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The Men’s Bar
The Waldorf Astoria
Sheriff Joe Bayliss
Joe was usually quite happy to lean against a bar, but tonight he was restless. The fact that this bar was in the Waldorf Astoria and the drinks cost a small fortune was not the source of his discomfort. Bill had provided a generous allowance from government funds, and Joe was happy to spend the government’s money.
The barman, a middle-aged man with dark Italian features, wiped the counter with a wet rag and picked up Joe’s empty glass. “Another one, sir?”
Joe pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Eight o’clock. Bill was late, and Danny McSorley was very late. He decided to wait a little longer. He knew Bill would turn up eventually, but Danny McSorley was an unknown quantity. It should not take him so long to track down Kate at her employers’ residence. Perhaps she was refusing to return with Danny. Perhaps he would have to go and fetch her himself, but not tonight. She was not the kind of young lady who would appreciate a gentleman caller at this late hour of the night. He shook his head. He was not a gentleman caller; he was an officer of the law—not the same thing at all. He would have to wait until tomorrow.
The Men’s Bar was a dim refuge where he could not even glimpse the street outside, but he knew what would be happening out there in the gathering dark. Streetlights would be coming on, and the crowd of reporters waiting outside the Waldorf would be thinning a little. They’d had their news for the day, and they would be off to their offices to file their copy and create tomorrow’s sensational headlines. He wondered what they would make of the day’s testimony and Bill’s relentlessly detailed questioning. Rostron of the Carpathia would be the hero; Ismay would be the villain. But he thought that the reporters and the public would be disappointed in the lack of sensational revelations. He picked up his drink. Perhaps, he thought, there was nothing more to be revealed.
The barman, with his wet rag, had moved to the other end of the counter. He looked up and caught Joe’s eye. “Yes, sir?”
“Have you been in here all day?” Joe asked.
The barman, still swiping with the rag, made his way toward Joe. “Yes, Sheriff, I have.”
“You know that I’m a sheriff?”
“Yes, sir, I know that you are Sheriff Joe Bayliss. You are helping Senator Smith, yes?”
His accent and the theatrical way he flourished his bar rag confirmed Joe’s suspicion that the man was Italian, a recent immigrant. No doubt he had come across the Atlantic on a ship not unlike the Titanic. He could see no harm in asking for the man’s opinion. He looked at the man’s name tag. Tony, of course.
Joe laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “So, Tony,” he said, “I’m sure you can’t help overhearing things that are said in here.”
Tony slid the bill into his pocket. “Yes, Sheriff, I hear things.”
“What do you hear about the inquiry?” Joe asked. “What are people saying when they come in here?”
Tony glanced around the room and then quietly sidled away to the end of the counter, where the lights were dim. Joe followed.
“They say it’s a lot of talking,” Tony said. “Just talking.”
“What do you expect?” Joe asked impatiently. “Dancing?”
“No, no, of course not, but this is a tragedy, a terrible thing where many people died, but your boss, your senator Smith, he is so calm. His questions are dull and uninteresting. He does not allow for ... for ...”
“Speculation?” Joe asked. “Storytelling?”
“For emotion,” Tony said. “When the people like the English officer talk about the ship sinking and the people crying out, your senator says nothing. He just moves to the next question. We do not see the people; we just see questions. And now he is finished, yes?”
“Finished?” Joe asked. “What makes you think we are finished?”
“The officers, the Englishmen, are going home.”
“How do you know that?”
Tony glanced along the bar and around the room. It seemed that no one needed his services at that moment. Joe rapped on the bar. “What do you know about the Englishmen?”
“The officers of the White Star came in here today, about two hours ago. Four of them sat at the table over there in the corner. At first they were very quiet. I think they are sad men, you know, because they have lost their friends and their ship.”
“And their logbook,” Joe muttered.
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Keep talking.”
“Well, I brought them drinks. Rum—a lot of rum. They are sailors, eh? They drink rum, and they begin to talk loud. Loud enough for me to hear.”
“And what did they say?”
“That they were going home. They talked about a ship named the Lapland that would take them home. And then Mr. Ismay, he came to talk to them.”
“You know Mr. Ismay?” Joe asked.
The barman nodded. “Of course. I have seen him here in the bar, drinking with other business gentlemen, and I have seen his picture in the papers. He is the man who saved himself, huh? He saved himself and let the ship sink.”
“What did he say to the officers?”
“I don’t know. They stopped talking and listened to him, and then he shook hands with all of them, and he left. And then very soon they left—no more rum, no more loud talk. I think they do not like him, but he is their boss, eh?”
“He says that he is not,” Joe replied, “but I think that is a technicality.” He looked up and saw Bill making his way into the room with a surprisingly cheerful bounce in his step and a slight grin beneath his neat gray mustache.
Joe waved to him, indicating the corner table where the White Star officers had previously been sitting, and then he picked up his glass and nodded to Tony. “Bring the senator a whiskey and soda.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve just been talking to Nana,” Bill said as Joe sat down. “The telephone is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Do you know what she said?”
Joe raised a finger to his lips. “The barman here likes to listen, and he likes to talk, so be careful. I just picked up an interesting piece of information myself.”
“Oh yes?”
“Apparently, the officers were in today and saying that it’s all arranged for them to sail on the Lapland. She’s leaving the day after tomorrow. Is it true? Are you really letting them go?”
Bill raised his eyebrows and his eyes gleamed. “The president only allowed us to hold them for two days, and tomorrow is the second day, so of course they think they’re going home.”
Bill fell silent as Tony arrived and set a tumbler in front of him. Joe waited until Tony had returned to the bar before he spoke.
“Why are you looking so damned cheerful, Bill? It seems to me that you’re getting nowhere.”
Bill raised the glass to his lips. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Joe.”
“That was not a vote of confidence,” Joe growled. “They’re leaving. The British will hold an inquiry, but by then they’ll have had time to get their story straight and—”
“They’re not leaving,” Bill interrupted.
Joe glanced toward the bar. “The barman heard them himself.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did, but they’re still not leaving. We’re all going to Washington. McKinstry is writing out the subpoenas now, and you can serve them. We are going to take all the time we need.”
“You mean Taft’s changed his mind?”
“Taft hasn’t changed anything,” Bill said. “Nana called and told me that we have sacks of mail.”
“About what?”
“About the inquiry. People are writing and phoning and telegraphing from all over the country. They want to know what happened. It doesn’t matter anymore what Taft wants or says. I don’t care if he can’t get his chin off his desk and pay attention to the country—I have the people behind me, and I’m going to continue. We’ll take the whole lot of them, crew, officers, witnesses, to Washington and have a full-blown Senate inquiry, and I’m going to keep them until I have all the answers I need.”
Joe shook his head, still trying to take in the meaning of Bill’s words. Joe was a lawman and Bill was the politician, but even Joe could imagine that there would be diplomatic repercussions. It was one thing to hold the British crew for a few days, but to subpoena them and take them to Washington was an entirely different matter, and Bill expected Joe to serve the subpoenas. Was that even legal? He was beginning to wish himself back in Michigan. Bill had always been a friend, and Joe had always trusted his judgment, but this was different.
On the other hand, if Bill managed to find out what he wanted without also plunging the country into a war, then he would be well on his way to the White House, and who would not want a friend in the White House?
Bill interrupted Joe’s train of thought. “This would have been so much easier if you had found the logbook.”
“Well, I didn’t, and that’s all I can say about it. I searched the officers’ rooms, and I spoke to a few of the crew. I’m pretty sure the log is at the bottom of the Atlantic, or if it isn’t, it’s going to be.”
Bill shrugged. “It can’t be helped. I’ll ask about it just to put them off their stride, but I agree with you that it doesn’t exist any longer. I don’t really need it to make the case that the Titanic was running full steam through the ice field. Now that I have all the time I need, I can prove it without the log. We know the Marconi operators on other ships were talking to each other and sending ice warnings to the Titanic, and we can subpoena their testimonies. Lightoller can lie as much as he likes, but I’ll have him, and I’ll have Ismay.”
Joe took out his watch and looked at it. Bill glanced up. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Yes, I am. Young Danny McSorley, who was helping out Cottam on the Carpathia, should be back now. I sent him out to find Kate Royston, and he’s not back yet.”
Bill waved a dismissive hand. “First time in the big city. He’s probably gotten himself lost. He’ll turn up. Meantime, I need you to do something.”
Joe looked at his watch again. Surely McSorley should have been here by now. “I thought I might go myself and look for Miss Royston.”
Bill gave a sharp laugh. “You’re no more at home in New York than McSorley is. It would be the blind leading the blind. He’ll find her—don’t worry. And I have something else for you to do tonight. I need you to keep an eye on the Titanic’s crew. They’ll have to be under constant watch until we can get them out of New York and down to Washington. Every time I turn my back on them, I expect to find they’ve slipped on board a boat and they’re heading for England. It won’t be the same in Washington. There’ll be no escaping me once I get them away from the docks.”
“What about McSorley?”
“I’ll wait here for him. I’m going to need him to come to Washington. He spent a couple of days helping Cottam on the Carpathia, so he may be able to shed some light on the confusing messages that Cottam was sending. The newspapers reported that the Titanic was under tow to Halifax. Where did they get that from? It had to be a message from Carpathia.”
“Or perhaps they just made it up. Rumors are easy to get started,” Joe said. He drained his glass and stood up. “Find someone else to watch the crew,” he said. “I’m going to find that girl.” He returned Bill’s quizzical grin with a hard stare. “She’s a witness. We need her.”
Bill’s response was cut off by the sound of a commotion breaking out in the lobby, beyond the entrance to the Men’s Bar. It was not the sound of an impending bar fight—Joe was very familiar with that sound. This was the sound of squealing women and affronted gentlemen. He turned to look and saw a bevy of ladies picking up their skirts and running toward the grand staircase while their escorts made angry harrumphing sounds. He soon recognized Danny McSorley, tall and disheveled, standing helplessly as Wolfie joyfully shook water from his coat and onto the fine furnishings and the fine people.
Normally, the sight would have brought a grin to Joe’s face, but not this time, because he could see at once that Danny was alone. He had not found Kate.
Kate Royston
Kate’s only plan was to put as much distance as possible between herself and Sergeant Cassidy. She ran with no destination in mind, her route determined by the need to avoid streetlights. When she finally paused to draw breath, she was in an alley that ran behind a substantial house, where gaslights shone from the ground-floor windows.
As she leaned against the backyard fence, sobbing for breath, she thought she heard music being played somewhere nearby. With blood pounding in her ears, and the sound of her own gasping breaths, it was very hard to make out the tune or even the instruments. She fought to calm herself and listen carefully. The music was not coming from the house, and it was not orchestral music. Trumpets and drums, she thought, like a brass band playing a summer concert in the park.
She was suddenly very homesick for days that would never come again. She gasped at the stab of memory that carried her to a hot summer night beneath the gazebo, sitting between her mother and father in the seats of honor. She had been so happy then, listening to the brass band playing patriotic music while the long twilight faded and fireflies danced among the trees. She closed her eyes and tried to warm herself with the memory. She saw the faces she knew so well and the people she had trusted—the apothecary who had dispensed drops for her mother’s headaches, the banker who had kept her father’s money safe, and the school teacher supervising the children as they played in the school yard. She could not play with the children—that would not be appropriate—but she could always watch them and wonder what it would be like to be poor and have to wear faded hand-me-down dresses and ugly leather shoes.
The thought of dresses and shoes snatched away the warmth of her memory and dragged her back to her present reality. She, who had pitied girls in washed-out dresses and clumsy pigtails, was wearing an unspeakable ruffled gown, damp and sticky from the sea mist that hung over the city, and she was without even a shawl to put over her head unbraided hair. And one thing was certain—those people in what was left of that town would never again offer her a seat of honor.
She straightened up and forced herself to focus beyond her misery and fear. Why was a brass band playing on a night like this and in a place like this? The sound was moving away, with the big bass drum beating out a militant rhythm. “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Salvation Army—it could not be anything else. Where were they? She stumbled to the end of the alley and looked out on a broad avenue with streetlights marching away into the mist-laden distance.
The band gathered followers as it marched up to the steps of a building that occupied a corner position and advertised itself with a single gaslight above its double doors. The smell of ozone in the air was replaced by a welcome wafting of food odors—stew or maybe soup. For a terrible moment, she thought she had somehow circled back to the Salvation Army hostel where she had been arrested, but that wasn’t the case. That hostel had been a tall, forbidding building, and this building was a single story, maybe a church.
The band had drawn a small crowd, mostly men in cloth caps and ragged overcoats, and a few women bundled into scarves and shawls. Kate looked past the building, with its welcoming light, to the broad avenue beyond, where she could see the mist-shrouded shapes of great houses. Where was she? She had a little knowledge of New York City. She had come here with her mother for an eighteenth-birthday shopping spree, and it was also here that she had stayed with the Van Buren family while they prepared for their departure on the Carpathia. None of those memories meant anything now. How could she know where she had run to when she didn’t know where she had been when she had started running?
The band completed its rendition of “Onward, Christian Soldiers” with a flourish of trumpets and a final thundering boom from the bass drum, and one of the bonneted soldiers of Christ flung open the doors of the building. Light flooded out onto the street and illuminated the hungry faces of the ragtag group waiting patiently at the foot of the stairs.
“Come in, come. We have food for all.”
The woman who spoke was young, maybe younger than Kate, and her face, which some people might have thought plain, was made beautiful by her sincerity. Whoever she was and however she had come to take up the black bonnet and plain cape of a soldier in the Salvation Army, her calling was real. It seemed that she truly loved the dregs of humanity who had washed up against the steps of this building.
She stood at the top of the steps and looked down at Kate. “Please come in.”
Could she know? Kate wondered. Was there some kind of telegraph sending signals across New York from one refuge to another, warning that a dangerous spy was on the loose? Keep a lookout for a crazy woman in a green dress, no hat, no coat, and no idea where she is going.
Kate moved warily to the bottom step, and all she could think was Soup, and all she could see was a long trestle table with an oilcloth covering and bowls of soup and bread.
“Come along, dear. Don’t be afraid. Jesus loves you.”
Kate nodded. “Yes, I know.”
The girl’s voice was soothing. “The Good Shepherd moves through the city, seeking his lost lambs. Whatever you’ve done, you can be forgiven. You can start again. We have a hostel—”
“No!” Kate stepped back and would have lost her footing if the girl had not caught her arm. Oh, she was strong, just as strong as Captain Veronica and Private Elspeth. What did they feed these women? Definitely something more than the meat of the Gospel.
“I can’t stay,” Kate said.
“But you’re cold and wet, and your dress is ...”
“Ugly.”
“No, I don’t mean ugly. We do not concern ourselves with fashion and outward appearance. It is just unsuitable for a night like this. Come inside. We can find a coat for you and somewhere for you to sleep.”
“I won’t go to your hostel,” Kate said, “and you can’t make me.”
“Of course not. Come inside and have some soup, and we will talk after you’ve eaten.”
“Don’t want to talk.”
“Very well. If you won’t talk, will you let me pray for you? I’m Private Helena.”
Kate began to form a hearty dislike for Private Helena, who stood in the way of Kate snatching a piece of bread and running with it in her hand. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Private Helena was quite capable of taking her prisoner and returning her to the hostel and thus to the custody of Sergeant Cassidy.
“I’m not coming inside,” Kate said sullenly.
“Then I will stand outside with you. Jesus will not abandon you, and I will not abandon you.”
Something welled up inside Kate at those words. What did Private Helena know about being abandoned? Had she ever been abandoned by an entire town of people? Did she know what it was like to have nowhere to go and no one to trust?
“I have to go,” Kate said.
“Go where?”
Kate glared at her. Private Helena was becoming quite obnoxious. “I don’t know where. How can I know where I’m going when I don’t know where I am?”
“You’re at the Salvation Army Mission on Park Avenue,” Private Helena said patiently. “Where are you trying to go?”
“Good question,” Kate said. “Well, let me tell you where I’m not going. I’m not going to your hostel, where they lock up immigrant women and do unspeakable things to them.”
Private Helena fluttered her hands. “I don’t believe—”
“Believe it,” Kate snapped. “I was there and I know. So I’m not going back, and I’m not coming close enough for you to lay your hands on me. I’m not going to the Van Burens, because they are no longer my employers, and I can’t go back to the Carpathia.”
“I really think you should come with—”
“No, I will not.” Kate shouted loudly enough to drown out her own thoughts, loudly enough so that she did not have to answer the question that was spinning around in her head. Where am I going? Who do I trust? I really want a piece of bread. My feet hurt. I’m cold. She picked just one thought out of the confusion of thoughts. Sheriff Bayliss had been kind to her, and if she could find him, he would keep her safe from the likes of Sergeant Cassidy. In fact, if he knew what was going on at the Salvation Army hostel, how the immigrant women were being treated, he would kick all of them into the middle of next week. She was dimly aware that her thoughts were not holding together in any sensible way, and the smell of soup was not helping. She should move away from temptation. She should go to ... to ... the Waldorf Astoria.
Apparently, Kate had spoken the last two words aloud. “Did you say the Waldorf Astoria?” Private Helena asked.
“Yes. This is Park Avenue, is it?”
“It is.”
“Therefore, the Waldorf Astoria is somewhere along here.”
“About half a mile,” Private Helena said, “but they won’t let you in.”
“Half a mile in what direction?”
Private Helena pointed, and Kate looked at the wide avenue stretching away into the mist that ate the streetlamps and the outlines of the grand houses.
“That’s where I’m going,” she said.
“You really shouldn’t.”
Kate was suddenly calm again. For the first time in a year, she had a real plan. It was not a particularly sensible plan, but it was good enough for the moment. Instead of running away, she would be running toward someone or something. She was dimly aware that she had made a very large leap of faith in believing that Sheriff Joe Bayliss would be the answer to all her problems, but he had winked at her, and that meant something. Or maybe it meant nothing. She couldn’t tell. She could barely think, but at least she would be on the move again, running along the broad avenue, past the mansions of the rich and famous, to the place where someone would finally recognize her and bring her in out of the cold.
Her legs were tired and her feet hurt, but she picked up her skirts in a way she had not done since she was ten years old, and sprinted away from Private Helena. She ran, glancing over her shoulder, until the light from the mission was lost in the mist. She slowed, listening for following footsteps, but heard nothing. Light spilled from the grand houses on either side of the avenue, and she found no shadows to hide her, so she walked with her head up and her back erect, as she had been taught.
She may not look like a lady, but she could act like one, couldn’t she? Perhaps that would be enough to overcome the sorry state of her clothes. The Waldorf Astoria would be a formidable obstacle for someone in her condition. Even when she had come here with her mother and been dressed in her newest and most fashionable clothes, the thought of entering the hotel had been intimidating. Well, a lot had happened since then, and she would not be intimidated. She did not even know if Joe Bayliss was staying at the hotel, but surely Senator Smith would be there, so perhaps she should ask for him.
Bright lights, brighter than the light from the houses, pierced the mist ahead of her. She could hear traffic now—the rumble of automobile engines, the clop of horse-drawn vehicles, and the murmur of many voices. As she drew closer, she could see the facade of the great hotel, with lights in the windows of its many stories and brighter lights spilling out onto the sidewalk. Shadows moved within the brightness, a mass of people milling and churning with no apparent purpose and held in place by a cordon of police officers.
She crept forward cautiously, hardly daring to step into the light. She felt like a wild animal approaching a campfire. One of the waiting men turned his face toward her, and she cringed but stayed in place as she recognized him. Carlos Hurd of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. So these were all reporters waiting for a story. Well, she thought as she made an attempt to smooth her hair and straighten her dress, she had a story for them. She would tell them what was happening at the Salvation Army hostel and how innocent girls were being subjected to humiliating inspections. Even better than that, she could tell them what Kitty had said about being locked belowdecks on the Titanic. That was a story that would sell newspapers.
She hesitated for one more moment, surprised to find how profoundly her experience had changed her point of view. There was something obscene about holding the inquiry here, at the most luxurious hotel in New York, as if the only lives lost had been the lives of rich people.
A police officer loomed over her. “Move along, girl. Go on, be off with you.”
Kate stood her ground. It was obvious that she would not succeed in getting past the police cordon and into the lobby, so she would have to find someone out here to identify her. She needed the man from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
“I want to talk to that man,” Kate said. She tried to hide the dangling handcuff with her other hand as she pointed her finger at Carlos Hurd. “I have a story for him.”
“Nobody wants to hear your story. Move along.”
Some kind of commotion was taking place just inside the glass doors of the hotel. The reporters pressed forward. The policeman turned to look. Kate pressed past him and hurled herself at Hurd’s back. He turned with a startled shout and pushed her away, but she clung to his coat.
He tried to shake her off, but his attention was on whatever was happening in the lobby. The reporters surged forward, and Kate dragged at Hurd’s sleeve. He finally turned to look down at her, his face a mask of irritation.
“Get off me, woman.”
“I have a story for you.”
He tried to shake himself free. “I don’t want your story.”
“It’s me!” Kate screamed. “I was on the Carpathia. Mrs. Trentham talked to you. I was there.”
He hesitated and finally gave her at least some of his attention, although his eyes still flicked toward whatever was happening in the lobby.
“I’m Kate Royston,” Kate said. “Please, you have to believe me. Champagne corks. You used champagne corks.”
He stood still and made no effort to remove her hand from his sleeve. She saw recognition dawning on his face, and something else—calculation.
“What happened to you?”
“I’ll tell you if you’ll help me. It’s a good story. It’ll sell newspapers, but I won’t tell it to you unless you get a message to Senator Smith.”
Hurd shook his head. “Smith doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“Sheriff Bayliss,” Kate pleaded. “If you tell him I’m here, I’ll give you my story. You won’t regret it.”
Time stood still. If the reporters continued their shouting, she did not hear them. She heard only her own breath and saw only Hurd’s face. Finally he nodded his head.
“All right. I’ll tell him. He’s just inside the door.”
Kate gasped. She was so close, with nothing but a glass door to separate her from safety. She took a step forward, and this time, it was Hurd who grabbed her. “Oh no you don’t. You promised me a story.”
“I’ll give it to you.”
“I don’t trust you. Come with me and tell me your story, and then I’ll get hold of the sheriff or the senator or whoever you want to see.”
Kate tried to break free, but Hurd’s arm was around her waist. As he lifted her from her feet, she could see over the heads of the reporters and into the lobby, where a gaggle of uniformed doormen and bellhops were running in agitated circles. She caught a glimpse of brown and black fur. Wolfie raced toward the glass doors. The reporters who had crowded around the doors fell over each in their attempt to move away from the otterhound and his huge paws.
With a shout of triumph, a doorman leaped forward and flung open one of the doors. Wolfie hurled himself toward freedom. Hurd released Kate as the dog plunged into the crowd, sending them running in all directions. Kate, suddenly alone, stood her ground and watched as Joe Bayliss and Danny McSorley followed Wolfie through the door. Three figures seemed set to converge on the sidewalk in front of her. She couldn’t decide which one to hug, but Wolfie relieved her of the decision as he leaped at her and covered her face with dog drool before pushing her to the ground and sitting on her.
Senator William Alden Smith
Bill’s plans for an evening spent preparing his questions for the next day had vanished at about the same moment as Wolfie the otterhound had crashed out of the door of the Waldorf Astoria and into the arms of Kate Royston. Now Kate was in the bedroom of his suite, wrapped in a blanket and awaiting the arrival of Eva Trentham’s maid with dry clothes. Joe Bayliss had already used his considerable lock-picking skills to remove the dangling handcuffs from Kate’s right wrist.
Wolfie, who was apparently very taken with Miss Kate Royston, paced outside the bedroom door and perfumed the parlor with eau de wet dog, while Danny McSorley sat in one of the wingback chairs and showed no sign of departing for wherever he intended to sleep. Joe Bayliss was smoking a celebratory cheroot, with his long legs stretched out in front of him, and only Will McKinstry, scribbling away at the desk, showed any signs of preparing for the morning. Meantime, downstairs in the lobby, Carlos Hurd waited for the story that Kate had promised him.
Bill felt as though he had been pitched into the middle of a three-ring circus. He would undoubtedly receive a bill from the hotel for the damage to their lobby furnishings and for cleaning and perfuming the air in his suite. He had planned on spending the evening examining the radio messages that had sparked from ship to ship through the frigid air as the Titanic had steamed heedlessly toward New York. Now he was saddled with a disheveled young woman; a hairy dog; an apparently lovesick young man; Joe Bayliss, who seemed to have lost his head over Miss Kate Royston; and a demanding reporter, who had managed to make his way into the lobby.
“Sit down.”
Bill looked at Joe in surprise. He sounded as if he were addressing a dog and not a senator, and then he realized the truth. Joe was in fact addressing the dog, in a tone that even Wolfie could not ignore. The hound ceased his pacing and gazed at Joe with mournful brown eyes.
“Sit,” Joe repeated, “or I’ll make you sit.”
Wolfie sat for a moment, gave a deep sigh, and rolled over onto his side, blocking the bedroom door. Well, Bill thought, Kate Royston’s virtue was perfectly safe with Wolfie as her guardian. No one would get through that door without his permission.
Bill looked at the depleted supply of drinks on the polished mahogany drinks cart and spotted a bottle of beer. He looked from the beer to the dog and back again and decided to throw caution to the wind for once. There was something endearing about the great shaggy dog, and Bill had never been an unkind man. He tipped the contents of the ice bucket into the water jug and filled the bucket with beer. Wolfie eyed him with interest. Perhaps he was no stranger to strong drink. Who could say? Who really knew anything about him?
He set the bucket on the floor and waited until Wolfie had heaved himself to his feet and buried his nose in the beer before he looked at Danny.
“So, how come he didn’t drown?” he asked.
“The animals were kept down on F deck,” Danny said. “I’ve heard people say there were polo ponies, and some dogs that were too big for the cabins, and a whole flock of fancy chickens. I suppose there were cats somewhere too, to keep the rats down.”
“Rats are supposed to be first to leave a sinking ship,” Joe said.
“Well, they didn’t go in the lifeboats,” Danny replied. “At least, not the four-legged rats.”
Bill made a note to ask Danny how he had ended up in a lifeboat. He could not imagine Danny pushing women and children aside to make room for himself, so there must be some other story to tell.
“It took a while, you know, for us to realize she was really going down,” Danny said. “The corridors were filling with water, and it was creeping up the stairs, probably up that grand stairway in first class, but I didn’t see that. Anyway, I suppose someone thought it would be cruel to leave the animals locked in with no chance to escape, although I can’t say the same for the immigrants ...”
Bill crossed to the cart and refilled his whiskey glass while he thought about what Danny had just said. The animals had been let loose but not the immigrants. Could that be the truth?
Danny reached down and patted Wolfie’s head. Wolfie eyed the bucket and licked foam off his beard. “Just minutes before we went under,” Danny said, “I saw a pack of dogs running loose on the deck. They didn’t know what was happening, poor beasts. They were just running, you know, for the fun of it, and I suppose old Wolfie fancied a swim. He must have flung himself over the side and just started swimming. He has a thick coat and webbed feet, and he made a distance away from the ship before she sank, or he would have gone down with the suction. Mrs. Trentham saw him swimming and insisted on saving him. She’s a very determined woman.”
“Yes, she is,” Bill agreed. He sipped his drink and enjoyed the silence that had settled over the room. Wolfie rolled back on his side with a satisfied grunt, and Bill saw that Joe’s eyes were drooping. He turned his attention back to the radio messages, now printed out and lying on the desk. He understood very little of Marconi’s new technology or the rules and regulations governing the use of radios on board ships. He was not even sure that there were any rules, but he could not forget what Nana had said. Everyone knew what was happening. It was as though we were all watching. This great ship was going down right in front of us. These radio messages were the only truth he had. Everything else was subject to human interpretation.
He picked up the printed papers and studied them. One thing was obvious, even to his untrained eye. The Titanic had not been alone on the ocean. Any number of ships, large and small, had been plying the shipping lanes, and they had all been aware of the proximity of icebergs. Along with congratulations to Captain Smith on his command of his new ship, they had sent precise warnings with longitude and latitude. What had happened to those warnings? Who had read them? More to the point, who had taken notice of them? Why was the Titanic the only ship to have the tragic misfortune of striking an iceberg?
Tomorrow Bill would question Harold Bride, the Titanic’s remaining radio officer, a hero who had stayed at his post until the end. He would be brought into the room in a wheelchair—a tragic figure probably more deserving of a medal than a reprimand. Bill shook his head. What questions could he ask that would not make him look like a bully and Bride look like a martyr?
He picked up a message and read it aloud. “‘Captain, Titanic—Westbound steamers report bergs, growlers and field ice in forty-two degrees north from forty-nine degrees to fifty-one degrees west, twelfth April. Compliments—Barr, SS Caronia.’” He picked up another. “‘Captain Smith, Titanic—Have had moderate, variable winds and clear, fine weather since leaving. Greek steamer Athinai reports passing icebergs and large quantities of field ice today in latitude forty-one degrees fifty-one minutes north, longitude forty-nine degrees fifty-two minutes west. Wish you and Titanic all success—Commander, SS Baltic.’”
He set the paper back on the desk. “I have no idea what this means.”
McKinstry shrugged. “It seems simple enough, Senator. The other ships were warning Captain Smith about the ice.”
“Yes,” Bill snapped, somewhat irritated by McKinstry’s tone of voice, “I understand what it says, but what does it mean? What is the radio operator supposed to do with such a message? How close were those ships? Was the ice in the shipping lanes, or was it miles away? I’m not a sailor, Mr. McKinstry, and I will not be made a fool of.”
Danny McSorley rose from his seat and walked across to the desk. He picked up another message. “‘From Mesaba to Titanic and all eastbound ships. Ice report in latitude forty-two degrees north to forty-one degrees twenty-five minutes north, longitude forty-nine degrees west to longitude fifty degrees thirty minutes west. Saw much heavy pack ice and a great number large icebergs. Also field ice. Weather good, clear.’”
Bill tried to snatch the paper, but Danny held on to it. “I know what this means, Senator. I’m a Marconi operator. I’m on my way now to serve at a land station, but I’ve done my time on board ships. I can tell you what you need to know.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Senator. I’m employed by the Marconi company. I know what I’m talking about.”
“All right,” Bill said. “If you were on duty and you took a message like this, what would you do with it?”
“I would take it to the bridge, and the officer of the watch would mark the position of the ice on the chart.”
“And then what?”
“Well, then they would be sure to avoid the ice.”
“That sounds too simple,” Bill said warily.
Danny nodded. “Sometimes avoiding is not possible, and in those circumstances, the ship would stop.” He picked up another paper. “Now this one is a different matter. This is a message the Titanic operator was asked to relay on behalf of another ship.”
“I don’t understand,” Bill admitted.
“Sometimes a Marconi operator, if he has time, will relay a message on behalf of another vessel. This one is from the Amerika and is intended for the Hydrographic Office in Washington, DC. Steamship Amerika via Titanic and Cape Race, Newfoundland, to the Hydrographic Office, Washington, DC. Amerika passed two large icebergs in forty-one degrees twenty-seven minutes north, fifty degrees eight minutes west, on the fourteenth of April.” Danny looked at Bill with a sad shake of his head. “This is truly unfortunate. No one did anything wrong, but ...”
“But what?” Bill asked.
“A message like this is considered private,” Danny said. “It’s not addressed to anyone on Titanic, and all the operator has to do is relay it as a courtesy. Obviously, Bride sent it on to Cape Race, as requested, and didn’t report it to the bridge. I don’t suppose he took the time to really read it or consider what it meant for the Titanic.”
“But it was a warning,” Bill protested.
Danny shook his head. “He didn’t see it that way. It was just a message for Cape Race. He had no reason to take it to the bridge. If he had done that, and if those bergs had been on the chart, everything would have been different, but he didn’t, because it wasn’t up to him.”
“What about these other messages?” McKinstry asked, stabbing a finger at the papers on the desk. “Did he ignore them? Here’s one from the Californian at eleven p.m. ‘I say, old man, we’re stopped and surrounded by ice.’” He set the paper down again. “Apparently, the captain of the Californian thought it was not safe to move. What would the Marconi man do with a message like that?”
“It would be taken to the bridge,” Danny said. “All messages regarding navigation are taken to the bridge.” Danny took the paper from McKinstry’s hand and studied it. “Eleven o’clock,” he said. “The operator was working late.”
“What do you mean?” Bill asked. “Surely he would work all night.”
“Not if he was the only operator on board. The Californian is a small freighter. She probably has only one operator, and he wouldn’t be expected to work a twenty-four-hour shift.” He continued to stare at the paper. “Harold Cottam on the Carpathia told me that it was only by good luck that he heard the Titanic’s SOS. He was getting ready for bed and just turned his equipment on for a moment. If he had gone straight to bed, he would not have known anything until the next morning, and it would have been too late.” He placed a hand over his mouth and stood for a moment as if struck dumb. When he finally spoke, his voice trembled. “I would not be alive. We couldn’t have lasted much longer in the lifeboats, and no one else was anywhere near. The Californian didn’t come up on us until late in the morning, when we were all aboard the Carpathia.”
Bill turned away. Seeing Danny warm and dry, and hearing him suggest that the animals had been released out of pity but not the immigrants, reminded him that these messages were not just a code to be deciphered; they were the warnings that could have saved everyone on board if they had been heeded.
Danny shuffled through the papers again and picked up another message. “This is from the same ship, the Californian, at six thirty p.m., about the time the first-class passengers on the Titanic were dressing for dinner. ‘Latitude forty-two degrees three minutes north, longitude forty-nine degrees nine minutes west. Three large bergs five miles to southward of us.’”
He leaned over McKinstry’s desk. “Give me a pencil and a piece of paper.”
McKinstry raised his eyebrows and looked up at Bill.
“I have a terrible suspicion,” Danny said. “Let me show you.”
McKinstry rose, and Danny took his place at the desk and began shuffling through the papers with fierce concentration. He did not even look up when the bedroom door opened and Kate appeared, wrapped in a blanket. Bill, a happily married man, could not ignore the fact that the mysterious Kate Royston was a true beauty. Her dark hair had dried in ringlets, and the warmth of the blanket had brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Bill looked away and told himself that the beauty was illusory—she was probably flushed with fever and glassy-eyed with exhaustion. That was what he would say to Nana if she should happen to ask his opinion. He wished that Eva’s maid would hurry her arrival and remove one of the many distractions from the room.
Danny was now making a sketch on the borrowed paper, drawing lines and scribbling names while he shuffled the pile of messages. Finally he looked up. “He was there,” he said. “He was really there.”
“Who was where?” Kate asked.
Danny glanced at her but scarcely acknowledged her presence as he drew another line. He looked past Kate and spoke to Bill. “Can you get your hands on a chart?”
“Not at this time of night,” Bill said, “but in the morning, we can get one. What have you discovered?”
“I’ve discovered that another ship was very close by. That’s why we were told to row towards the light.”
Bill shook his head. “It’s my belief that Captain Smith gave that instruction so that the people would have some shred of hope. He told them to row toward a light so they would row away from the ship and not be caught in the suction as she went down. It was a lie told for a good purpose.”
“No,” Danny said fiercely, “it wasn’t a lie.” He spread the paper on the desk and beckoned Bill forward. “Let me show you.”
Danny had drawn a rough circle on the paper. At the center of the circle, he had written the ship’s name: Titanic. “I can show you better on a chart,” he said, “but this is good enough. If I take the rough position of each ship that sent a warning or responded to the Titanic’s SOS, I can make a map.” He pointed to the names he had written on his sketch. “Here are the Virginian, the Baltic, the Mauretania, Mesaba, Athinai, Caronia, and the Carpathia. You can see that the Carpathia was the closest.”
Bill looked down at the sketch and pointed at a mark Danny had made close to the center of the circle—very close to the Titanic. “What is that?”
“I believe it’s the Californian,” Danny said through gritted teeth. “I believe he was not more than ten miles away.”
“No,” Bill said. “You must be wrong.”
Danny shook his head. “I will need a chart of the area, just to be certain, but this is how it looks to me. I know where he was at six thirty, because he gave his position, and at eleven thirty, the operator said they were stopped and surrounded by ice. I also know that the Californian was bound for Boston, so she was traveling westward, and that means ...” He paused for a moment and then printed the word Californian next to the mark he had made on the map. “She was here. The Californian was no more than ten miles away while the Titanic was firing rockets, sending out distress signals, and launching her lifeboats.”
Kate pushed her way forward. “The Countess of Rothes said they saw a light,” she said, “and so did some of the Irish girls. Even Mrs. Trentham said they were rowing toward a light.”
Bill stared down at Danny’s sketch and tried to rearrange his thoughts. Tomorrow he would talk to the radio operators, but what would he say? If Danny McSorley was correct, and if the Californian was in fact only ten miles from the Titanic, everything would change, and the public would find a new focus for their outrage. Perhaps he would even be able to file a criminal charge. He shook his head. He could not afford to go forward without proof and make a fool of himself, especially as it would mean taking the focus away from Ismay’s actions.
He had to find a witness—someone from the crew of the Californian would have to be persuaded to talk.
He looked up and found that Joe was already on his feet. “I guess I’m going to Boston,” he said. “Let’s hope the Californian is still in port.”