The Ocean Liner

SS Manhattan

Stravinsky had found himself, whether through coincidence or plan, seated beside Arturo Toscanini, who had been helped aboard the lifeboat in a state of shattered nerves by his plump little wife. The two men said nothing to each other. There seemed to be nothing to say. But as they stared at each other, each man recognised in the other’s face the same state of exhaustion and despair, the same bitterness. Beside them sat Carla Toscanini and Katharine Wolff.

‘Getting there is half the fun!’ Mr Nightingale said gaily. He pulled the lever, and the lifeboat swung out over the sea. Jolted and finding themselves swaying seventy feet in the air, with nothing but a sheer drop between them and the icy water below, the passengers screamed and grabbed on to each other or the gunwales. The boats were now so full that almost half the passengers in each were having to stand.

Stravinsky and Toscanini both turned to look over the side of their lifeboat. Far below them, the sea was black, laced with chains of foam. Their boat dangled unsteadily, lurching as the Manhattan rolled in the swell. They stared into the abyss, each one recognising it for what it was, death staring back at them.

It came to each man quite suddenly that, for all the disillusionment of life that had passed, there was still life to be lived. Still music to be played, women to be loved. Still a little sunlight left on the mountainside.

They turned away, shuddering, from the darkness that yawned beneath them.

Naughty Nightie, who had behaved with exemplary calm and good humour from the start of the crisis, moved down the line, dispensing jokes to each group of passengers and yanking the release levers like a cheerful hangman. One by one, the lifeboats swung out on their davits, ready to be lowered on the Commodore’s command. Shrieking adults and wailing children clutched at each other.

The Commodore himself was showing little emotion as he stood at the window of his bridge, staring into the darkness. ‘Why don’t they say anything?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘They must see our funnels by now. They must see the Stars and Stripes.’

‘The ten minutes were up a long time ago,’ Symonds said, looking at his chronometer. He was very tense. ‘The lifeboats have all been swung out. Shall I give the order to lower them?’

‘No.’

‘But, Commodore—’

‘If we lower the lifeboats, he’ll torpedo us right away. It’s like admitting we’re a legitimate target.’

Randall saw the officers on the bridge glance at one another. Stress was written clear on every face. ‘So what do we do?’ Symonds demanded.

‘We keep signalling who we are, and wait for them to understand,’ Rescue Randall replied calmly. It was essential for him to maintain imperturbable control and not be swayed by his officers’ panic. ‘Is there any fresh coffee, gentlemen?’