Titanic 2012

everyone aboard who answers to me are to be silent on the rantings of that awful woman and to speak no more of it, understood?”

“Yes, sir… understood.”

“And Charles…” Smith added, a hand waving birdlike, “I will hear no gossip among the crew or the black gang at the furnaces.”

Lightoller felt a smidge emboldened since Smith used his first name, a sign the old man liked him regardless of his bumbling. “Sir, then will you hear of a missing man among the stokers?”

“A missing man? What missing man?”

“Aye, sir, Alfred Davenport.”

“Sounds like the name of a sofa,” joked Wilde, who was at Titanic’s giant, shining wheel. The bridge was made of the most expensive mahogany paneling and all metal surfaces were gold plated, often reflecting sunlight so powerfully as to blind a man.

“We can’t have already lost a man over the side, can we?” asked Smith. “Are all the life boats and collapsibles accounted for?”

“They are, sir,” replied Lightoller, biting his lip.

“Speak your mind, Charles.”

“All accounted for sir—what few there are.” One of Lightoller’s many responsibilities included overseeing the lifeboats in the event they were needed, for which he took a terrible ribbing. He also oversaw the boarding of all supplies from the bakers’ flour to binoculars, gun stores to medical and foodstuffs along with various other supplies—at least in the loading. A chore that young, Junior Officer Boxhall was assigned as backup.

“What do you know of this missing man?” asked Captain Smith.

“The one they call Burnsey, sir?”

“No… I hear of a second missing man.”

“Oh, yes, well… the older fellow, another of the stokers.”

“What is the word on this fellow?”

“The other black gangmen, sir, they say he was there one minute, working away at his shovel, the next gone.”

“This is the Davenport fellow you spoke of earlier, Charles?”

“Davenport, Alfred, yes sir. Some said he’d gone toward the rear of the ship, others thought he’d gone up to the next deck. That he’d been boasting he’d met a girl up there in steerage.”

“But they’re restricted to the lower depths and their quarters, aren’t they? Did they get those orders, Mr. Lightoller?”

“Aye, sir, they did, but some say this chap didn’t always obey orders.”

“They are the Black Gang, sir,” added Wilde with a shake of the head.

Lightoller quickly added,” And there was a dance going on in lower class, lots of drink, music, and women, you see.”

“Temptations abound,” said Wilde.

“So he’s lying drunk somewhere on board is he?” asked Smith, his tone dripping of disgust.

“Likely asleep atop some wench,” commented Wilde from the wheel.

“We think so, but perhaps he’s fallen under the spell of a woman, sir,” Lightoller had to agree with Wilde. “Black Gang fellas live a rough life, and they act as if there’s no tomorrow, sir.”

“Damn it all. What else can happen to slow us down?”

“Actually, sir,” Lightoller began, grimacing, “there’s a coal fire burning away in one of the furnace rooms.”

“What? My God. What happened? This day! I wish I could turn it back!” Smith stomped about in a small circle. “Bother.” He ended in his usual calmness, the picture of neatness and stoicism in his uniform.

“Coal for the furnace ignited—we suspect one of those spontaneous ignitings that occur from time to time, sir, “Lightoller volunteered. “Something to do with the chemical combustion, natural processes. It’s beyond me, but as they chuck out the coal, the embers will be found and extinguished—of that you can be sure.”

“So what’s being done?” asked Smith.

“Can’t do anything but close off the section, which shuts off two auxiliary furnaces in that area, sir.”

“Why am I just hearing of this now? You realize this means we can never get her up to 24 knots.”

“Well sir, I do sir, yes, but the firemen have had no luck with it; bloody smoke—pardon me language, sir—the smoke is too thick.”

“I see.”

“Some believe Davenport may be inside there—choked to death, sir.”

“Her maiden voyage and she’s fast becoming a ragged whore,” muttered Smith to no one in particular. “An expensive as hell whore but a whore, nonetheless.”

TWENTY SEVEN

Belowdecks, Constable Alastair Ransom, Declan Irvin, and Thomas Coogan looked over their shoulders and worked to catch a breath amid the crowd of second class passengers who strolled about the steerage deck, many at the portals that ran along every bulkhead; on this deck there were areas open to the sea at stern and bow but not elsewhere, not like the promenades of first class overhead. As a result, the over-booked, crowded lower decks made for a good place to hide in plain sight and with their clothes and appearance, the detective and the interns fit right in, so much so that it was unlikely they’d be recognized by anyone but those who had acted as their jailers, primarily Murdoch, Lightoller, and two crewmen.

The trio made their way to the aft open deck, all of them feeling ambivalent at this point over their latest decision; they’d been given the opportunity to gracefully exit from Titanic—an escape rather. They could have done so by getting off at Queenstown with the lady that their jailers were laughing about, someone named Mrs. Krizefieldt, her bird, her belongings, and her husband. It would have been so easy to have thrown up their hands and just left, but Alastair was not having any of it. He’d encouraged the boys to do just that—go along peacefully with the burly but unarmed pair of crewmen escorting them and find their way back home to Belfast, return to school, get their education, meet wonderful future wives, have children—lots of them—and a practice as surgeons, hell… just live a long and prosperous life. When they’d first got word of the captain’s plan to set them ashore in Queenstown they’d discussed it there in their cell. They had but moments to decide, so Alastair decided for them. “You two go along peaceably… get to the top deck and follow Captain Smith’s orders. This is a death ship. Save yourselves.”

Declan had asked, “What about you?”

“I’m going to make a break for it, try to uncover this thing aboard the way we uncovered it back in Belfast, rub Smith’s face in it so that he will understand that this thing is real, and that it is freely operating aboard his ship, killing as it goes, and—”

“What’re you bloody going on about, guv’ner?” asked one of the jailers who’d come to escort them to the waiting lifeboat Murdoch had told them about. Alastair turned away from his fellow prisoners and addressed both jailers. “We’ve tried to warn your captain; there’s a horrible plague aboard this ship that’s already killed one man that we know of… died a horrible death right here before our eyes last night. Man was mad with it, clawing his way into the cage to get at us, and this thing is attempting to reproduce itself here now aboard Titanic.”

“It’s the black plague and smallpox combined!” declared Declan, rushing the barred door.

It was all the two superstitious sailors needed to hear. It shook these men to their core to hear the word plague aboard.

“Are ye not missing two fellow crewmen?”

“No, we’re not!”

“Stokers—two of the black gang’ve disappeared!” insisted Ransom.

“Isn’t it true?” asked Declan.

“Are there not two men gone from among you?” shouted Thomas, hands raised.