With trembling hands, he opened the cable. There was no preamble. The message was terse and to the point – “Permission is not granted. Resume post Monday morning.”
The smell of sea wrack hung in the air. Cormorants wheeled above – one peeling off occasionally to dive for food. Gulls shrieked, silhouetted against the watery blue April sky, with cirrus tails high above. In the distance, a nimbus cloud signalled approaching rain. A harbour seal poked its doglike head above water. A lone swan with economical flaps of its wings flew upstream.
What natural peace – what sudden inner turmoil. His mother’s worst swear word came into his head as he stood on the tender and he said aloud, “Bad cess to you.”
Disapproving heads turned in his direction – it was not proper that someone with a dog collar and clerical garb should utter a loud curse, no matter how mild. He turned his face into the wind and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He reflected that, as a younger man, he had had a rebellious streak but, until now, he had controlled this. Sheets whistled in the wind as a tugboat sounded its klaxon.
There was no question of an appeal – one had to obey and accept. The rule was clear and he had never deviated significantly from his vows to the order. Nevertheless, he thought how incredible to be denied such a wonderful opportunity.
It had come unexpectedly, out of a chance meeting with Dick and Mabel Hamilton, a Canadian couple who were allocated seats at the same table in the dining salon. Dick was intrigued by his fellow passenger’s hobby. “For crying out loud,” he said, “what in God’s name are you doing, photographing smokestacks and lifeboats?”
Later, he posed the couple on deck for an informal portrait as the French port of Cherbourg receded. As he looked up from his composition, he was amazed to see a human figure emerging at the top of the service funnel. As a prank, one of the firemen, face blackened with coal dust had climbed up the interior of the dummy funnel used for ventilation. The thought struck him that this indicated a lack of discipline, which surprised him in such a state of the art vessel. It was also rumoured that there were no look-outs in the crow’s nest, though he doubted that rumour. He had witnessed the near collision as they left Southampton. For a moment, he wondered about the standard of command.
That night, they were joined at the table by Maggie Brown, who had been nicknamed the “Hand Made of the Lord” (due to a misspelling in a letter she had put in a newspaper). He was asked was she a relation. His replied, “I certainly hope not!”
Over the meal, Dick prevailed on him to try and continue the journey with them, saying that he had heard several people had cancelled their passage at the last minute, which might mean unexpected availability for the final leg. It was widely mentioned, for example, that J. Pierpont Morgan had cancelled on medical grounds, to take a cure in Aix.
The next day, a ticket for the final leg of the journey was produced and though he initially protested that he could not possibly accept such a gift, he was actually thrilled and excited by the prospect. He had immediately gone to the telegraph room and cabled ahead to request permission to stay aboard. That was now a distant unfulfilled dream.
As he looked up at Pugin’s Cathedral, he reflected that, perhaps having a bishop for an uncle was a positive disadvantage – inverted clerical snobbery, he thought. As the tender America neared the pier, though still bitterly disappointed, he resigned himself to the reality of a vow of obedience.
He took some further camera shots as they rounded Spike Island. The sea mist parted and Fr. Brown looked back through the morning haze at the unsinkable Titanic, three of her smokestacks steaming as she weighed anchor, heading for America without him.