Lusitania Lost

by Leonard Carpenter

  Ahead, beyond the black-banded lighthouse they were just passing, the Irish coastal hills and headlands stretched away into the distance. Off to starboard, under dazzling white sunlight, the sea spread flat and open as ever. The bright, clearing sky brought back the feeling of happier strolls about the deck, and Flash put an arm around Winnie as they hurried along.

  “I’ll be sticking with you when we’re ashore, at least until we get things sorted out,” he told her. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Mind?” Winnie said. “Why should I mind? As long as you don’t get fresh,” she added, giving him a squeeze in an unmentionable place.

  “Once we find the others,” he responded with a spank to her tidy behind, “be sure to work things out with Alma about contact points and your final destination. She’ll probably be separated from us in port. Matt will want to sneak her off the ship and get her past any guards or lookouts.”

  “How, in a steamer trunk?” Winnie asked, back to being concerned. “What about us, you and me? How will we keep from getting separated?”

  “Well, Matt’s plan is to escort Alma safely inland so she can rejoin you ladies further on. While they sneak off together, he has assigned me to look after you and the others in England. Assuming Miss Hildegard allows it, that is.”

  “I think she can be persuaded,” Winnie said, squeezing his arm tight against her side.

  “Yes, well, I hope so, Winnie. You know I wouldn’t want to lose you, not ever.” Flash felt the gravity of his words, but in the urgency of it all he saw no point in holding back. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, so we’ll have to keep in close touch.” He punctuated his speech with a hug and a kiss on her cheek, and then tried to be lighthearted again.

  “Of course, we’ll have to be apart at times. But there’ll still be the news reporting to do, the heroic story of young nurses overseas.”

  “Of course,” Winnie replied, clinging close. “But you know, I never planned to be quite this heroic.”

  Coming to the starboard side, they found fewer passengers along the rail. But Flash soon saw someone he knew, Mary Plamondon. The irrepressible hostess of the first-class dining table was strolling in a loose morning dress with a light wrap. She had met Winnie before and greeted them both, but she told them she hadn’t seen Matt or Alma that morning.

  “And you haven’t happened to run across my husband Charles?” the Chicago brewer’s wife nervously asked, blinking behind her pince-nez eyeglasses. “I thought he’d be having a cigar out on deck. Last night was our thirty-sixth anniversary, you know. I slept late, what with the champagne and foghorns, and all the noise and stamping feet. And now, when I come outside, I see that the commotion was the lifeboats being swung out.” She tilted her small glasses into better focus. “Do you really think it was necessary? Has there been another submarine warning, or a sighting of some kind?”

  “I think it’s just a precaution because we’re near England,” Winnie said.

  “Well then, shouldn’t they have prepared us better? I don’t think anyone has been assigned a lifeboat seat yet—have you? If anything happens, it will be first come, first served.”

  “Women and children first, I would hope,” Flash said. “Be sure to have your life jackets handy, you and Charles. We ought to do the same.”

  “I suppose there shouldn’t be any reason to worry,” the matron fretted. “Cunard has never lost a passenger yet, so I’m told. Last night after the concert, Captain Turner said we’re all safe in the hands of the Royal Navy. But I haven’t seen any escort, have you?” She shaded her eyes and looked around the glimmering sea. “Did we miss them in the fog? You didn’t see any cruisers over on the other side?”

  “No, but I’ll bet they’re out there,” Flash reassured her. “Nowadays they have destroyers specially designed for fighting U-boats. They’ll more than match the speed of a ship like ours, and can cut a submarine in two at periscope depth.”

  “How lovely,” Mrs. Plamondon said, obviously chilled by the description. “I’d feel better if two or three of them were in sight now.” She stopped searching the sea. “Well, I’d better be off to find Charles. If you should see him, remind him to meet me for lunch.”

  “All right, Mary. Good luck!”

  “Everyone has worries,” Winnie lamented to Flash as the woman hurried off. “If Matt and Alma are smart, they’re cuddled up in a cargo bin somewhere, resting and enjoying the trip. Just as we ought to be.”

  “On this run aft we’ll check the cabin again,” Flash said, giving her a hug and a peck. “Most likely we’ll find them down there.” He turned to move on.

  “Wait.” Gripping his arm, Winnie was staring out to sea, diagonally off the starboard bow. Flash followed her gaze, hearing her voice taut and urgent:

  “Is that what a periscope looks like?”

  Chapter 42

  Stricken

  Junior Third Officer Albert Bestic, timepiece in hand, stood at the port corner of the glassed-in bridge. He waited for the banded tower of Kinsale Lighthouse to come alongside. In line with the Lusitania’s left bridge wing, it should form at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the ship’s course.

  When it did, he would mark down the time. Then, by comparing it to the time of the first bearing on the tower, taken at precisely forty-five degrees forward—and given the ship’s constant speed of eighteen knots—he would know how far they had traveled during the interval. That distance, under the inflexible laws of geometry as applied to the legs of an isosceles right triangle, would be exactly the same distance the ship stood offshore from the lighthouse.

  It was an old seaman’s trick. It could then be repeated when the tower lay forty-five degrees astern on the same course, to confirm or average out their position with regard to the land. A simple four-point bearing: three points at sea, one ashore, from which Captain Turner would be able to plot their future course with assurance. With it, he could take them safely through shoals, minefields and the mouth of St. George’s Channel, which lay ahead on their way to Liverpool.

  It was just like Captain Turner to want a precise bearing, so as to be ready for any eventuality—more fog or enemy action, or a possible diversion into Queenstown. The only catch was, given their modest speed and great distance from the land—a dozen miles at least—it would take Bestic the better part of an hour to obtain the time readings. The Captain must be feeling confident to cruise in a straight line, at considerably less than full steam, for such a long stretch inside the War Zone.

  Since the fog lifted they had been swerving at intervals, quite likely to avoid targeting by submarines. Bestic had felt the gradual but not-so-gentle turns himself, and had heard the complaint of a passenger tipped from his chair at breakfast. But this latest coded message from the Admiralty may have changed things.

  Bisset, so the Old Man had called him again when he ordered up the four-point bearing. He’d been doing it for weeks, since Bestic had first joined the ship in Liverpool. Was it mere absent-mindedness, or was the Captain being witty? It was no insult, since Bestic knew of Leftenant Bisset as a crack Cunard hand and Turner’s trusted first officer in his most recent command. Was it his way of saying that Mr. Bestic had the same potential?

  The old fellow—Bowler Bill Turner, they called him because of his off-duty hat style—wasn’t really a bad chap. He might be partial to his Third Mate because, like Turner, Bestic had come up out of the sailing ships and knew all the old traditions. Two days earlier, for a lark, the Captain had sent down to the officers’ mess a freakishly complicated sailor’s knot that he himself must have tied, with an order that it be duplicated. Bestic had been the only one to recognize a four-stranded Turk’s-head and, with the help of a dog-eared reference manual he kept in his sea chest, he recreated it. The result was sent back to the Captain, who probably also got wind of the knot-tier’s identity. So perhaps this continuing name mix-up was a sign of favor.


  The change of the watch at fourteen bells was drawing near…a problem, since Bestic was stuck here timing the ship’s progress. But then Senior Third Officer Lewis came up promptly to relieve him, and he was free to take leave of the chronometer and attend his other duties. The change actually came slightly before two p.m., because the ship had just switched over to Ireland time, which was twenty-five minutes earlier than Greenwich Mean Time, and the two mates had agreed to split the difference.

  On the way astern to do paperwork, Bestic stopped at the Marconi room and spoke to Leith, the telegraphist. From him he heard the scuttlebutt that two radio messages had been received, one placing submarines near the Coningbeg lightship, some eighty miles ahead, the second reporting another lone U-boat some miles behind them at Cape Clear, heading away north. After an initial chill at the news, Bestic decided to feel cheered by it. No subs were reported or likely to be in between—that would explain why the Captain felt safe enough to take stock of things, and get the ship’s bearings in a leisurely fashion.

  Bestic went to his cabin behind the bridge to compose log entries. But he’d barely started in when a knock came at the door.

  It was Crank, the baggage master, a much-dreaded visitor. Every time a passenger wanted something from his bags below, Crank paid a visit here.

  It was Cunard’s policy that none of the crew, and especially this scratch lot during wartime, should have access to the passengers’ baggage without an officer present. And that tiresome duty invariably fell to Bestic as Junior Third. But this time, with the ship nearing port and the sea conditions mild, Crank had been ordered to start the cargo hands moving the luggage up onto the foredeck. That would require an officer below decks in the hold. Just like Turner to be thinking of a quick turnaround in port, even in wartime, and a speedy departure back to the States. Or maybe it meant that the ship had already been diverted into Queenstown, just an hour away.

  No matter; since it was the captain’s order, Bestic had no choice but to agree.

  “But wait,” he told Crank, giving him the key. “I’m wearing my dress uniform, and it won’t do to get it all smutty. If I change to my drabs first, I’ll be able to pitch in and help you shift the bags. Why don’t you take the fellows down, and I’ll join you shortly?”

  “Aye, Sir,” Crank said, closing the cabin door behind him.

  Bestic proceeded to change uniforms, though he didn’t make any particular hurry of it. The baggage handlers would be fine on their own, with Crank there to keep them out of the passengers’ valuables.

  On leaving the cabin some minutes later, Bestic went by way of the top deck to savor the fine weather. He could then pass by the bridge once again before his plunge into the stifling darkness of the baggage room, which lay just above the main cargo hold.

  It was a perfect day at sea, blue and calm, with the Irish coast brilliant in the background. Yet something was amiss.

  The first thing Bestic heard was a hail from above, through a megaphone, sounding high and urgent. The shout came from the crow’s nest on the foremast, visible aloft over the bridge. As he shaded his eyes to look, the two crewmen up there were already scrambling out and down the ratlines, yelling in alarm and waving to starboard. The one word he made out was enough: “Torpedo!”

  Rushing to the starboard rail, he saw it at once: a streak of white bubbles lengthening toward them from a thin, stick-like periscope straight off to starboard.

  This is the approach of death…

  Even as the thought formed in his mind, reality struck with brutal suddenness and jolted the deck beneath him. A muffled metallic impact deep underfoot staggered Bestic forward against the rail. At once a fountain of seawater shot straight up alongside the bridge, mounting higher than the smokestacks. As Bestic watched it pass astern with the ship’s motion, he realized where the torpedo had hit—ahead under the foremast, near the baggage and cargo holds, precisely where he would be right now if he hadn’t stopped to change his uniform… and where Crank and his helpers likely were just starting work. The tremors and echoes of the explosion were still making the forward part of the ship shudder to the core. Poor souls, if they were down there, they stood little chance of escaping.

  The day around him darkened to night as soot and smoke poured upward from deck ventilators and the giant funnel high overhead. The explosion must have penetrated deep into the hull through the emptied coal bunkers, he realized, maybe even to the forward boiler rooms. To shield himself against falling muck and debris, he raised a blue-coated arm over his head. Clinging to the rail with his other hand, he saw and felt the descending column of seawater smash down on the Marconi and Boat Decks just astern. Fortunately its main force missed him and others forward. But the torrent smashed a lifeboat out of its davits, the third in line on the starboard side, and the downpour spread farther back, sweeping passengers off their feet and washing some few of them overboard through the lifeboat gaps in the rail.

  Losses among the passengers already…but nothing to be done about it, with the ship itself at stake. The grim sight reminded him of his duty, to get to the bridge for orders. And if the order was to abandon ship, he must take charge of launching all the forward lifeboats on the port side. He turned to make his way inboard, but it was difficult—slippery and uphill. The wet, sooty deck was tilting steeply over as the ship heeled toward its injured side. He struggled upward nevertheless.

  A second great explosion then hurled him back against the rail.

  Chapter 43

  Crisis

  “Winnie, come along. Hurry!” Her lover’s voice was sharp and determined as he drew her away from the rail.

  When they saw the surge of bubbles before the periscope, and the torpedo’s white wake approaching, Flash started off astern with her arm clutched in his. Winnie followed him along the promenade at a run.

  Then the explosion jolted underfoot, the blast speeding her along, and she looked back to see a plume of water rising straight up into the air. The deck didn’t buckle upward or burst out aflame, so she thought maybe the torpedo hadn’t even penetrated.

  But then at once a cloud of soot and smoke shot out of the ventilators on the top level inboard, darkening the sky and signaling some deep internal damage to the ship. Winnie ran on, not knowing where and not caring. In the wan faces of people who gazed up at the column of seawater behind them, she saw fear dawning and looked back again. With the ship’s forward speed, the waterspout was following them astern.

  Then the deluge struck, pouring down along the deck like a tidal wave. She heard screams coming from behind and a great crashing of water and timber. As they reached the Palm Court terrace amidships, the canvas awning above its entry sagged down onto their backs with the drumming weight of water. Meanwhile an inrushing tide surged up to their knees, dragging them almost off their feet.

  Once inside the shelter they paused to support one another, drenched and panting from their flight. Winnie could still hear shouts and pleas from those half-drowned outside, crawling or slipping on the promenade, and she fought to control her own rising fear.

  “The deck is sinking!” she gasped suddenly to Flash, who only tightened his embrace. Beneath their shoes the wet floor tiles were tilting more and more, as if trying to tip them out overboard, a terrifying sensation.

  The passage was astir by now with people darting out to see what happened and clamoring to find loved ones and belongings. The troubled murmur of voices rose to a hubbub, broken by desperate hails and shouted orders, with an occasional stabbing cry of anguish. Some passengers outside clung fast to the rail, the rest staggering in the wetness and the sudden listing of the ship.

  “Flash, what can we do?”

  Even as she spoke, a fresh explosion more powerful than the first racked the deck underfoot, sending dinner plates shattering down from café tables and sideboards. This must be the end, she thought.

  “We’ve got to look
after our own.” Flash said amid the turmoil, drawing her inboard toward the central stair. “The best we can do for the others is check the stateroom. There are things in there we need.”

  “Where’s the hold?” she asked, breathless. “Did Alma and Matt go there?”

  “No telling. The hold is forward where the torpedo struck,” His tone was grim. “Let’s hope they didn’t.”

  “They could be back at the room looking for us.”

  Winnie didn’t for a moment believe that their friends were gone, the very first casualties of the attack. She wasn’t ready to face such a prospect, not yet.

  “You’re right, we have to check there. Maybe we’ll meet them in the passage, and we can all go and join the others.”

  They ascended the tilting tile floor inboard, past a steward with his white uniform soaked. He was telling everyone shoving past him, “Never fear, don’t panic, the ship won’t sink,”

  Further along near the concierge room, Winnie recognized the tycoon and playboy, Alfred Vanderbilt. Looking calm and serious, he was telling a woman, “Help me find all the kiddies, and we can put these on them.” Dangling from his hands were bundles of child-sized life jackets.

  Reaching the stairs, the two headed down resolutely against a stream of emerging passengers. Many clutched life belts, or tried clumsily to pull them on as they climbed. In the tilting stairwell, with the lights dimming and the air tinged with smoke, their faces showed a desperation that was close to frenzy.

  Yet some in First Class moved with an air of dignified, almost unnatural calm. Perhaps it was because of all the stories told in recent years about panic aboard the SS Titanic after it struck the iceberg, and the undisciplined scramble for the boats that excluded so many poor passengers, women and children. At least, Winnie thought, these voyagers had been reassured that the lifeboats were more than sufficient for all the souls aboard the Lusitania.