The watch that ends the.., p.14
The Watch That Ends the Night, page 14
FREDERICK FLEET THE LOOKOUT
Me job as lookout allowed me to watch
all kinds of people: poor, well off, and bloody rich.
The ladies and gents who’s got money
can be just as unhappy as thems that go without.
Take me nest mate, Lee. All the money in England
couldn’t bring back all he had lost on accounta his drinkin’.
Oh, he finally did stop, but by then it was too late.
A life is a lot like a steamer that way:
you can cut the engines, but the big ship
will take her own sweet time ’fore she’ll come to a stop.
And by then you’ve most likely hit the rocks.
I can see, even without binoculars,
how Titanic’s crew ain’t so different from the passengers.
And how the first-class passengers ain’t so different
from the second-class or the third. They all use the loo.
They all go in to dinner. They all laugh and cry.
They all have a future. They all have a plan.
They all hold hands with their little ones.
I’m a professional watcher, you see.
I’m not always so good with words.
But I can tell a lot about people
just by watching them going about their day.
And from where I sits in the crow’s nest,
a rich man and a poor man looks equally small.
BRUCE ISMAY THE BUSINESSMAN
“Let us drink to the mighty Titanic.”
So said the good doctor O’Laughlin
over dinner in the first-class saloon.
He joined me for dinner frequently,
as did Captain Smith and Mr. Andrews.
Tonight I had the lamb (with mint sauce) and a good cabernet.
Andrews had a glass, too. The doctor had a few.
The good captain had nothing to drink at all
and toasted Titanic with simple water.
“Let us drink to the mighty Titanic.”
It seemed a simple gesture, yet in my eyes, it meant the world.
For I couldn’t help but feel that they were raising their glasses to me.
I had been opposed at first to the forced merger
of White Star with J. P. Morgan’s shipping conglomerate.
But I looked ahead and saw the danger awaiting us if we were to refuse.
White Star was not prepared to survive
the inevitable price war that would follow.
So rather than endure the defeat of handing over
my father’s family business to the Americans,
ten years later I was aboard the largest, most celebrated
ship in the world. Not a Cunard ship. But a White Star ship.
A ship that I envisioned and built.
So perhaps you will excuse me if I toasted with too much zeal.
We had sailed through turbulent and unpredictable waters,
and before us it looked like smooth sailing at last.
It seemed the danger had finally passed.
“Hear, hear. To the mighty Titanic!”
JOCK HUME THE SECOND VIOLIN
The Saturday evening orchestral concert had come to a close.
Passengers clapped politely and began to drift off.
After a long day of playing for both first and second classes,
I was still no closer to choosing between my two violins.
The Eberle was easy to play, with a rich, full tone in general.
And it had an E string that shone out like a star.
The Guadagnini’s string response was immediate and clear,
from whispering pianissimo to robust fortissimo.
Neither instrument produced nasty wolf tones.
Both were as finely constructed as the Titanic herself:
with inlaid purfle along the edges to discourage cracks.
A crack that opens up in a violin can kill the tone
just as a crack in a ship’s hull can kill everyone aboard.
All day I did my best to allow each instrument to speak.
Swept up as I was in my passion to hear each violin’s voice,
I may have embellished a “number” or two, or maybe more.
Needless to say, the celebrated White Star orchestra leader
was not pleased with my “excessive musical tangents.”
Mr. Wallace Hartley, as you know, never fails to cross his t.
“Mr. Hume, believe me,” Wally said as we packed up to leave
the first-class reception room.
“I know the importance of choosing a life instrument.
But while aboard Titanic, I want you to consider this instrument as well.”
With that he produced a pair of scissors from his pocket.
“A scissors?” I said.
“Next time you are tempted to add notes
to the company numbers, remember my scissors.
If you fail to cut out the extra notes,
I promise you, I will cut out a portion of your paycheck.”
It was a bit dramatic, yet I must admit it got my attention.
Money is a constant worry, and I need it
to pay for whichever violin I choose. Plus, of course,
my father relies on me sendin’ my bit to Dumfries to help out.
Soon I’ll have Mary and a little one to feed.
And no, I can’t afford to just keep both instruments.
All told, I was in debt nearly four hundred pounds.
I would have to sail across the Atlantic a hundred times to make it up!
And of course I will have to sell the loser to help pay for the winner.
With Wally at every turn threatening to use his scissors,
I needed some other way of testing the two violins.
I needed to experience the full range of what these ladies could play.
I promised Wally that I’d behave myself,
at least during official White Star orchestra time.
But I never said anything about behaving myself on my own time.
So I decided I’d take the Signorinas Eberle and Guadagnini
on a little outing to an entirely different musical testing ground
called steerage!
GEORGE BRERETON THE GAMBLER
Our game of cards had resumed after dinner,
poker just for two in my private sitting room.
“Better make this the final hand, Lord Brayton,” Stengel said.
“Mrs. Stengel will be worried if I disappear for too long.”
“Cheers, old man,” I said. “Of course I didn’t notice the time.
We’ll make this the last hand. As you wish.”
I laid down two pair: two queens and two kings.
“I think I’ve finally got you now, Stengel,” I said.
Then he smiled and laid down a nice full house
and won the entire pot, about five hundred dollars.
Stengel seemed pleased and began to gather his winnings.
I stood to say my gracious good-bye, but then,
as if the idea had just come into my head, I said,
“How about double the pot on a single card?”
“How’s that?” Stengel asked. His interest was piqued.
“We each turn over one card. The low card wins.
Double the entire pot.” I tried to sound merry and impulsive.
Stengel hesitated.
“Of course you don’t want to risk it. I was being foolish,” I said.
I pretended to be embarrassed.
“No. Of course not, Lord Brayton,” Stengel stammered.
“I just don’t have that sort of cash. I’d have to write a check.”
“Of course, Mr. Stengel. I must apologize. A rude idea on my part.”
“Low card wins,” Stengel said with new resolve.
“Double the pot. Let’s give it a go!”
I even allowed him to shuffle the deck.
HAROLD LOWE THE JUNIOR OFFICER
As I stepped into the wheelhouse, reporting for duty,
the quartermaster at the wheel said,
“The Storm King didn’t earn his name
sailing in waters as still as this.”
Because of Captain Smith’s history of navigating
through some of the worst possible weather,
the newspapers had dubbed him the Storm King.
“No,” I said. “Crossing this calm isn’t bound to make the papers.”
The quartermaster, named Hichens, was a talker.
“I’m telling you,” he said, “something’s not right.
The weather is too quiet for this time of year.
It gives me the willies, it does.” He sounded ominous.
“Not to worry, Hichens,” I said. “Just enjoy the easy ride
while you’ve got it.” But in truth, I was spooked as well.
Although this was my first Atlantic crossing,
every sailor knew that April was a time for strong winds
and relentless rain squalls in these waters.
But as bitter and harsh as the winter had been,
it seemed that the spring was going to be just
as uncharacteristically warm and mild.
It was enough to give any sailor “the willies.”
I, for one, am most at home when the sea makes its presence known.
The rocking of a boat is like a lullaby to me.
I find it impossible to sleep in a dead calm.
So, as the sunlight slipped away, my only comfort
was the wind created by Titanic herself.
If not for this (and the vibrations of distant engines
speaking to me through the soles of my shoes),
I would have wondered if I was really on a ship at all,
or if I was just an apprentice,
in a safe and tidy little shop back in Wales.
GEORGE BRERETON THE GAMBLER
Our evening of gentlemanly wagers had come to this:
two cards would determine the winner.
Lowest card of the two earns double the pot.
Stengel is actually licking his lips. This is too good.
I turned over the first card: the king of hearts.
Stengel’s eyes lit up. I let out a convincing sigh.
Stengel turned over his own card next: the ace of spades.
This particular card had appeared many times
in Stengel’s hands within the past hour.
Now, however, the ace of spades did not evoke
Stengel’s usual whoop and sheepish grin.
“Tough break, old man,” I said. “And just at the very last.”
He tried his best to look nonchalant
as he opened his draft book, made out the check,
and signed his name: one thousand American dollars.
I noted the color, pretty pale-blue paper,
and I placed the check in my left jacket pocket.
“No hard feelings, then?” I said.
Stengel stammered, “Oh. Well. Of course . . .
no hard feelings. It’s all just part of the game, of course.”
But Stengel could not hide his drooping shoulders and heavy feet.
I had seen this sort of sorrow before. It stews for two hours,
maybe two days, and then it turns to anger. But by that time
I have usually made my exit — at least when I’m on land.
That’s why, at just the last minute, I cleared my throat,
and I said, “I’ll tell you what, Stengel. Hold on just a moment.”
And without further fanfare, I removed the pale-blue check
from my jacket and ripped it up as Stengel watched in surprise.
Then in a dramatic improvisation that impressed even me,
I stepped into my private bathroom and flushed the shreds down the toilet.
Mr. Stengel and I were both laughing now.
My client had watched me tear up his check and flush it.
I said, “I don’t want you to think that I care about the money.
Our new friendship is worth much more to me.”
Our friendship will be worth much, much more, indeed.
Stengel shook my hand. He thanked me.
“Of course,” I said, “I don’t mean to imply that you need my charity.”
“Of course not,” Stengel said. “But thank you all the same.
You’ve made a kind and magnanimous gesture.”
And just to assure ourselves that the money did not matter,
we divided the final pot of cash into two equal portions.
Then “Good night, Lord Brayton,” said my client.
“Oh, please do call me by my Christian name: Andrew.”
“Very well, then, Andrew. See you tomorrow at dinner, I hope.”
Mr. Stengel left my cabin, whistling. I began to undress for bed.
I reached into my left jacket pocket and pulled out Stengel’s check.
His penmanship was firm. The script of a man in control.
Of course the check I had torn up and flushed had been a blank.
I always kept the blank light-blue checks in my left jacket pocket.
Had Stengel filled out a check on brown paper,
I would have placed it in my right jacket pocket, folded just so.
A gray check would have gone into the pocket of my vest.
In fact I had blank checks of every imaginable color and size
placed in every pocket, as well as a cigarette case, a change purse, and a diary.
In this way I could appear to rip up nearly any check I was offered.
A client who saw me tear up what he thought was his check
wouldn’t think it necessary, once we reached port, to block payment.
In most cases I could leave my client’s bank with cash in hand
before the client had even gathered his luggage to leave the ship.
HAROLD BRIDE THE SPARK
Saturday night and my shift finally ended.
I got up and stretched as Phillips put on the phones.
I had barely kept pace with the deluge
of outgoing messages from first-class passengers
with money to spend on a whim.
Eileen. Have cut short our romp in Egypt. Helen gone on to London. Tell Lawrence Jr. Grandmother Margaret on the way. Mother.
-. . .-- ...
Enjoying rest. Love Adolphe.
-. . .-- ...
Meet Waldorf-Astoria Wednesday night. My treat. W. E. Carter.
-. . .-- ...
Dearest. Sea calm. Food delicious. Very busy here. Kiss for Miss Elizabeth. Tommy.
-. . .-- ...
Vincent. New York by Wednesday, 17. Honeymoon splendid. Pyramids still standing. Madeleine sends love. Good news to relate. Kitty accepted into Titanic’s Canine Society. Ha. Father.
I changed into pajamas and fell into a deep exhausted sleep,
only to be awoken by Phillips’s loud cursing.
Half dazed, I stumbled out of bed to find him bent over the apparatus.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I think it’s the damned condensers,” Phillips said.
“ The whole bloody system is down.”
To remove and examine the condensers was no simple task.
The clock read 11:00 P.M.
This promised to be a long night for Phillips.
“At least the passengers are turning in,” I said.
“There should be no more urgent messages to send.”
“Are you daft, old man?” Phillips laughed.
“What if Mr. and Mrs. Harper need to inform
the papers that their beloved mutt, Sun Yat-sen,
has just taken a midnight pee at sea?”
Phillips kept talking and laughing
as he set about removing the condensers.
“I can see the headlines now:
‘Titanic Canine Springs a Leak!’”
And I add:
“ ‘Pampered Pekingese Pooch Poops on the Poop Deck!’”
“Ha, ha, ha. Oh, well done, Bride,” Phillips said
as he launched into his work. “Well done, old man!”
OSCAR WOODY THE POSTMAN
Sort. Shuffle-shuffle. Slot. Shuffle-shuffle.
“Late night, Mr. March. What say we knock off?”
“Agreed, Mr. Woody. Let’s knock off for the night.”
Sort. Sort. Shuffle-shuffle. Slot. Shuffle-shuffle.
“I had a brother named John who died sorting mail,” says I.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. Woody,” says March.
“Of course, he was with the Railway Post,” I say.
March says, “I daresay that demands a moment of silence.”
“You’re right, of course, Mr. March. You are.”
Sort. Sort. Shuffle-shuffle. Slot. Shuffle-shuffle.
“Of course, it’s safer at sea than on railway,” I say.
“I daresay you’re right, Mr. Woody,” says Mr. M.
“Been sorting at sea almost two years now,” I say.
“I’m in my eighth year now myself,” says Mr. March.
Sort. Shuffle-shuffle. Slot. Shuffle-shuffle.
“I’ve been in seven sea disasters,” says Mr. March.
“Seven disasters? In seven years?” I say.
“Yes. I’m in my eighth year now,” says March.
“No disasters yet?” I say.
“Not yet, Mr. Woody. No, not yet.”
Sort. Sort. Shuffle-shuffle. Slot. Shuffle-shuffle.
“Of course, it is only April,” says Mr. March.
“Plenty of time, Mr. March,” I say.
April 23, 1912
TUESDAY
Aboard the cable ship Mackay-Bennett
ATLANTIC OCEAN
THE GRAND BANKS
715 MILES FROM HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA
JOHN SNOW
THE UNDERTAKER
More wreckage. More debris. More wasted humanity.
One sailor retrieves an empty jar of Lemco Concentrate:
“Serve hot with a biscuit to ward off seasickness.”
We run out of canvas, which defers our endless sea burials.
Tomorrow a delivery ship will bring more supplies.
Today’s many bodies will have to go on ice.
After coffee I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
While George, my assistant, enters descriptions into the log,
I open my box of instruments and set about embalming.
