Titanic 2012: Curse of RMS Titanic

TWENTY SIX

Well into the harbor at Queenstown now, while Constable Ransom and his companions remained locked away, above decks on Titanic, Captain Edward Smith was, he felt, being besieged—first by these imposters posing as medical and civil authorities out of Belfast of all places, and now comes the tirade, tantrums, and rantings of one old battleaxe, a tough German named Mrs. Catarina Krizefieldt who insisted on a refund and that she be put off at Queenstown immediately.

An elderly, sometimes wheelchair-bound woman with bushy eyebrows, a noticeable snout, and the angry eyes of a vulture, Mrs. Krizefieldt had obviously boarded under false pretenses merely to gain some brief newsprint notoriety as she had raised holy hell among passengers and crew, claiming herself a psychic on the order of Nostradamus, and that she had foreseen the sinking of Titanic in a matter of days if not hours.

Spreading such a rumor to the captain’s ear was one thing, but when he ignored her repeated notes passed to him, first at dinner the night before, and next through his officers this morning, Smith wanted nothing more than to honor her request that she be put off at Queenstown—their last port-of-call before leaving Europe for America. Smith meant to appease the woman not so much as to honor the mad request but to be rid of her—as he had rid himself for the time being of this man Ransom and his stooges.

Indeed, Captain Smith most certainly wanted this publicity-seeking so-called psychic off his ship. And while at it, he ordered Murdoch and Lightoller to “escort those Belfast idiots from the brig to that lifeboat as well. Kill all the Albatrosses aboard with one drop of a boat.” Even so, it meant time wasted and effort wasted, things Smith detested.

To this end, he had his navigator plot a course for the most convenient departure point in the bay at Queenstown, where they were scheduled to take on not just additional passengers and supplies for their Atlantic crossing, but trade goods as well. He understood crates of hand-made, German grandfather clocks were among the goods going to America from here.

To complete Mrs. Krizefieldt’s request, a lifeboat had to be packed with the woman’s trunk, bags, wheelchair, despondent caged parakeet, her equally despondent-looking husband, and finally herself.

Second Officer Lightoller had been slated to take two junior officers with him to go ashore to oversee the boarding of additional passengers and cargo, and so he was selected to see to the de-boarding of Mrs. Krizefieldt, and her belongings in addition to escorting at gunpoint the other three unwanted characters aboard.

At the time of packing the now wildly rocking lifeboat with the family Krizefieldt and their possessions, the prisoners were being escorted up from the brig—so far as Captain Smith knew. Using a single lifeboat made sense as the most expedient way to get them all out of the captain’s hair in one fell swoop. At the same time, Titanic must come to a complete halt, her anchors lowered to steady her, followed by the lowering of the lifeboat as Queenstown had no dock large enough to accommodate Titanic. This all in addition to his men having to bring on new passengers, properly de-board others via the boat train, and load on new provisions, stores, medical supplies, and trade goods.

Smith’s orders to Lightoller had been simple and direct: “See that all aboard your lifeboat, sir, are safely put ashore. We’ll place all these malcontents into one boat, and let the Queenstown authorities deal with them, while Wilde sees to boarding passengers coming on here along with any additional goods and supplies.”

The baby-faced Lightoller meant to carry out his orders to the letter, thinking the malcontents the captain spoke of had succeeded in upsetting his captain and his ship. He knew that it would be some time before things got back on course and on schedule; for himself, personally, it’d be some time before he could get back to the ship due to his having to unload the gnarly old German couple, Ransom, and his young accomplices. Still things were gong smoothly enough what with Lifeboat #5 safely lifted and waiting for the prisoners, held steady by the powerful davit engine. The young officer once again marveled at the amazing technological advances that had made Titanic possible. He knew the ship might be delayed, but Titanic was made for speed as well as elegance; she could make up the time once they were moving forward again.

“Another ruse to slow us down,” Smith told his officers on the bridge from where he stood watching Lightoller organizing Lifeboat #5. Officer Wilde nodded, appreciating his captain’s wisdom.

“How low will Cunard stoop, sir?” Wilde put in.

“As low as their knees will allow.”

Rather than seeing to the job of escorting the prisoners up from the bowels of the ship to be taken off, Will Murdoch had sent word via a crewman that this be done. Not long following this, Murdoch was sent word that the three prisoners had escaped and were at large. This on a boat some nine New York City blocks long and three wide. A more precise measurement placed the ship at 28 meters or 92 feet wide, and 882 feet or 269 meters long. A ship with a thousand hiding places.

At the same time that Charles Lightoller was organizing the packing off of Mrs. Catarina Krizefieldt, word reached the captain that Ransom and his two young cohorts had attacked their guards halfway up to the boat deck, and the trio had disappeared after the melee belowdecks. It was believed they were now in hiding among the second class citizens of steerage grade tickets.

“What shall we do sir?” asked Murdoch after reporting the unhappy news to Smith.

“Shall we hold the lifeboat up, sir?” asked Lightoller, who’d joined them at the bridge on learning the news. “I mean until we can apprehend the prisoners?”

“More time wasted,” Smith muttered, disgusted, his features and white beard at odds with his angry blue eyes. At this moment, he more resembled depictions of Zeus than Santa. “Damn you, Murdoch, why didn’t you see to the escort of prisoners personally, man?”

“I had no idea they were so desperate, sir; I assumed they’d be thrilled at the news we were setting ’em free on the dock here. Free to go on their way, you know—facing no prosecution for—for—”

“You told them that lie?”

“I insisted the crewmen bringing them up say so, yes, to ensure their cooperation, you see.”

“Clever, but it obviously didn’t work. Damn it all. This delays us further! Which is their aim, Mister Murdoch! You know this—delay, delay, sabotage next!”

And it did have this supposed desired effect. This had all delayed Titanic, the clock ticking away, shaving off almost two hours from her schedule already, while they had been well ahead of schedule before now. This damnable delay could cost us the transatlantic record for a ship this size!” he continued. “A record I planned on winning before retirement—to beat Britannic. Every officer and crewman’s bonuses are at stake. Bonuses White Star promised, but only if Titanic shaves time off Britannic’s record.”

“Not to mention your bonus, Captain,” said Wilde.

Smith waved this off. “Record aside, gentlemen, the sheer embarrassment of it all; the owner and architect are aboard, both J. Bruce Ismay and Thomas Andrews.” He shook his head, despondent. “Fortunately, Pierre of Harland & Wolfe and J.P. Morgan, both of whom had hoped to be aboard, were unable to make the date, what with it changing daily!”

Whether aboard or not, these men were giants of industry in a Gilded Age—in a time that heralded the greatness of mankind’s coming into the modern era; Smith mustn’t disappoint his bosses and benefactors, and at the moment, Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews were profoundly upset with the goings on aboard that he’d had to report already—first the Belfast intruders with their wild claims, and now this insane lunatic’s ridiculous so-called premonition of doom, and Smith had no doubt these distractions had been wired to J.P. Morgan and to Pierre.

“We’ll send a second boat with those miscreants, Mr. Lightoller,” said Smith, legs parted in a fighting stance, his finger wagging at Lightoller’s nose. “For the moment, get that ranting woman off my ship!”

Indeed, Mrs. Catarina Krizefieldt, sitting in the front of the life boat, awaiting her lowering over the side with her husband and her things, was shouting to any and all passengers who happened by—and there was a growing crowd of them—that they best come off the ship with her. “I’ve had a dream that’s altered every feeling I once held about this ship!”

“What sorta dream?” shouted someone among the crowd the woman had gathered about Lifeboat #14.

“A-A dream of death and destruction aboard. I have seen the Devil himself aboard Titanic. He has flesh fired like enamel, he does!”

Some in the crowd taunted the woman for a fool, others called her a saboteur paid by the Cunard Line. Most wanted her unpleasant face, voice, and message to simply go away, and to this end Lightoller, with shaky hands, ordered a less experienced officer to lower him and Mr. and Mrs. Krizefieldt down. The young officer snapped on the davit motor that worked the pulleys to lower the shaking lifeboat that Lightoller stood in. A crewman monitored the lowering of the boat from the deck.

For Smith, it meant Lightoller, a man at the davit, another monitoring the descent of the boat to keep it level, not to mention Murdoch and others chasing the other problem belowdecks were all engaged in time-consuming and unnecessary maneuvers. “God how I wish those Belfast thugs were on board with that woman!” Smith sighed deeply as he watched the action. “Lightoller seems be taking orders better than the more seasoned Murdoch. What do you think, Mr. Wilde?”

“Think the both of them are good officers, sir; we’re lucky to have them with us, sir.”

“Mr. Wilde, I can always count on your decorum.”

But this was not the end of annoyances for Smith, for when Officer Lightoller returned piloting the lifeboat back to Titanic, he’d gotten an earful from the crazed old hag and somehow thought it wise to address the possibility of the woman’s having some powers in the realm of the unseen, the world of the paranormal and séances for which she was sought after and well known in Surrey and Wexford, or so she claimed as she hailed from Wexford and had acquaintances in Surrey despite her German background.

“Mr. Lightoller, we’ll waste no more time on this nonsense, please!”

“I only mean, sir, that her foresight… well it turns out it’s legendary in her region of England.”

“Wexford, bah!” Captain Smith sniffed as if he smelled the place, and he went to the huge windows facing the bow and the horizon. For a long moment, he watched, silent, looking out over the broad expanse of the Atlantic ahead of them and then muttered, “Lost time… hard to make up.”

Lightoller knew the man’s every move, every twitch by now, and he understood he was to stand silent and wait on his captain’s next order. Finally, Smith turned to his junior officer and firmly said, “Mr. Lightoller you and everyone aboard who answers to me are to be silent on the rantings of that awful woman and to speak no more of it, understood?”

“Yes, sir… understood.”

“And Charles…” Smith added, a hand waving birdlike, “I will hear no gossip among the crew or the black gang at the furnaces.”

Lightoller felt a smidge emboldened since Smith used his first name, a sign the old man liked him regardless of his bumbling. “Sir, then will you hear of a missing man among the stokers?”

“A missing man? What missing man?”

“Aye, sir, Alfred Davenport.”

“Sounds like the name of a sofa,” joked Wilde, who was at Titanic’s giant, shining wheel. The bridge was made of the most expensive mahogany paneling and all metal surfaces were gold plated, often reflecting sunlight so powerfully as to blind a man.

“We can’t have already lost a man over the side, can we?” asked Smith. “Are all the life boats and collapsibles accounted for?”

“They are, sir,” replied Lightoller, biting his lip.

“Speak your mind, Charles.”

“All accounted for sir—what few there are.” One of Lightoller’s many responsibilities included overseeing the lifeboats in the event they were needed, for which he took a terrible ribbing. He also oversaw the boarding of all supplies from the bakers’ flour to binoculars, gun stores to medical and foodstuffs along with various other supplies—at least in the loading. A chore that young, Junior Officer Boxhall was assigned as backup.

“What do you know of this missing man?” asked Captain Smith.

“The one they call Burnsey, sir?”

“No… I hear of a second missing man.”

“Oh, yes, well… the older fellow, another of the stokers.”

“What is the word on this fellow?”

“The other black gangmen, sir, they say he was there one minute, working away at his shovel, the next gone.”

“This is the Davenport fellow you spoke of earlier, Charles?”

“Davenport, Alfred, yes sir. Some said he’d gone toward the rear of the ship, others thought he’d gone up to the next deck. That he’d been boasting he’d met a girl up there in steerage.”

“But they’re restricted to the lower depths and their quarters, aren’t they? Did they get those orders, Mr. Lightoller?”

“Aye, sir, they did, but some say this chap didn’t always obey orders.”

“They are the Black Gang, sir,” added Wilde with a shake of the head.

Lightoller quickly added,” And there was a dance going on in lower class, lots of drink, music, and women, you see.”

“Temptations abound,” said Wilde.

“So he’s lying drunk somewhere on board is he?” asked Smith, his tone dripping of disgust.

“Likely asleep atop some wench,” commented Wilde from the wheel.

“We think so, but perhaps he’s fallen under the spell of a woman, sir,” Lightoller had to agree with Wilde. “Black Gang fellas live a rough life, and they act as if there’s no tomorrow, sir.”

“Damn it all. What else can happen to slow us down?”

“Actually, sir,” Lightoller began, grimacing, “there’s a coal fire burning away in one of the furnace rooms.”

“What? My God. What happened? This day! I wish I could turn it back!” Smith stomped about in a small circle. “Bother.” He ended in his usual calmness, the picture of neatness and stoicism in his uniform.

“Coal for the furnace ignited—we suspect one of those spontaneous ignitings that occur from time to time, sir, “Lightoller volunteered. “Something to do with the chemical combustion, natural processes. It’s beyond me, but as they chuck out the coal, the embers will be found and extinguished—of that you can be sure.”

“So what’s being done?” asked Smith.

“Can’t do anything but close off the section, which shuts off two auxiliary furnaces in that area, sir.”

“Why am I just hearing of this now? You realize this means we can never get her up to 24 knots.”

“Well sir, I do sir, yes, but the firemen have had no luck with it; bloody smoke—pardon me language, sir—the smoke is too thick.”

“I see.”

“Some believe Davenport may be inside there—choked to death, sir.”

“Her maiden voyage and she’s fast becoming a ragged whore,” muttered Smith to no one in particular. “An expensive as hell whore but a whore, nonetheless.”