| |
April 15, 1912
Cunard Liner RMS Carpathia
North Atlantic
Kate Royston stood by the rail and felt the wind tugging her hair free of its heavy dark braids. The night was calm, but the Carpathia’s steady eastward progress created its own breeze. Behind her she could see smoke from the Carpathia’s funnel creating a gray smudge across the starry night sky. Light from the stars glimmered on the ice surrounding the ship, and dark water marked the ship’s careful progress through the scattered drifting floes.
Kate looked at her watch. The hands had inched past midnight, bringing her into April 15, 1912, her twenty-first birthday, but instead of dancing at her birthday ball, she was fleeing across the cold, dark ocean without a penny to her name.
As she stepped away from the rail, she narrowly avoided colliding with a man who slithered heedlessly down the ladder from the bridge deck. The light spilling from above showed that he was wearing an officer’s uniform. She took another step away from the rail, hoping that her presence would not bring a reprimand. She shouldn’t be here on the first-class promenade deck. She should be in the stuffy, overheated cabin that she shared with the two children of Daan and Magda van Buren, where she was an employee and, therefore, not a first-class passenger.
The man acknowledged her with a slight nod of his head as he fumbled in his pocket and produced a crumpled cigarette packet. She watched a brief blossoming of light as a match flared in his cupped hands.
“All those people,” he said as he dragged on the cigarette and the tip glowed red.
“What people?” Kate asked.
The officer turned to face her. The light from the bridge deck showed her his young, agitated face. She had a moment of self-consciousness, knowing that her hair was unbraided and that, beneath her heavy coat, she wore only her nightdress.
“They’re sinking, but he won’t believe me.”
“Sinking?” Kate asked in a small voice. “Are we sinking?”
“No, not us. The Titanic.”
“Titanic!” she repeated. “Are you saying that the Titanic is sinking?”
“Yes.”
“But I read the posters. She’s unsinkable.” She patted his arm consolingly. “I think you’re having a bad dream.”
The officer dragged on his cigarette again and gestured with the glowing tip. “Over there, about fifty miles away, the Titanic is going down.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can. I’m Harold Cottam. I’m the radio officer, and I took the Marconi message.”
Cottam suddenly tossed his cigarette into the water and began to pace an agitated path along the rail, speaking frantically, as if he had a need to convince Kate that what he was saying was true.
“I should have been in bed, but I’d taken Marconi messages to forward to the Titanic. She had so much traffic through her radio, she couldn’t take them all, so I was working a relay. I tried earlier in the evening, but their operator said for me to shut up because he was working Cape Race. He’d just come in reach of the relay station, so he was sending outgoing messages for the passengers. I decided to let it go for a while and try again later, when things had quieted down, and so that’s what I did.”
Cottam stopped pacing and snatched off his cap. “I shouldn’t even have been on duty. I was going to send the messages on and then sign off for the night.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “I should already have been off duty, but I wasn’t. That means something, doesn’t it? It’s not a coincidence. God wanted me to hear them, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” Kate said helplessly.
“You don’t believe me,” Cottam declared.
“No,” Kate snapped. “I don’t understand you.” She spoke in the same tone she had used on her father on the night his drunkenness had given way to babbling self-pity. “Pull yourself together, Mr. Cottam, and tell me what has happened. I don’t understand all this talk about Marconi and Cape Race, but I think I understand that you passed some messages to the Titanic.”
Cottam shook his head vigorously. “No, I didn’t have a chance. I had them lined up, ready to transmit, but as soon as I turned on the Marconi and tried to transmit, Titanic’s operator flashed in. ‘CQD. CQD.’”
“CQD? What does that mean?”
“It’s a distress signal. It means for me to stop transmitting and listen. I asked if it was serious. I thought maybe their operator was just joking with me or wanted me to stop because he was so busy, so I flashed back and asked if it was serious. He said yes. ‘Come at once. We’ve struck a berg.’”
Kate stared around at the vast, dark ocean and up at the trail of smoke from the funnel. The Carpathia showed no signs of slowing down or turning. If the officer’s story was true, and the Titanic was in trouble, surely the Carpathia would go to her aid, and yet nothing was happening.
“Where is the Titanic?” she asked. “In what direction?”
Cottam gestured with his thumb. “Back that way.”
“Why haven’t we stopped?”
“Because the officers on the bridge don’t believe me. I told the officer of the watch. I told the whole bridge crew, and none of them will believe me.”
“Did you tell the captain?”
“He’s asleep.”
Kate felt the flaring of temper that had so often been her downfall, and possibly accounted for the fact that she was now very far from home.
“So what are you going to do? Are you just going to stand there smoking and allow the Titanic to sink because you’re too frightened to tell the captain?”
Cottam straightened his shoulders. “No, of course not. I’m going to wake him. I just needed a moment alone to convince myself.”
“Of what?”
“Our Marconi messages don’t come in words. They come in Morse code, just little clicks of sound, dots and dashes, and we have to translate them. This message seems so unbelievable that I have to make sure I have it right before I go to the captain and put the whole ship on alert.”
“And are you sure now?”
Cottam nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, then,” said Kate, “let’s go. Where is the captain’s cabin? I’ll come with you.”
Cottam shook his head. “There’s no need.”
“I want to.”
“Why?”
A sudden gust of icy wind swirled out of the west and for one brief moment, Kate thought she heard the sound of a thousand screams. Cottam stood still. Their eyes met. Had the wind brought him the same certainty?
“Because I believe you,” Kate said. “Lead the way.”
Cottam indicated a short metal ladder reaching straight up to the forbidden world of the bridge. He waved an urgent hand. “After you, miss.”
The wind swirled again, as if inviting her to stop and listen once more to the echo it carried, but Cottam was close behind her. The time for doubt was long past. The metal of the ladder bit icily into her hands and her feet in satin slippers were insecure on the rungs, but she climbed to the top and waited for Cottam as he completed the climb.
He jammed his hat on his head and pointed the way along a narrow corridor lined with metal doors. At the end of the corridor the glow of night-vision lights revealed the bridge with shadowy figures moving back and forth. Up here on the bridge deck, the wind of their passage was bitterly cold and Kate stepped gratefully into the warmth of the corridor.
“All right,” she said, pushing Cottam ahead of her. “You know you’re right. Go and tell him.”
Cottam straightened his shoulders and moved along the corridor, stopping halfway down to knock on an anonymous door and announce himself in a shaky voice. “Wireless message, Captain.”
Something akin to a questioning bear growl rumbled from the other side of the door, and Cottam replied. “Captain Rostron, sir, we’ve a message from the Titanic. Urgent.”
The door opened, revealing a shadowy form in a dressing gown.
“What message? Why are you here? Take it to the bridge.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but the bridge doesn’t believe me.”
Captain Rostron stepped out into the corridor in a state of undress. Kate pressed her back against the wall. Now was not the time to be seen.
“What’s the message?” Rostron asked.
“She’s sinking, sir. The Titanic’s going down.”
“Titanic?” Rostron queried. “Are you sure it’s her?”
Cottam’s voice was steady now. “Quite sure, sir. She’s close by, sir.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Rostron barked. “Give me the message. Word for word.”
Cottam’s words came in a breathless rush. “‘Forty-one degrees forty-six minutes north, fifty degrees fourteen minutes west. Come at once. We have struck a berg.’”
Rostron nodded. “She’s close. We may be the only ones. Tell me your name again.”
“Harold Cottam, sir.”
“Well, Harold Cottam, do you have any reason to doubt what you heard?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well. I will choose to believe you and act accordingly.”
Rostron untied the belt of his dressing gown, revealing a white undershirt and black pants. He stepped back into the cabin and emerged a moment later buttoning his jacket.
Kate remained pressed against the wall. She should leave. She had done all she could do, and she didn’t belong on the bridge or anywhere in the officers’ quarters. Unfortunately, she could not make her mind tell her feet to move. She had no wish to creep back to the outer deck and slither back down the ladder. She told herself that she would wait until the captain was on the bridge with all of his attention on making the Carpathia change course, and then she would leave.
Rostron stood in the center of the corridor with his back to her, bellowing orders. Officers in dark jackets with gold-braided sleeves swarmed from the bridge into the corridor.
Kate remained rooted to the spot as Rostron issued a flood of orders.
“Turn us around ... Get me the chief engineer ... Turn out all hands ... Divert all steam to engines. Yes, the cabins will be cold, but not as cold as on the Titanic. Get me the purser. We need blankets, warm food. Clear every inside space you can. Titanic has two thousand passengers, and for all I know, we’ll have to take all of them.”
Rostron turned to Cottam who was almost lost from sight in the press of officers. “Mr. Cottam, tell her we’re coming. Four hours at the most, sooner if we can. Stay by the radio. I want to hear every message from every ship. I hope to God someone is closer than we are.”
Cottam saluted and pressed past Kate without even looking at her.
Rostron continued his instructions. “Break out the lifeboats and ladders. We’ll need lights. Rig something. Don’t ask; just do it. Wake the medical staff and all the doctors on board, even passengers.”
A voice from the back raised a question. “Shall we fire rockets?”
“Not yet. She’s over the horizon. If we can’t see her rockets, she can’t see ours. Give it another hour, and then fire green rockets every fifteen minutes. Those poor devils need every hope we can give them.”
Kate was still listening in awe to the captain’s rapid-fire instructions when she felt a hand descend onto her shoulder. She gave a guilty start and turned to face a tall, rawboned woman. Her hair was neatly coiled into a bun and her dark dress was ornamented only with starched white collar and cuffs and a metal pin bearing the emblem of the Cunard Line.
“What are you doing here, girl?”
Captain Rostron quite unintentionally came to Kate’s rescue. He looked over the heads of his officers and acknowledged the woman in the dark dress.
“Glad to see our chief stewardess is here,” he declared. “I was going to send someone to wake you, Mrs. Broomer, but I see that there is no need. We are going to need every stewardess we have. I am sure that Captain Smith on the Titanic has followed the rule of the sea, and we will have very many women and children. They will need a woman’s touch. I leave that up to you.”
Mrs. Broomer nodded and squeezed Kate’s shoulder with sharp, painful fingers. “You’re not one of mine,” she hissed.
Kate shook herself free. “Of course I’m not. I’m from first class.”
I’m not lying, she thought. I’ve been traveling in a first-class cabin even if I haven’t been eating in the first-class dining room or dancing in the first-class ballroom.
Mrs. Broomer took a step back and surveyed her with distrustful dark eyes. “What cabin?”
Kate resurrected the confident, polished voice of her youth—a voice unsuited to a penniless governess—and held up a stern finger. “We have no time to waste, Mrs. Broomer. I am sure that you will need a great deal of assistance tonight, and I intend to assist you. I will go and change my clothes. Shall we meet in the Grand Salon? That would be best, wouldn’t it, for the ladies?”
Mrs. Broomer continued to eye her suspiciously, but Kate had learned how to deal with suspicion. Boldness was the key. If she hesitated now she would be sent back to her cabin and no doubt Magda van Buren would be informed of her behavior. On the other hand, if the Titanic really was sinking, and if hundreds or even thousands of terrified passengers would be coming aboard, Mrs. Broomer would soon be too busy to be suspicious.
As Kate made her way toward the Grand Salon, she steadied herself by clinging to the rails set along the walls of the corridors. The ship, whose motion had been slow and steady since leaving New York, began to pitch and roll as the engineers raised steam and the helmsman sent the Carpathia into a sweeping turn to the west, heading back toward New York.
Kate knew she should change her clothes. According to Captain Rostron’s estimate, she would have four hours to prepare, but would a change of clothes be the best idea? Of course, a lady, or someone who would wish to be thought of as a lady, should not be out in public in her nightclothes, but surely the women from the Titanic would be in their nightclothes. If Kate went down to the cabin now, she would probably find the children awake. The motion of the ship had become quite violent and the crew was making no attempt at silence. Doors were banging; voices were raised; and late-drinking gentlemen were emerging drunkenly from the smoking room.
She tried to find sympathy for the children of her employer, awake and wondering at the commotion. Their mother, Magda van Buren, was a light sleeper, and perhaps she was already in the children’s cabin and wondering what had happened to their new governess. If Kate ventured into the room, she would not be allowed out again—best to button her coat, rebraid her hair, and stay well away.
She prowled through the unfamiliar first-class hallways. Although she slept with her charges in a first-class cabin, she had taken her meals in the dining room reserved for lady’s maids, valets, and unfortunate young women forced to become governesses to the wealthy. Now she roamed freely amid the ordered chaos of preparation until she noticed the door to the ladies’ reading room. Finding the room unoccupied, she slipped inside and took up a position in a quiet reading nook where she could see without being seen.
An hour passed, and then another. The room, which had been comfortably warm, grew chilly and then downright cold. She remembered the captain’s words. Divert all steam to the engines. The cabins would be cold now. No doubt someone in first class was already complaining, probably Mr. van Buren, who expected to get value for his money. From what she had seen of her employer, she doubted that he had enough sympathy in his whole body to spare a thought for the passengers on the Titanic.
She could not stop thinking of her conversation with Harold Cottam. She had not seen him again but she assumed he was still working, still sending and receiving messages from the Titanic. She remembered reading articles about the great ship which had attracted the cream of society into her first-class cabins. Not only did the Titanic have first-class accommodations that would rival the facilities of even the grandest hotels, but even the third-class passengers could enjoy running water and electricity, and sleep only four to a cabin. And the greatest boast of all: Titanic was unsinkable.
Kate felt a change in the rhythm of the engines. The Carpathia was slowing. They must have received another message to say that the Titanic was still afloat and on her way to New York and a rousing welcome. Very soon the Carpathia would turn around and resume her course toward Gibraltar where Kate had every intention of going ashore and leaving the Van Buren children to their own devices.
She spared a sympathetic thought for Harold Cottam. He was the one who had raised the alarm, and it had all been a mistake. She peered at her watch in the dim light of the night lights. Only two hours had passed. She crossed her fingers and hoped against hope that the children had stayed asleep and that Mrs. van Buren would not know that they had been left alone.
As Kate rose from her secluded seat, the door of the reading room banged open admitting bright light from the corridor. She shrank back against the wall as a half-dozen crewmen invaded the room carrying armloads of blankets and pillows. An officer—very junior judging by the dearth of gold braid on his jacket—issued directions.
“Push chairs together to make beds. It won’t be enough. We’ll have to put people on the deck. The doctors can use this room. There’ll be some injuries, but it will mainly be cold and exposure, poor devils.”
Kate gasped. So it hadn’t been a mistake. They were still heading toward the Titanic. She stepped out into the light. She shouldn’t be here, but he was a junior officer and he was not to know that.
“You there,” she said. “What’s happening? Why have we stopped?”
The officer gave her a brief startled glance and turned to help the crew members who were rearranging the chairs and sofas. “We’re in the ice, ma’am,” he said over his shoulder. “We have to pick our way through or we’ll end up like the Titanic. We’ll have her in sight in another hour, if there’s anything to see.”
“What do you mean? Why would there be nothing to see?”
The officer straightened from his task and looked at her. His young face was a mask of worry. “Her radio’s gone,” he said. “No more messages.”
Kate found herself fighting against the truth. “Perhaps something’s happened to the equipment,” she suggested.
A gray-haired crewman shook out a blanket and spread it across a chair as he spoke. “Too right something’s happened to it. It’s gone down along with the ship.”
“Are you sure?” Kate asked. “Has she really gone down?”
“Her last message was an hour ago,” the officer said. “‘Sinking head down, come at once.’ And after that, nothing, but I won’t believe it until I see it. She’s unsinkable—that’s what they said. It’s all a mistake. We have to go, of course. It’s the first rule of the sea, but she won’t be gone. She can’t be.”
Kate shivered and thought of Captain Rostron’s volley of instructions. Maybe this young officer was not expecting the ship to sink, but Captain Rostron seemed to be in no doubt. She listened to the muted sound of the engines. They were creeping along now, fearful of the ice. Just one day before she had stood on the deck with the children and seen the massive icebergs drifting across the horizon. The captain had steered them safely through that ice field in the daylight and promised plain sailing to Gibraltar. Now they had turned and were heading back into the ice, with only the stars to light their way.
––––––––
The Home of Senator William Alden Smith
Washington, DC
12:20 a.m. (Eastern Standard Time)
Senator William Alden Smith
The Senator was awake, although he could not say why. Moonlight filtered in through a gap in the heavy brocade curtains and illuminated the face of the clock on the nightstand. Twenty minutes past midnight—the beginning of a new day. He stared up at the ceiling thinking idly of how far he had come in life, from selling popcorn on the streets of Grand Rapids to lying in bed wondering whether or not to help William Taft in his next run for president.
He turned onto his side and tried to settle his head on the pillow. If he helped Taft now, would Taft help him in four years’ time when he made his own run for the presidency?
“Bill?”
Bill turned and looked at his wife. The moon spread a flattering light across her face and she met his appreciative look with a smile.
“Sorry to wake you,” he said, leaning up on one elbow.
She smiled again. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. Why are you awake? Are you worried about Taft?”
“No, I’m not,” Bill lied. “The president and I have an understanding.”
“What if he loses the election?”
“Then I’ll have to deal with Roosevelt,” Bill said, “but it won’t affect my plans.” He settled his head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “The White House, Nana. Just think of it.”
A frown creased Nana’s face. “If Taft loses you’re going to need to find some new supporters to back your bid,” she said. “You should be rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous and gathering political support just in case. Why don’t we take a transatlantic voyage on one of the new ocean liners? If we travel first-class we could meet all kinds of people. I hear that the new Titanic is a real marvel. She’s on her maiden voyage now and everyone who is anyone is on her. She’ll be in regular service soon and it would be a good career move for you.” She smiled hopefully. “Should we do it?”
“Not while ...” Bill hesitated. He had been about to explain that sailing to Europe while the Senate was in session would be political suicide, but he felt a shiver pass down his spine. It wasn’t the thought of the Senate that disturbed him, or even the idea of making a run for the presidency—it was the Titanic. He found himself grasping at the wisps of a troubling dream that he could not fully recall. The Titanic. Something about the Titanic.
“Jacob Astor and his new wife are sailing on her,” Nana continued, unaware that Bill’s attention was wandering. “The Guggenheims, the Thayers, the Ryersons, and Major Butt’s coming back from seeing the Pope.”
“He didn’t go to see the Pope,” Bill said abruptly trying to turn his thoughts away from the tingling in his spine and the feeling of foreboding. “The president sent him to try to steer the Germans away from starting a war. He’s very impatient for a report.”
“War?” Nana said. “Surely not.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Bill said. “It won’t concern us. America will never be involved.”
Nana frowned again. “Don’t forget we have a son who is old enough to be a soldier.”
“We won’t be involved,” Bill insisted. “It’s Europe’s war. Now tell me who else is on this great ship. I know you’ve memorized the passenger list.”
“Well, the Countess of Rothes, she’s very rich, but not J.P. Morgan, even though he practically owns the White Star Line. Apparently he decided to stay in France. Some think there could be a woman involved.”
“And who else?” Bill asked.
“Mr. Straus, who owns that department store, and one other person, one of your favorite people.”
“Really? Who would that be?”
“Eva Trentham.”
Nana laughed as Bill sat up and groaned. “Now I’ll never get back to sleep,” he complained. “Why did you have to mention her?”
“She’s your most ardent supporter,” Nana said.
“She’s an evil-tempered old harridan,” Bill replied.
“But a very wealthy one,” Nana said, “and very influential. If you want the White House, Bill, you have to keep her on your side. Now, try to go back to sleep. You have an appointment with the president in just a few hours, and you’ll need your wits about you.”
Bill thought of the day ahead—an early appointment with Taft, a meeting with the chairman of the Committee on Commerce, and then lunch with a deputation from his home state. He wondered what they would ask of him and whether he could give them what they would ask for. He could not afford to lose his seat in the Senate, not now. He comforted himself with the fact that the deputation was led by Joe Bayliss, sheriff of Chippewa County. Joe was a reasonable man. He would not ask for anything that Bill couldn’t deliver.
Somewhat comforted by that thought, Bill turned to look at the clock. He read the time. One o’clock. The moon went behind a cloud and the room was wrapped in darkness. He closed his eyes and tried to recapture the shreds of his dream.