The Company of the Dead (83 page)

“Indeed, and how do you hope to clean the ledger of your misdeeds?” Her tone was somewhat playful.

“With this.” He held up the letter. “The thing is, I need to have this sent off ship.” He made his face a mask of discouragement. “And, unfortunately, I’m not certain how to accomplish that.”

“That
would
seem to be a dilemma. I see that you have no stamps, and you will have a hard time finding a postal box before we reach New York.”

“The wireless room, Marie. I intend to have this sent as a Marconigram, but I don’t know how to deliver it safely.”

She crossed her arms and lowered her head, presenting him with the wide brim of her hat. “If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting, I assure you that I am no accomplice to criminals, sir.”

“Of course not,” he protested. “I envisioned you more as a saviour.” He didn’t need to work at the sincerity of his declaration.

“It all hinges on this then?” she asked, glancing at the letter. Her look became almost eager.

“You can’t imagine how much so.”

“Who is it to be sent to?”

He pointed to the destination. The message itself was concealed beneath a fold of paper.

“Why, this is intended for another ship.”

“I have friends aboard her. Friends who may be able to assist me in clearing the record.”

“I see,” she responded. “There is much more to you than meets the eye, Mr Wells.”

He offered a mock bow. His relief was a spring of the purest joy welling up within him. “I try, ma’am.”

She snatched the letter from his hand and placed it within the pages of her book. “Where are you going now?”

“I need to ... lie low, as they say.” Catching her look, he added, “Until this message has been acknowledged and acted upon.”

She smiled, glanced at his clothing, and said, “I
do
hope that you are better attired for our luncheon.”

“Marie, if you deliver this successfully, I assure you that I’ll greet you in white tie and tails.”

“I shall hardly recognise you.”

The sound of returning passengers filtering into the Palm Court brought back all his fears. “Tomorrow then,” he said quickly, doffing his cap.

She smiled. “Perhaps even earlier. Good day, sir. I have an appointment to keep in the wireless room.”

She vanished up the stairs.

People began to file past, and he was already receiving some curious looks from the attendants in the Palm Court. There would be little chance of gaining one of the lifeboats undetected now. He descended to third class with hasty steps. The memory of an earlier incident had sparked an idea.

Kennedy inspected himself in the mirror. His figure cut an incongruous image within the splendour of the stateroom. By starlight he would have no trouble navigating the decks.

He removed the uniform and selected a suit from his wardrobe, then packed a few items in his trunk. Patricia’s photograph lay on top of a stack of folded clothes. He placed it in his shirt pocket.

It was late afternoon and the Atlantic had already assumed the flat and smooth aspect of a lake. Morgan had assured him that the only commotion the ocean would see tonight would be the ship’s death throes. He’d expanded on the subject, detailing the bodies in the water. Their cries, ignored by those in the lifeboats, would remain to echo throughout eternity. It was Morgan’s last attempt to play devil’s advocate. A half-hearted attempt to test their resolve.

Kennedy had been unable to picture it. All he saw were his ghost dancers, silent among the sands. All he considered were the accounts of those who’d facilitated his journey back. If they were right, eternity itself might be numbered in hours.

He left the cabin and went to join the others in the first-class smoking room. He checked the day’s postings. As Morgan had predicted, they’d made five-hundred-and-forty-six miles in the last day. He stood for a while among the gathering passengers, impatient for the gleanings of post-luncheon hearsay. All talk centred around the pace the ship had set. Some spoke about the meal, some complained about the weather. They had no fucking idea.

Morgan and Doc arrived together. They wore heavy coats over their attire. They were due to start their watch at sixteen-hundred hours. He led them out to the promenade deck. It may have already grown colder.

“I tried to inspect the lifeboats,” Morgan said. “No go. Wells would have a hard time concealing himself up on the boat deck. Those boats are sealed up tight.”

“I did a round of the lounges,” Doc said. “I checked with the pantries and all the restaurant staff I could find. No food has gone missing.”

“Good,” Morgan said. “He’ll be hungry and tired. He won’t be thinking straight.”

“No, by now he’ll have found a berth in second class or steerage,” Kennedy said. “He’ll have a full stomach and have slept like a baby. This guy thinks he’s on a righteous crusade.”

“But he doesn’t know what we know, and there’ll be no convincing him,” Doc said. He sounded a little mournful.

“Well, would you take a look at that.” Morgan was peering towards the bow of the ship.

Ismay was there, conversing with a young couple. They all watched as Captain Smith made his way aft and stopped to talk to the small group. Smith handed Ismay a folded sheet of paper. Ismay pocketed it with barely a glance.

Morgan snorted.

“What?” Doc asked.

“Looks like we get to watch while Wells misses his last golden opportunity. That was an ice warning, from the
Amerika
or the
Baltic
, I’m not sure which. Ismay is going to keep that little message all to himself. One more nail in the coffin.”

Smith had continued his progress, and was making his way towards them. He might have been heading for the well deck. They stood aside, and Kennedy averted his glance. He caught Morgan eye-fucking the captain.

He gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs and whispered, “Behave, Darren. He’s dead in twelve hours.”

Morgan snarled back through gritted teeth, “Maybe so, Major, but I’m not too pleased about being dragged along for the ride.”

Smith gave them an absent nod and disappeared beyond the Palm Court.

Kennedy said, “Gentlemen, you know the plan. I’ll be back on deck at seven. I want one of you snatching some rest at all times. We need to be as fresh as possible for tonight.” He put a hand on the railing. “And try to find yourselves somewhere warm.”

He went below to check in with the firemen standing watch over the engine rooms. Morgan had urged that Wells would be subtle, that sabotage was out of the question, but
nothing
was impossible just because it was improbable.

Besides, he could always put some of the crewmen to better uses.

It was colder than Wells could have imagined. The aft funnel had been designed as a ventilator shaft rather than a smokestack; erected more for show than function. The gusts that drifted up from below provided only the barest warmth. He was perched on a ladder just beneath the lip of its opening. He watched the stars sail past the lids of its metal eye, measuring the moments until he could act.

He’d lifted the idea from a stoker who’d given more than a few people a scare back at Queenstown. The crewman had surfaced, coal-smeared, from the funnel’s brim and waved at the passengers. His sour joke, once recalled as an ill portent for the journey, would hopefully be recast as a humorous anecdote once they had safely arrived in New York.

The
Californian
must have received his warning long hours ago. Should the worst occur, they wouldn’t shut down their wireless set at eleven-thirty-five, thus missing word of the disaster. They wouldn’t confuse the distress rockets with a celebration. And they
would
arrive with ample time to take on all the passengers.

Should the worst occur.

He brought the binoculars to his eyes and stared up at the night sky. He went through all the settings. The stars glittered back at him, clearer; resonating his own sparkle of anticipation.

He’d never dreamt that his desires would be so hard won. That he’d be contending with men from another time, content to see the ship doomed. It made the struggle all the more worthwhile. After all, nothing worth having was ever gained simply. He’d be back and warm in his third-class bunk by midnight.

He bided his time, filling the hours with his own studied recollection of the events. White-tie dinner served in the first-class saloon, fresh daffodils on white linen, while Wallace Hartley and his band provided the entertainment. He pictured the decks, clearing one by one as passengers sought the warmth of their cabins and lounges. The ocean, calm and black, and only barely disturbed by the ship’s passage.

The iceberg would be seen long minutes before it posed any danger. The wireless warnings would be reviewed and the
Titanic
would follow a safer, more reasonable course; through the ice and beyond.

Finally, he climbed down, prised open the metal plate, gaping slightly where the stoker had loosened it, and emerged from the funnel’s ash ejector onto the boat deck at nine-thirty. The lookouts would soon be due to change shift. He needed to intercept Lee or Fleet, the two crewmen assigned to the ten o’clock shift. They’d be standing close by the gantry of the crow’s nest.

He crossed the engineers’ promenade, hugging the boiler casing of number two funnel. He concealed himself within the deckchair storage area as a crewman ambled by. He waited for long moments before dashing across the length of the first-class promenade, skirting the lifeboats.

No one was in sight.

He raced down the two flights of stairs to the forecastle. Two men stood beneath the lofty rigging of the foremast. He examined them carefully. Most of the lights had been turned down to aid the lookouts. There was no moon and the stars offered little ambience to the chilly night. In the distance, they strode the horizon.

Nothing moved over the empty expanse of the deck.

One of the crewmen had sighted him, and both appeared to be gazing in his direction. Mustering his excuses, he fought the urge to flee. They lost interest, turning away to complete some exchange before separating. Wells gave the deck a final survey. Kennedy and his men had to be close by. It was a matter of acting now or finding himself a seat in one of the lifeboats.

He drew a deep breath and approached the crow’s nest.

“Mr Fleet?”

The crewman nodded, stamping his feet.

“A cold night.”

“Aye, sir. And it’s going to get colder.”

“I believe it’s your watch.”

Fleet nursed a steaming mug of coffee. He nodded between mouthfuls.

Wells withdrew the binoculars from beneath his shirt. “I’ve been asked by Mr Andrews to supply you with these.”

Fleet’s eyes widened at the shipbuilder’s name. Since leaving Southampton four days ago, Thomas Andrews had busied himself about the vessel, attending to minor design flaws and overseeing last-minute repairs. Wells hoped that the delivery of these binoculars would be seen as merely another example of Andrews’ attention to detail.

The crewman turned them over in his hands, studying them in admiration. The binoculars were remarkably compact and extremely light by comparison with the standard issue.

Drop them
, Wells thought,
and I drop you over the side, fucker.

His pulse was racing now. He realised he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly. “They’re German,” he said.

Fleet seemed to find the explanation satisfactory. Wells detailed the function of each mechanism, and watched closely as the crewman put the binoculars to his eyes, making sure that the device had been mastered.

“Worth a pretty price, these,” Fleet marvelled.

Wells had made enough transactions in the past few hours. “Just keep a sharp watch, Mr Fleet. Good night.”

The other crewman was returning.

Wells thought he caught a stir of movement among the capstans. He withdrew from the forecastle with hasty steps. It was now only a question of selecting his vantage. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the iceberg as they passed. Someone had to bear witness to Fate’s defeat and it would make a peaceful coda to the evening.

He had two hours to kill. He needed to stay out of sight until then.

He worked his way aft to the second-class promenade. A shadow, lurking by the Café Parisien, might have been Gershon. Wells stole into the second-class smoking room and secured himself in the lavatory. He locked the door. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he began to chuckle. It had come to this.

Occasionally someone would knock on the door. He murmured his excuses and kept an eye on his watch. The lounges would be clearing shortly. The stewards would turn down the lights in the public rooms, hoping to encourage their patrons to retire for the night. The ship would sail on, undaunted, into a new dawn.

His thoughts returned to the girl.

Unescorted women crossing the ocean to visit family and friends were frequently given protection by gentlemen sharing the expedition. Marie had asked him for just that on the first night of the voyage. His acceptance, tempered by his incomplete knowledge of her place on the list, had been desultory. He could make up for that now.

Today she’d accused him of neglect. She would never know the extent of his protection. He had taken all of the passengers into his keeping. All of the crew. If Kennedy and his men slept safe this night, they would have no one else to thank.

It was cold.

He hugged his coat to himself and stepped out into the darkened room. He climbed back up to A deck and approached the starboard railing. His hair lay damp against his beaded brow. His reddened eyes blinked and watered in the frigid air. The strains of a Strauss waltz rose from somewhere behind him, a low, soft melody that was swiftly surrendered to the night.

I’m entering uncharted waters
, he thought
. Hic sunt dracones.

The magnitude of his undertaking began to dawn upon him. Tentatively he placed both hands on the ship’s rail. It was one final test of reality, one final test of faith. Cold steel retaliated with teeth of ice. He held his grip till the burn of it receded to numbness.