Max Collins - The Lusitania Murders

“He asks that I not forget him, down here in the brig. . should a U-boat try to sink us.”

Her frown tightened. “He could mean, if a bomb goes off.”

“Yes, he could. . Captain Anderson, I would suggest you redouble your efforts to search the ship for such a device.”

Glumly, Anderson nodded. “That’s good advice. . and we’ll take it. But a vessel this size has many a nook and many a cranny.”

Miss Vance was shaking her head. “He must be bluffing,” she said. “He must be. . ”

“I’m sure he is,” I said.

Neither of us, however, seemed terribly swayed by our own argument.

By mid-morning, the fog had burned off and the weather turned clear and warm, revealing a flat lake of a sea, disturbed only by the lazy roll of a ground swell from where the shore should be. Land took its time revealing itself, the direction of the coastline offering nothing but a gathering flock of filthy gray seagulls flapping alongship the ship, heads turning greedily from side to side.

Then just before noon, the murky shadow of land teasingly materialized off the port beam. From the rail where the lovely Pinkerton agent shared her binoculars with me, we watched it grow, becoming more distinct, revealing itself as a rocky bluff. Around one-thirty, the coast took on a more definite configuration-trees, rooftops, church steeples, sweeping by. Miss Vance and I exchanged relieved expressions that the crossing had been safely made. What if a saboteur’s bomb were to explode? The shore was so near.

Oddly, the flat, blue-green waters seemed to belong to the Lucy alone-no other vessels, commercial ones or warships either, presented themselves. Where was the Irish Coast Patrol, for one? Hadn’t we been promised protection from the British Admiralty?

We returned to the Verandah Cafe for a rather late and light luncheon-both Miss Vance and I had decided the dining saloon with its endless food and mawkish orchestra could wait till this evening-and, by two o’clock, had finished our little crustless sandwiches and a dessert of assorted petits fours.

Sitting idly, enjoying the view of the bright blue sea, I noticed a white-gold glimmering swirl of sunlight on the water’s dimpled skin.

“Is that a porpoise?” I asked, pointing.

Miss Vance sat up and squinted toward the sunny sight. “I’m not sure. . They usually leap.”

“Whatever it is,” I said, “it’s spreading. . coming closer. . ”

“That’s a torpedo, isn’t it?” Miss Vance asked, frightfully calm.

I stood, looking toward the forward end of the ship. “Have they noticed it on the bridge, I wonder? Can’t be a torpedo. .”

Still deadly calm, she said, “I think it is.”

The handful of other passengers in the cafe had noticed it, as well, and were making similar comments-no one panicking, everyone strangely still, as if waiting for that foamy, frothy wake, arrowing inexorably toward us, to reveal its intentions.

Which it did: The shock of the impact was surprisingly mild if distinct, making a heavy, somewhat muffled roar, the ship trembling momentarily under the blow’s force. Miss Vance was on her feet, and in my arms-we were holding each other tight when a second, more severe explosion rocked the vessel, and all of us, the deck itself seeming to rise, then settle.

Instinctively, we looked toward the explosion’s source, and a geyser of coal and steam and debris erupted between the second and third funnels, a skyward shower of deck planks, boats, steel splinters, coal dust and water, quickly followed by the hard rainfall of gratings and other wreckage clattering and scattering on the decks and splashing into the sea, forward of us.

Grabbing on to Miss Vance’s shoulders, I pulled her back deeper into the shelter of the cafe, as wreckage descended on the deck like ghastly hailstones. The canvas awning, stretched across the cafe’s entrance, sagged under the weight of water and ruins, and seemed about to split apart.

Taking her by the hand, I dashed out onto the littered deck, the rain of rubble apparently over, and away from the cafe, heading forward.

“That second explosion. .” I began, over the hissing of ruptured steam pipes.

“The son of a bitch had planted a second bomb,” she said through her teeth. Her pretty face was freckled with soot. “And that U-boat torpedo detonated it!”

“We should gather our belongings,” I said, “and get our life jackets, and find our way to a lifeboat.”

She agreed, and we continued forward along the deck, among other passengers who were displaying a surprising and altogether admirable lack of panic. Perhaps, despite all of the denials, everyone had suspected the ship might be hit, even expected it, and now reflex action had taken over, and passengers were moving in a fairly orderly manner up toward the lifeboats.

Near the entry to the deck’s Grand Entrance area, we were startled to see Elbert Hubbard and his wife; standing at the rail, the husband’s arm around the wife’s waist in an affectionate fashion. They seemed frozen, or perhaps dazed.

I knew their cabin, like mine, was a deck below, on that same portside corridor, and I said, “You need to get to your stateroom, and get your life jackets-straightaway!”

In a soft, almost placid voice-barely audible above the hissing and clamor-Hubbard said, “There may not be enough boats. Someone must sacrifice.”

I grabbed on to his arm. “Spout your aphorisms another time, you fool-this is life and death!”

That the boat was already listing seriously to the right was all too apparent.

He jerked his arm away and glared at me-the only time I’d ever witnessed any expression on that face that evinced anything like anger-and he said, “Mind your own business.”

“Is that the best you can do for your famous last words?” I asked bitterly.

The hell with him. Taking Miss Vance by the arm, I headed into the Grand Entrance, which was thronged with people moving up the stairs and out onto deck. Signs of a gathering frenzy were now indeed in evidence, and understandably.

The elevators were out of the question-the electricity had gone, and the lifts were trapped halfway between floors, filled with passengers coming up from lunch. They were screaming down there, trapped like rats, rattling their cage.

At the top of the companionway, I suggested she wait for me, here.

“No! I’m coming with you.”

“No need-give me your key, and I’ll fetch our life jackets. What else of yours is vital?”

Reluctantly, she was accepting my decision, handing me her room key. “My passport’s in the top drawer of the bureau. . Nothing else.”

I held her by her arms and kissed her on the mouth; she returned the kiss with desperate enthusiasm.

“I’ll be back,” I said.

“I’ll be here,” she said, as frightened passengers, many soot-smeared, rolled by in a human tide.

As I took the stairs, many more were coming up than going down, a swarm of hysterical second-class passengers surging up from belowdecks, lacking the outward composure of those of the first class who were resolved not to be caught up in a sordid stampede. I had to lower myself to their level and elbowed my passage with no thought of common courtesy. At the bottom of the stairs a steward was urging passengers to be calm, and handing them life jackets-many ignored both his good advice and valuable gift.

I suppose I could have worked my way over to him, and snatched up two of those life jackets, but I had enough sense of decorum and decency to realize I should fetch the ones I knew to be in our cabins. The passageway was jammed with fleeing passengers, mostly second-class I would venture, and I could only imagine the sheer panic of the lower decks-third class and, God help them, the “dirty gang” down in the boilers.