Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

Another deafening blast from the steam whistle, and the immense mooring ropes that held the ship to the pier went splashing into the water, to be drawn quickly ashore by dockworkers. Rude little snorts from the horns of the tugboats moving into position made an almost comical contrast with the hollow power of the Titanic ’s steam whistle.

From elsewhere on deck-Futrelle couldn’t be sure, exactly-a small orchestra was playing selections from the operetta The Chocolate Soldier, only to be momentarily drowned out by the final blast of the steam whistle, announcing that, finally, the great ship was in motion, easing gently, quietly from her berth, not under her own steam as yet, but propelled by those half a dozen tugs.

The unseen orchestra was playing “Britannia Rules the Waves” now, while everyone on the boat deck waved down to the strangers below, who waved back, hankies fluttering; some of the passengers, May among them, cast flowers into the water. As the massive liner began to slide from the dock, the crowd down there ran alongside, keeping pace, shouting farewells, cheering.

“Oh Jack,” May said, her face aglow, eyes glittering with happiness, “it’s all so exciting!”

And it was-there was an epic sweep to it, the mammoth ship, the crowd waving from the dock, the orchestra playing, the pungent smell of burning coal, the billowing of smoke from the stacks of the tugs pulling, pushing, prodding the so-much-bigger ship out of the dock area.

It was a storybook departure, until-expertly maneuvered into the channel in a turn to port by the tugboats, who then cast off-the Titanic gave a faint tremor, telling the more seasoned passengers that the great ship was at last getting way under her own power, however tentatively. Moving at a modest six knots, the liner steamed past two ships-the White Star Line’s Oceanic and a smaller American ship, the New York, moored at the quay, two of the liners put out of commission by Ismay’s coal strike.

The side-by-side mooring of these ships made a narrow channel more narrow; the quayside was lined with spectators, and still more people leaned at the rail on the deck of the New York, where they had boarded to get a good look at the greatest ship in the world as she started her maiden voyage, gawking and waving at the Titanic ’s lucky passengers from a mere eighty feet away.

“I don’t like this,” Futrelle said, standing back from the rail.

May, who was returning waves to the spectators on the New York deck, asked, “Why? What’s wrong, dear?”

“The way those liners are bobbing,” he said, nodding toward what he was talking about. “This big ship of ours is displacing too much water… causing too much turbulence….”

“Oh dear, I’m sure the captain knows what he’s doing…”

What might have been a gunshot cracked the air. Then another sharp crack!

And four more reports, as if every chamber of a six-gun had been emptied into the sky.

“Jack!”

The New York ’s massive metal mooring ropes had snapped like cheap shoelaces.

Futrelle put his arm around his wife and held her close. “It’ll be fine, darling… don’t worry….”

The metal ropes arced and coiled in the air like lasso tricks gone awry, sending spectators scurrying and shrieking, quayside. On the deck of the New York, the people who’d boarded for a better look were scattering and screaming, quickly abandoning ship, or trying to.

And on the boat deck of the Titanic, the clanging of bells from the bridge providing accompaniment, counterpointed by the sirens of tugboats rushing to attempt rescue, the passengers were frozen in disbelief-no screams, just occasional gasps and outcries, as couples (like the Futrelles) embraced, witnessing the New York, loose now, begin to swing, like an awful gate, stern first, toward the Titanic.

Ismay’s assertion that his ship was unsinkable seemed about to get an early test.

The Titanic picked up speed, slightly, and her wake seemed to push the smaller ship back, but as close as the New York was, this didn’t seem to be enough; the bigger ship moved forward, and the smaller ship swung toward it, stern toward stern….

Agonizing seconds that seemed like minutes dragged by, as the two ships seemed about to touch, and as the passengers braced for the screech of steel, hugging each other desperately…

… the stern of the New York missed the Titanic ’s stern by inches.

Around the boat deck, sighs of relief and some laughter and even some applause and cheers floated through the air, aural confetti being tossed; and the orchestra began to play a catchy ditty that Futrelle later learned was “The White Star March.”

In the meantime, the New York was still drifting free; however, the tugboats were steaming into position to take care of that, and the Titanic was coming to a premature stop, till all this could be sorted out.

“You’re right, dear,” Futrelle said.

May looked at him, relieved but dazed. “Pardon?”

“This is exciting.”

She smirked and hugged him, but Futrelle-writer of suspense that he was-could not shake a sense of foreboding. This near miss-actually, it was a near hit, wasn’t it? — was an inauspicious start for such a grand voyage.

On the other hand, if he ever wrote that Titanic mystery for Ismay, he had a hell of a first chapter, didn’t he?

Sun spilled like melted butter onto the boat deck, but topcoats were needed. The nip in the air came as a shock, though Futrelle-typically bareheaded-found it bracing, and May, swaddled in her black beaver coat, wanted to take advantage of the nice spring day, since the weather would only grow colder as they crossed the North Atlantic.

During the hour’s delay caused by the incident with the New York, the First-Class passengers had been summoned to luncheon by the ship’s bugler, who passed from deck to deck playing the White Star’s traditional call to luncheon, “The Roast Beef of Old England.” To American ears, it was like a cavalry charge.

Shortly after, D deck’s elegant First-Class Dining Saloon-its patrons looking decidedly underdressed in their departure attire in the massive white wedding cake of a room-had served up orchestra selections from The Merry Widow and a sumptuous buffet. May warned her husband not to overdo-the evening meal was reserved for that purpose-and Futrelle had passed up the exotic likes of corned ox tongue and galantine of chicken for some rare roast beef of old England (not wanting to disappoint the ship’s bugler).

Conversation in the Dining Saloon ran largely to talk of the New York incident, and of course introductions-the Futrelles sat with the Harrises and two of the latter’s Broadway investors, Emil Brandeis from Omaha, department-store magnate, and John Baumann from New York, a rubber importer. Rounding out the table for eight was the dignified old couple, Isidor and Ida Straus.

These were the assigned tablemates for all meals in the First-Class dining room (though the Futrelles would be guests at the captain’s table tomorrow evening), and it was no accident that these passengers-but for the Harrises’ traveling companions, the Futrelles-were all Jewish (though only the Strauses ordered the special kosher meals made available).

“That was a close call,” Brandeis had said, referring to the New York. He was a pleasant heavyset fifty with a walrus mustache and healthy appetite.

“I was impressed by how skillfully Captain Smith averted disaster,” Baumann said, touching a napkin to tender lips. He was a lean, bright-eyed, clean-shaven thirty.