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Captain Smith was seated at a table in the ostentatious surroundings of the first class saloon. The conversation centred largely on the Titanic herself with Guggenheim firing questions at the three White Star men like an excited child while Andrews and Ismay revelled in the attention. They talked in detail about specifications and costs and regaled the industrialist and the delightful Mrs. Grafton with humorous anecdotes about the vessel’s design and construction even hinting, for the captain’s benefit, about how soon they could be in New York if they lit all the boilers.
Captain Smith noticed Mrs. Grafton followed the conversation with her eyes and laughed at all the right moments but appeared distant, even checking the time on several occasions. He wondered, absentmindedly, why she, still barely out of her wedding dress, had chosen to dine with the well-known philanderer, Guggenheim, as it would not go unnoticed in the tight circles of high society. A scandal would probably only enhance the industrialist’s reputation; the same wouldn’t be true for the Grafton’s. Still, it wasn’t his concern what the rich and famous got up to. He had his own problems, not least a potential scandal that could ruin White Star’s glowing reputation.
He thought maybe that was what everything came down to, reputation. What would happen to him as captain of the liner where not only people died, but the deceased bodies then went missing? Perhaps he should have retired when his wife first suggested it. He could be pruning the roses in a cottage garden in Dorset now, not walking the political tightrope of trans-Atlantic steam commerce while searching for an unknown killer.
“The lamb is absolutely divine, don’t you agree, Captain?”
Jerked uncomfortably from his private train of thought, he felt slightly embarrassed to find Mrs. Grafton looking at him expectantly. The three other men were still deep in conversation about the price of coal and the effect it was having on the industry and were oblivious to either her question or his confusion.
“I’m so sorry Mrs. Grafton, I was miles away. Please go on.”
The attractive socialite gave him an understanding smile and nodded towards his plate. “The lamb,” she repeated, “divine.”
“It most certainly is, Mrs. Grafton. But one would expect nothing less from the chefs on this, or for that matter, any other White Star vessel.” He returned her smile, grateful she did not take umbrage at his brief lapse of manners.
“They are to be congratulated,” she raised her wine glass in toast, “as are you, Captain. This is a splendid ship. I’m sure you’re very proud of her.”
“I am, but also humble enough to know the ship’s splendour is down to Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews; I cannot take credit for that.” He too raised his glass, and with a twinkle in his eye added, “To the Titanic, and all who sail her.”
“And to the lamb, that she died not in vain,” replied Mrs. Grafton with a polite, but genuine, laugh before taking a generous sip from her glass.
Captain Smith, out of politeness rather than interest, was just about to ask why her husband had chosen not to dine with them when a steward appeared at his side brandishing a folded piece of paper. “From Mr. Moody, sir. He was incredibly insistent on the urgency of this matter.”
“My dear, Mrs. Grafton, if you would excuse me for a moment, duty calls.” He took the piece of paper and read the note, aware the other men at the table had stopped their discussion and were looking on expectantly. Ignoring them he quietly asked the steward, “Where is Mr. Moody now?”
“He, and Mr. Callahan, are waiting in the pantry, sir.” From his calm demeanour, Smith guessed he had not taken the time to read Moody’s scribbled note.
“Thank you, that’ll be all.” The steward left the table as unobtrusively as he had arrived. “Mrs. Grafton. Gentleman. I’m afraid I must attend to a few matters, if you will excuse me?” Captain Smith rose from the table, gesturing for the others to remain seated.
Bruce Ismay eyed the captain suspiciously. He had known him long enough to know when something was amiss, and it was out of character for him to interrupt a meal, especially with someone as important as Guggenheim. “Is everything as it should be, Captain?”
Captain Smith chose to ignore Ismay’s tone, his suggestion being if anything delayed their arrival in New York, he would place the blame squarely on the captain’s shoulders.
“Everything is on course as expected,” replied Smith with a confident air. “I have a small matter I need to attend to with one of my officers, which, I am afraid, cannot wait.” With that, he hurried away before Ismay could ask any further questions. If what he had read in the note was true, then nothing was as it should be.
Captain Smith strode into the pantry. He could feel his anger rising and hoped he misunderstood the note from Officer Moody. One look at his Sixth Officer’s ashen face as he hunched over the table sipping tea from a china cup, told him he had understood it perfectly. Smith looked around the small pantry, ensuring nobody else was present. Callahan stood with his back against the wall, just staring at the ground. Neither man acknowledged his arrival.
“How bad is it, Mr. Moody?”
It took Moody a few moments to answer, and then he mumbled, “The worst kind of bad.”
The captain, his mood already fractious from the day’s events, found his patience wearing thin. The two men were obviously in shock but he had a job to do, and they were professional seaman. It was he who shouldered the responsibility for every man, woman, and child aboard ship and he needed answers: proper, informative answers. He raised his voice slightly, hoping his impatience didn’t come through too strongly in his tone, and repeated the question.
Officer Moody looked him full in the eye, his features dour and emotionless, and said, “They’re all dead.”
“Who’s dead, for God’s sake man, make sense!”
“Baines, Davis, the search party in steerage, and probably everybody else down there by now. There are people, no, dead people, a lot of dead people, sir ... and they’re eating the living.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Moody. How can the dead eat the living? That is simply the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.”
Smith’s simmering rage threatened to boil over. How could one of his officers believe, let alone report, such supernatural mumbo jumbo? A few people die, granted in circumstances that did not, on face value, appear normal and he had to accept those bodies were misplaced, possibly stolen. But to believe the dead had risen to claim further victims was insane. Mr. Moody must, he thought, be suffering from some form of hysteria brought on, no doubt, by the stress of the job.
“He speaks true.” Callahan’s voice was quiet, calm, his stare still fixed on a point just in front of his own toes. “We witnessed both Baines and Davis die in the most gruesome of ways, one that, should I live to be a hundred and given what I witnessed, I think that unlikely, will never leave me. The dead just tore them apart before our eyes, a similar fate had already befallen those in the search party. I saw the arm of a friend of mine hanging from the jaws of a passenger who in turn, was missing his left ear and half his neck. A man would be hard pushed to survive such an injury let alone summon the strength to tear another man’s arm from his body.” The American finally looked up, his eyes sunken into his sallow complexion. “The devil has designs on this ship, and we can do naught to thwart his advances, and that, sir, is the uncomfortable truth.”
The captain looked from his junior officer to the able seaman and back again, weighing the information. The doctor’s earlier words about the third victim’s bites being human in nature provided some credence to their story, but then, Moody had attended that same meeting. Could that have clouded his judgment, fuelled the hysteria? He decided he needed to see things for himself, especially if, as Callahan believed, the entire ship and the lives of everyone on board were at stake.
Finally, he said, “Will you two gentlemen be so good as to escort me down to steerage so I can see all this for myself.”
They looked at each other in silence. Both had a faraway look in their eyes as if reliving the anguish and trauma of their last horrifying jaunt into the depths of the ship. As if by some unspoken bond, both men nodded their acceptance of his request.
“But I’m going to finish my tea first,” said Moody, adding chillingly, “No point in leaving it, I doubt I’ll be back.”
“Come now, Mr. Moody, we will only venture to the dividing gates. What harm could possibly occur?”
The captain hoped his voice sounded as confident and calm as he intended. His unflappable, cool exterior, a trait he had become well renowned for among the sailors who served under him, was in danger of slipping away. The evidence pointed to a phenomenon even half a century of trans-world sea travel couldn’t prepare him for, and if there was one thing Captain Edward Smith hated, it was being ill prepared.
Moody continued sipping his tea while Callahan stared uncomfortably at his boots, neither man prepared to offer an answer to the captain’s question, all too aware of the harm that could befall them. Moody offered up a silent prayer for a swift and decisive death, one that wouldn’t see him rise again in search of human flesh.
