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.