The Company of the Dead (5 page)

Wells dogged his heels.

The elevated walkway was dimly lit by the occasional lantern. Most of the light came from below. He followed Andrews from boiler room to boiler room, glancing down at the piles of black coal, the shadowy black-masked faces of men under-lit by the red stage lights of the furnaces. Their inarticulate shouts merged with the rising shrieks of the boilers. He looked to his guide and thought of other guides and infernos. Recalling that Dante’s vision of Hell ended in a lake of ice made him shudder.

They stopped in the fourth boiler room. Charles Lightholler, the ship’s second officer, stood in the middle of the passageway, his eyes fixed on the scene below. Engineers struggled to repair the frothing mouth of a wound that coursed along the visible length of the bulkhead. Firemen manned the pumps. Inches away from the tumult, sweat-soaked boiler men continued shovelling coal into the furnace’s gaping mouths.

“It’s the same in boiler room five,” Andrews said. “Number one hold, number two hold, boiler room six, the mailroom...” His voice trailed away.

Wells looked into Andrews’ face. “How long until we have matters in hand?”

“Matters in hand? She’s been gutted along the greater part of her length. The lower decks forwards to F deck are awash. The squash court is flooded, and the water is rising too damn fast.”

Wells made a quick calculation in his head. The iceberg had struck the ship on her port side. Historically, the
Titanic
had been snagged to starboard, receiving a glancing blow along the first three-hundred feet of her hull. The first four compartments and forwards boiler room had been damaged and in less than ten minutes the ship had flooded to fifteen feet.

This time it appeared that more than four-hundred-and-fifty feet of hull had been torn along the port side. The consequences would be the same. It didn’t matter if it was the port or starboard side. It didn’t matter if the tear was an inch wide or a jagged gash. If more than five of the
Titanic
’s
sixteen watertight compartments flooded, the ship could not remain afloat. And according to Andrews’ description, at least seven watertight compartments had been compromised.

She was going to sink.
Again.

Wells cast about furiously in his mind. There was one possibility... something he’d read, something that might at least buy them time.

Clouds of steam billowed up from below. The air was moist and thick in their lungs. Lightholler turned to his companions, suppressing a cough.

“Any word from the wireless room, Charles?” Andrews asked.

“None as yet. So far we’ve only been able to raise the
Olympic
. Everyone else appears to have switched off for the night.”

“What about the
Carpathia
?” Wells urged. “Or the
Californian
?”

Lightholler seemed to notice him for the first time. “What are you talking about?”

The
Californian
was a tramp steamer that had been locked in a field of ice, allegedly in full view of the sinking
Titanic
. It had been the
Carpathia
that had rushed to the
Titanic
’s rescue. Captain Rostron had given the order to ‘go north like hell’. The
Carpathia
had arrived too late to save the ship, but had taken all seven-hundred-and-five of the survivors on board.

Wells asked again, “Have we heard from the
Carpathia
? Is she coming?”

“The only ship we have heard from is our sister ship and she is five-hundred miles away. Cape Race is attempting to contact other vessels,” Lightholler replied. He glanced at Andrews. “I had best be returning to the bridge. Is there anything I can tell Captain Smith?”

“I have told him everything,” Andrews said softly.

Lightholler nodded.

Wells cleared his throat. It was worth a shot. “Perhaps if we kept moving?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lightholler said.

“Perhaps if we kept the ship moving. We might take on less water.”

Lightholler stared at him blankly.

Andrews shook his head. “I don’t know, Jonathan,” he said. “I don’t know. It is impossible to say.”

Wells continued hopefully. “Back in New York, we conducted a study on ship collisions. Projections suggested that ships with tears along their bow would ride higher, take on less water, if they kept in motion.”

Lightholler shook his head. “I’m not familiar with that article.”

Wells persisted. “The passengers might find it reassuring as well, if we were under steam.”

He turned to look at Andrews. Suffused in the red reflection of the furnaces, the man’s face shone wetly. Condensed steam—or tears—streamed down his cheeks.

“In the face of the damage we have sustained, I cannot be certain whether it will help or hinder our situation,” Andrews replied.

They all fell silent.

“I shall run it past Captain Smith,” Lightholler offered finally. He gave a brisk nod. “See you up top then,” he said, and he strode back the way they’d come.

Water was coursing through the lower portion of the bulkhead, swirling at the feet of the engineers and boiler men.

“What are you going to do now?” Wells asked Andrews. “I have to remain down here for the moment. There still may be a way we can purchase some time.”

Wells left him in the boiler room.

Scotland Road was empty.

Wells imagined a low tide at its bow end, inexorably working its way up in frigid ripples to swallow them all. He spun around in the empty passage, aimless, and his eyes fell upon an axe cradled within a sealed glass cabinet. Above it a sign read “In case of Emergency, smash glass”. He lashed out with a booted heel. The glass cracked. He kicked again and it shattered, spraying his leg and chest. A shard stung his face. He stood breathing raggedly, staring at the broken cabinet, the axe that hung within.

He leaned back against the wall and slowly sank to the floor. His hands were splayed out on the cold steel floor. Flecks of drying blood peppered his knuckles.

Did I do all that I did just to end up here?

A faint vibration teased his fingertips. He felt it through the heels of his boots. He spread his palms wide, confirming the fact. They were moving again.

He raised himself off the floor uncertainly. “Well, what do you know?” he murmured. He brushed the flakes of broken glass from his coat and trousers. He looked up and down the corridor. Ahead lay the stairs to second class that he had descended. He started up the inclined passageway.

On the D deck stairwell, crewmen stood shouting at a small crowd that had formed behind the flimsy barricade. The steerage passengers were calling back in their native tongues. Other members of the crew were erecting a small metal gate of trellised iron. One of them turned to see Wells on the staircase, surveying the scene. “Back in business?” he shouted.

Wells shrugged and continued up the staircase. On C deck he glanced down the corridor that led to his cabin. Two men had a steward penned up against a wall. He couldn’t hear their words. The steward broke away from their rough embrace and continued walking up the passage, checking the cabins. The men, clad in a blend of dinner wear and nightshirts, observed the steward’s retreat. Dogs, lost in the rain.

Approaching the boat deck, Wells could hear the rising clamour. More crewmen stood at the entrance to the second-class stairs and were arrayed further down the stairs. They blocked the passage of third-class passengers from below and first-class passengers from above. Pandemonium reigned. He broke through the assembly and dashed over to the starboard railing.

Far below he could see a lifeboat in tow near the ship’s stern. Another drifted into view, caught in the froth of the ship’s wake. Its passengers were shouting at the crewmen who stood by the tiller, at the people at the ship’s railing.

The ship was moving slowly. Five, ten knots per hour. He couldn’t be sure.

An officer stood nearby at an empty lifeboat cradle. It was William Murdoch, the ship’s first officer. He was calling out to the crewman in the first lifeboat Wells had seen. Another officer ran up to join him, his uniform in disarray, his hat crushed under one arm.

“Mr Murdoch,” he panted, “what should I do? I was asked to lower the lifeboats not ten minutes ago. Now we are making headway again.”

“Lower your voice, man. Compose yourself.” Murdoch scowled. “Ensure that the lifeboats are ably manned. We can always return, or send another ship to retrieve them.”

The dishevelled officer nodded frantically.

“For the moment, though, keep the remaining lifeboats uncovered.”

Wells made his way towards the stern. He descended the narrow stair to the poop deck. A few of the steerage passengers were already gathered there. He followed their gaze.

The two lifeboats had both been drawn into the ship’s wake. The ropes securing them to the liner hung taut. The tiny craft rolled and swayed in white foam. They could not have been more than one-third full; all of the passengers were women, who sat gripping the gunnels. Each small crash of the lifeboats in the ship’s spume was punctuated by their cries.

The officer appeared at Wells’ side and called out to the crew manning the ropes. Two of them grabbed lengths of chain from piles of twisted cable at their feet. They threw the chains over the straining ropes and wrapped the metal links about their wrists. As one they stepped over the rail and balanced precariously there. They launched themselves from the ship’s stern, sliding down the ropes into the darkness. When it seemed as though they would crash into the small boats, they released the chains and dropped into the seething water. In a tangled flurry of arms and legs they were dragged into the boats.

A cheer rose from the passengers on the poop and upper decks. Wells was surprised to find himself joining in.

Crewmen were working on the secured portion of the ropes at the flagpole’s base, preparing to cast off. Wells stared down at the two small boats. They seemed so fragile in the wake of the mighty liner. In moments they would be released.

His gaze shifted, up past the red flag that hung limply from the flagpole. The ship seemed to rise to the heavens. It stretched out before his tired eyes towards the horizon. Invulnerable. Indestructible. Unsinkable. For the first time he truly understood why the lifeboats had been undermanned. Who could leave this vast city of a ship for the insecurity of the small, frail craft that creaked and swung in the lifeboat davits? Even with everything he knew, the choice seemed unclear.

Should he jump now and risk the cold waters? Try to make his way to one of the boats? He looked down at the water’s surface, trying to judge the distance in the gloom. His head swung crazily back and forth, from the ship to the lifeboats and back again.

Beside him, two passengers rushed the railing. One swung himself over the top and stood there, facing the crowd. He met Wells’ eyes with a brief look of comprehension. A crewman swung a swarthy arm to grab at the passenger’s worn coat sleeve.

There was a sharp twang as both ropes snapped free from their restraints, whistling through the icy air. The passenger’s face tore open in an ugly red weal. Its flayed remnant managed to convey his astonishment before he dropped into the ocean.

There was a groan of dismay from the assembled crowd. Wells backed away from the railing, shaking his head. In the distance he could see the two small boats recede, lanterns swinging from their prows like fireflies courting in the gathering dark.

Most of the lifeboats on the port side had been lowered to the level of the boat deck. No more would be released until the ship was once again still. Passengers stood close by the cabin entrances, as far back from the railings as possible. In the cold, black night it seemed as though the amply lit bulkheads were their only sanctuary. The ship’s railing had become a border between the safety of the ship and the ocean’s abyss.

Wells couldn’t remain still. A cacophony rang dully in his ears. The voices of the passengers and crew, mingled with the music of the band and the churn of the ship’s mighty propellers, formed a continuous howl that penetrated his brain. With every step, his perceptions jarred and staggered so that it appeared as though the ship was populated by drunkards or marionettes. He clenched and unclenched his fists by his sides as he walked, dazedly, towards the first-class promenade.

Here, the crowds had thinned. He saw Aida and Isidor Straus standing in earnest conversation with a young woman. Aida was offering her a fur-lined coat. Further back, Archie Butt stood sharing a joke with Colonel Gracie. Widener stood alone. He was reading from an ancient cloth-bound book that fluttered in his small white hands. Wells knew the book’s title without a further glance. It was the only existing 1597 edition of Bacon’s
Essays
. He recalled the story of how Widener had purchased the volume. He’d joked with the bookseller, saying that should he ever be lost at sea the Bacon would go down with him, clasped to his heart. He’d been seated in a lifeboat when a companion reminded him of his oath. Widener had then returned to the sinking ship to find the precious work, never to be seen again.

Wells weaved through the small groups without purpose and found himself standing outside the wireless room. He arrived just in time to see Captain Smith stoop through the small doorway. The captain was ashen-faced, staring vacantly ahead, seeing nothing. Wells approached hesitantly. What was there to say?

I came back to save you all. With a pair of binoculars.

Smith’s face told the entire dismal story. His hollow eyes held no hope, his mouth hung slack. A young officer in a torn jacket stepped out of the night, cutting between Wells and the captain. Words spilled out of his mouth in a tripping rush. “Andrews... E deck... flooding...”

Smith motioned for the young man to follow him and stumbled back towards the bridge. The officer gave Wells a despairing look before trailing after the captain.

A little way ahead he made out the silhouette of John Jacob Astor, standing near an empty davit, smoking. His valet stood to one side, gloved hands folded behind his back. According to the varying accounts of survivors, Astor’s last moments had been heroic. Astor had assisted his wife, Madeleine, onto lifeboat four. He asked the officer loading the boat, Charles Lightholler, if he might accompany his wife, as she was in a delicate condition. Lightholler refused, stating that at present it was women and children only. Astor hadn’t mentioned that his wife was pregnant. Had he told Lightholler, he might have been allowed on board. He might have survived along with her.