The Lost Prince (22 page)

Eleanor nodded. “That is what they say.”

As with many other times when Will Honeycutt was engrossed, he barely paused to see if his audience was listening. “Unless the giant whale strikes a glancing blow and the brittle steel tears open in a number of compartments. That would be a different story.”

“That would be quite a monstrous whale,” Eleanor said.

“Right. But there is another ship, the sister
Olympic,
say, or any ship, even a small one. The massive object strikes a glancing blow; the frozen steel now brittle from the cold, the rivets compromised also from the extreme cold, rends, tears open three or four compartments; they flood, tilt the ship; the remaining compartments flood; and there you have it—the ship is doomed.”

“But what are the chances of two ships colliding in the open ocean?”

“Not much, but there is the example of the
Republic
.”

“Remind me,” Eleanor said. “I remember only a bit of the story.”

“The
Republic
of the very same White Star Line, same as your ship. And also, like your ship, built by Harland and Wolff in Belfast, and lost off Nantucket, rammed by another ship in heavy fog in 1909. An ‘all stations’ distress, CQD, call was issued on the new Marconi radio device, the first such broadcast ever recorded. It stayed afloat until all passengers were removed, then it sank, in two hundred and fifty feet of water. At the time, the
Republic
was one of the largest and most luxurious liners afloat, though she was designed more for safety and sturdiness, they said, rather than beauty. It happens.” He paused and thought. “But it is still highly unlikely.”

“But it could happen again.”

“Highly unlikely. But you asked me what would sink the unsinkable ship. It’s a theoretical question, I assume.”

“Of course.” She nodded. “So it is unlikely?”

Will Honeycutt paused again. “Another ship, an anarchist’s bomb, a rocky shoal—which is hard to imagine—an enemy torpedo, or an iceberg. But since we’re not at war, and since a large luxury liner is an unlikely target for anarchists, I’d rule out the bomb and the torpedo.”

This took her a moment to absorb. “Fog, crowded sea lanes, a glancing blow from another ship?” she said suddenly. “How do you deduce such things?”

“What else is there?” Will Honeycutt said in conclusion. “This is scientific analysis, remember?”

So Will Honeycutt, having already done a good deal of research and speculation, wrote an article for the
New England Maritime Quarterly
entitled “How the Unsinkable Would Sink,” not referring to the great ship specifically, but making clear the implication. The editor wrote him back and thanked him for the “well-thought-out submission” but noted that its grandiose conjectures were too wild and too demoralizing to print in a serious maritime magazine.

Then a few months later Will Honeycutt rushed to her with a copy of the
Boston Globe
. “Look at this,” he said excitedly. “The
Olympic
. That is the sister ship of your
Titanic,
the one about to be launched.” The article described how the
Olympic,
the largest ship in the world, had been rammed off the coast of Southampton and a huge hole rent in the stern. “It didn’t sink,” Will said. “Why? Because of the engineering, the compartments. That’s why. That’s the unsinkable part.”

“It must be reassuring to the White Star Line.”

“Yes,” Will said. “But it wasn’t the glancing blow I described, and it was not in freezing water. The steel held. The ship remained upright. In my scenario, remember, the offending ship grazes the side and tears into four or five of the supposedly sealed compartments. That would be an entirely different story.”

“Still improbable? Are you changing your opinion?”

“Absolutely not. It is still the highest of improbabilities,” Will said distinctly. He looked at her suspiciously. “Are you predicting something here?” he said.

“Oh my, no,” she said quickly, cringing for a moment. “Nothing as sure as that.”

“Good,” Will Honeycutt said. “Because if you were predicting, with your record, I would want to tell Jesse Livermore immediately. He would want to place a large wager on it.”

A MOST AUSPICIOUS MEETING

S
ecretly, almost obsessively, Eleanor kept track of all the details of the launch in Ireland of this monstrous ship whose fate she knew, its elaborate outfitting, and the proposed sailing date, one eagerly awaited now by all of America and Europe. The
Titanic
would sail on its magnificent maiden voyage on April 10, 1912.
How,
she ran through her head over and over,
could
such a ship ever be sunk, especially on the maiden voyage?
This bit of foretelling seemed so improbable as to cause her doubt about the accuracy of all information in the journal. If this one predicted event did not happen, which seemed now highly likely, what then? And if it did happen, what an awful tragedy that would be, one she perhaps could have prevented.

And what of the supposed warning of J. P. Morgan? He was only the wealthiest, most powerful, and most easily recognized man in America. In 1912, at seventy-five years old and near the end of his life, he still wielded power and majesty, the mighty Zeus of the banking world. Although he was often seen publicly in New York and Europe, he was very difficult to see privately. For any ordinary mortal, getting any sort of message to him would indeed be a difficult, virtually impossible, task. Was she really supposed to warn him not to sail on his own magnificent luxury ship?

But with this as with many other events over a lifetime, Eleanor knew she must. She had no choice. So, in the winter of 1912, she began with Will Honeycutt. “I have an assignment for you,” she said with the kind of
seriousness he had come to expect. “I need to meet with Pierpont Morgan.”

“Impossible,” Will said without thinking. “Why would he meet with a mortal such as you?” And then, seeing the determination on her face and adjusting, he changed to “I will begin working on it.”

And a few days later he came back to report that Jesse Livermore had been an invaluable help, with his connections on Wall Street. “It is nigh unto impossible, but there is a chance. You will probably get nowhere with your efforts, but I know what you are like when you set your mind to a task, and if anyone could make it happen it would be you.” And he laid out for her the details of what Jesse Livermore suggested.

She began exploiting that slight chance with a letter, not asking for an appointment, but announcing rather that she would be in his office on a Monday morning, a moment her research told her he would be in residence. Admitting to a great deal of nervousness that she hoped she was able to conceal, she arrived and announced her presence and sat in a reception area for well over half an hour before an assistant, a short, slight, neatly dressed man with slicked-back hair and a rather large mole on his cheek, came out to state with dismissive formality that Mr. Morgan was not available. She handed over a letter. “Please deliver this to Mr. Morgan,” she said confidently. “This is for his consideration only. It is an extremely private and an extremely urgent matter.”

The letter introduced her as the representative of the Hyperion Fund, a name that would perhaps—because of the whole Northern Pacific business—resonate with members of the Morgan camp. In it she said, “I have personal knowledge of an extremely confidential nature to share with you and you alone.”

One more hour passed before the assistant returned. “A representative from Mr. Morgan will see you,” he said.

“But I must see Mr. Morgan himself,” she said.

“Be grateful for what you receive,” he said solicitously, turning to escort her. “This is very much closer than most people get.” And he ushered her into an inner wood-paneled room that looked very much like the library where Mr. Morgan met from time to time with important men of finance to browbeat them into seeing things his way. She sat for what must have been twenty minutes, although her heart was racing so that recalling accurate time was a near impossibility.

After whatever time had passed, a side door opened and a man walked in. He was almost like a shadow, sliding soundlessly across the carpet with a surprising suppleness and grace, approaching the chair where she sat. Suddenly, Eleanor found herself looking into the face of the most powerful and most intimidating man she had ever met.

She rose and extended her hand. “Mr. Morgan,” she said, struggling mightily to look him square in the eye, “I am honored to meet you.” She had prepared well, yet still found herself nonplussed in the presence of this Olympian figure. He was a large man, a “whale of a presence,” as a United States senator had once called him. The boldest of men were likely to become humble under his piercing gaze, she had heard, the imperious ground to humility. And she knew to expect the nose.

J. P. Morgan’s rosacea, a condition in which certain facial blood vessels enlarge, had given him the most unsightly and bulbous outcropping of a nose, about which he was very sensitive. She had prepared herself to take not even the slightest notice of the ugly protuberance, and somehow she held fast and made sure that her eyes did not budge from his, as if looking into the most handsome face in the world.

“You have something you deem very important to tell me,” he said coldly, his eyes taking in her full presence. She had heard that Mr. Morgan would grant an audience with some ease but that the recipient had better have something significant to offer.

“I do,” she said. “A matter of great importance. I feel it my duty.”

“Well, you may now perform that duty.” Morgan gave a barely noticeable smirk and waited. “You may have noticed that you have my full attention.”

“You may know that the Hyperion Fund I represent made some dramatic predictions,” she said, and now she waited. “If you will remember, our fund predicted the Northern Pacific corner and the crash of 1907.”

“The Hyperion Fund,” Morgan repeated noncommittally, nodding to signal that he knew exactly her reference.

“Yes, the Hyperion Fund.” She continued with confidence, positive Mr. Morgan had done his research before admitting her to his inner sanctum. “Discretion is of utmost importance, I am sure you realize. I do not wish any of this known. In fact, I come here at great risk to the privacy of my fund. But what only you may know, a fact most urgently protected, is that it is I alone who have made the predictions.”

“You, Mrs. Burden?” Morgan said, eyeing her with suspicion.

“I know,” she said. “It is in your experience unlikely for a woman. I know certain details of the future. And I know something about you that you must accept and must act upon.”

Morgan, a man not accustomed to hearing “you must” in his presence, gave a small harrumph but did not turn away, allowing his guest to continue.

“It regards your ship the
Titanic
. I know you are planning to be on board for its luxurious maiden voyage.” Morgan nodded ever so slightly. “I know that you have built for yourself and those who travel as your guests a most beautiful stateroom. Well, I have traveled from Boston just to tell you this.” She paused, taking a breath, her eyes still fixed on his. “If you sail on that voyage, you will die.”

There followed a most awkward silence. For the first moment, the famous J. P. Morgan reacted. “Good lord, madam. What on earth causes you to say that? Are you suggesting some anarchist on shipboard?”

“It is just fact, Mr. Morgan. And it is my role to warn you of it as directly as possible, not to describe to you how it will happen.”

Morgan thought for a long moment. “If I do not sail on this voyage, I will never know what might have befallen me.”

“You will know,” she said emphatically. “You will know and you will be grateful for the warning.”

“And—”

“When you know,” she said, “you must promise me that before the voyage and then after it you will hold this information in the greatest confidence. If you discover that what I say is true, then you will tell no one.” She paused. “Ever.”

“If I do not sail with the ship and if nothing manifests itself, what then?”

She said nothing for a moment, her eyes not moving from his. “If nothing manifests itself, then you may do with me and my information as you will.” She paused, considering her words, her eyes still not faltering.

“You are a startlingly convincing woman, Mrs. Burden.” The powerful man was accustomed to using unsettling candor to his advantage.

Eleanor did not flinch. She stood her ground, and her response was near instantaneous. “My purpose here is to be convincing, Mr. Morgan.”

“After the forthcoming voyage we will perhaps meet again.”

“Perhaps,” she said, releasing him from her gaze. “But if what I say manifests itself, as you say, then there will be absolutely no follow-up to this conversation. Can I be assured of that?” Mr. Morgan did not budge, which Eleanor interpreted as permission to proceed.

She softened. “You will see that I come to you at great risk,” she said, “and with confidence—well founded I hope—that none of this will leave this room. You must promise me that you will keep my secret.”

J. P. Morgan gave another harrumph and only the slightest nod that might have been construed as the sole affirmation Eleanor was going to get. With a kind of suddenness, the door through which she had entered opened, and the assistant with the mole appeared and stood formally while Mr. Morgan finished. “And now, Mr. Prescott will see to your needs.” The great whale of a man stepped forward and shook Eleanor’s hand, and he turned and left.

The assistant showed her to the reception area. “That is longer than most people get,” he said, still solicitous, aware of the unusual nature of her appearance without an appointment. “Under the circumstances.” She thanked him for his kindness and left the Morgan office. It was not until she was out on the street hailing a cab that she realized she was shaking and felt positively ill.