NEAR THE WATERFRONT. SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1912. 9:40 A.M.
Weiss stumbled. His new cane and the broken cobbled streets of Southampton were not getting along. He was taking a circuitous route to the docks and watching for signs of being followed, but he’d seen nothing so far. He silently chastised himself for not adopting a better disguise than a set of ill-fitting traveling clothes and a three-day-old beard.
He rounded a corner and caught his first glimpse of the stacks. Four immense funnels loomed above the tops of the shipping offices and shops, casting shadows that stretched a good city block, like elongated fingers beckoning Southampton to explore the colossus lurking in her waters. Weiss picked up his pace. If these were the smokestacks, how big must the ship be?
Two blocks later, Weiss arrived before Dock Gate 4, Berth 34. He was thunderstruck by the sight of the mighty Titanic in its totality. It was as long as fifty automobiles and eight or nine stories high, which only took into account what bobbed above the waterline. Weiss had read a newspaper story that described the vessel’s “nightmarish scale.” Seeing it in person, he agreed: Titanic was truly a monster!
Weiss suddenly felt very small. He craned his neck up, stepping backward to fit Titanic into his field of vision. Is this how the ant feels, he wondered, when faced with the enormity of a human? He drew four breaths in the time it took his eyes to travel the length of the ship from pointed bow to massive stern. And what did God make of this creation of man?
Weiss pulled himself back into the present moment. He was no tourist. Anxiously, Weiss reached into the valise to again confirm the presence of his White Star boarding pass, the most important purchase he’d made during his short stay in Southampton. If he’d acquired a ticket by regular means, it would have been easy to trace his flight from Germany. He knew the ruse of his escape would not survive close scrutiny; the Kaiser’s men were most likely calling at every port and transportation agent in Germany. But even if they discovered his first voyage to Southampton, there would be no paper trail of his second. The previous night, he had traversed the city asking about a Titanic berth for sale, till luck finally shined on him in a bawdy neighborhood pub. He’d procured a “Third Class (Steerage) Passenger’s Contract Ticket” from a drunken fellow, who slurred, “I’m not going anywhere now! I’ve fallen in love, I have!” Weiss happily relieved Gregory P. Nosworthy of the burden of his ticket for seven pounds and a few pints of ale. He suspected a sober Nosworthy might be regretting his decision this very morning.
Weiss’s second acquisition was his new wooden walking stick. Purchased in a filthy Southampton pawn shop not long after his transaction with Mr. Nosworthy, the cane was not what Weiss originally had in mind. He’d entered looking for a replacement pistol, one easily concealed inside a jacket. The shop’s proprietor, Mr. Charles Lockerbie, was a gnarled old fellow in half-moon glasses working his way through a sorry apple.
“I need a gun,” said Weiss upon entering.
“Hello to you,” said Lockerbie and spit. “I’m fine and thank ye for asking.”
“Forgive me,” said Weiss awkwardly. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’m looking for some personal protection in the form of a pistol. If you please.”
“Nay, ye aren’t,” replied Lockerbie, bits of apple fighting to escape the corners of his mouth. “Shoot yourself in the foot, ye will, then yer wife will come back complainin’ ta me.”
Before Weiss could protest, Lockerbie crooked a finger at Weiss to follow him. He limped past carved tobacco pipes, silver pocket watches, and gaudy broaches. The old man wiped a hand wet with juice drippings on his vest, then produced a knotted walking stick from a brass stand. He tossed the staff to Weiss, who was surprised by its heft.
“You don’t understand,” Weiss protested. “I need protection—”
“Ack,” interrupted Lockerbie, grabbing the cane back. He held the stick in one hand, grunting to get the German’s attention, and tossed what was left of the apple on the floor. With a quick twist of the handle, a cruel six-inch blade sprung from the cane’s end and locked into place with a satisfying metallic thunk. The old man stabbed the apple clean through and offered it to Weiss.
Weiss removed the apple and inspected the sturdy blade. In close quarters, a blade might prove more dependable than a pistol. He was not much of a shot, and guns could misfire. Hidden inside the cane, the knife was certainly more discreet. “Yes,” he said, “this should do very nicely indeed.”
Now Weiss leaned on his new stick as he surveyed the enormous crowd of passengers, gawkers, and well-wishers. Motor cars full of trunks honked their way through the assembly, while men in bowler hats checked their pocket watches and hurried to the proper gangways. Then with a start, and cursing his complacency, Weiss suddenly hurried to blend into the throngs of people. Tugging his cap down and shuffling toward the boarding lines, he thought, I must remember to be more inconspicuous.