Maiden Voyage

SIXTY-NINE

They were in sight of the Statue of Liberty now, but the fire in the first-class cabins was still burning out of control. Dick Charles had taken charge of the fire-fighting, and he had twenty crewmen forming a bucket-chain from the outside swimming pool, while ten more were inside the first-class section frantically spraying the walls and ceiling with fire-extinguishers.

As the Arcadia steamed majestically through the Verrazano Narrows into Upper Bay, accompanied by dozens of pleasure boats and yachts, and flanked on the starboard side by plumes of water from New York fireboats, black smoke was belching out of her port superstructure, and fragments of blazing curtains were whirling through the air.

"She's taken the Blue Riband," announced the reporter for WEAF News, "but there's something wrong there. She has smoke pouring out of her upper decks... and she's coming in to dock at what I would judge to be a very high speed—maybe ten or fifteen knots... She's approaching the Battery like an express train."

Up on the bridge, Sir Peregrine stood beside the helmsman with a grim, magnificent expression on his face. Ralph Peel stood close beside him, trying to keep as calm as possible.

"Sir Peregrine, our speed," he suggested.

From the forward windows of the bridge, it looked as if the Arcadia was already towering over Battery Park and about to sail right up Broadway, but she was still short of Governor's Island on her starboard side, and hadn't yet passed Liberty Island to port.

"Forward speed, Mr Peel?" asked Sir Peregrine.

"Seven knots, sir."

"How's the fire?"

Ralph Peel looked back along the Arcadia's superstructure. "Still burning, sir. Looks serious. Shall we call the New York fire people, sir?"

"No need, Mr Peel," said Sir Peregrine, nodding towards the fireboats. "They're already with us."

"I'll signal them round to our port side, sir."

"No need, Mr Peel," said Sir Peregrine. "Hard to port."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Hard to port, Mr Peel. On the double."

"Yes, sir. At once, sir. Helmsman, hard to port."

"Hard to port it is, sir."

Ralph Peel knew exactly what Sir Peregrine was doing. It was a last spectacular act of seamanship to end a voyage in which he had vindicated himself as one of the greatest ship's masters in modern maritime history. It would have been far more practical to call up the New York fireboats to their port side than to have turned the Arcadia through 180 degrees in Upper Bay, especially when she was so closely surrounded by cheering spectators in hundreds of small pleasure craft; but Sir Peregrine was not interested in practicalities; and he believed that anyone who was foolish enough to sail close to a giant ocean liner in a fifteen-foot dinghy deserved whatever swamping they happened to get.

Blasting her whistle so that it echoed all the way to Harlem and out to Brooklyn and Elizabeth, New Jersey; the Arcadia swung around with her starboard propellers churning up tumultuous geysers of spray, the entire 960-foot ship like a floating cliff moving around on her axis until she was broadside across the bay, and was at last facing back out towards the Verrazano Narrows, with her high stern counter only hundreds of feet away from the shore of Governor's Island.

"Mr Peel," said Sir Peregrine. "You may now summon those fireboats. Warn the men that we are seeking assistance from outside; I don't want anyone hosed overboard. And you may break out those half-bottles of champagne for the passengers."

"Sir?"

"Mr. Willowby knows where they are, Mr Peel. Each one of them has a Blue Riband tied around the neck."

"Very fortuitous, sir," said Ralph Peel.

"And, Mr. Peel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please instruct the stewards that the third toast, after the King and the Arcadia—the third toast is to be drunk to the memory of Mr. Rudyard Philips."

There was a pause. Then Ralph Peel said, "Yes, sir."