The Company of the Dead (7 page)

Trapped in this era, this time, for just over a year, he’d set his mind on this course months ago and what had he achieved?

He’d ingratiated himself with Thomas Andrews, architect and designer of the three Olympic-class vessels. He’d had ample time to suggest appropriate design changes, roofing the watertight compartments, increasing the number of lifeboats. Had he set his mind to it, he might have surely found a way to delay the sailing of the ship, thus avoiding this calamity. He could have done anything he wanted, and instead he had given a man a pair of binoculars from the future.

A pair of binoculars
. He began to laugh. A thick belly laugh, tinged with tears.

As if that could change everything. As if that could change anything.

He’d ignored the fact that the ship had been travelling at excessive speeds in ice-dense waters. Ignored the lack of safety precautions for passengers and crew alike. Instead, his own hubris mirrored that of an entire generation. He was no better than any of the others involved in the tragedy. He’d desired to be the author, but his own role in this play was now starkly evident. He was the leading man. It was time to act accordingly.

Another lifeboat began its descent into the calm frozen waters. Three remained. Astor was standing alone now, near the ship’s railing. Wells thrust his hands into his coat pockets and walked up to him.

“Are you feeling better?” Astor enquired politely.

“Yes and no,” Wells replied.

“Well, and what now, I wonder?” Astor reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a cigarette case. The match trembled in his hand.

“Colonel, I have to tell you something.” Wells leaned forwards to cup the wavering flame. Their faces arched in the creviced shadows thrown by the sudden burst of light. “Everything I know tells me that we are going to sink before any help can arrive.”

Astor lit up and dropped the match over the side. “Nonsense. The captain himself assured me that the
Olympic
is already steaming towards us.”

“Did he bother to tell you that she’s currently five-hundred miles away?”

“There are other ships in the vicinity.” Astor sounded less sure of himself.

“No one’s answering our distress signals, Colonel. No one else knows what’s happening here tonight.”

Astor turned his attention to the dark waters.

“There are people below deck, hundreds of them, who are little wiser,” Wells pressed.

“They’ll be taken care of.”

“By whom?”

Astor resumed his silence.

“Who’s taking care of
you
, Colonel? Where’s your valet?”

“I dismissed him from my service.”

“Now why would you go and do a thing like that?”

Astor studied him for long moments before asking, “What exactly do you have in mind, Mr Wells?”

Wells had gathered as many of them together as he could. Men of wealth, men of influence and power. With Astor as his lodestone they had flocked to his side. Guggenheim, Thayer, Hays, Widener, Ryerson: the company of the dead.

He assigned them their tasks. Besides the two collapsibles lashed to the roof of the officers’ house, there were five remaining lifeboats suspended in the davits. The remainder of the complement bobbed on the still waters by the
Titanic
’s pitched bow.

He sent Guggenheim and Hays to the starboard side to brace Murdoch and Chief Officer Wilde. The lifeboats had been lowered with only a portion of their seats taken. They would have to be recalled. The others, swinging in their davits, had to be filled. All told, there were enough seats for twelve-hundred people. With the
Titanic
carrying twenty-two-hundred souls Wells worked the odds. An even chance at a lifeboat berth was a better prospect than anyone had entertained the last time the ship had gone down.

He sent Thayer and Widener below; Ryerson was dispatched to locate Andrews. There was a surplus of lifejackets in storage. If a sufficient number were fastened together, makeshift rafts could be fashioned, durable enough to last till any help came.

He kept Astor by his side.

They found Lightholler by one of the swaying lifeboats. A few women sat huddled within. A circle of men were gathered by the davits. Crewmen prepared to lower away.

Spying their approach, Lightholler called out, “Women and children only.” His voice was hoarse from the litany.

“First. Not only,” Astor said, firmly.

Lightholler stared at him. “No one else will board.”

Wells surveyed the barren boat deck. Clots of men stood by the railing, cowed by their sense of duty. “There are women and children below,” he said. “Hundreds of them.”

“We can’t have that lot up here,” a crewman muttered. “It’ll be bedlam if we do.”

“It’s murder if you don’t,” Wells replied coolly. His eyes were on Lightholler.

“I have my orders,” Lightholler murmured.

“Who do you answer to at a time like this?”

Lightholler cast a glance at his men. He shrugged. “Get them,” he growled. His hand slipped to his side where the butt of a large Webley pistol protruded. “But only the women and children.”

They strode back towards the stairway and descended. Each stage in their journey took them to a lesser world. Spacious landings were replaced by more confined areas, less ornate. Pine substituted for mahogany, gold alchemised into bronze. The stairs narrowed. On D deck, the Grand Staircase ended, opening into a wide lounge occupied by wicker chairs and small oval tables that stretched into the darkness.

Every now and then Wells heard a noise at the periphery. A rending, tearing sound. He tried to cast away the image of buckling walls and rising waters.

They ranged through the lower decks. Astor cajoled crewmen and stewards alike; Wells directed them to set up pathways to the boat deck above. Lured with Astor’s promise of a year’s wages and more, crewmen took down hastily assembled barricades. They set up perimeters, guiding the bewildered passengers through the warren of the third-class corridors. Everyone was issued a lifejacket.

There were Bostwick gates, required by immigration laws, closing off portions of E deck and below, but the barriers impeding the passage of those in steerage were more than mechanical. Many spoke no English; the majority of those who could had trouble reading the signs that led up to the waiting lifeboats. Stewards and maids cleaved their way among the thronging masses. Families refused to separate. Knots of men forced their way past protesting crewmen. The occasional pistol was brandished but the tide of terrified humanity swept away all in its path. They flooded the stairways. The crewmen fled their posts. The hallways emptied.

Astor turned to Wells and said, “I think we’ve done all that we can.”

Wells considered the vision that would greet them at the lifeboats. “I think we’ve done too much,” he replied. “Let’s go.”

Astor eyed him strangely but did not move.

“We have to leave now, Colonel.”

“My dog is still somewhere down here, in the kennels. I need to find her.”

Astor had done this before, in a previous existence. Wells wondered what drove him now.

“Best she stays down there, Colonel,” he said. “It will be swift. Merciful.”

“Nothing about tonight will be merciful,” Astor murmured.

“Good night, Colonel. Good luck.” Wells turned to leave.

Astor grabbed his arm. “I don’t know where they are. I don’t know how to get there from here.”

The walls and floor were still dry, yet already they radiated an icy cold. There wasn’t much time left.

Wells gazed at the man. Astor was spent. Ruined.

Don’t you know you’re already dead to me?

“The kennels are on F deck,” he said, finally. “Follow me.”

Cutting back across Scotland Road, they traversed the abandoned crew’s quarters. Wells led Astor down a metal stairway and beyond. Their serpentine trail opened into a dimly lit passage. The kennels lay ahead. Wells felt the carpet squelch underfoot with every step. He’d advanced halfway along the corridor when there was an insistent tap on his shoulder. Astor was pointing up.

He looked up to see a stain spread across the ceiling. Here and there, thick drops of black water spilled onto the carpet. He held out a hand, palm open. A large globule fell heavily onto his fingertips.

“The compartments above us must have flooded.”

Astor was wide-eyed as they reached the cargo-hold entrance. The door was secured by a heavy lock. They prised it open and stepped into an expansive, high-roofed compartment, illuminated by a series of bare light bulbs that dangled forwards like magnets drawn to a pole.

There was an intense stench, a riot of noise. Cries of distress echoed within the four walls as the assorted animals noted their arrival. They were packed into cramped pens that were lined with fouled newspaper. Bowls of food lay upturned, their contents spilt onto the grimy floor.

Astor made his way to a larger stall at the far end of the cargo hold, calling out for his dog in reassuring tones. A sharp yapping reply was chorused by the other animals. Within moments he returned, smiling triumphantly. Behind him padded a small wiry dog, its coat dappled in gold and black.

Wells began working on the other cages. Most of them were sealed with makeshift catches that opened easily. Soon the cargo hold was transformed into a menagerie: animals ran furiously around the room, snatching at portions of food and menacing each other.

The two men made for the doorway with some difficulty, trying to avoid the animals underfoot. Astor had his dog tucked up under an arm. Wells held open the door while Astor scurried past, pursued by a small horde that raced, barking, into the damp passageway.

Wells looked down to see rivulets of water escaping from the mottled carpet onto the metal floor. He heard a faint mewling sound. A scrawny ginger cat crouched behind him, backing away from the advancing puddle.

“Swift and merciful,” he murmured to himself.

He scooped it up in a single fluid motion. He considered breaking its neck.

“Hurry up,” Astor shouted from up the hallway.

The cat settled in his arms. He tucked it into one of his coat pockets. The door slammed behind him as he dashed up the corridor. Astor was waiting below the winding stair, his dog clasped firmly to his breast. Water spiralled down in a fountain of icy spray. Some of the dogs were milling around Astor’s feet; the rest had raced up the darkened corridor.

“Let’s go,” he cried and began climbing the stairs.

Wells followed at his heels, the dogs chasing them up the watery stair. At the top he saw Astor staring past him. Wells clambered up and turned to follow his gaze.

The crew’s quarters were awash. A dark tide ebbed and flowed at the stair landing. The water stretched out to the corridor’s ceiling in the distance, the roof lights casting an eerie illumination at their depths.

Wells clasped Astor’s shoulder and they turned to face the iron portal that opened onto Scotland Road. The dogs stood at the gate barking frantically. Astor got there first and held the gate wide open till the procession had passed through.

Wells ran up the hall, catching Astor at the foot of the stairway to D deck.

“After you,” Astor said.

“Do you know the way from here?”

Astor frowned. “Surely. But aren’t you coming?”

“I’ll see you on the boat deck.”

“If we miss each other tonight, we must catch up in New York.”

Wells was unable to match the man’s bravado. “That’s not going to happen, Colonel.”

Astor forced a smile. “Come, come. Things aren’t as dark as all that.”

They stood facing each other, the ship creaking and groaning about them.

“I’m afraid they are, Colonel,” Wells said. “You’re on my list. You don’t get to New York.”

Astor paled.

Wells reached out awkwardly with a free hand and grabbed Astor’s palm. “Goodbye.”

Astor stood momentarily, the dogs swarming about his heels. Finally he began to ascend the narrow stairs. The howling pack was his sombre entourage.

Wells started up Scotland Road towards the ship’s stern. He patted the warm bundle under his coat pocket, seeking reassurance. The axe was where he’d left it, cradled in the wooden case. He reached out to seize it by the shaft. Holding it in both hands, he gave it a few gentle swings. He walked up to the stairs to D deck, whistling a tune yet to be composed. At the foot of the stairs he heard a wailing marriage of screams and shouts. He concealed the axe along his flank and ascended.

The crewmen were gone. His arrival on the landing was greeted by a sudden upsurge in the clamour. The steerage passengers were crushing themselves against the newly constructed barricade. Men gripped the metal bars in blanched fists but the partition refused to separate from its solid frame.

Wells removed his coat and hung it on the banister. The crowds behind the barricade stared and fell quiet. The men at the front tried to force themselves backwards, only to be pushed forwards again by the agitated crowds.

“Please,” he said softly. “Everyone stand back.”

A small space opened up.

He raised the axe above his shoulder and swung it down in a mighty arc against one of the hinges. It buckled but held fast. The passengers renewed their anguished cries.

He lifted the axe a second time. It fell with a sharp crash, the hinge splintering wildly.

Before he could begin working on the other hinge, the passengers resumed rattling the metal bars. The barricade creaked forwards under the pressure. He stepped back, letting the axe fall to his side, and reached out to retrieve his coat.

The final hinge sundered with a heavy crack and the barricade slammed down onto the thinly carpeted floor. The steerage passengers surged through the doorway and up onto the second-class staircase. He leaned against the opposite wall and took his cigarettes from a coat pocket. He lit one and watched the corridor empty. When he’d smoked the cigarette to his fingertips he let it fall to the floor. Wearily he began to ascend the second-class stairs for the last time.

Though he could hear the sounds of passengers in flight, the upturning of tables, the slamming of doors, Wells saw no one till he reached the aft boat deck entrance. He leaned out of the doorway, holding it for support. From where he stood he could see two lifeboats. With the ship’s pronounced tilt they hung well over the water. Thick ropes, stretched tight, secured them.