UNDAY, A PRIL 14, 1912, 11:39 P.M.
Forty-five feet up, in the crow’s nest, lookouts Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee were completely unaware of the drama taking place below them on the forecastle deck. Their eyes were scanning the Atlantic ahead.
The night was clear, the sea perfectly calm, but this only made their job more difficult. With no wave action, it would be impossible to spot a large berg by the white water at the base. Worse, there was no moon at all. Fleet hoped that the thousands of stars out tonight would provide enough light to see the approach of the ice that had been reported in the shipping lanes.
Symons, the previous lookout, insisted that “you can smell the ice before you get to it.” Fleet hoped so. Right now, he smelled — and saw — nothing.
And then the emptiness
moved
.
He blinked. Something lay ahead, something darker than the night. How was that possible? In the next moment, he knew all too well. An immense form was approaching, blocking the stars as it drew closer.
There was only one possible explanation.
He rang the crow’s nest bell three times — the signal for danger. Heart pounding, he picked up the telephone to the wheelhouse. “Is anyone there?” he rasped.
On the bridge, Sixth Officer Moody answered the call. “What do you see?”
“Iceberg right ahead.”
“
Iceberg right ahead
!” Moody bawled to First Officer Murdoch, who was in command.
“Hard a’ starboard!” shouted Murdoch. Even as he gave the order, he ran for the engine room telegraph, signaling
full speed astern
. The way to stop a moving ship was to throw the screws into reverse.
At the helm, Quartermaster Hichens twirled the wheel hard over, twisting his body as if the shifting of his weight might somehow coax the huge ocean liner to turn more quickly.
The five crew members on the bridge stared anxiously out over the prow, waiting for the nose of the ship to swing away from the menacing black shape that blocked their path.
Alfie pounded up the stairs from the well deck and peered urgently around the darkened forecastle. The electric lights of the bow were shut off for the overnight hours to aid the lookouts in the crow’s nest.
A faint cry — more of a whimper — reached his ears, and he pivoted in the direction of the sound. The sight that met his eyes very nearly stopped his heart.
Mr. Masterson had Sophie against the rail — half over it, in fact. In his right hand he wielded a vicious-looking saw-toothed knife.
Alfie ran blindly, wildly, with no clear plan in his mind except to stop this latest Whitechapel murder twenty-four years after the fact. He grabbed the knife arm, straining to direct the weapon away from Sophie.
“
You
!” Masterson seethed, concentrating his considerable force on the tug-of-war with Alfie.
The blade began to move, slowly yet inexorably, toward Sophie’s throat. Alfie pulled with all his might, grunting with the effort to stop the knife’s deadly progress. It was no use. He thought back to the
Titanic
’s gymnasium — the man’s almost supernatural upper-body strength.
I’ll never overpower him this way
….
Out of options, Alfie reared back his foot and slammed it into the crippled man’s knee.
The howl of agony that came from Mr. Masterson was barely human. He went down like a sack of oats, his crutch flailing above him. The knife clattered to the deck.
“
Alfie
!” Now free of the killer’s hold, Sophie was rolling over the top of the rail, completely untethered to the ship.
Alfie lunged, barely getting his hands around her waist before she fell. He hauled her back aboard and the two of them collapsed in a heap.
“Are you all right?” Alfie rasped.
Sophie pointed, her face full of dread. Mr. Masterson was on his feet once more, leaning heavily on his crutch. In his hand was a small black revolver.
The gun was pointed at them.
In the crow’s nest, lookouts Fleet and Lee heard voices below, but their attention never wavered from the
Forty-five feet up, in the crow’s nest, lookouts Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee were completely unaware of the drama taking place below them on the forecastle deck. Their eyes were scanning the Atlantic ahead.
The night was clear, the sea perfectly calm, but this only made their job more difficult. With no wave action, it would be impossible to spot a large berg by the white water at the base. Worse, there was no moon at all. Fleet hoped that the thousands of stars out tonight would provide enough light to see the approach of the ice that had been reported in the shipping lanes.
Symons, the previous lookout, insisted that “you can smell the ice before you get to it.” Fleet hoped so. Right now, he smelled — and saw — nothing.
And then the emptiness
moved
.
He blinked. Something lay ahead, something darker than the night. How was that possible? In the next moment, he knew all too well. An immense form was approaching, blocking the stars as it drew closer.
There was only one possible explanation.
He rang the crow’s nest bell three times — the signal for danger. Heart pounding, he picked up the telephone to the wheelhouse. “Is anyone there?” he rasped.
On the bridge, Sixth Officer Moody answered the call. “What do you see?”
“Iceberg right ahead.”
“
Iceberg right ahead
!” Moody bawled to First Officer Murdoch, who was in command.
“Hard a’ starboard!” shouted Murdoch. Even as he gave the order, he ran for the engine room telegraph, signaling
full speed astern
. The way to stop a moving ship was to throw the screws into reverse.
At the helm, Quartermaster Hichens twirled the wheel hard over, twisting his body as if the shifting of his weight might somehow coax the huge ocean liner to turn more quickly.
The five crew members on the bridge stared anxiously out over the prow, waiting for the nose of the ship to swing away from the menacing black shape that blocked their path.
Alfie pounded up the stairs from the well deck and peered urgently around the darkened forecastle. The electric lights of the bow were shut off for the overnight hours to aid the lookouts in the crow’s nest.
A faint cry — more of a whimper — reached his ears, and he pivoted in the direction of the sound. The sight that met his eyes very nearly stopped his heart.
Mr. Masterson had Sophie against the rail — half over it, in fact. In his right hand he wielded a vicious-looking saw-toothed knife.
Alfie ran blindly, wildly, with no clear plan in his mind except to stop this latest Whitechapel murder twenty-four years after the fact. He grabbed the knife arm, straining to direct the weapon away from Sophie.
“
You
!” Masterson seethed, concentrating his considerable force on the tug-of-war with Alfie.
The blade began to move, slowly yet inexorably, toward Sophie’s throat. Alfie pulled with all his might, grunting with the effort to stop the knife’s deadly progress. It was no use. He thought back to the
Titanic
’s gymnasium — the man’s almost supernatural upper-body strength.
I’ll never overpower him this way
….
Out of options, Alfie reared back his foot and slammed it into the crippled man’s knee.
The howl of agony that came from Mr. Masterson was barely human. He went down like a sack of oats, his crutch flailing above him. The knife clattered to the deck.
“
Alfie
!” Now free of the killer’s hold, Sophie was rolling over the top of the rail, completely untethered to the ship.
Alfie lunged, barely getting his hands around her waist before she fell. He hauled her back aboard and the two of them collapsed in a heap.
“Are you all right?” Alfie rasped.
Sophie pointed, her face full of dread. Mr. Masterson was on his feet once more, leaning heavily on his crutch. In his hand was a small black revolver.
The gun was pointed at them.
In the crow’s nest, lookouts Fleet and Lee heard voices below, but their attention never wavered from the
Similar Books
