A pound of flesh. I’d been feeling the truth of it all winter. The price of ambition – not just mine, but Bruce Ismay’s too. Until last September, aboard Olympic, I’d never imagined how much I would be forced to pay. The last few months had left me in no doubt that it was time to say goodbye to what was, after all, a younger man’s game.
Longing for this assignment to be over, suddenly I’d suffered a sea-change. Meeting Dorothea’s daughter – my daughter – was like being cast up on some tropical shore. Strange, beautiful, exotic – and utterly foreign. Uncharted territory to a man who had confined himself to the grey-green waters of the Atlantic.
Following the afternoon’s storm of emotions, I found the evening a trial. The Saloon was gently buzzing with conversation as I joined my guests for dinner, but with Lucinda at the forefront of my mind it was difficult to keep up. While I longed to have her by my side, almost anyone would have been preferable to the strange Mrs Charlotte Cardeza.
Tall and gaunt, her raised chin and haughty expression gave the impression that all around her were beneath notice. In Reception I thought she was some dowager duchess McElroy had forgotten to tell me about, but Mrs Cardeza was an American widow, rich beyond most people’s conception of the word.
She was daunting – and different. Of the millionaires’ wives I’d met, most were society hostesses, devoting their time to charitable causes. Mrs Cardeza’s hobbies were ocean yacht-racing and big-game hunting. And, I guessed, indulging her son, the equally remarkable Mr Thomas Cardeza.
Attempting to engage the lady in conversation, I asked about her yachting experiences. ‘I understand, ma’am, that you’ve skippered ocean-going yachts?’
‘One,’ she said in clipped tones. ‘The Eleanor.’
‘Ah, my dear wife’s name.’ I smiled encouragingly while tackling my coquilles St Jacques. ‘And where did that voyage take you?’
‘Hardly a voyage, Captain. We were off Cuba.’ She paused, studying the arrangement of smoked salmon on her plate. I thought she’d finished speaking, but then she said, ‘Came through a hurricane.’
Amazed, I hardly knew how to respond. ‘Well then, dare I say it, ma’am – you are lucky to be here to tell the tale.’
‘Yes. So they tell me.’
I tried prompting for further details, but it was her son who provided the story. Almost swamped by wind and waves, they’d battled on for most of the day and half the night – mainsail ripped to shreds and the rudder barely intact. But just as they thought all was lost, the wind suddenly dropped and they were able to make it to Havana Bay.
‘Lucky as always,’ Thomas Cardeza said, smiling fondly at his mother.
He was probably in his thirties. Although not present aboard the Eleanor, he had accompanied his mother on most of her big-game-hunting expeditions. That did surprise me, since it was hard to imagine him roughing it in a safari tent. Even less could I see him stalking lions across the savannah. He seemed more of a lounge lizard, monocle in place, hair slicked back with pomade, lips as pink as a girl’s. My other lady guest – the elegantly-dressed couturier, Lucile – flirted with him outrageously. Fortunately her husband, the champion fencer Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon, appeared more amused than concerned.
I had decided to tease the Duff-Gordons by pretending I didn’t know who they were, referring to them as Mrs and Mrs Morgan, the name under which they had registered; but my little joke fell on deaf ears. Only when young Cardeza returned to the subject of his recent trip through Africa, did it seem to have been noticed.
‘I must say Egypt’s getting to be like Broadway,’ he said dismissively. ‘We bumped into everyone, didn’t we, Mother dear?’ He listed several well-known names, including the Astors. ‘And Mr JP Morgan. He said he was intending to travel on his brand new ship, but he’s not aboard, is he?’
‘Sadly, no.’ I replied. ‘Business matters, I understand.’
‘Sir – if you’ll forgive me for saying – I think it more likely Mother upset him. Insisted on buying that Pharoah’s death mask he was after. Wouldn’t give us the time of day after that.’
The young man evidently found that a satisfying tale, and Lady Duff Gordon laughed appreciatively. Mrs Cardeza raised an eyebrow. Only when I asked if she and her son were enjoying the voyage, did she give me a clear response. Hardly complimentary, since she judged the trip so far to have been rather dull.
‘A storm or two,’ she said, ‘would have been more exhilarating.’
Feeling murderous, I responded with a taut smile. ‘Perhaps next time…’
I was thankful when the meal came to an end. I thought I detected a sigh of relief from Sir Cosmo as Mrs Cardeza drifted off with her son – he still talking, she making no discernible response.
My eyes turned towards the far end of the room, where Lucinda was sharing a table with her lady friends. Earlier, I’d despatched a note, begging her forgiveness for my abrupt departure that afternoon, and suggesting we might have lunch together the next day. As I caught up, she shot me a grateful smile and said she would like to do that.
‘By the way,’ she added quietly, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been saying you knew my parents in Hong Kong – the ladies were curious, you see. Mr Clinch Smith too. I said it’s been rather special to hear so much about them…’
That tactful explanation covered a multitude of questions. I thanked her for it and asked if I might join them later. By the time we parted at the head of the stairs my anxious and uncertain mood had departed. I felt calm, restored to my old self, less daunted by the difficulties ahead.
While the ladies went into the Palm Court for coffee, I headed next door for my after-dinner cigar. Despite its newness, the Smoke Room gave the impression of an old-established gentlemen’s club. Leaded glass, carved and inlaid panelling, leather armchairs and a discreet but well-stocked bar, made for a popular rendezvous. Frank Millet and Major Butt followed me in, and, as we looked for an empty table, Jacques Futrelle stood and offered us seats. Noticing Stead nearby, I hesitated; but the morning’s interview seemed an age ago. I took a seat next to the Major, my back to Stead, and, as the steward took my order, reflected that after all I owed the newspaperman something. Except for the séance, would I have met Lucinda Carver? Stead had played his part. I should be thankful.
Gratitude, however, did not make for liking. Stead’s voice, high-pitched, with its echoes of the north-east, intruded so much I could barely follow the conversation at my own table. Oddly enough, Frank Millet and Futrelle, both of whom had been journalists, were discussing their early days, while at the next table Stead was holding forth on the virtues of free speech and a free press.
I heard him say how proud he was of having introduced the personal interview to journalism – and claiming he’d educated the American newspaper magnate, William Randolph Hearst, in what he called revolutionary reporting. I thought revolution a good word, considering the campaigns he’d run on the Pall Mall Gazette. But as Stead was taken to task on this very point, I realized my companions’ ears were also attuned to the debate.
‘Hearst is nothing but a promoter of sensational stories!’ one man protested. John Jacob Astor, I saw when I turned my head – while another spat the words yellow journalism as though they were fever-ridden.
‘But Mr Hearst,’ Stead responded, ‘put newspapers within reach of ordinary people. He made newspapers popular by publishing the truth about crime and politics and financial corruption. The kind of truths that ordinary people – the ones who vote – ought to be made aware of! It’s what I’ve been doing for more than thirty years.’
There was some grudging assent. From our table Futrelle broke in with, ‘Don’t forget Hearst gave us Jack London and Mark Twain – you have to admire him for that.’
‘What about the truth, though?’
‘Yeah, Hearst sure don’t let truth get in the way of a good story!’
Everyone laughed. Turning, I caught Astor’s eye, but with a wry smile he shook his head as if to say, ‘Don’t I know it!’ His divorce and subsequent marriage to the young Madeleine Force meant that his name – in certain newspapers – had been trawled through the mud.
I knew enough to be sympathetic. After the Hawke incident my name had been in print too. It was not something I’d enjoyed, but at least the newspapers had been kind to me. No comment from Stead as far as I knew, although he’d had plenty to say about ships in the past. Little of it worth repeating in my opinion, but it was bound to come up. Good sense said I should finish my drink and leave before I became drawn in. Even as it went through my mind, someone mentioned Stead’s interest in spiritualism – and then I couldn’t leave. I had to be sure last night’s episode did not get an airing.
I met Frank Millet’s glance as well as Futrelle’s – the Major too was suddenly alert. So he knew. Well, I imaged the President’s right-hand man could be trusted.
Turning my chair, attempting to catch Stead’s eye, I heard an English voice say, ‘Didn’t you write a story about one of the White Star ships, Mr Stead? The Majestic, wasn’t it? How did you come to write that?’ And before he could answer, someone else turned to me. ‘Have you read it, sir – what did you make of it?’
Privately, I objected to the way he’d used the name of a real ship – my old ship, the Majestic – as the centre-piece of a fanciful but alarming tale. I would have preferred not to comment but everyone was looking in my direction.
‘Mr Stead wrote his story before I took over the Majestic, so I don’t know what my predecessor thought of it. Was he the model for the sea-captain in your story?’ I asked, throwing the ball back to Stead.
With a sniff, he said, ‘Never met the chap. The whole thing came to me in a dream.’ He lit a cigarette, viewing me with narrowed eyes through the smoke.
After the morning’s sharp exchange, it was obvious – to me at least – that the man was throwing down a challenge. I was weighing my reply when Frank Millet said – with a mischievous glance at me – that they couldn’t be content with such an answer, Mr Stead must explain.
My adversary looked to me for permission. Refusing to play the spoilsport, I nodded, wondering just how far he would go. He knew he had his audience – by then the group had grown – and without further ado proceeded to give us the outline of the tale.
‘An old sailing ship, the Ann and Jane of Montrose, encounters fog while crossing the Atlantic – a common enough phenomenon as I’m sure the Captain here will testify.’ He paused to draw on his cigarette. ‘But lurking inside the fog bank is an iceberg. They are on it almost before it is seen. The ship runs along the berg’s hidden reef, and with her keel laid open. …’
Swept by superstitious dread, I held up my hand. ‘Mr Stead,’ I protested, ‘remember where we are – spare your listeners, please!’
There was laughter, but I caught flashes of alarm. Evidently, Stead did too. After a brief apology, he continued. ‘Well, in short, six men and a boy succeed in gaining a foothold on the ice – the rest go down, never to be seen again.’
‘Really, Mr Stead – I don’t think this is suitable…’
But the story-teller knew his audience. Chilled or thrilled, they wanted him to go on, while I was forced by some unwritten law to keep my seat and listen with the rest. Every nerve was stretched, awaiting the tale’s conclusion, anticipating the connections he might make.
‘Meanwhile, some hundred miles or more to the east, the crack liner, Majestic, is ploughing on through the Atlantic seas – and, as with this great ship of ours, passengers of various ranks and callings are aboard. There is an Irish lady, a Mrs Irwin, gifted with clairvoyance, and a man by the name of Compton, who is able to communicate with certain friends by means of automatic writing.’
‘Automatic writing?’ Astor queried, but Stead waved it away and carried on.
‘Compton and Mrs Irwin, although strangers to each other, have each received knowledge of the tragedy by occult means. By virtue of clairvoyance, Mrs Irwin had seen it happening. She is able to tell Compton the name of the ship, and to describe those who’ve managed to save themselves. One is a giant of a man, she says, with a red beard.
‘Startled, recognising the description, Compton tells Mrs Irwin the man is an old friend. Furthermore, at noon that day, he’d received a message from him, giving the ship’s name, and calling for help. Stranded on the ice, they are in urgent need of rescue – they were following the liner route, and must be close to the line of outward steamers.
‘Mrs Irwin insists on going to the Captain at once, to beg him to search for them. Compton is simply relieved to have what he sees as confirmation of his story from someone else. Otherwise, the Captain,’ and here Stead looked straight at me, ‘would almost certainly have ridiculed his story…’
There had been a case of survival on an iceberg, widely reported when I was a boy. I doubted most people’s ability to last more than an hour in such conditions, especially after being dunked in the sea. However, I nodded to Stead and he carried on.
‘It was fortunate that Compton was known to the Captain as a regular passenger – and that he had, more than once, been able to give the Captain information that had enabled the Captain to avoid certain danger…’
‘And what was that, I wonder?’ Frank Millet muttered from close by. If he heard, Stead ignored him.
‘As they meet the fog, Compton asks to speak to the Captain, telling him what he and Mrs Irwin have learned. But what do you imagine I can do? the Captain replies. I have 2000 passengers and crew aboard this ship, I cannot risk them all just for the sake of half a dozen castaways who may or may not be stuck on an iceberg somewhere in this great ocean…’
Everyone looked to me. ‘Just so.’
‘The Captain of the Majestic was about to change course for a more southerly route – to avoid the danger, you understand. But he is persuaded to keep to the course they are on, negotiating his way through icy clouds of mist. At last, dead ahead, the lookout spots the berg, and there, on the verge of death, are the survivors of the wreck. A boat is lowered, and the folk Mrs Irwin had seen, and with whom Compton had communicated, were hauled aboard and rescued…’
Astor raised his hand. ‘But how did they communicate with Compton? Am I right in saying this was before wireless?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Stead replied, barely batting an eyelid. ‘As I said, the message was received by automatic writing. I’m sure you’ve heard of it – as I’m sure most people could do it, if only they bothered to train themselves.’
‘Do explain, Mr Stead.’ Millet’s air of weary patience prompted smiles and a few smothered laughs, but Stead rose to the challenge.
‘Wireless – we all accept that it works on electro-magnetic waves, do we not?’ In response to general assent, he said, ‘Thought can be transmitted in the same way – just as animals communicate without speech, so do we, only half the time we don’t realize it.
‘How many times have you begun a sentence,’ he went on, ‘for your wife to finish it? Or felt impelled to do something or go somewhere, quite against your normal routine?’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘One of those situations where logically, you should stay at home, but you go out, and thence meet someone, or discover something that changes your whole life…?’
‘But what about the automatic writing,’ Millet declared, bringing him back to the point. Tell us, Mr Stead, how do you do it? How does it work?’
Stead sat up straight, took an audible breath and prepared to inform us. ‘Simply by making a habit – as I do, every day between one and two o’clock – of relaxing and waiting with an open, uncluttered mind, for messages to come through. It’s like wireless, except no equipment is needed, other than a pencil and paper.’
Astor spoke for everyone, I think, when he asked from whom the messages came.
‘Friends of similar mind – we attempt to receive and transmit in that hour.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes we get through – sometimes not. It often seems to depend on the urgency. One friend, for instance, was coming to see me on a particular train – but it was disrupted by the recent coal strike…’ At this there were nods and rueful smiles. ‘So she sent me a message from the train, saying not to bother travelling to the station as she was stuck outside Watford…
Like the entertainer he was, Stead joined in the laughter. He waited for the amusement to die away. When all was quiet, he lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes, the messages come from other realms. How do I know? Well, they are clearly not from friends in this world. They are often specific and relevant to things happening today. Some messages are for other people, while others are prophetic…’ Stead looked hard at me when he said this.
Gritting my teeth, I waited for some reference to the séance, or even to our earlier spat, but he closed his eyes and seemed deep in thought for a while.
Another message? That question seemed to go around the table. Looks were exchanged. Were we receiving extraordinary insights by a man of genius, or being taken in by a charlatan?
‘People might not always have agreed with the things I have written,’ he declared at last. ‘I have been mocked for my beliefs and even imprisoned for things I’ve done.’ Again, his eyes bored into mine. ‘But I’m proud of it. The campaigns I’ve waged have been from the heart. I have always known that what I was doing was right. And I’ve been sure,’ he said, ‘because the message has come to me from above.’
He would never be wrong, then. He didn’t just look like a biblical prophet, he sounded like one. I felt he’d argue the point with Moses, but I did wonder why, of all the liners crossing this ocean, he’d chosen the Majestic for his unlikely tale. That, however, was a question for another time. Seizing my opportunity to escape, I thanked Mr Stead for his story and said that I too would be receiving messages from above if I didn’t take myself to the bridge.
Amidst some appreciative chuckles, I bade the gentlemen goodnight. What was it Futrelle had asked me earlier? Would I be persuaded to change course under similar circumstances? He was joking of course. At least, I hoped so. I could picture Bruce’s face if I said we were making an alteration in response to one of Mr Stead’s messages. And how did he receive it, pray? Oh, well, sir, it came to him automatically, as he sat there with pencil and paper…
He’d think I was mad.
As if responsible shipmasters could afford to be swayed by some crackpot scribbler. Only a ship in distress, or an emergency call over the wireless could warrant a marked deviation from the prescribed course. Such messages came in the form of a series of electronic sparks, the dits and dahs of Morse code, which the Marconi men translated into words for our benefit.
However, as I heard someone say as I was leaving, not every ship had such modern equipment. Sailing ships, tramp steamers, fishing boats, whalers – in fact just about any non-passenger ship – would not have wireless. In trouble, they had to fend for themselves, take to the boats if necessary, and pray.
Prayer? Maybe that was what he meant. Ah well, at least Stead hadn’t gone on about lifeboats and Board of Trade regulations. In that case I’d have had difficulty holding my tongue.
~~~
Relieved that the encounter had passed without ghosts, ghouls, or spirit guides being mentioned, I glanced at the time and went through the swing doors to find my neglected ladies. It was almost nine o’clock. Mortified by the delay – and only partly relieved to see they were being entertained by Gracie and Clinch Smith – I was surprised to feel a pang of jealousy.
They made room for me and we chatted for a while, Clinch Smith and I indulging in a long-running bit of banter about our names and whether or not we were related. It was unlikely: his people owned half Long Island and even had a town named after them, but we kept up the pretence. On the other hand, he was related – albeit distantly – to the Carvers of New Haven, and seemed eager, I thought, to cement that link with Lucinda. I recalled talk that his marriage was failing, and at once – like some aging knight – wanted to stand between them, protecting Lucinda’s honour.
Before long, the sisters were making their apologies. ‘These lovely evenings, Captain!’ Marianne explained with a smile. ‘We often say we could do with 25 hours in a day, but when we get it, we’re exhausted!’
The gentlemen said they’d been keeping late hours too, what with the fine weather and pleasant company aboard. Amidst desires for early nights and promises for the morrow we all headed towards the stairs. I turned to Lucinda, knowing she must be fatigued even though her smile belied it, but to my relief she shook her head. ‘It’s such a beautiful evening,’ she said, slipping a velvet wrap around her shoulders. ‘Could I beg a few minutes, Captain, and walk along the deck with you?’
The air was sharp and clear. I was afraid she might be cold but she denied it, leaning against the rail with her head back, staring up at the array of stars. All around us, from the arc above to the far horizon, the firmament was sparkling. ‘Like a Grand Duchess’s tiara,’ I said with a smile.
Wanting to share my knowledge, I pointed out the Pole Star and the Plough, and named some of the great constellations: Orion the Hunter, with Sirius the Dog Star at his heels; the group of 55 stars which made up Cassiopeia, seated in her Chair. Way off to the north, just visible, was Andromeda, Cassiopeia’s daughter.
‘There are lots of Greek myths attached to astronomy,’ I mused, ‘but the one about Andromeda claims she was chained to a rock and left to drown. Perseus rescued her, and afterwards they stayed together – when they died they were turned into stars. His constellation is close to Andromeda there – like a guardian…’
She sighed. ‘If only we could all be turned into stars when we die.’
‘Or sea birds,’ I said, smiling. ‘I used to think that, when I was a boy.’
‘Maybe it’s true.’ She sounded so like Mel, so young and wistful, it touched my heart.
‘It’s all a matter of believing,’ I whispered, thinking back to that moment of knowledge when it seemed the world stopped spinning and left us weightless.
‘And do you believe?’ She turned, suddenly intense, the stars forgotten.
I wanted to say that after the wonder of finding her, I was ready to believe anything, even that we might have a future as father and daughter. But she did not give me chance. ‘That the spirit goes on, I mean? Do you think there’s any truth in what Mr Stead says?’
‘Well,’ I said, struggling for an answer, wishing we could speak of other things, ‘if there is an afterlife, why would a contented soul wish to return? I suppose an unhappy soul, restless and tormented, might still be earthbound and willing to talk – but, given an audience, might not be so willing to depart. That’s my view.’
‘It’s just that I keep thinking of Dorothea…’
‘Ah, yes… Dorothea.’ I was silent for a while, contemplating her restless soul, for the first time wondering if Stead’s presence aboard had acted like a catalyst, drawing the dead and the living together. I recalled the strange moment I’d had, seeing the man and the young woman standing on deck just yards away. Two nights ago they’d seemed so real. I’d thought the man was Joe. Could the girl have been Dorothea’s ghost?
‘Was she very unhappy?’
Startled, I shook my head. Gathering my wits, I felt for my small cigars. ‘Unhappy? I think we both were. Happy one minute, miserable the next. Isn’t that the way of star-crossed lovers?’ With a wry smile, I said, ‘Besides, we were not often together – and she was married, of course.’ Striking a match, I set the flame to my cigar and drew deep, releasing a long, pale cloud of smoke which hovered for a moment, curiously, like a wraith.
As it disappeared, Lucinda turned to me, eyes wide and dark with appeal. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, sir, but I have a confession to make. I did offer to help the sisters in their trouble, but I thought – hoped – Mr Stead might put me in touch with Dorothea. Maybe it was foolish, but…’ She broke off, bit her lip.
‘You hoped she might tell you something? Give you a name?’
Miserably, she nodded. She was shaking with cold, and no doubt tension and tiredness too. Concerned, I put an arm lightly around her shoulders. Beneath the velvet she felt so slight and vulnerable I longed to comfort her, warm her, hold her close. It was with difficulty that I steadied my voice.
‘Lucinda, my dear, I beg you not to go down that avenue. Don’t you see? Dorothea has brought us together. Less directly, perhaps, than Mr Stead would lay claim to, but still…’
She turned to me with a sudden, grateful smile. ‘You think so? I hadn’t thought of it like that. But you do understand?’
‘I do. Of course I do. But you’re shivering. We’ll talk again tomorrow. In the meantime,’ I said firmly, ‘I’m going to see you to your door. Take my advice and ring for your stewardess – ask her to bring you a hot drink. One way and another it’s been a long day – and at a guess I’d say you didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘How do you know that?’ she asked with a little laugh.
‘Because I didn’t sleep well either!’
~~~
We parted by her stateroom, I think with lighter hearts. Reminded of the night before, when I’d walked this corridor with heavier step, I reflected on the last 24 hours. In spite of fatigue, alarms, and the day’s stormy upheavals, I was in better spirits than I’d been all winter – certainly since leaving Southampton. I thanked God for a calm night and Joe Bell’s good news – most of all for my meeting with Lucinda. Somehow we would overcome the difficulties ahead.
Building castles in the air, I made my way back up top. By the main entrance, like a smiling demon ready with a pitchfork, a small, white-haired figure crossed my path.
Considering the way I’d insulted him that morning, Stead’s greeting was surprisingly civil. But perhaps he felt he’d delivered his message in the Smoke Room.
‘It’s a fine night, Captain – we’ve been fortunate with the weather so far.’
‘Indeed we have,’ I said warily. ‘Makes a pleasant change.’
‘Could it lead to fog, later, d’you think?’
‘Fog? I doubt it. See for yourself…’ I stepped to the rail, raised my arm to the stars. ‘Look at all that. See how clear it is. We don’t often get nights like this.’
He was not convinced. ‘Calm, though? That often leads to fog, doesn’t it?’
I could have happily knocked him overboard. ‘Look, Mr Stead,’ I said tersely, ‘I’m sorry we had our little spat, and I do appreciate your civility this evening…’
‘I’m proud of that prison sentence,’ he declared, as though we were just speaking of it. ‘You might not be aware of this, but I didn’t just claim – I proved how easy it was to buy a child and sell her into slavery. I did it! Where I fell down,’ he added ruefully, ‘was in not paying the child’s father as well as the mother. But then I didn’t know he existed until my enemies dug him out.
‘Nevertheless,’ he went on, halting me before I could interrupt, ‘my actions – dubious though some people thought them at the time – changed the law, raised the age of consent by three years to sixteen. You won’t find many child prostitutes on the streets these days – and that’s down to me. So yes, I’m proud of it.’
Surprised in spite of myself, I glanced at him, met that challenging gaze. I expected him to ask what I’d done that was half so important. He didn’t, but my own bristling sense of pride made me tell him anyway. ‘And I’ve spent 25 years ferrying people safely across the Atlantic, Mr Stead. Allow me to know my business.’
His sardonic smile looked like disbelief. ‘There really is no need to concern yourself,’ I said sharply. ‘If there should be fog ahead, we’ll have ample warning from other ships.’
As we parted, he turned his gaze to the dark ocean. ‘Hmm. Reliable, is it, the wireless?’
‘I’ve found it so, yes.’
~~~
Breathing hard with suppressed fury, I stepped smartly up to the bridge. The 1st Officer was on watch, marvelling at the clear night.
‘Everything all right, Mr Murdoch?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, giving me a keen glance. ‘A fine evening, good visibility, very little wind.’
I stood with him, breathing deeply, watching the ocean. ‘It’s certainly calm out there.’ After a few minutes, feeling better, I went inside, checking the course the helmsman was steering, and then the barometer. ‘Remarkably steady, Mr Murdoch – what do you make of it?’
‘I’d say it’s good sleeping weather, sir,’ he replied with gentle humour.
‘For which we must be truly thankful!’ As one of the juniors gave an involuntary grunt of agreement, I smiled. ‘Keep a weather eye open, gentlemen – you never know what’s coming next!’
It was good to be up here, amongst the kind of men I respected and understood. Trust and confidence: that was what ship-handling was all about. With a smooth, gentle swell under the keel, barely a ruffle on the surface, there was nothing to worry about. I might even get a decent night’s sleep myself tonight.
Almost like the Doldrums, I reflected, except for the temperature. Not really cold though. Not yet. We’d get the chill tomorrow, once we hit the cold currents off the American coast. I would never have admitted it to Stead, but no wind could well mean fog tomorrow night. That would slow us down. Bruce would fret his socks off at that.
Hearing footsteps coming along the deck I turned. One of the Marconi men – the thin-faced one, looked about 12 years old – with a white message-slip in his hand.
He spoke in an undertone to Murdoch.
‘What’s that?’ I said, intercepting him before he could slide away.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you…’
I held out my hand for the message and went into the chart room to read it. In the dim light I saw that it was not a greeting from some passing liner, but a bald announcement that the wireless was out of commission. I bit back a curse.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s – er – it’s the transmitter, sir. Mr Phillips thinks one of the condensers has gone.’
‘How serious is it? Can it be rectified?
‘I – that is, we think so, sir. I mean, it could take a while, but Mr Phillips and me, we’re working on it. Sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Carry on.’
As the skinny lad hurried away a chill entered my soul. What had once seemed no more than a novelty had proved its usefulness with regard to weather and sea conditions. Friday, there had been reports from other ships of ice in the vicinity of the Grand Banks – way ahead of us, and well to the north of our track. Nothing to get excited about as yet. But if there should be fog, too…
With Stead and his oracle’s warning still ringing in my ears, I swore under my breath.
Whatever the problem with the wireless, I hoped these youngsters could fix it.