recognised as the United States Revenue Cutter Winnisimmet: a hundred feet long with a single tall funnel atop a huge Babcock & Wilcox steam boiler and engine. Closer in, beneath the sagging timbers of the pier, was the Chelsea ferry herself, graceful but tired.
As I looked at these vessels, an idea began to form in my mind. It was an audacious idea, quite daring, but if I was lucky it might just work. Follow my heart, the city editor had advised, and there would be my treasure also. I realised I had been thinking of things the wrong way around.
CHAPTER 8
‘His pure tight skin was an excellent fit,’ Herbert Stone recited to himself as he slowly climbed the stairs at midday to begin his first watch since the disaster. He mouthed the words repeatedly as a sort of prayer, trying to keep at bay as best he could the troubling thoughts that had pressed in on him since his meetings with the captain and the chief officer. ‘And closely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength … Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for long ages to come, and to endure always…’ Step by step, word by word, he climbed towards the bridge. ‘Inner health and strength, inner health and strength…’
When he got to the bridge there was bright air all around and the third officer stood by his side. Groves was still animated: he talked of the great disaster, of the Carpathia , which he had been the first to identify as the rescue ship, of the futile search for bodies, of the sparse and pathetic wreckage. ‘I still can’t believe what’s happened,’ he said. ‘I still can’t believe it. That ship of all ships, on her very first voyage.’
The sun was at its zenith, high and white in a cloudless sky, and Stone saw no sign of field ice or bergs, only radiant blue water stretching to a sharp horizon. On the foredeck, crewmen painted handrails and laid out ropes for splicing.
‘Course is due west,’ said Groves. ‘No ships about. The water’s warmer – we’re in the Gulf Stream. No more ice.’
Stone stood silently watching the seamen at their work. Groves lingered. ‘You all right, Second?’
‘The captain wants me to write it all down,’ Stone said, ‘in a letter addressed to him.’ He held up a thick pad of writing paper he had brought from his cabin. The cold wind flicked its pages. ‘I’m going to work on it during my watch.’
Groves looked back at him wide-eyed, his large open face clear and bright. In the noon sun his brow seemed to shine as white as alabaster; it put Stone in mind of the marble cherubs in his local church, polished smooth by the daily caresses of loving parishioners. There was no dissembling in this man, or judgement either, just a pragmatic openness – an honesty and innocence that seemed to glow from within him with enough radiance to encompass them both.
‘What do you think I should write?’ Stone asked.
‘Just write the truth,’ Groves said. ‘Write down what you saw.’
Just write the truth . It was the sort of powerful simplicity that had allowed Charlie Groves to bump along with the rich boys at Cambridge even though he himself was poor; that had given him the confidence to laugh openly at P&O passengers and their ridiculous white suits. Just write the truth. There was no calculus of morality for Charlie Groves. In his conception the truth was the surest guide to what was right. This was Groves’ peculiar gift, Stone supposed – to see simplicity where he himself could see only dense complexities.
First among these complexities was the captain, his face all bronze and angular, telling him he could not have seen distress rockets, and second among them was Starbuck, driven by a loyalty more powerful than Groves’ truth.
‘But what did I see?’ Stone asked.
‘It was only last night,’ Groves said, almost smiling. ‘You must remember.’
But Stone wasn’t sure what he remembered any more. He had thought of that midnight watch a hundred times since and every
As I looked at these vessels, an idea began to form in my mind. It was an audacious idea, quite daring, but if I was lucky it might just work. Follow my heart, the city editor had advised, and there would be my treasure also. I realised I had been thinking of things the wrong way around.
CHAPTER 8
‘His pure tight skin was an excellent fit,’ Herbert Stone recited to himself as he slowly climbed the stairs at midday to begin his first watch since the disaster. He mouthed the words repeatedly as a sort of prayer, trying to keep at bay as best he could the troubling thoughts that had pressed in on him since his meetings with the captain and the chief officer. ‘And closely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength … Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for long ages to come, and to endure always…’ Step by step, word by word, he climbed towards the bridge. ‘Inner health and strength, inner health and strength…’
When he got to the bridge there was bright air all around and the third officer stood by his side. Groves was still animated: he talked of the great disaster, of the Carpathia , which he had been the first to identify as the rescue ship, of the futile search for bodies, of the sparse and pathetic wreckage. ‘I still can’t believe what’s happened,’ he said. ‘I still can’t believe it. That ship of all ships, on her very first voyage.’
The sun was at its zenith, high and white in a cloudless sky, and Stone saw no sign of field ice or bergs, only radiant blue water stretching to a sharp horizon. On the foredeck, crewmen painted handrails and laid out ropes for splicing.
‘Course is due west,’ said Groves. ‘No ships about. The water’s warmer – we’re in the Gulf Stream. No more ice.’
Stone stood silently watching the seamen at their work. Groves lingered. ‘You all right, Second?’
‘The captain wants me to write it all down,’ Stone said, ‘in a letter addressed to him.’ He held up a thick pad of writing paper he had brought from his cabin. The cold wind flicked its pages. ‘I’m going to work on it during my watch.’
Groves looked back at him wide-eyed, his large open face clear and bright. In the noon sun his brow seemed to shine as white as alabaster; it put Stone in mind of the marble cherubs in his local church, polished smooth by the daily caresses of loving parishioners. There was no dissembling in this man, or judgement either, just a pragmatic openness – an honesty and innocence that seemed to glow from within him with enough radiance to encompass them both.
‘What do you think I should write?’ Stone asked.
‘Just write the truth,’ Groves said. ‘Write down what you saw.’
Just write the truth . It was the sort of powerful simplicity that had allowed Charlie Groves to bump along with the rich boys at Cambridge even though he himself was poor; that had given him the confidence to laugh openly at P&O passengers and their ridiculous white suits. Just write the truth. There was no calculus of morality for Charlie Groves. In his conception the truth was the surest guide to what was right. This was Groves’ peculiar gift, Stone supposed – to see simplicity where he himself could see only dense complexities.
First among these complexities was the captain, his face all bronze and angular, telling him he could not have seen distress rockets, and second among them was Starbuck, driven by a loyalty more powerful than Groves’ truth.
‘But what did I see?’ Stone asked.
‘It was only last night,’ Groves said, almost smiling. ‘You must remember.’
But Stone wasn’t sure what he remembered any more. He had thought of that midnight watch a hundred times since and every
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