Titanic 2012: Curse of RMS Titanic

NINETEEN

On being arrested and placed in chains by Sergeant Quinlan, Declan Irvin had grabbed his leather carry bag typically slung across his chest from the left shoulder and after the sergeant searched the bag, had been allowed to keep it with him in his cell. Now from his bag, he’d dug out a journal that he’d been keeping and began writing. In fact, he’d been writing for hours.

Alastair Ransom, who’d been placed in a separate but adjacent cell than that of the two interns, watched Declan now as he jotted notes into the book that appeared like a ledger. When Alastair finally asked Declan about the journal, the young man explained that he kept detailed notes on all that’d happened, and that he’d begun the diary when he’d first become fascinated with the huge ship Olympic, Titanic’s sister ship which had already been launched the year before.

“Fascinated?” Thomas snickered, where he sat on his bunk, twiddling his thumbs. “Obsessed is what I call it.”

Ignoring this, Ransom asked Declan to read an entry. “I need some distraction; going crazy here.”

Declan flipped back to an earlier section of the journal. He read aloud notes that spoke of a Captain Edward Smith who had taken Olympic out for her initial sea trials—and he laughed aloud, adding, “Smith rammed the newly built Olympic into a naval vessel called the Hawke. Of course, some say the Hawke’s captain was at fault, but most go with Smith being in the wrong. What’s significant is that Captain Smith is to be made captain over the Titanic for her maiden voyage to America. The incident with the Hawke is the only error in judgment ever attributed to Smith, who after Titanic’s maiden voyage to New York and back plans on a long retirement.”

Ransom, having become bored, and having watched Declan write for hours in his journal, asked if he might not read more of the young man’s scribblings. “Unless you feel the entries too private.”

Declan readily gave up the journal, saying “There’s nothing private about it. Here you are, detective. For your perusal and occupation. Glad you’ve taken an interest.” He indicated Thomas lying on his prison bunk.

This while Thomas rolled his eyes and silently brooded, muttering and moaning, “It’s the death of our careers, Declan. And what do we have to look forward to? The street, the gutter, a pair of homeless beggars in grimy old Belfast—unable to break free, never to soar as was our previous destiny, and to think—”

“Oh, please do shut up, Tommie. You’re sounding like a bleedin’ parrot.”

Ransom smirked at this last remark and went instantly to reading aloud. He began at the beginning of Declan’s ink-splotched words to follow the timeline of Titanic while being built: “July 1,1911 – projected date agreed on by White Star and Harland & Wolff for Titanic's maiden voyage is March 20^th 1912.” Ransom stomped the jail floor. “Harrr! Well the devil now… they’ve missed their estimated launch date by a far cry, now haven’t they?”

“The best laid plans,” began Declan, “repairs to the Olympic—due to the Hawke affair—slowed the work on Titanic. Read on.”

“Please do so, read on but in silence,” pleaded Thomas, holding his hands. “I’ve heard it all too often!”

With the reading material Declan had provided him, Alastair hardly noticed the hours passing as he read the journal. He sat in the alternating zebra shadows created by his cell window, painting him in the black and white pattern of a prisoner. The light and dark cut his features in two. He’d long before grown bored with the view from the window—an interior courtyard of the enormous Belfast Jailhouse and adjacent, requisite courthouse and other places housing city officials. He thanked God for Declan’s journal to keep his mind occupied. He read on:

Ransom stopped reading, suddenly stood from his bunk, and went to the bars separating him from the two interns, and wiped his eyes of fatigue. “Declan, lads, this is good news, the sea trials being delayed. But how did you learn of it?”

“The guard said so while you slept. They gave me the discarded newspapers to pad my bunk.” Declan lifted a copy of the Belfast Bugle he’d been using to soften his mattress. “Care to see it?”

Ransom felt a glimmer of hope flit though him. “If these fools around us come to their senses, we can still stop Titanic from going to Southampton, spreading this plague there.”

“That’s not going to hold her up long, sir, and I fear no one is listening to the three of us.”

Thomas just groaned and added, “We’re doomed as far as our careers are concerned.”

“We’ve got to convince the authorities how dangerous this thing is,” countered Ransom. “We must make them think! To take us—well, you scientific lads seriously.”

“But how? They’re deaf to us!”

“Good luck with that,” replied Thomas, curling into the fetal position on his bunk.

“I’ve been in jails before, lads—and I’ve broken out of a couple in my day. There’s got to be a weakness we can exploit. Like this fellow who brought you the paper, Declan.”

“Quinlan? No, sir. He’s strictly by the book he is.”

The boys muttered and grumbled, disbelieving there was any chance here of escape. “It’s calm out today and look here!” Declan slapped the copy of the Belfast Times and began reading from the paper: “6AM sea trials begin anew. Titanic assisted by two tugs through Victoria Channel to Belfast Lough. All equipment to be tested, including wireless. Speed and handling trials, including various turning and stop-start maneuvers. Major stopping test to be conducted. They’re sayin’ she’ll run full ahead at 20 knots and then stop full astern like droppin’ a coin.”

“Let me see that.” Ransom reached through the bars separating them for the paper. Declan freely gave it up.

Ransom read aloud: “By 2PM officials expect that Titanic’s running test will have been conducted, after which she travels for about two hours—approximately 40 miles—out into the Irish Sea at an average speed of 18 knots.” Ransom paced as he held the paper open before him, reading. “Then she returns to Belfast.” He dropped his hands and the paper down, looking over the top at the medical students. “Do ya hear that, lads? She’s not gone from here yet.” Harrrrr! Listen here; paper says, expected arrival at Harland and Wolff 5PM. All tests by then expected to meet Board of Trade standards.”

“Trials’re expected to last less than a day,” Declan dejectedly added. “Be gone in the dark, she will.”

Thomas sat up and snickered. “How does your bloody obsession with that ship, Declan, help us now?” Thomas’ complaint hung in the air. “I for one am sick to death of hearing about that bloody, cursed ship! It’s all you talk about.” Thomas bounced off the bunk and paced the few square feet of his side of the cell.

Declan smacked his friend on the behind for his sudden tirade. “Once finished with the tests, Detective Wyland, she’s gone from here; Thomas, you hear me?”

“And good riddance I say!”

“And if there is a plague aboard… well?” badgered Declan, dropping onto his bunk now, looking deflated.

“And here we sit,” added Thomas. “It’s hopeless. The daft fools won’t listen to reason. How can Dr. Bellingham be so… so—”

“Stupid?” asked Ransom.

“Ignorant,” said Declan.

“Is there a difference?” asked Ransom, snapping the newspaper tighter to make it stand more rigid as he wished to read on.

“Well now ignorance is having an absence of the facts, not knowing, whereas stupid is knowing the facts, yet still acting like the ignorant fool,” Declan tried defending his professors but only managed to spin himself into a verbal quagmire.

After a long silence, Ransom announced, “Launch time tonight is 8PM.” He checked his watch on its fob. “Six twelve now. Damn.”

“Are they going to feed us sometime tonight?” asked Thomas, still pacing, running his fingers along the cage bars. “You suppose we only get the one meal a day, Declan? God, it’s been a long time since lunch.”

“The Ship’ll be well on her way before we see daylight,” Declan remarked on Thomas’s concern over food. “I can’t believe that Dr. Bellingham—of all people—is simply going to ignore our findings, Thomas! And he calls himself a scientist. You know how he keeps harping about how a scientist must keep his mind open to chance, to happenstance, to-to failure as well as opportunity? Was he just being a blowhard?”

“He’s always saying how a good doctor has to be a good scientist a hundred times if he said it once,” piped in Thomas. “Guess he’s full-a-horse manure after all.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge me with your slinging of manure, Mr. Coogan!” It was Dr. Bellingham on the other side of the bars standing before them as if he’d simply materialized. He’d come in so quietly, they hadn’t noticed until now. “I’ve come to have you out of here, gentlemen. No point in your remaining here all night with a common criminal.” He eyeballed Ransom, frowned, and turned to Quinlan as the hefty Sergeant stood holding a huge ring with a large skeleton key.

Sergeant Quinlan opened the cell holding the two young men, Declan and Thomas knocking into one another in their rush to be free, hardly giving Ransom a look.

“Lads,” Ransom shouted at the younger prisoners when they’d almost gone out the heavy oak door. “You’ve got to convince them of the importance of stopping that ship—now, tonight before she sets sail for Southampton.”

“We’ll do what we can, sir,” Declan assured him, “but we’re not magicians.” Declan gave Ransom a slight wave of his hand, holding up the sabre-tooth they’d found in the lab that’d fallen from the clothing of one of the dead miners.

Hidden in part by Dr. Bellingham’s girth, Thomas slowed only long enough to ask Bellingham, “Do you think the food vendors on Newcastle are there at this hour?”

Ignoring Thomas’ question, Dr. Enoch Bellingham suddenly stopped and turned to Ransom, eyeing him warily once more. “Detective,” Bellingham said, giving Ransom a moment’s hope that was instantly lost when he added, “I hope everything ahhh… works out for you, sir.”

“It’s not me I am worried about, Professor; it’s the victims of this damnable plague, and everyone who boards Titanic in Southampton, and from what I understand, Cherbourg—France.”

“We can do nothing without tests, detective. Hell, any tests that might result in an actual antidote, we’re talking about years to develop.”

“Then you know how dangerous this is? You’ve read Declan’s notes, haven’t you?”

“It changes nothing; the situation is hopeless. No one’s going to stop that monster ship because a handful of Irishmen have died here in Belfast, man. They’d laugh in your face.”

Deflated, Ransom dropped his gaze. “Meanwhile first, second, third class passengers, crew, staff, officers, the captain, the builder, and I understand envoys, mayors, the famous, the infamous barons of wealth, along with many giants of commerce and industry—all aboard will die if not stopped from boarding, and if not quarantined. Call it an anarchist threat if necessary but—”

“I pray whatever scurrilous thing this is… this disease that sucks men of every ounce of life’s blood and fluids has run its course, but rest assured that I and Dean Goodfriar have sent word to the ship via the Marconi.”

“What do you mean? You sent word over the wireless?” Ransom was incredulous. “You need to go down to the shipyards! Speak to the captain and crew face-to-face, make them understand! A Marconi message is not going to convince anyone!”

“They’ve set sail. It was the only way to get word to them,” countered the professor of surgery.

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve set sail!” he repeated.

“But the newspaper said they wouldn’t be shipping out till eight!”

“Do you believe everything you read in the Bugle?” Bellingham stared at him and added, “Apparently yes.”

“All right… very little news trickles in here. Look here, then… did you receive a response from Titanic?”

“I did on first sending.”

“Which was?”

“Some rude chap shouted for the operator at the Belfast station to—and I quote—“Stuff it and get off the line.”

“You must try again!”

“We did, the operator and I—several times. A warning.”

“And what then?”

“No reply. I can’t say for certain if word ever got through to the captain.”

“Send another and another until they understand,” insisted Ransom. “Until they do reply, sir—immediately.”

Just then Constable Ian Reahall stepped in and said, “Dr. Bellingham–take your charges and be gone—the lot of ya.”

“I thank you for your help, constable.” Bellingham ushered Declan and Thomas out, and everyone left save Reahall who began to pace up and down before Ransom. “What to do with you, Ransom… what to do… .”

“I thought you had your mind set on collecting some fictitious reward, Constable; how much is on the head of this man Ransom?”

“Not exactly a king’s ransom,” Reahall said with a smirk. “Hardly enough to cover my expenses to get you back to the states.”

Ransom imagined the amount on his head fairly slight, typical of Chicago authorities. They might want him dead or alive, but they didn’t want to pay too terribly much for it. “Is this how you barter for my release?”

“I am told Titanic has left Belfast under Captain Bartlett for Southampton where a Captain Edward Smith will take the helm.”

“Left already, says Bellingham. Is it true?”

“Yes, off to her port of embarkation.”

“Southampton, England, where those holding tickets will board—placing them all in jeopardy if that contagious plague is aboard working on Agent Tuttle—killing him from the inside out.”

“Southampton’s some five-hundred seventy miles from here.”

Ransom dropped his head, muttering, “Five-hundred seventy bloody miles…”

“She’ll be on display there for Easter Sunday, dressed for it. That’s tomorrow, the 10^th. So there’s little hope of stopping her from here. Those fool egg-heads at the university hospital can send all the messages they like. There’s no stopping the White Star Line from set schedules. She’d been slated to leave on the 10^th but circumstances being as they are, it appears the ship sets off on the 11^th.”

“You could send someone. They could be there before she makes her stops, before she goes for the open seas.”

“It’s a lost cause, I tell you!” Ransom heard the anger rise in the man’s voice, “Now I’m here to ask you, man, have you not any friends here in Belfast who will put up bail for you?”

“Ahhh, now I see your game, Constable… bail. It’s your primary source of income, eh? How much then did you squeeze out of Bellingham?”

“You do know how things work, don’t you? By God if you aren’t Ransom of Chicago, you have indeed been a policeman; that much is true.” Reahall smiled wide, a thing Ransom was fast tiring of. “And so, you know bail is but a small portion of our operation here. I could use a man of your talents working the streets for me.”

Graft and corruption, Ransom thought, the world over. Chicago had no monopoly there. “Me? A snitch? No, sorry but no… not in my make up.”

Reahall shrugged this off. “And bail?”

“Again sorry. No true friends here. Certainly no one capable of pulling together enough for the likes of you.”

“You’ve got two young friends on the outside to raise your bail.”

“Students, poor as church mice, Constable.”

“Well now, can’t blame a man for trying; a man has a right to make a decent wage… a living, Ransom; you wouldn’t begrudge an aging lawman his share, would you? How’re such things done in Chicago, Inspector?”

“The Irish in Chicago didn’t invent corruption.”

“But they have perfected it.” Reahall laughed, the sound bouncing off the cell walls.

The two men stared through the bars at one another as a bear might lock eyes with a panther, and Ransom—whose street name in Chicago was Bear—began to laugh good-naturedly. Finally, he said over the laughter, “A man has to feed his family… put bread on the table by any means, true?”

Denying nothing, Reahall joined him in his laughter, and leaving, he called back over his shoulder, “Enjoy your evening, Inspector Ransom.” He laughed as the oaken outer door slammed. He laughed down the corridor, his footsteps clicking along the tiles. Ransom sat alone in his cell, head in hand. His thoughts were no longer for his own safety or whether Reahall would do his duty and extradite him to America, but rather, on the innocent lives that would be lost on board Titanic if no one put a quarantine on the ship before boarding in Southampton… five-hundred, seventy miles distant.

“It may’s well be the moon,” he moaned.

Hopelessness washed over him.

Not two hours later, well after Ransom finished his jailhouse meal, amounting to bread and water, Reahall returned, and through Ransom’s bars the two detectives played a staring game of wills.

“Maybe you’re right, American,” said Reahall. “It’s a long shot but perhaps you’re just the man for the job.”

“What job? What am I right for?”

Ransom knew it was only a matter of time before the damning news coming from Chicago to Belfast would reach Reahall now that the Marconi wireless operated between the countries. A full description of Alastair, down to his scars from his Haymarket Riot days on the force would prove to Reahall that he indeed had in his custody the escaped murderer of a priest in Chicago.

The following morning at the Belfast lockup things seemed unsettled. Breakfast had not come on time and no sign of Sergeant Quinlan and that skeleton key that Ransom had had his eye on. Neither had Chief Constable Reahall brought his chess board and pieces as earlier promised for a hearty and heady game. Time passed. No one showed up until suddenly, Ian Reahall stood outside Ransom’s cage, white-faced.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“Pinkerton Agent Tuttle,” he said outright.

“They located his body? Where? Aboard Titanic? Sent word via the wireless, did they? Got Bellingham’s message, discovered the body, finally took the professor’s rantings seriously on seeing Tuttle’s black corpse? Turned back, did they?”

“Shut up, will you, Alastair! No, no… Titanic is long gone… well on its way.”

“To America, now?”

“Your concern for the U.S. is touching,” said Reahall. “The ship is still in making its way to Southampton. There it’ll be taking on supplies and be outfitted for Easter celebrations.”

“Dressed out, of course, for Easter?” Ransom being alone had long ago lost all connections to such holidays.

“April 7^th, she’ll be draped on all sides with flags—both British and American. So she’ll remain in port for the holiday; it’s why the schedule calls for April 10^th as the date they set sail—three days later.”

“Well then, damn it, man, tell me where was Agent Tuttle found?”

“The ocean always gives up its dead.”

“The ocean?”

“Our unforgiving Irish Sea. He washed up south of Belfast—a small village. My counterpart there sent word by car—what appeared to be a corpse long in the ground had washed ashore there.” He held up a small note, waving it overhead. “I went to have a look, taking Dr. Bellingham and those two former cellmates of yours, along with me. They dissected the body then and there. What I saw…” Reahall was visibly shaken.

“Hold on! Bellingham allowed them to do a dissection—after burning the other bodies at the steel ovens?”

“How did you learn of that news?” Reahall asked.

“Your Sergeant likes to play chess, too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Reahall admitted. “I trust you can beat Quinlan at the game?”

“Never mind that. Tell me more about Tuttle’s remains.”

“Well… it seems Enoch’s been won over by those two students of his.”

“Is that right? Bully for the boys.” Ransom imagined the sabre-toothed creature had a sobering effect on Enoch Bellingham as well as the idea of a medical journal article on the new find.

“It appears so. At any rate, we all went to have a look together.”

“And what did the medical men find inside Tuttle?” Ransom recalled the ugly egg sacs of the stillborn alien life forms he’d seen in the operating theater.

“What did they find, indeed! Shocking,” replied Reahall, who was spinning a large skeleton key in his hand as he spoke. “Found similar results as found in the lab here—results you have yourself seen, Inspector Ransom.”

“Wyland, it is Wyland, sir.”

“I am sure.”

“In any event, I’d thought Tuttle’s body aboard Titanic,” replied Ransom. “But if he was thrown overboard or rather killed himself by leaping into the water… what with this disease upon him… .who might he have come into contact with before he died? One of the interior workmen? Another Pinkerton agent? Someone aboard Titanic is quite possibly carrying the plague now.”

“It’s a possibility shared by the medical men.” Reahall slapped the bars with what appeared to be a note gripped in his hand.

“There were engineers and other Pinkerton agents who were aboard the night Anton Fiore and the two miners disappeared.”

“Correct and true,” mused Reahall, “but Titanic’s long gone from here.”

“But she will be remaining in dock at Southampton till the tenth!”

“Understood, and sir, take these in hand.” Reahall’s note in hand was not a note at all but an envelope.

Ransom took the envelope and searched its contents. “Three tickets aboard Trinity?”

“I have seen to it you have a berth on a merchant ship aptly named for your mission, Detective, if you are willing to go to work for me in the capacity of a deputy of Belfast—”

“Deputy?” Ransom smiled wide. “Deputy Constable Wyland of Belfast. Has a pleasant ring to it.”

“I am sure it sounds better than an executioner’s rope.” Reahall held out a badge to him through the bars. “Not as a snitch but as the long arm of the law.”

“I don’t know what to say,” replied Alastair, astonished.

“The good ship Trinity leaves in half an hour. Be ready to make Southampton by early morning tomorrow. Your young surgery friends have agreed to be aboard but only if you will travel with them. It’s the bargain we struck… the only one we can all live with, and I for one intend to live a long life, so now it is your decision, Deputy Constable Wyland? Southampton or the hangman’s noose?”

“I would be proud, sir, to serve under you,” Alastair lied but he felt good about the lie.

“Good, then you won’t mind if I escort you to Trinity where you then can play Father to the Son, and The Holy Ghost.”

“Apt undercover titles for three saviors, eh?”

“Come then.” Reahall unlocked the cell, stepped in, and began reciting the oath of office to Ransom as Ransom up held his right hand. When he got to the part calling for Ransom to declare his name for the record, Alastair thought it all a ploy to get him to confess. To avoid this, he shouted his reply: “I Alastair Wyland, being of sound mind, do hereby swear to uphold the laws and constitution of Belfast and Ireland.”

“That should make it legal enough, Constable Wyland. Now… shall we have at it?”

Alastair grabbed his overcoat, top hat, wolf’s head cane, checked the time on his gold watch—all of which he’d negotiated back from Quinlan and Reahall over these days, and he announced, “Well then… do lead on, Constable.”

Reahall hustled him out and down a back stairwell, and soon they stood in the morning light of a Belfast alleyway slick with a night rain. Even the odors rising like steam off nearby trash cans proved a balm to the freed man.

Alastair asked,“You’ve arranged for a berth but why? What’s changed your outlook? Tuttle’s condition?”

“Better you with your bloody principles and ethics to go chasing this damnable thing down than me; I’m no hero but perhaps… just perhaps you are more like those tow-head boys than you think.”

“I’m no naïve lad; you know that much about me.”

“No, not naïve by any means, certainly not innocent, but I find in you a certain recklessness and thumbing your nose at authority as well as perhaps death itself. Some might term it Yankee gallantry; as in rushing into a burning building, or-or that mine shaft that first night.”

“They say fool’s rush in.”

“And so I take you for one mad enough and wild enough to go chasing Titanic. Besides, you can never hope to win at chess if you allow men like Quinlan and me to beat you at chess.”

Ransom’s laugh carried to the sea on a brisk, cool breeze. They had made their way to the pier and the ship called Trinity. Anyone seeing them might think them old comrades, possibly two old soldiers reminiscing about the old times.

“Touché, you’ve found me out and wanting. But you’ve not answered my question. Why?”

“To answer why?” He took in a deep breath where they came to a standstill. Some sixty odd yards from them, Ransom saw the beautiful Bluenose schooner where crew worked to prepare her for the open sea. He saw Declan and Thomas waving from the deck as he neared.

Reahall indicated the two interns. “I’m told by those two that you sincerely care about all this… about putting an end to this… this thing—whatever the holy hell it is.”

“Yes, go on.” Ransom was clearly enjoying this turn of events.

“I am not about to go chasing something that could leave my body in the same state as those we’ve both seen. But you… you I give your freedom to, if you will give me your word that you will do all in your power to catch Titanic before she sails out of Southampton, and to order it held there and quarantine her in dock until more can be learned.”

“More can be learned? How long is that?”

“Until you are satisfied there is no contagion aboard… until your two young doctors and Titanic’s doctors, and perhaps Southampton’s chief public medical officer can do likewise. I’ve wired them of the possibility.”

“Then if they heed the warning, perhaps we have a chance; perhaps they’ll delay her taking off for America.”

“I know how persuasive you can be, Alastair.” He took Ransom’s hand and heartily shook it with both his hands. Ransom saw it as a sign like Pontius Pilot washing his hands of a decision that rocked the world. But Alastair was not naïve, and like Pontius Pilot, whose career hung in the balance when deciding Christ’s fate, Reahall too was a selfish soul and in the end a little man concerned for his small fiefdom.

“This is quite the turn of events, Ian—if I can call you, Ian—and quite the turn of mind on your part.”

“I saw the results up close this time; I hardly gave it a look in Enoch Bellingham’s lab that day we arrested you! Must admit, my zealous desire to clamp the irons on you may’ve clouded my judgment, I’m afraid. At any rate, Irvin and Coogan convinced Enoch, and Enoch convinced me of just how virulent this plague is.”

“Now that I can believe.” Ransom took the RIC badge of the Royal Irish Constubulary and attached the gold-plated shield to his vest, and he then placed the lapel of his overcoat across it; he could flash it when needed, hide it when needed. “Well now, boss, let’s get me the hell out of Belfast and onto that ship headed for Southampton.”

“She’s a Bluenose schooner class is Trinity—very fast. She reads the ocean like she has her own mind. I’ve made channel crossing on her in the past. Trust me; if anyone can get you to Southampton in record time, it’s Captain McEachern.”

“All well’n’good, but Ian—may I call you, Ian?”

“Go on.”

“I’d be able to move a lot faster working alone.” He indicated the two interns already aboard. “Besides those lads there, they’ve already placed their lives on the line twice now.”

“Young Doctors Declan and Coogan,” he thoughtfully replied, rubbing his chin. “I agree, brave lads, the both. But they’ve volunteered, and besides you’re going to come up against a great deal of resistance in asking the owners of Titanic to stand her down.”

“All the same, I don’t want to see—”

“Ahhhhh! You will need medical men for what you need to do. It will not be easy to convince officials in England, nor officials aboard Titanic, that there is reason to end her progress before she’s made any headway toward the western horizon.”

They stood below a sign that read: SLIP 506.

“What about you, Ian?”

“I am too old to go chasing about the continent, Alastair.”

“You’re not so old as I am!”

“I can’t leave my responsibilities here. Besides, as I said, I’m no one’s hero.”

“Do you think the place will fall apart without you? Old men like us, Ian, we’re seldom called to adventure at our age! Danger, man! It’s the thing gets your blood racing, the heart pumping.”

“I see you are made for it—Ransom.”

It was not lost on either of them—or the young interns who were meant to overhear it—Ian’s calling him Ransom again at this juncture. Alastair met his eye. “Come with us,” he urged the other policeman. “It could make a new man of you. One you might actually like.”

“This old carcass is too far along to change now.”

“It’ll make you young again to give chase to the greatest ship on the high seas! Think of it man. If we succeed, you become a hero—whether you like it or not. And a changed man in the bargain.”

“Changed man or a better man?”

“Both!”

Reahall took a moment to consider it, but only a moment. “No… no more talk of my joining you on the Trinity. I’ve set you up for failure, Ransom; you must know that I’ve no hope of success. This is a Hail Mary is all.”

“A long shot, I understand, Ian.”

“And I clear my conscious of it while… while not going anywhere near this disease ever again.”

Ransom recognized pure fear when he saw it in a man’s eyes, so he shut up about Reahall’s joining them in attempting to stop Titanic from leaving Southampton. Ian was right about its being a long shot. Ransom surmised that only God or one hell of a ship’s captain, or some act of nature that might delay Titanic beyond Easter dress-up-day might make it possible for them to even attempt to talk to Captain Edward Smith about quarantining Titanic.

For the moment, this mad dash of theirs to get to the party on time was merely step one.

Titanic had indeed arrived in Southampton just after midnight for provisioning and staffing while Alastair Ransom sat in a Belfast jail. And by April fifth, Good Friday, Titanic was “dressed” in an array of flags and pennants for a salute to the people of Southampton, England, and what the English jokingly termed “the US Colonies” while Ransom had cooled his heels in jail. And by April 6^th recruitment for the remainder—and majority—of crew members while docked in Southampton was underway. This while Ransom had played chess and paced his cell.

General cargo began to arrive marked for Titanic yet in Southampton. Cargo bound for merchants in New York, Chicago, Richmond, and indeed every corner of the US. Cases, boxed sets, bundles, pounds—silk bails, furniture, auto and machinery parts, crated books, mail sacks, crates of cognac, brandy, wine, plants, orchids, vats of Dragon’s Blood dye, rolls of Linoleum, stores of feathers, linens, ribbons, hats, scarves, shoes stamped for pick up by Wells Fargo and American Express Delivery, some goods going to Marshal Field’s of Chicago, and some to Macy’s in New York. Then there was the fleet of automobiles. The final total cargo included 559 tons and 11,524 separate pieces of equipment, as well as 5,892 tons of coal. All of which required loading aboard. Few men working the docks in the shadow of the monster ship could resist the call to go to sea aboard this history-making ocean liner.

By April 8^th fresh food supplies were being taken aboard as Alastair Ransom, Thomas Coogan, and Declan Irvin raced for Southampton aboard Trinity. But by this time, all final preparations aboard the largest ship ever to set sail were being overseen by the ship's builder. Thomas Andrews saw to it all, down to the smallest detail—including written invitations on each place setting on each table for first class ticket holders. Andrews wanted every detail to be perfect, with nothing left to chance. The ship was his greatest pride and joy, and it would make his career. Builders the world over would be seeking him out.

Even as Ransom stretched and yawned, having slept out on the open deck of Trinity, even as the young interns and Trinity’s crew gathered about her bow railing at dawn on April 10^th, Captain McEachern wailed, “There’s she is, our prey!”

An unusually large man-made object on the horizon had everyone’s attention: Titanic. Captain Peter McEachern joined Ransom at the rail. They had spoken at length about his purpose the night before. “It’s her—Titanic yet in the slip built for her at Southampton. We’ve made it, Constable Ransom.”

“Aye, Captain, against all odds, we’ve caught her.”

In the distance, Titanic’s signature four smoke stacks rose from the horizon as if Poseidon’s trident had grown a fourth prong. Unmistakable, Ransom thought.

Ransom had seen no more reason to hide his identity either from the young doctors, the captain of this ship, or the world. He’d had a dream while in Ian Reahall’s jail, a dream so real, so powerful he considered it life-altering, as strong as any premonition. It was a strange yet clear story of his death—as he’d seen himself go down into the sea to freeze and drown. But today, here and now, the chase alone—and now the end of the chase—the prize at hand—brought a smile to Alastair Ransom, and he muttered to himself, “Well done old man… well done.”

At 7:30am, April 10^th aboard Titanic, Captain Edward J. Smith boarded to fanfare, and why not? It was announced in every paper that while this was Titanic’s maiden voyage, it was also Smith’s last before retirement, and save for the accident while guiding Olympic, the troublesome one with the naval vessel Hawke, which had so delayed Titanic’s completion at Harland & Wolff, Smith had not a single mishap in his long career. So came a shrieking boson’s whistle followed by cheers, all proper naval protocol in welcoming Smith aboard under a brisk, cool morning wind.

Finally, Titanic with full crew wanted now to find the open sea. Officers William Murdoch and Charles Lightoller and others had spent the night on board. Once on the bridge and at the helm, after greeting all his officers, shaking hands with First Officer Murdoch and Second Officer Lightoller, Smith received the sailing report from Chief Officer Henry Wilde. All looked in order. In fact, by 8am, the entire crew stood on the foredeck while Officers Lightoller, Murdoch, and the ship’s physician and assistant physician mustered in every man—filling rosters in ledgers. His majesty’s Royal Navy had nothing on the White Star Line for keeping lists. Once mustering in was complete, Lightoller led a lifeboat drill cut short by orders brought to him from the bridge as Captain Smith realized how few lifeboats—sixteen wooden structures capable of holding sixty, perhaps seventy each—had been made available to his command. As a result, Smith decided it a rather unnecessary exercise that might just as well be conducted again after they were underway, if at all. Smith felt confident that what Ismay and Andrews had said about Olympic and Titanic was true—that she was indeed unsinkable; after all, when Olympic had struck The Hawke with such force, any other cruiser with so gaping a hole if of standard size surely would have sunk! But not Olympic, Titanic’s sister.

Titanic’s feel under his command seemed identical to Olympic. In fact, the larger sister ship would make the all-too familiar North Atlantic at this time of year a routine crossing. With a good wind at his back, it would be as easy for Smith as reciting a The Lord’s Prayer.

As a result of his orders to stand down on any lifeboat exercises at this time, Second Officer Lightoller ended his lessons of the morning rather abruptly, this after using only two starboard boats, Number 11 and 15. By now the clock had come around to 9:30am, so with second and third class boat-trains, what amounted to cargo vessels, now arriving, passengers had begun to board ship. This boarding of passengers continued until 11:30am as Trinity in the distance had coalesced in the human eye from a speck on the horizon to a beautiful schooner in full sail, racing toward Titanic at 17 knots.

Many of the passengers aboard Titanic pointed to the teak-wood sailing ship that looked for all the world like the past trying to catch the future of shipping in these waters—a sense of sadness filtering into some who watched the merchant ship. She flew the Union Jack as did Titanic. But while Trinity might leave men with a sense of both wonder and longing for the open seas, Titanic left men in wonder at her sheer power, her size, and her speed alone. Titanic promised so much for the future of mankind, while making ships like Trinity obsolete relics of a fast disappearing past.

No schooner could possibly keep up with the White Star giants; no schooner could hold a tenth of what Titanic held in the way of ocean-going merchandise; no other ship, save the largest of the Cunard Line, could compete with a ship that had not one but three giant piston-operated, motorized propellers in the water.

By 11:30am, with the second and third class passengers in place, tucked away in the lower decks, came the arrival of the first-class boat-train, a far nicer transport than enjoyed by second and third class passengers. This train had arrived from London at dockside, and from it the first-class passengers were boarded in orderly fashion. Each party escorted to waiting cabins. By noon, Titanic was prepared to cast off.

From the bridge, the captain gave the order, and using a familiar signal, the great steam whistle, the necessary tug boats were given the go ahead to move the massive ship from the newly built dock, created especially for Olympic and Titanic.

All appeared in order as the tugs, working like bulldogs, moved the 53,000 tons called Titanic, and soon—perhaps too soon—the tugs had her in the River Test. She would soon be in a smooth downstream passage under her own steam. Cheers from the crowd gathered at the docks, and return cheers from every deck aboard Titanic, filled the air, sending birds screeching into the air. The noise only increased when onlookers and passengers alike saw that Titanic, a ship as large as the tallest of skyscrapers, free of the tugboats, was now operating under its own steam.

All the jubilation was suddenly cut short, replaced by gasps and then silenced when spectators saw how the water displaced by Titanic's movement parallel to the docks caused all six mooring ropes on a typical-sized ocean liner, belonging to a rival shipping line, to snap and break. This sent the Cunard line’s New York twisting, her stern to swinging wildly toward White Star’s Titanic. Quick orders from Captain Smith and swift action by Wilde at the wheel narrowly averted a collision with New York; in fact, they’d come within a mere four feet of scuttling New York and possibly damaging Titanic before she started her maiden voyage.

Alastair Ransom and others aboard Trinity thought it certain that Titanic would strike the standard-sized cruise liner near her. For an instant, Ransom imagined Titanic having to be towed back into Belfast for repairs. He pictured Titanic’s long, painful limping voyage back to Belfast. The White Star Line embarrassed again—as they had been with Olympic.

Alastair then imagined everyone spending this afternoon disembarking with rain checks to board the next White Star ship leaving for their destination—disappointing men like Titanic’s chief operating officer, J. Bruce Ismay, the architect, Thomas Andrews, John J. Astor and family as well as other prominent families, not to mention Major Butt, rumored to be on a secretive mission as an envoy to and from the Pope and President Taft.

As it was, their departure today would be delayed, as Titanic now bobbed sideways in the river channel. From the perspective of those aboard the approaching Trinity, it appeared obvious to any thinking person—including her Captain Peter McEachern—that something was amiss. Early on, he’d put his spyglass into good use, chronicling what was happening before handing the glass over to Ransom.

As Alastair viewed the mishap, McEachern said in his ear, “The gods are with us, mate. Ye might make it aboard that floating palace in time after all.”

“Our luck’s held so far.”

Captain McEachern then commented on the men piloting the giant ship. “It shows a lack of familiarity with ships of such size by those handling them, I should say, but then who has handled such monsters before? Don’t know that I’d do any better. Fact is, from what I gather, the entire method of steering the damn things is backwards!”

“For men like us, Captain, seems the world is rushing away from us.”

“Indeed, Constable. It be a strange if marvelous future we’re all headed toward.”

“Please, call me Alastair.”

“It’s our good luck, it is,” said Declan after a turn on the spyglass.

“Do you think we’ve time now to catch them, sir?” asked Thomas of Captain McEachern.

The weathered old schooner captain smiled. “Aye, if they don’t take us for a bunch of pirates trying to board her.” He laughed heartily at his own remark, and they all joined in. The idea of their small ship beside the monster and being taken for pirates made them all laugh at the very notion.

One in the afternoon came and Titanic had resumed its twenty-four mile trip downstream to the English Channel en route to Cherbourg, France where additional passengers were to board. Captain Smith and those on the bridge saw the schooner racing toward them, now in the Channel, and all aboard the schooner wildly waved, some jumping up and down. Crewmen and passengers on board Titanic waved back at the excited men on the now dwarfed schooner which, even with her masts, was barely a flea on Titanic’s scale.

From the deck of Trinity, Ransom saw the now closed and sealed wide cargo bay doors that he’d stood before at Slip 401 back in Belfast the night they’d first searched the ship for O’Toole and Fiore. But even if he could at his age swing over on a rope like some swashbuckling pirate, he saw no hold on the moving ship. They had arrived alongside Titanic and bobbed in the water like a cork, and they saw a pair of Titanic officers waving them off and shouting in bullhorns to stand away.

McEachern had to heed the warnings too, realizing late just how much displacement Titanic was capable of and angry at himself for not taking it into consideration, especially after witnessing what’d happened to the New York. Trinity was hardly the New York, and Captain McEachern had to veer off and pull away, turning to ride the enormous waves hitting her now.

Thomas, not a comfortable traveler by ship the whole way, became terribly green before turning white after heaving up everything from his gut into the sea as he doubled over the side rail. Declan, holding his back and watching his friend retch, began feeling queasy himself. By comparison, the seasoned sailors aboard seemed to enjoy the hobby-horsing the deck began to do, and Ransom grabbed hold of the closest mast, wondering if he shouldn’t lash himself to it, recalling how he had died in his premonition. The waters here were deep enough and cold enough to do the job.

Crew and captain aboard Trinity began laughing first at Thomas, then at Declan, and then at Ransom who indeed began to lash himself to the mast.

Captain McEachern had hoisted the white flag—international symbol of surrender and he had earlier hoisted the red flag—which meant a number of things—such as ship in distress, in need of help, or a request to come alongside and board. None of which those in the bridge of Titanic, apparently, could see or wished to see. Nor did they pay the least attention to every crewman aboard Trinity waving hands, jumping up and down until the waves created by Titanic slammed into the schooner.

Captain McEachern wasn’t lashing himself to anything, however; standing on firm sea legs, he was shaking a fist at the behemoth ship and cursing a blue streak at their utter disregard of his Trinity. Soon Titanic was well past them but the swells remained, shaking and turning the small sailing ship like a cork in a water spout.

When finally, the swells calmed enough that Ransom and the others believed Trinity would survive, Alastair went up to the captain’s deck where McEachern had taken over the wheel, righting his ship. Ransom knew it would take some convincing to get the captain to chase Titanic to Cherbourg, France, and he wasn’t wrong.

McEachern was already waving him off and shaking his head, knowing what Ransom wanted. “I’ll not ‘’ave anymore dealin’s with Titanic, Mr. Ransom.”

“But Captain!”

“I’ve me own crew and tender to look after, sir, as well as cargo needs loadin’ here!”

“After you unload then! It’s imperative.”

“No law can compel me to it, sir—not after the greeting we’ve received by those bastards piloting that monster.”

Ransom knew it would take money—likely every cent that Declan and Thomas had laid in his hands along with promises of more from the coffers of Belfast and perhaps the White Star Line itself.

Ransom calmly, quietly began putting ideas of great wealth into McEachern’s now twitching ear.