Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom) Page 28

  “Oh, where are my manners?” the lady traveling with the Astors said, a surprisingly gabby aristocrat indeed, he thought now. “I am Edith… Edith Embler; I write a fashion column syndicated to the newspapers.”

  “I see.”

  “And you, sir?” She put up an umbrella to secure herself from the sun.

  “Oh… just a fellow traveler.” He had to swerve to avoid being struck by her umbrella.

  “One with a badge, I see.”

  He realized he’d revealed his badge when speaking to Lightoller and had forgotten about it until now. “You are quite observant.”

  “Are you the least bit worried, sir, about this platform toppling over? Do you feel that frightful current below our feet?” she asked.

  She was right, and more and more people aboard the tender that Declan had said was built for Olympic, were being shoved off their feet, despite a calm, glassine-looking surface. Some were knocked off their feet by the powerful draught that seemed bent on sucking anything too near Titanic into her hull.

  Edith Embler grabbed onto Ransom who’d steadied himself via the rail as did John Jacob Astor and his wife. Edith’s umbrella fell from her hand and was claimed by the sea. She shouted, “My word! Well… I mean a boat that can cause such upheaval and calamity from this distance? I mean in a sea so calm as this? Why it’s dangerous. I wish I’d gotten on the George Washington.”

  “Oh, please, Edie—we’d have missed you terribly had you left earlier,” replied Mrs. Astor.

  As they drew nearer Titanic, the groundswell of this invisible force below the pristine surface and below the platform welled up, shaking the tender violently, causing a collective gasp. Now with everyone aboard the half expecting to go under, holding onto anything stable, the tender reached Titanic and pounded her side with such force that Ransom feared the tender would be split in two. But somehow it all held, and crewmen waiting aboard Titanic at its cargo hold shouted, “Lower your anchors!” even as these men began lowering Titanic’s gangplank. At the same time, Lightoller rushed to the captain of the tender and pleaded that he drop all of his anchors into the water to steady her—and now.

  “Look at that, boys,” Ransom said to Declan and Thomas, pointing. Ten men on either side of the Titanic’s gangplank stood like sentinels to hold it in place and steady. Even so the gang-plank shook and swayed and eddied and flowed and pulled to one side then the next like an angry dragon being held against its will.

  Ransom and his party held back while cargo and passengers unsteadily moved across, and remaining behind with them stood Edith Embler, feet planted. She had waved the Astor’s off sometime before. Astor had taken his wife’s arm in his and with absolute aristocratic bearing, they had marched onto and across the enormous, moving metal floor which doubled as a cargo loading point above the waterline. Mr. and Mrs. Astor set the standard, and so Ransom worked at keeping his sea legs the whole while.

  The cargo and all others now across, Ransom offered Miss Embler his arm as Lightoller returned and said, “Please, ma’am, you must get on board, now or never.”

  “I want my bags returned, and I will not get on that ship, sir.”

  “Your bags could be anywhere by now, and we haven’t any more time to waste in France, Miss, please.”

  “I will help you across,” Ransom assured her.

  “I will not be bullied by either of you handsome men.”

  Lightoller then said, “All right, take another boat, but your luggage must remain.”

  “But my wardrobe… and besides, I have many orders and purchases for clients. Three thousand dollars worth of the latest in Paris fashion.”

  “It will be held for you in New York; we must cast off—orders from Captain Smith himself, ma’am.”

  “Well then… can I apply for insurance on my luggage?”

  “That’s ridiculous! This ship is unsinkable.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Miss Embler,” said Ransom. “You’d be best to take the next ship.”

  “Oh bother. Those bags are worth more than I am at this point; should I lose them, I lose all. I’d best remain with my purchases.” She took hold of Ransom’s arm and together they all finalized the boarding at Cherbourg, and the giant gangplank was lifted, and the tender moved off like an enormous tugboat, anxious to return to its moorings.

  At last inside Titanic, Ransom said good-bye to Edith and stepped aside to allow busy men dressed in well-starched white uniforms, signaling their status as kitchen staff supervisors overseeing the stocking of the gigantic pantry and cold storage, some shouting when a worker dropped a crate of ketchup that spread about the walkway like blood. Other kitchen staff moved about the crates, selecting tinned goods and loading up wheel-barrows full with wrapped baked bread, already planning for the next meal aboard Titanic. At the same time, all the lifts were full and taking passengers and cargo to the upper decks. A pair of pursers were busy making certain all voyagers aboard were pampered with clean linens, soaps, perfumes, and piles of foodstuffs.

  Lightoller passed off his duties here to a junior officer named Boxall. He then called out to Ransom to follow him, adding, “We’ll have to take the stairwell. I hope you appreciate the fact I’m abandoning my post for this. It’d better be legit, gentlemen.”

  The last Ransom saw of Edith was of her fearfully standing before one of the enormous elevators, tentative about stepping inside. He imagined her a wonderful lady and he feared for her and every man, woman, and child aboard Titanic.

  TWENTY TWO

  They could already feel Titanic shuddering as the anchor was being weighed, and like a mammoth being, she seemed to be anxiously trying to turn toward her final destination. Ransom silently cursed their luck; he’d hoped to get aboard soon enough to stop the ship here, but there did remain Queenstown, her last stop before going to New York. As soon as the gangplank stood upright and was secured, and Lightoller felt it safe to leave things in the hands of his junior officer, Ransom, Declan, and Thomas began the long climb up the stairwells and up through each of Titanic’s nine decks when Lightoller was stopped in his tracks by another officer who appeared to be his superior, asking, “What is it you’re about, Mr. Lightoller? Aren’t you supposed to be overseeing things below? That the Cherbourg cargo is battened down? And who is seeing to directing the new first class passengers to their staterooms?”

  “I think that would be Mr. Wilde, sir, when we’re at anchor.”

  “But we’re not at anchor, Mr. Lightoller.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Murdoch, sir.”

  “So it’s fallen to you to be guiding the second class passengers to their staterooms is it?” asked Murdoch, a handsome ship’s officer who placed up a hand to them, holding the trio in place, “Have you your tickets in order, gentlemen?”

  “These gents have requested to see Captain Smith, Mr. Murdoch.”

  Murdoch studied them with more focus now.

  “This is my ticket!” shouted Ransom, displaying his badge, its gold-plated surface gleaming even here in the corridor. “Deputy Constable Alastair Ransom, at your service, and these two lads are medical men, and we’re here to place a quarantine on this ship.”

  First Officer Will Murdoch stared at Ransom as if he were mad. “Quarantine? But all the bills have been paid, I assure you.”

  “Not a financial quarantine but a medical one, man. What is your name and rank?”

  “First Officer Murdoch, sir, but there is no medical problems aboard Titanic. I think you’re misinformed, Constable.”

  “We must see your captain; we must stop this ship’s voyage at once.”

  “They say a murderer has boarded the ship, Will,” Lightoller said to Murdoch. “And if it’s so, it must be reported to the captain, and every crewman aboard alerted to the appearance of the miscreant so as to hunt him down, slap him in irons, and put him off with these men in Queenstown.”

  “And here we are just finished boarding and are this minute weighing anchor,” began Murdoch, pacing a little, while pas
sengers on the promenade at this level went by unaware of the danger onboard. He ended by meeting Ransom’s eye. “I can’t believe this! I saw your ship approach us in Southampton, the schooner, but we had no idea. Why didn’t you wire us?”

  “Trinity has no Marconi shack—likely never will. Look at her,” he pointed to where the schooner rested alongside the pier. From the rail, each man took in Trinity’s beauty even with her sails furled. Murdoch began talking about his early days on a schooner class ship and how he missed those days. Then remembering himself, he said to Ransom, “And as for the distress flag, no one saw it in time.”

  “We assumed you people ignored it.” Ransom felt a wave of panic wash over him; he hadn’t had a sip of alcohol since the day Reahall had arrested him, and he’d hoped to find drink aboard Trinity, but as it turned out, McEachern, a highly religious man, had not only sworn off drink years before, but he demanded it of every man who sailed with him, and he enforced it; as a result, not a pinch of rum or booze of any sort could be found aboard Trinity—not even in the galley for cooking. As of the day before, Alastair was entertaining the shakes as a result, and he feared himself on the verge of delirium tremens now. That would not do, not if he would to speak to the man in charge and not if he wished to be convincing.

  “Do either of you officers have a flask?”

  “A flask?” Lightoller was incredulous.

  Murdoch handed the old constable a shiny silver flask. Ransom took a long swill from it, the brandy proving of high quality; it burned all the way down from gullet to gut. Ransom hesitantly returned the flask.

  “Keep it; I have a feeling you’re going to need it,” Murdoch replied.

  Lightoller frowned. “No doubt.”

  “Here now,” began Murdoch, regaining himself. “You wish for us to disturb Captain Smith for an audience regarding stopping Titanic from its schedule, to disrupt our course before we’ve begun, Deputy Constable, on the basis of what evidence?”

  Declan handed the autopsy photos to Murdoch, adding, “Sirs, this evidence is irrefutable and it indicates a new kind of killer—a new sort of plague unlike any seen before.”

  “What sort of health plague?” challenged Dr. Murdoch. “There’re no health violations aboard this ship! No plague!”

  “Contamination from a virus,” replied Thomas. “It’s serious. You must listen.”

  On viewing the photos, Murdoch blanched and shoved them into Lightoller’s hands to rid himself of the unsightly things. “Murder and contamination all at once?”

  “All at once, gentlemen,” Alastair addressed both officers. “Just so happens, yes, this time out.” Ransom kept up a strong voice, belying his own fears.

  “Contagion indeed…” Lightoller had gone a bit white.

  “But contagion we can fend off.” Murdoch acted as though manning up to it could beat any contagion. “We have the finest medical team afloat.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Lightoller, he and Murdoch nodding at one another.

  Murdoch spoke up, his voice resonating with a deep timber. “Our ship’s doctors may wish to hear of this first to assess your… your concerns.”

  “Before we bother the captain with it, you see,” added Lightoller.

  “You mean another petty officer?” asked Ransom. “We need to get these facts to the man in charge and now before the ship gets too far off.”

  “That would be our ship’s doctor,” insisted Murdoch. “You must first see Dr. O’Laughlin.”

  “Look, we haven’t time for middle men,” Declan declared.

  Shakily, Ransom held a hand up to Declan. “Let me handle this, Dr. Irvin,

  Dr. Coogan.”

  “Awfully young to be doctors,” replied Murdoch, closely examining the Belfast interns. At the same time, Murdoch’s eyes widened to see Trinity at harbor growing smaller in the distance since Titanic had weighed anchor.

  “Mr. Lightoller and half your officers look as young if not younger than Dr. Coogan and Dr. Irvin.” Ransom’s smirk spoke volumes. “How old are you, Mr. Murdoch? Twenty?”

  “Thirty-four, sir,” replied Murdoch with pride.

  Lightoller, a baby-faced fellow preferred to keep his age to himself, but he did say, “I’ve been sailing since a child, sir.”

  “Follow me,” said Murdoch. “We’ll take the quickest route to the doctor’s clinic.”

  Thomas whispered in Declan’s ear, Ransom overhearing: “Man, I hope they don’t fit us for asylum wear.”

  Ransom caught up to Murdoch, clearly the man in charge at the moment. “You must take us to Captain Smith, now.”

  Murdoch gritted his teeth and stood his ground. “I’ll not bring some frivolous demand over some nebulous health issue aboard to my captain when protocol to quarantine a ship must come from the man in charge of such matters—Dr. William Francis Norman O’Laughlin, Ship’s Surgeon.”

  “Hold on,” said Ransom. “How many ship’s surgeons do you have?”

  “I think that was one man’s name,” said Thomas. “Declan? You know so much about Titanic…”

  “Yes, there’s Dr. O’Laughlin and an assistant surgeon,” replied Declan.

  “That’d be Dr. Johnny Simpson,” said Lightoller, “and we have six nurses, two medical stewards and a state of the art hospital.” Lightoller watched Murdoch’s expression change to one of boredom as he spoke. He then quickly added, “But Mr. Murdoch is quite right. There exists rules and protocol aboard ship that demand you take your concerns to our ship’s doctor. He in turn, if so moved, takes all medical matters he feels beyond his control upstairs… to Captain Smith.”

  Murdoch, looking starched, added, “This is just how it is done. Always has been, always will be.”

  “All right, all right,” Ransom relented. “Perhaps your medical man has as much intellect as he has names! Obviously we are wasting time. Take us to your Ship’s Surgeon then, please!”

  Ransom felt his patience at an end. He looked on the verge of striking the two younger men, regardless of his need for their good will. As Murdoch and Lightoller had them follow deeper into the belly of the ship, they found yet another lift. Behind the officers’ backs, Declan had slipped Ransom a small bottle taken from his bag. Ransom serendipitously took the laudanum which would help steady his nerves and calm his ire. Thomas, seeing this, asked, “Is there a chance we might have a brandy or shot of whiskey from the bar, Officer Lightoller?”

  “Whiskey?” Murdoch spun on his heels. “Aren’t you two a bit young for spirits?”

  “We are of age, sir,” promised Declan.

  “In Belfast, everyone’s of age,” countered Lightoller with a smile which made them all laugh save Murdoch, who stepped onto the lift with Lightoller behind him.

  Murdoch said to Lightoller, “I knew they were primitive but—”

  “Twas but a joke, Will; ease up. How’ll you make it to New York at this rate, sir?”

  “Ah, I see… I knew it was a joke.” Murdoch valiantly tried to make up for his lack of mirth.

  The lift took them to D–deck and stopped, the brass filigree doors partimg from one another at the center. The lift opened onto a massive corridor through which they walked far too slowly for Ransom and the young surgeons. The ship had indeed pulled away from France for Queenstown—its final stop before going westward into the sun for New York and America.

  “Funny how while on this humongous contraption that you hardly feel a thing in the way of movement,” said Ransom to the others. “But while on that damn French raft with all that cargo, we were so certain of doom below our feet.”

  “It is rather like being on terra firma, isn’t it?” agreed Declan.

  Although Lightoller started to reply, Murdoch grunted instead. Neither Titanic officer made any coherent comment on the subject as if they knew a secret they didn’t wish to share.

  “They’re wound a bit tight,” Thomas characterized the officers in a whisper.

  “Especially Murdoch,” agreed Ransom.

  Arriving at th
e ship’s expansive twelve-bed hospital, the likes of which many a small hamlet across the Irish-English-Scottish and Wales countryside would each cherish. Declan thought of a certain village back in Wales that had so little. He half-joked,“More beds than lifeboats, eh?”

  “We have an additional six-bed infectious ward, and a four-bed clinic and surgery room on C, not to mention a treatment room on the aft side of Hatch #6 right here.”

  “Remarkable,” said Declan, eyes going everywhere around the hospital.

  “We’ve well over two thousand people on board counting maids, crewmen, and officers,” Lightoller added.

  “The doctors mostly handle seasick passengers,” added Murdoch, deflating the focus on the extensive medical facilities aboard, “but the crewmen can be careless, accidents happen. The nurses are already seeing to a few minor cases. Children with measles or sniffles, ladies with headaches, that sort of thing.”

  They stood now before a row of pharmaceutical chests with an adjacent doctor’s office where a huge placard over the door read: Dr. William Francis Norman O’Laughlin.

  “This is where your pill-dispenser spends all his time, eh?” asked Ransom, looking around.

  On seeing their arrival, a young doctor with dark features started toward them, but Murdoch unceremoniously waved the assistant surgeon off even as Lightoller introduced him to the trio who’d boarded without tickets. “Gentlemen, this is our Assistant Surgeon, Dr. John Simpson.” He then addressed the doctor directly, “Dr. Simpson, we need Dr. O’s attention on this matter.”

  Simpson nodded appreciably, replying, “Don’t let him hear ya callin’ him Dr. O, Charles! As for me, my hands’re full with the aches and pains of the rich and famous.”

  Just then Dr. O’Laughlin, a tall, commanding man with sandy hair and dull brown eyes, got up from some paperwork at his desk in his windowed office, and he came out to meet Murdoch, assuming there was some medical emergency. Ransom guessed his age at mid-forties, but he moved somewhat shakily, like an older man, and he wondered if the doctor was perhaps hung over. Still the man appeared eager to be of service, introducing himself to his would-be patient or patients, rolling out all four of his names like a duke and this his realm. Once quick introductions were made, Officer Lightoller politely but firmly explained the situation, ending with the suggestion from their guests that Titanic be quarantined once they made port in Queenstown.