approaching iceberg, now just off the
Titanic
’s bow.
Why doesn’t she turn?
Fleet thought desperately. It seemed an eternity since he’d telephoned his warning to the wheelhouse.
On the bridge, First Officer Murdoch understood all too well. The world’s largest ocean liner could notbe steered like a team of horses. He had silently counted thirty seconds, and still the ship was steaming directly toward the obstacle.
Finally the prow began to swerve to port. The forepeak pivoted away from the berg, and suddenly the mountain of ice was passing them close on the starboard side.
Murdoch held his breath. Had they made it?
Masterson’s words came out in halting gasps, but his arm was ramrod straight as he held the pistol on Alfie and Sophie. “Do you honestly think,” he puffed in outrage, “that I’d let a meddling lackey and a silly wench come between me and my destiny?”
“What destiny?” Alfie shot back. “To kill people? To be Jack the Ripper again?”
“
I was always he
!” Masterson stormed. “Don’t let this broken body deceive you! If my operation is successful, my work can resume! Just think of it — a new country in which I shall continue my great quest. But I’m afraid you two will not be there to see it.” There was a click as he released the safety catch of his revolver. “It is not my weapon of choice. But for an old cripple, simplicity is important. Useless legs cannot hinder the effectiveness of a bullet. Nothing can, I’m afraid….”
So focused was Alfie on the barrel of Masterson’s gun that he nearly missed what happened next. An enormous blue-black mountain came up on the starboard bow. For a moment, the
Titanic
seemed to vibrate, a grinding sensation from deep within the ship. Far below the waterline, a spur of ice scraped against the hull, buckling the metal plating. Rivets popped by the thousands, allowing the relentless sea to rush inside under pressure. In Number 6 Boiler Room, the bulkhead suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a torrent of frigid ocean that washed out the stokers and sent shovelfuls of coal flying.
Up on the forecastle, a series of sharp cracks sounded as chunks of shattered ice broke from the berg. They struck the deck and tumbled across the polished hardwood. One of them knocked the crutch out from under Masterson’s weight, and the crippled man went down hard.
Alfie did not hesitate. He hurled himself at the fallen assailant and clamped his hands onto the gun still clenched in Masterson’s hand. But the killer recovered quickly, twisting the weapon so that the barrel was pointing at the young steward’s face.
A split second from death, Alfie’s whirling thoughts turned to his mother.
You were right to fear Jack
the Ripper, Mum — even all these years after Whitechapel
….
Sophie’s pink satin slipper slammed into the pistol, sending it skittering under the rail. It dropped to the well deck with a clunk.
Alfie heard Masterson’s enraged roar, followed by a brutal slap, and Sophie’s cry of pain. Then he saw the crutch swinging toward the side of his head.
Explosion of impact, blinding light.
Darkness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RMS
TITANIC
S UNDAY, A PRIL 14, 1912, 11:40 P.M.
On the bridge, the collision was nothing remarkable — a brief grating jar that replaced the steady vibration of the engines for a few seconds. But there was no mistaking the iceberg, towering one hundred feet out of the water, passing on the starboard side. Immediately, Murdoch threw the switch to close the watertight doors.
In Number 5 Boiler Room, the cascade of inrushing water was so loud that John Huggins barely noticed the alarm bell until the iron hatch began to lower. Stokers, drenched and bellowing, leaped, scrambled, and crawled through the passage from Number 6. One fireman slipped on the slick deck and flopped on his face, inches from being crushed by the descending metal. Huggins grabbed his wrist and pulled him through just as the heavy door locked
Titanic
’s bow.
Why doesn’t she turn?
Fleet thought desperately. It seemed an eternity since he’d telephoned his warning to the wheelhouse.
On the bridge, First Officer Murdoch understood all too well. The world’s largest ocean liner could notbe steered like a team of horses. He had silently counted thirty seconds, and still the ship was steaming directly toward the obstacle.
Finally the prow began to swerve to port. The forepeak pivoted away from the berg, and suddenly the mountain of ice was passing them close on the starboard side.
Murdoch held his breath. Had they made it?
Masterson’s words came out in halting gasps, but his arm was ramrod straight as he held the pistol on Alfie and Sophie. “Do you honestly think,” he puffed in outrage, “that I’d let a meddling lackey and a silly wench come between me and my destiny?”
“What destiny?” Alfie shot back. “To kill people? To be Jack the Ripper again?”
“
I was always he
!” Masterson stormed. “Don’t let this broken body deceive you! If my operation is successful, my work can resume! Just think of it — a new country in which I shall continue my great quest. But I’m afraid you two will not be there to see it.” There was a click as he released the safety catch of his revolver. “It is not my weapon of choice. But for an old cripple, simplicity is important. Useless legs cannot hinder the effectiveness of a bullet. Nothing can, I’m afraid….”
So focused was Alfie on the barrel of Masterson’s gun that he nearly missed what happened next. An enormous blue-black mountain came up on the starboard bow. For a moment, the
Titanic
seemed to vibrate, a grinding sensation from deep within the ship. Far below the waterline, a spur of ice scraped against the hull, buckling the metal plating. Rivets popped by the thousands, allowing the relentless sea to rush inside under pressure. In Number 6 Boiler Room, the bulkhead suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a torrent of frigid ocean that washed out the stokers and sent shovelfuls of coal flying.
Up on the forecastle, a series of sharp cracks sounded as chunks of shattered ice broke from the berg. They struck the deck and tumbled across the polished hardwood. One of them knocked the crutch out from under Masterson’s weight, and the crippled man went down hard.
Alfie did not hesitate. He hurled himself at the fallen assailant and clamped his hands onto the gun still clenched in Masterson’s hand. But the killer recovered quickly, twisting the weapon so that the barrel was pointing at the young steward’s face.
A split second from death, Alfie’s whirling thoughts turned to his mother.
You were right to fear Jack
the Ripper, Mum — even all these years after Whitechapel
….
Sophie’s pink satin slipper slammed into the pistol, sending it skittering under the rail. It dropped to the well deck with a clunk.
Alfie heard Masterson’s enraged roar, followed by a brutal slap, and Sophie’s cry of pain. Then he saw the crutch swinging toward the side of his head.
Explosion of impact, blinding light.
Darkness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RMS
TITANIC
S UNDAY, A PRIL 14, 1912, 11:40 P.M.
On the bridge, the collision was nothing remarkable — a brief grating jar that replaced the steady vibration of the engines for a few seconds. But there was no mistaking the iceberg, towering one hundred feet out of the water, passing on the starboard side. Immediately, Murdoch threw the switch to close the watertight doors.
In Number 5 Boiler Room, the cascade of inrushing water was so loud that John Huggins barely noticed the alarm bell until the iron hatch began to lower. Stokers, drenched and bellowing, leaped, scrambled, and crawled through the passage from Number 6. One fireman slipped on the slick deck and flopped on his face, inches from being crushed by the descending metal. Huggins grabbed his wrist and pulled him through just as the heavy door locked
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