Robert Walker - Titanic 2012

“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 the 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.