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April 19, 1912
Salvation Army Hostel
New York
Kate Royston
“That’s another door locked against us.”
Kate looked up from her breakfast as an angry young Irish girl pushed her way onto the bench beside her.
The newcomer eyed the food on the table suspiciously. “What are they giving us to eat?”
A middle-aged woman responded from the other side of the long table. “Eggs and bread. Good food.” The woman’s accent was heavy with echoes of her Swedish origins. She smiled at the angry girl. “You eat. You feel better.”
The Irish girl ignored her and frowned at Kate. “I don’t know you. Where did you come from?”
After a night spent tossing and turning on a lumpy mattress, Kate was in no mood to explain how she had come to be scooped up by the Salvation Army. What could she say to these women who had lost everything, including their husbands and maybe even their children? All Kate had lost was her luggage and her identity papers. The women—German, Scandinavian, Irish, Jewish—had cried and lamented through the dark hours of the night in a cacophony of their own native tongues. Kate was certain that no one in the dormitory had managed to sleep for more than a few minutes.
Now the women seemed to be without words. They had arrived at their destination with no idea of what future would await them. They sat at long tables in the hall of the Salvation Army hostel in a kind of stunned silence. The Irish girl was the first one who had actually spoken.
“What do you mean by ‘locked against us’?” Kate asked, deliberately avoiding the initial question.
“I’ve tried all the outside doors, and they’re locked up tight,” the girl said. “They’ve locked us up just like they did on the Titanic. If my da had not broken down that gate, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. None of us would.” She looked at Kate suspiciously. “I didn’t see you in a lifeboat.”
The Scandinavian woman pushed a bowl of scrambled eggs toward the girl. “You eat, you not be so angry. I not see you in lifeboat, but you here now.”
“Well, I was in one,” the girl said, “with my sister. It was the last one to leave, and my da had to fight to get us a seat.”
The Scandinavian woman spooned eggs onto the girl’s plate. “What your name?”
“I’m Kitty.” She looked up at another girl, who was squeezing onto the bench beside her. “This is my sister, Maeve.”
Kate studied the girls. Kitty was still scowling, but Maeve was red-eyed, as though she had cried all night. They were pretty girls, with black hair and blue eyes, and seemed very close in age, maybe even twins.
The Scandinavian woman waited to speak until Maeve had settled herself into a seat. “Well, Kitty,” she said, “I am Freya. Now, you tell again. What you mean when you say ‘locked up’?”
“The gate from third class was locked,” Kitty said as she reached for a thick slice of toast.
Freya shook her head. “Not then, now. The past is over. We go on. I go to Minnesota. I go without my husband and my son, but I go.”
“But aren’t you angry?” Kitty asked. She looked around the room at the women eating silently. “Aren’t you all angry? No one thought us worth saving. Don’t you want to do something?”
“What do you suggest?” Kate asked.
“I suggest we leave here and we go and talk to the reporters. They’re outside. You can see them through the windows. We can tell them what happened and how we were not allowed in the lifeboats.”
Kate shook her head. “Very few people were allowed in the lifeboats, Kitty. There weren’t enough boats.”
As she said the words, Kate realized that it was the first time she had truly understood the reality of what she had seen. Looking down from the deck of the Carpathia, she had seen thirteen lifeboats. Why so few? With two thousand passengers on the Titanic, thirteen lifeboats, even if they had been loaded properly, would never have been enough.
She thought about Senator Smith marching on board the Carpathia and issuing subpoenas. He was going to hold a hearing. He wanted to blame someone, preferably Sir Bruce Ismay. Well, Ismay was odious enough, but was he responsible for the number of lifeboats?
“I hear the reporters will pay money for a story,” Kitty said. “We’re all going to need money.” She squinted at Kate. “But maybe not you. You’re different, aren’t you, with that snooty expression on your face? You were in second class, weren’t you? Don’t suppose you want to be in here with us.”
“I wasn’t in second class.”
“So you were down on your luck and slumming?” Kitty asked. “But you got a seat, didn’t you? You were something special. Some of the women in our boat had to row. Did you have to row?”
Maeve tugged at her sister’s sleeve. “Kitty, don’t. There’s no point. We’re here now.”
“But Da’s not here, or Liam or Finnan.”
Tears welled up in Maeve’s eyes, but Kitty ignored her sister’s distress. Kate knew how Kitty felt. She had been in Kitty’s position once, not very long ago. She knew what it was to constantly stoke the fires of anger until there was no room left for grief or compassion.
“Row to the other boat,” Kitty said. “That was just a game, wasn’t it? Pointing at some starlight and telling us to row. There was nothing there.”
“I saw light,” Freya said. “We all saw light. A ship. Just there.”
“It was a trick to make us row,” Kitty said. “If there was another ship, why didn’t it come? Why did we have to wait for morning?”
Something stirred in the back of Kate’s memory: the Countess of Rothes asking about another ship. We were told to row towards it.
A shrill whistle blast interrupted Kate’s reverie. Three women in Salvation Army uniforms marched into the hall and arranged themselves at the center of the room in such a way that no one could hide from their benevolent but watchful gaze.
The tallest of the trio introduced herself. “I am Major Evelyn Sullivan, and this is Captain Veronica Rich and Private Elspeth Dorman. We are here to take care of you. As soon as you’ve eaten your breakfast, you will be able to take a bath, and we have clean clothes for all of you thanks to the generosity of the women of New York. We also have a fund that will pay for you to go on from here to your original destination with a small amount of money in your pocket.”
Her announcement was greeted by a babble of concerned voices. “You will kindly translate for each other,” Major Sullivan said. “Make sure that everyone understands.” She raised a finger and wagged it at one group of women, who seemed even more agitated than anyone else, if that was in fact possible, considering the level of agitation in the room.
“We will make special accommodations for you Jewish ladies,” the major said. “The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society will become responsible for you.”
The major’s assurances did nothing to lower the volume of the women’s voices, and the major resorted to blowing her whistle in short, agitated bursts until at last silence was achieved.
“Ladies,” she said, “I know you are all upset—”
“The devil she does,” Kitty muttered under her breath.
“—but,” the major continued, “you are not yet landed immigrants. You will not be required to go to Ellis Island, but you will all be interviewed. You will remain here while we discover who you are and where you are to go, and we will locate any relatives among the men who have been saved.” She waved an imperious finger. “Translate for each other now. I will wait.”
“Prisoners,” Kitty hissed.
“No,” Maeve said. “We’re going to be all right. Remember the man we talked to, the one who came on board the Carpathia. He said he knew who we were and he would make sure we go to Washington, to our cousin’s house.”
“And have you seen him since?” Kitty asked. “Of course not. He’s forgotten about us, or perhaps he didn’t believe us. Maybe saying that our cousin works for some grand senator was too much for him to believe. If Da were still alive, he could tell him, and maybe he’d believe, but the devil we know the name.”
“Senator Smith,” Kate said.
Kitty glowered at her. “Are you making fun?”
“No,” Kate said. “The man who spoke to you was Mr. McKinstry, who is Senator Smith’s personal aide, and your cousin is employed by Senator Smith. I can assure you that Mr. McKinstry will come back for you. He won’t forget.”
Maeve’s face brightened, but Kitty could not, or would not, let go of her anger and suspicion. “And how are you after knowing such a thing?”
“I was with the senator when he came on board.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Kitty asked.
Kate shook her head. “It’s a long story, but I’ll get it sorted out, and then I’ll make sure that Mr. McKinstry comes for you.”
Kitty rose abruptly to her feet, pushing back the benches and rattling the cups and plates. “You’re touched in the head. You came here like everyone else, and now you’re trying to pretend you’re better than all of us.”
The major’s whistle shrilled again. “All right, ladies, that’s enough.” She pointed a stern finger at Kitty. “Sit down, girl.”
“I won’t.”
“Sit down, or I’ll set you down myself. We’ll have no hysterics here. I will inform the immigration officials of anyone who gives me trouble, and you will be refused entry to the United States. Do any of you want to go back across the Atlantic?”
A blanket of silence smothered the room as Kitty slowly returned to her seat.
Kate studied the major’s face. Her features were long and narrow, in keeping with her height, but her face, framed by a Salvation Army bonnet, was not unkind. Kate did not read hostility in her expression, only something very close to fear. Major Sullivan was afraid of a riot.
The three days on board the Carpathia had given the immigrant women a chance to see how many first-class women had been saved, and even how many first-class men. As they had huddled together on board their rescue ship, they had shared their experiences, and some, such as Kitty, had turned grief into anger. Now they had arrived in their promised land, but they were still not free. They were still locked up, as Kate suspected they had been locked up on the Titanic. Major Sullivan was going to need more than a whistle to keep these people under control.
Captain Veronica spoke into the hostile silence. Not only was her voice pleasant, but it held a hint of an Irish accent. “Just one more day,” she said. “You’ll all have a nice hot bath and a chance to wash your hair and put on clean clothes. We’ll come and take all of your particulars and pass them onto the immigration officers. We’re going to make this as easy as possible. I know the reporters are outside, but they can’t help you.”
“Think yourselves lucky you’re not on a barge to Ellis Island,” Major Sullivan added. “Now finish your breakfast, and we’ll make a start on the paperwork.”
Kate helped herself to a slice of toast. When she explained her situation to the major, she would surely be released, but she had no idea where she would go next. Nothing had changed since last night. She still had no money and no prospect of obtaining any. She thought a hearty breakfast, a bath, and a change of clothes would be a good idea.
The Waldorf Astoria
New York
Senator William Alden Smith
Bill took a deep breath as he entered the luxurious meeting room at the Waldorf Astoria. Despite his protests, representatives of the press and eager spectators had been admitted. He had been awake most of the night, preparing challenging questions for Bruce Ismay and the crew of the Titanic. He hoped to impress upon Ismay the seriousness of appearing before representatives of the US Senate. Now, instead of confronting Ismay in an atmosphere of quiet intensity, he felt as though he were part of a three-ring circus.
He surveyed the audience: ladies in fashionable hats, reporters with notebooks, gentlemen in expensive suits, and of course, Eva Trentham in her wheelchair. She was seated in the front row, with Bridie standing by with refreshments and smelling salts, not that Eva was ever likely to faint.
Unfortunately, he could see no sign of Kate, the girl who had been the witness to Joe Bayliss serving the subpoenas to the crew. Her signature could prove to be important. She would have to be found. He scanned the room for a glimpse of Joe and saw him standing against the back wall. As he met Bill’s eye, he shook his head. No, he had not yet found Kate, and he had not found the logbook.
Senator Newlands sat down in the seat beside Bill and leaned forward to speak quietly. “Phone message from the president.”
“Well, thank goodness. He’s finally decided to take notice of what’s going on,” Bill said.
Newlands shook his head. “He’s giving us forty-eight hours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Diplomatic pressure from the British,” Newlands said. “Taft will only allow us two days to ask questions and hold British citizens against their will. After that, you will have to release them.”
“I can’t do this in two days,” Bill protested. “I won’t even get to the bottom of Ismay’s story in two days.”
Newlands leaned back in his seat. “Well, you’ll have to try, because that’s as long as we have.”
“Did you try to explain?”
Newlands grimaced. “I didn’t speak to him personally. He’s still not speaking to anyone. Hilles is doing his dirty work for him and fending off the British. All Taft cares about is finding out what happened to Archibald Butt.”
Bill groaned. “There’s more there than meets the eye,” he said.
Newlands pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and set them on the end of his nose. “Let’s see what we can find out,” he said.
Bill shook his head. “I don’t care what happened to Butt. I want to know who was giving the orders that sent them at full speed through an ice field. If it’s all right with you, I’ll ask the questions.”
Newlands nodded. “It’s your show, Smith. You go ahead. I’ll jump in if I have anything to add.”
“Very well.”
From the corner of his eye, Bill saw Will McKinstry turn to a fresh page in his notebook. A stenographer would keep the official record; the reporters would no doubt pick and choose what they recorded; but McKinstry would know what to write down and what to leave out—what to revisit tomorrow and what questions had been asked and answered.
Bruce Ismay sat alone on one side of the long table, facing the dozen officials arrayed on the other side waiting for his explanation—waiting to assign blame. All around him, the spectators radiated hostility. The newspapers had already found their villain, and Ismay would have to work hard to change their minds. It did not help that he was such an unattractive figure with his too-small eyes and his too-black hair.
Bill leaned forward, hands on table. The witness had been duly sworn. Let the games begin. Bruce Ismay remained seated.
“Mr. Ismay,” Bill said, “for the purpose of simplifying this hearing, I will ask you a few preliminary questions. First, state your full name, please.”
“Joseph Bruce Ismay.”
“And your place of residence?”
“Liverpool.”
Bill was momentarily diverted by the answer. So that explained Ismay’s unusual accent: slightly Irish but with undertones of something else, and everything overlaid by an education that had tried to obliterate any regional accent. It was not an attractive voice and not one that would endear itself to the reporters, who would have to strain to understand him.
“And your age?”
“I shall be fifty on the twelfth of December.”
Bill could see no gray in Ismay’s hair, but it was hard to believe that the man was only fifty years old. It would seem that the loss of the Titanic had aged him, etching lines on his face and creating bags beneath his eyes.
“And your occupation?” Bill asked.
“Shipowner.”
If only that were true, Bill thought. If only Bruce Ismay owned the Titanic lock, stock, and barrel, the inquiry could stop now. But of course, he didn’t personally own the ship, and it would take more than a few questions to find out who did.
“Mr. Ismay, are you an officer of the White Star Line?”
“I am. I am the managing director.”
“And as such an officer, were you officially designated to make the trial trip of the Titanic?”
“No.”
Bill glanced down at Newlands, who raised his eyebrows. Now the real questioning would begin, with Ismay trying to wriggle out of any responsibility for the actions of the crew. Bill knew he would have to ease into it, but he would get there.
“Were you a voluntary passenger, Mr. Ismay?”
“A voluntary passenger, yes.”
“Where did you board the ship?”
“Southampton.”
Bill had his own memories of Southampton, a bustling port on the south coast of England where liners arrived from all over the world. He had arrived there himself along with Nana on their first transatlantic voyage.
Ismay was speaking again, his tone conciliatory. “In the first place, I would like to express my sincere grief at this deplorable catastrophe. I understand that you gentlemen have been appointed as a committee of the Senate to inquire into the circumstances. So far as we are concerned, we welcome it. We court the fullest inquiry. We have nothing to conceal and nothing to hide.”
A bead of sweat formed on Ismay’s forehead. Bill waited for him to wipe it away, but Ismay was far too canny to do any such thing. He leaned back slightly in his chair, trying to appear relaxed.
“She left Belfast, as far as I remember—I am not absolutely clear about these dates—I think it was on the first of April. She underwent her trials, which were entirely satisfactory. She then proceeded to Southampton, arriving there on Wednesday, the third, and leaving again at twelve noon on the tenth.”
Ismay pulled a paper from his pocket and looked inquiringly at Bill. Apparently, he intended to read from notes he had made. Bill wondered who had assisted in making the notes. Was it a crew member, or did Ismay have the elusive logbook? Bill waited. He would bide his time.
“We arrived in Cherbourg that evening, having run over at sixty-eight revolutions,” Ismay said. “We then proceeded to Queenstown at seventy revolutions and embarked the mails and the passengers.”
Ismay didn’t say it, but Bill knew what kind of passengers had embarked at Queenstown. This was where the Irish immigrants, the bulk of the steerage passengers, had embarked to join the Hungarians and Scandinavians who had embarked in Cherbourg. The lower decks of the Titanic would now be filled with penniless men, women, and children eager to start life again in the New World.
Ismay made no mention of these passengers and continued to read from his notes. “The first day’s run was four hundred and eighty-four miles. The second day, the number of revolutions was increased to seventy-two, and on the second day, our run was five hundred and nineteen miles. On the third day, the revolutions were increased to seventy-five, and we ran five hundred and forty-nine miles. The weather during this time was absolutely fine, with the exception, I think, of about ten minutes of fog one evening.”
Bill looked at the faces of the spectators. Surely they were all imagining the same thing. They may not understand what exactly was meant by “number of revolutions,” but they could imagine the result. The great ship was steadily increasing speed, plowing through the Atlantic under clear blue skies, while the wealthy wined and dined under crystal chandeliers, and the less wealthy ate hearty meals and danced to their own music.
Ismay sat forward in his chair and spoke without any prompting from Bill. “The accident took place on Sunday night. What the exact time was, I do not know. I was in bed myself, asleep, when the accident happened. The ship sank, I am told, at two twenty. That, sir, I think is all I can tell you.”
No, Bill thought, that is not all you can tell me. You are going to tell me a great deal more than this.
Ismay smoothed the paper he had taken from his pocket. The spectators murmured. Bill waited.
Ismay cleared his throat and looked across at Bill. His eyes narrowed, and his focus was sharp. His voice contained no traces of his former conciliatory tone. Bill nodded. Now it would begin.
“I understand,” said Ismay, “that it has been stated that the ship was going at full speed. The ship never had been at full speed. The full speed of the ship is seventy-eight revolutions. She can work up to eighty. So far as I am aware, she never exceeded seventy-five revolutions. She had not all her boilers on. None of the single-ended boilers were on. It was our intention, if we had fine weather on Monday afternoon or Tuesday, to drive the ship at full speed. That, owing to the unfortunate catastrophe, never eventuated.”
Bill looked at Newlands. Newlands nodded. It was time to discover exactly how Ismay had managed to save himself.
“Mr. Ismay, will you describe what you did after the impact or collision?”
The bead of sweat returned to Ismay’s forehead. “Well, Senator, I presume the impact awakened me. I lay in bed for a moment or two afterwards, not realizing, probably, what had happened. Eventually, I got up and walked along the passageway and met one of the stewards, and said, ‘What has happened?’ He said, ‘I do not know, sir.’ I then went back into my room, put my coat on, and went up on the bridge, where I found Captain Smith. I asked him what had happened, and he said, ‘We have struck ice.’ I said, ‘Do you think the ship is seriously damaged?’ He said, ‘I am afraid she is.’ I then went down below, where I met Mr. Bell, the chief engineer, who was in the main companionway. I asked if he thought the ship was seriously damaged, and he said he thought she was, but was quite satisfied the pumps would keep her afloat.”
Ismay paused. The bead of sweat dripped onto the paper in front of him. He seemed not to notice.
“I went back onto the bridge. I heard the order given to get the boats out. I walked along to the starboard side of the ship, where I met one of the officers. I told him to get the boats out.”
Ismay’s face was pale with remembering, the newly formed lines on his face seemed to etch themselves deeper. In one terrible moment, when he had heard the order given to break out the lifeboats, Ismay had reacted by giving his own orders to an officer, and everything had changed. He had sworn he was just a voluntary passenger, but now he was admitting to giving orders.
“What officer did you meet?” Bill asked.
“That I could not remember,” Ismay replied.
Maybe he knew he was in a trap of his own making. Maybe he did remember but would not say, or maybe that officer had died along with so many others of the crew.
“I assisted as best I could, getting the boats out and putting the women and children into the boats,” Ismay said with pleading in his voice. “I stood upon that deck practically until I left the ship in the starboard collapsible lifeboat, which is the last boat to leave the ship, so far as I know.” He dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief and sat back in his chair. “More than that I do not know.”
Joe Bayliss
Joe slipped quietly out of the room. He had heard as much as he needed to hear for the time being, and he had no need to watch Bruce Ismay squirming under Bill’s questioning. For Joe, the outcome was obvious. Bill was not asking questions because he needed to know the answers—he already knew the answers. He just needed to give Ismay free rein to speak, and Ismay would condemn himself. He may say that Captain Smith was in sole command of the Titanic, but his words betrayed him. Obviously, the captain had consulted with him. Equally obviously, Ismay wanted to see how fast the Titanic would go under a full head of steam.
As for the newspaper reporters, scribbling away on their notepads, they had no interest in the give and take of the senator’s questions. They had heard what they wanted to hear. Ismay had given orders to break out the lifeboats, and Ismay had found himself a seat in one of them. He had saved himself while others had drowned.
Joe passed through the small salon were Guglielmo Marconi himself waited for his turn to give evidence. From what little Joe had seen of the man who had invented the equipment that had sent the Titanic’s distress call, Marconi was simply waiting to receive accolades. No doubt about it, Joe thought, Marconi’s invention had saved the day. So what if there were rumors that he was trying to make the newspapers pay for a story from Harold Bride, the surviving operator? No harm in making a little money when there was money to be made, and Bride was still in hospital and needing all the help he could get.
Captain Rostron, from the Carpathia, was seated beside Marconi, maintaining a stoic silence. Here was another man who would have no need to defend himself. Rostron was the hero of the hour, and no one could say differently. The fact that any of the survivors were alive was because Rostron had raced to their rescue. Kate had seen him in action.
He thought of Kate. She had been present when Cottam had brought the news of the collision. She had seen everything Rostron had done. If anyone doubted anything that had occurred on the Carpathia, she could be called as a witness—if only he knew where she was. More significantly, she was the witness to the Titanic officers receiving their subpoenas, and that meant she had to be found.
He pulled a cheroot from his pocket as he made his way to the service entrance, where he could avoid the throng of reporters and spectators. He lit a match by scraping it on the heel of his boot and stood for a moment drawing on the cheroot and thinking about Kate.
“Excuse me.”
Joe looked up to see a small man with thinning brown hair and an ill-fitting suit looking at him with a worried frown. “I beg your pardon, sir, but could you tell me if this is the entrance I should use? I’ve been called as a witness, and I have no wish to push my way through the crowd. It would not be appropriate, you see.”
British, Joe thought, and striving for an upper-class accent. He considered the man’s obviously borrowed suit and the shadow lurking deep in his eyes. They all had that shadow—all those who had survived the sinking.
“You can come in this way,” Joe said. “I’ll escort you. What’s your name, and what’s your business?”
“Alfred Crawford, sir. Bedroom steward, first class.”
Joe nodded. “Oh yes, I know who you are. In fact, I’m the person who called you. You’re late. You should have been here an hour ago. Where is your police escort?”
“Well,” Crawford said, “as for being late, I had to wait for someone to bring me clothes on account of having nothing clean or right for a place like this. I had a policeman walking with me, but I lost him round the front of the building because of the crowds out there, so I nipped around the back here to see if I could get in this way.”
“I’ll take you in,” Joe said.
Crawford hesitated. “Begging your pardon, sir, but why would anyone want to talk to me?”
“You’ve been talking to reporters,” Joe said, “and the senator heard about it.”
Crawford sniffed and searched in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Sorry, sir. I have a cold—you know, from being on the water.”
Joe offered him a handkerchief from his own pocket and waited until the steward had blown his nose and stowed the handkerchief.
“Those reporters are like blooming vultures,” Crawford said. “I just told them what I knew. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Joe said soothingly. “The problem here is the story you told the reporters about Mr. and Mrs. Guggenheim. We don’t want any wild rumors taking hold, and so we will try to nip them in the bud. If you’re telling the truth, there’ll be no problem, but instead of talking to reporters, you’ll have to talk under oath. Do you understand?”
“It’s God’s honest truth,” Crawford declared.
“Then you have no problem.”
Joe ushered Crawford into the service entrance and paused for a moment. “Where are your officers, Mr. Crawford? Are they still at the hotel where we put the crew?”
“No, sir. I think they’re all coming here. They were like me, waiting for clothes, and then they’ll have to get through the crowds and the reporters, but they’re on their way.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Joe said as he ushered Crawford into the meeting room.
Bill, along with Senator Newlands and a number of officials, was still seated at the table. The spectators were chatting among themselves, and Ismay was nowhere in sight. Hiding in shame, Joe thought. He’ll be hiding for the rest of his life if he’s not careful.
“Blimey,” said Crawford, who seemed to have abandoned his attempt at high-class English. “There’s a lot of people, ain’t there? Wish I hadn’t said nothing.”
“Just tell the truth and you’ll be all right, but if it’s not the truth, Senator Smith will know.”
Joe signaled to Bill and brought Crawford forward in front of the long table and a phalanx of official faces. The spectators sat back in their seats and fell silent.
Bill rose and leaned forward. He looked at Crawford for a long moment and then smiled.
“What is your full name?”
Crawford’s voice trembled. “Alfred Crawford, sir.”
“And where do you reside?”
“In Southampton, England.”
“How old are you, Mr. Crawford?”
“Forty-one, sir.”
“And what is your business or occupation?”
“Bedroom steward.”
“How long have you been going to sea?”
“Since 1881, sir.”
Joe, taking up his position against the back wall, considered Crawford’s answer. It seemed that the bedroom steward had been at sea since he was little more than a child.
While Bill continued his questioning, Joe let his thoughts return to his most pressing problem—the logbook. The only way to be certain of the ship’s speed at the time she hit the iceberg was to read the log. Knowing the speed of the ship would give Bill a chance to fix blame and declare that the sinking was no act of God but an act of recklessness caused by Bruce Ismay. If the logbook had survived, it would surely be in the hands of a crew member. Or maybe not literally in their hands—maybe under a mattress or beneath a pillow.
Joe pulled in his wandering thoughts as he sensed a change in the spectators. Bill had completed his preliminary questions. He was coming to the meat of his initial interrogation.
“Mr. Crawford, did you know Mr. and Mrs. Straus?”
“Yes. I stood at the lifeboat where they refused to get in.”
“Did Mrs. Straus get into the boat?”
“She attempted to get into the boat first, and she got back again. Her maid got into the boat.”
“What do you mean by ‘she attempted to get in’?”
“She stepped onto the boat, onto the gunwales, sir. Then she went back to her husband. She said, ‘We have been living together for many years, and where you go, I go.’”
Joe heard a collective sigh from the spectators and saw the reporters scratching at their notepads. So this was the story Crawford had been called to confirm. Isidor and Ida Straus, wealthy beyond belief, had chosen to die together on board the sinking ship. He understood why Bill had elected to call Crawford as a witness. This was a story that would catch the public’s imagination and consolidate support for the hearings.
Bill changed the subject but continued his questioning. Joe was not surprised. He knew how Bill’s mind worked. He had called Crawford to tell one particular story, but he hoped that Crawford would have more to say. He had been present at the launching of a lifeboat. What had he seen?
“The starboard boats were lowered before ours were,” Crawford said. “We were on the port side, number eight boat, on the port side.”
“Who superintended the loading?” Bill asked.
“The chief officer superintended, and myself.”
“And the lowering?”
“Captain Smith, sir.”
Joe felt renewed tension in the air. Crawford’s answer had caught everyone’s attention. It seemed the captain himself had been supervising the loading of lifeboats.
Bill frowned. “The captain of the boat personally superintended the loading and the lowering of number eight boat. Did he superintend the loading and lowering of any other boat?”
“I think he went to number ten boat. I could not see that being lowered into the water. He gave us instructions to pull to a light that he saw and then land the ladies and return back to the ship again. It was the light of a vessel in the distance. We pulled and pulled, but we could not reach it.”
“But you didn’t go back to the ship?” Bill asked.
“No, sir. We all took an oar and pulled away from the ship. A lady—I don’t know her name—took the tiller. Four men took the oars and pulled away. We kept pulling and trying to make a light, and we could not seem to get any closer to it. We kept pulling and pulling until daybreak. Then we saw the Carpathia coming up, and we turned around and came back to her.”
The shadows of painful remembrance deepened on Crawford’s face, and he swayed slightly on his feet. Senator Newlands leaned toward Bill and spoke softly. Bill looked at the steward as if finally noticing the man’s distress and waved for Crawford to be seated.
The steward sat and wiped his face with Joe’s handkerchief. Perhaps tears, perhaps perspiration—the room was very warm.
Bill continued his questions.
“Mr. Crawford, so far as you observed, was there any struggle to get into the lifeboats, by men or women?”
“No, sir, none whatever.”
“Was the ship sinking at this time?”
“She was making water fast at the bows. Yes, sir, she was sinking.”
“Thank you for speaking to us,” Joe said. “I think we can—”
Crawford interrupted with sudden passion in his voice. “I heard the crash, sir, and I went out on the outer deck and saw the iceberg floating alongside.”
The look on Crawford’s face told Joe that the steward would never forget what he had seen that night. He had spent almost his entire life at sea, but nothing had prepared him for that iceberg.
Joe retreated from the hearing room. He relit his cheroot and stepped out into the service area behind the hotel. Fortunately, the rain of the night before had given way to broken clouds that promised sunshine by later in the day. He leaned against the low wall that separated the yard from the street and tried to bring his mind to bear on something that had been troubling him—something that Crawford had said.
He gave us instructions to pull to a light that he saw and then land the ladies and return back to the ship again. It was the light of a vessel in the distance.
Crawford had seemed an honest enough man, and Joe could not imagine what the steward would gain by inventing such a story. Perhaps it was not Crawford’s invention. Perhaps it was Captain Smith who had made up the lie in an attempt to calm the terrified ladies. Already the newspapers were creating a heroic myth of wealthy gentlemen stepping calmly aside and allowing the women and children into the boats, but Joe suspected that calm had not truly prevailed as the ship had begun to list and the crew had scrambled to uncover the lifeboats. It was quite possible that Captain Smith had conjured up an imaginary light in the near distance. By telling the terrified passengers that a vessel was nearby and help was just a short distance away, he had managed to control the loading of the lifeboats and get them safely away. The light could not have come from the Carpathia—she had still been well over the horizon—and radio messages placed all other vessels at a greater distance.
Joe shrugged. No one would ever know what Captain Smith had done or thought as he had gone down into the icy water along with his ship. Crawford thought he had seen the light, but every survivor had spoken of the brilliance of the stars and the fact that their light reflected in the water. No, Joe thought, let the light be a white lie told by the captain—something to set the oarsmen rowing away so they would not be caught in the Titanic’s suction as she went down. The man was gone now, and his lie had done no harm and maybe a great deal of good.
“Sheriff Bayliss!”
Joe dragged his mind back from the far reaches of the Atlantic and saw a man walking toward him. The man was not at first familiar, but the dog was a creature not easily forgotten. Wolfie the otterhound was being held on a tight leash by a tall young man in a dark suit. His hair was combed, and his beard was neatly trimmed. It took Joe a moment to realize that the dog walker was Danny McSorley, the Marconi operator who had sailed on the Titanic as a passenger.
Joe took a step forward and shook Danny’s hand despite the fact that Wolfie threatened to trip him in his eagerness to sniff at Joe’s boots.
“Well,” Joe said, “you’re looking a lot better. I see you still have Mrs. Trentham’s dog.”
“He’s mine now,” Danny said with a rueful grin. “She didn’t want him. She never really wanted him. She just wanted to annoy the Countess of Rothes by insisting on keeping him. Now that we’re ashore, Mrs. Trentham doesn’t know what to do with him. He’s the only one, you see. We think he was being brought here with a female so they could be mated, and that way, he would be valuable. All alone, he’s nothing but a big, hairy, unhousebroken hound.”
Danny pulled on the leash to lift Wolfie’s head away from Joe’s boots. “I spent the night at Mrs. Trentham’s house, and it’s no place for a dog like Wolfie. Too many things for him to break or chew on, and too many housemaids for him to frighten. So I took him and we left. The Marconi company wired me some money, and I bought this suit to look smart and respectable, and then I came here to see if anyone could tell me how to find Miss Kate. I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to her.”
Joe shook his head. “She’s not here, and you’re not the only person who needs to find her. She was a witness to me serving subpoenas on the Titanic’s officers.” He hesitated, looking down at Wolfie and then back at Danny. “That animal won’t be welcome on an omnibus or a cab, but I’m sure he can use a good long walk. We have to assume that Kate has gone with her employers.”
Danny gave him a glance of mingled relief and puzzlement. “She has employers?”
“Yes. She’s a governess.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Danny said. “So she wasn’t a first-class passenger?”
“No. I suppose she was working her passage to Europe.”
“And she isn’t employed by Mrs. Trentham.”
“No. She was just helping the old lady,” Joe said, “and now we don’t know where to find her. I was planning to go to the Van Burens’ house myself. I have attempted to telephone and received no reply, but you could go for me if you have the time. I have something else to look for, and I think that now is as good a time as any.”
Danny nodded thoughtfully. “I had planned to go to Washington, but I can do this before I go.”
“I thought you were headed for Canada,” Joe said.
“I am, but there’s something I have to do in Washington first.”
“Wouldn’t you rather see New York City?” Joe asked. “A young man like you won’t find much to do in Washington.”
Danny shrugged. “Maybe I’ll see New York after I’ve done ...” He hesitated and looked at Joe quizzically. “Is it easy to see the president?”
Joe laughed. “He’s a big man. You can’t miss him.”
“But is it easy to talk to him?”
“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I’ve never tried. Senator Smith talks to him all the time, but that’s different.”
Danny nodded. “Maybe I’ll ask the senator to help me. Meantime, give me the address for Miss Kate, and I’ll go and find her.”
Joe watched thoughtfully as Danny strode away with Wolfie at his heels. He wondered if he should tell Bill about Danny’s sudden interest in talking to the president. He shook his head. Bill had enough on his mind.