod to aim the shot. It was too dark for a timed exposure, so the photographer filled his flash tray from a flask of the same silvery powder they’d seen in the nearby crates.

  Matt stood well back. As the electric spark ignited the pan, its bright flare lit the room, followed by a billow of white smoke, and Flash had his picture.

  No sense now hiding from watchmen. They shot quick photos of the aluminum cargo crates, the ambulances and the motorcycles in their wood frames, uniformly painted a flat military tan. They also found scores of smaller cases marked W for Winchester, containing rifle bullets dumped in by the thousands. Flash took the picture of Matt’s hands sifting through the bright brass cartridges.

  The next photos they took were of two enormous packing cases occupying the large central well. The names painted on the sides seemed to indicate agricultural or storage gear of some kind—the smaller oblong one read “Hopper” and the largest one, “Tank,” but with no destination or origin label.

  Matt climbed up onto the monster crate for a peek, but levering up the wooden access panel would be a two-man job.

  “I wonder what kind of tank it is,” Flash said as he aimed the camera. “Water, or maybe fuel oil? Do you think it might be full?”

  “It could be beer,” Matt half-joked, thumping on the side for an echo. “There’s a distillery outfitter on board, headed for the Guinness brewery in Dublin. The hopper could be made to feed in the grain and hops. Or they could be for military use.”

  As Flash was setting up the shot, Matt dangled his legs over the side to be in the picture and provide scale. He watched his assistant drag his tripod back to get the huge box into focus.

  Then suddenly, just as the flash went off, something happened. Matt heard a shout of surprise and found himself momentarily blinded by the intense glare from the pan. He had to edge his way over in the blazing darkness to a corner of the big crate and drop down to join his friend, who was quickly folding the tripod and packing up.

  “Did you see that man?” Flash asked, hurriedly zipping his bag shut.

  “No, I could hardly see at all,” Matt said, rubbing his eyes. “I heard someone yell—was it a guard?”

  “A man in dark clothes—he came around the side of the box, so I snapped him,” Flash said, shouldering the strap of his bag. “I probably blinded him too. He took off, maybe to get help.”

  The photographer strode forward and looked around the corner. “No sign of him now.”

  “Time to scat,” Matt said. “Not the way we came—we’d have to get past the guard, and they could be ready for us. Better look for the panic exit.”

  They hurried astern through the dim hold, past the stairs they’d descended to the aft bulkhead. There another stairway led them down…to the Lower Orlop Deck, Matt figured, very near the ship’s keel and the ocean depths. At the bottom, by their battery light, they saw a heavy door leading forward deep beneath the hold. This one read in damp yellowed lettering: “Powder Magazine–Keep Out.”

  It was double-padlocked, and they had no desire to break in. But just up the stairway heading aft, a stout escape hatch was operated by a hand wheel. Matt had known it must be there, but not exactly where. Spinning the wheel to open it, they pushed their way through and then tightened it shut again behind them.

  The passage on the other side was literally pitch-dark. By their lantern light, they saw that it was glossy-black with coal dust: a screened catwalk, leading left and right above the jumbled black sea of a transverse coal bunker. With the voyage half over, the coal was mostly gone, and both ways appeared to be open. But rather than split up yet, they chose the port side. At its far corner a broad, dark ventilation shaft led straight upward, with steel ladder-cleats set into the bulkhead wall.

  With no way to point the lamp, the climb had to be made in darkness. The rungs proved slick with briny moisture, hard to cling to, and the roll of the great ship seemed to worsen as they climbed higher. Slipping once from the rungs, Matt found himself dangling in space one-handed, until Flash guided his flailing foot back onto the ladder. Pausing then to shine the battery lamp around, the two saw no alternative but to climb the whole way, seven stories to the deck, with the hope of finding escape at the top.

  The ventilators were not broad, open cowls as on the Mauretania and other big liners, but squat round stacks with heavy hinged lids canting open or shut. No glow of light from the night sky filtered down. Still, arriving at the top of the shaft, Matt found that the hinged cap wasn’t chained or painted tight. Its widest part at the front offered a narrow egress onto the foredeck. Peering out the narrow aperture, he saw no sign of pursuit and heard no alarms. It was deepest night, four in the morning by his pocket watch, with the moon sinking far astern.

  “You go first,” he said, edging aside on the ladder for Flash. “Try to keep out of sight, and I’ll be right behind. If they’re about to catch you, drop the bag and run for it. I’ll pick it up and go to the starboard side. One of us should be able to get the camera through, along with all of those plates.”

  “If they catch us, act drunk,” Flash suggested. Taking a hip flask from his shoulder bag, he washed out his mouth and passed it over to Matt. Smoothly then, he eased out through the crack and was up on deck, slouching aft along the rail.

  Matt wait
ed a few moments, swigged shallowly from the flask and sprinkled some on his sleeve for good measure.

  Then he followed, squeezing out through the crevice and heading for the moon-shadow of the tall white superstructure. He saw no watchers on the wide bridge, and only one figure moved inside the bright-lit pilot house. No shouts sounded out, no whistles and no running feet. Tossing his coal-stained jacket overboard and staying a dozen yards behind, he followed Flash back to the stateroom.

  Chapter 22

  Cruiser Rules

  The Earl of Lathom creaked and leaned in a fresh breeze that rippled the sunny blue sea. The antique schooner was broad-reaching southward in westerly airs, making its way around the Old Head of Kinsale. Off to port the rocky headland loomed, a dark cliff topped by ancient castle ruins, but from which a new white-painted lighthouse rose. Beyond the headland lay the open ocean south of Ireland.

  “Aye, an’ it be a ravishin’ day in these fair waters, now the fog is lifted.” Rory McCray on the timber deck spoke grandly to his mate in the wheelhouse. He felt expansive in this easy sailing after clawing out of Bantry Bay by dawnlight, and then a choppy Atlantic run around the west tip of Ireland. With this breeze, there was no longer need of a smoky diesel engine to keep them underway. It felt it downright restful, after a night of loading eggs and chickens in tiny, foggy Bantry harbor.

  “Ravishin’ day, aye,” Mate McGonagill replied, keeping a restless eye on the horizon.

  “The wind freshens. And we need not fear runnin’ aground on yonder rockpile,” Rory added with a nod toward the castle. “We could be makin’ a straight run into England this day.”

  “Sure, an’ that we could,” the Mate agreed. “But there may be other dangers beside fog and rocks. Remember, there’s a war on.”