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Quartermaster

By

Richard Kinsella

SYNOPSIS

The Britannic Steamship Company Ltd., owned and operated by the Creswell family in Liverpool, decide to build their first North Atlantic liner to share in the lucrative

trade transporting a cross section of society from millionaires to impoverished migrants fleeing injustice and persecution, from Europe to America.

Set against this backdrop a young aggressive executive, Rodger Brandon, joins the company and quickly moves up the ladder to general manager under the protective wing of, Sir Thomas Creswell, Chairman and Managing Director.

Sir Thomas’s sole heir is his nephew, Peter Creswell, who is the principal character of the tale, but reluctant to leave the sea in exchange for an office desk. Peter achieves his first command at an early age which, unfortunately, ends in disaster off the West Coast of Africa. He seeks solace in drink. At the inquiry he is unjustly chastised for the collision and his master’s certificate is suspended. He seeks anonymity as Quartermaster on board a Cunard liner bound for New York.

Rodger Brandon, the villain of the piece, takes advantage of Peter’s demise to establish a stronger position in the company and at the same time seduces Peter’s fiancée. 

Over the following two years Peter meets and marries an American heiress, and is employed by her father to build a fleet of tankers to carry his refined oil to Europe. He takes his new bride to Europe on one of the company’s new tankers. At the same time, Rodger Brandon and his bride, Peter’s former fiancée, sail on board the brand new 46,000 ton liner Britannic Princess on her maiden voyage to New York.

The highlight of the story is the tragic loss of the liner in mid Atlantic when a small fire becomes a raging inferno with the lives of 2,500 passengers and crew at risk. A major sea rescue ensues with the almost impossible task of safely disembarking so many people amid the fury of an Atlantic gale. Peter Creswell’s presence is vital to the success of the operation.

CHAPTER 6

The Royal Mail Ship, Carpathia, was alongside the Prince's Landing Stage at Liverpool's Pier Head. She was a second rank Cunard ship, less than two years old and the forerunner of her two more famous cousins, the Mauritania and Lusitania. A band, resplendent in red tunics, sporting gold-laced sleeves, played its heart out with the last few bars of, ‘Abide with Me’. The strains of the emotive hymn filtered through the noisy, hysterical spectators, who waved flags, hats, handkerchiefs, at the less boisterous passengers lining the ship's rails sixty feet above them.

     Louis B. Neilson leant casually on the scrubbed teak of the promenade deck rail, indifferent to the mood of the excited onlookers ashore, his thoughts focused on their imminent departure and voyage home to America. He knew the Carpathia was not the largest, or the most comfortable of liners, but it didn't seem to bother him too much. She was sailing today, that's what mattered. With a bit of luck he would be home in a week. He measured time in dollars, not minutes.

     As a member of the American millionaire set, with oil and steel making him richer by the hour, he was used to every luxury that was available. On this occasion he was prepared to accept second best if it meant getting home sooner. His twenty-one year old daughter Gwen, stood by his side, her arm firmly linked with his.

 Their trip around Europe had just ended. The excitement of Paris, the warmth and colour of the Cote d’A-zur, was still fresh in their minds as they stood looking over a grey Liverpool, cloaked in drizzle. Only the closeness and warmth of their bodies provided a defence against the melancholy that was never far away.

     "Mother would have enjoyed this," she said, without looking at her father. He acknowledged her remark with a slight tightening of his arm. She couldn't see the moisture rise in his eyes, but she sensed it. For the past two months they had been running hard trying to stay ahead of the grief that had befallen them on the sudden and unexpected death of a wife and mother.

     Three long blasts from the Carpathia's huge brass whistle drowned the cheering crowds; startled seagulls scattered, flailing and screeching, from their perches. As if in response to the liners cue, great clouds of steam and soot suddenly belched from the matchstick funnels of the attendant tugs. Towing lines rose dripping from the river water. Not to be outdone, the band broke into a stirring rendition of “Auld Lang Syne”. Almost imperceptibly at first, the gap between ship and shore began to widen.

     Stirring from their reverie, Louis and Gwen walked in silence along the crowded deck towards their stateroom in search of seclusion and privacy.

     When Gwen opened the heavily sprung weather door, they stepped into a warm hushed world smelling of wax polish and the lingering aroma of rich cigar smoke. The outside clamour was muffled as was each foot-fall against the soft pile of carpet that led to their accommodation.

     She left her father pouring a generous measure of whisky from a crystal decanter and entered her own adjoining cabin anxious to be alone and to quickly remove the uncomfortable tightness of her day clothes. With sensual pleasure she tip-toed naked into the marble lined bathroom and released a torrent of piping hot water into the waiting bath. Glancing to the side she caught sight of her nimble body in the long mirror. At five foot three, she was not tall enough to be stately or regal, but she consoled herself with the image reflected before her. With hands elegantly placed on her narrow waist she twisted one way, then the other, lifting her oval shaped chin to amplify the pose. Moving her hands to her face her long fingers gently caressed the sharp features that never failed to attract the blatant staring eyes of the young, and not so young, male admirers who unashamedly watched her for as long as discretion or their accompanying partners would allow. Gwen's celebrity in society was enhanced by her beauty but her rich pedigree was, without doubt, the main attraction to the unscrupulous money seekers that constantly showered her with disingenuous praise.

     Fully dressed in an extravagant white gown with a full length train she once again studied herself in the long mirror. A heavy necklace adorned with sparkling diamonds covered her bare chest and nestled comfortably between the swelling mounds of her breasts. A magnetic radiance spread across her face; tiny flickers of light danced in her eyes. She pursed her lips and stroked her tip-tilted nose; she was ready to accompany her father to the first class dining room where the gawking diners would pause to watch and marvel as her exquisite figure as she descended gracefully down the elegant staircase on the arm of her distinguished father.

     On the bridge the Captain, Pilot and officers moved about in quick succession acknowledging and issuing various commands. The tugs pulled and pushed the ship gently away from her berth without mishap. Standing nervously behind the ship's wheel, dressed as a Quartermaster, was Peter Creswell. He fidgeted with the unaccustomed tightness of the seaman’s trousers which clung tightly around a sensitive area of his anatomy. He waited expectantly for his first order.

     "Port twenty," the pilot said, almost in a whisper.

     "Port twenty, sir," Peter replied, somewhat relieved that at last he could do something to take his mind of his badly tailored trousers.

     "Midships"

     "Midships, sir."

     "Steady as she goes."

     "Steady as she goes, sir," Peter said, hanging on to every syllable uttered by the pilot.

     Sweat filled his armpits as he manoeuvered the ship's wheel, determined, yet frightened, to let go each spoke of the wheel as it passed through his eager hands. The spokes were wet with sweat.

     His arrival earlier that day was greeted with an indifferent handshake by the ship's bosun. Bert Fowler was short and stocky with shoulders broad enough to more than compensate for his lack of height. His face resembled a walnut, dark brown with deep lines running in every direction.

     Fowler had been warned earlier that a new quartermaster was joining the ship who came highly recommended from head office. His instructions were to look after him and not to ask too many questions. Fowler, a tough old seaman of the old school, was not too pleased as traditionally quartermasters were promoted from within, generally with clean impeccable records.

     "Been wi' this outfit long, eh?" he asked, revealing a mouthful of teeth coloured to match the dark pigmentation of his weather beaten skin.

     Peter was acutely aware that his manner and speech would encourage speculation and distrust among the fo'c'sle crowd. With forethought, he had resolved to keep a low profile and keep, to himself, as much as was possible in the crowded mess rooms below deck.

     Peter smiled, "I've been around."

     Fowler, remembering his instructions, added one last quip, "Funny, your name doesn't ring any bells wi' me, but that's not my business anyway. Just do your job, keep off the booze and you and me will get along just fine."

     "I'll do my best, bosun," Peter replied, matching the unflinching stare that peered at him from behind a face of leather.

     "One last thing, you'll be on the wheel when we leave later today. It'll give you a chance to show us what you’re made of, eh!" Fowler said with a chuckle. "Then you can take the eight to twelve watch. Keep you busy and stop yourself from being lonely, eh?"

     Peter was introduced to other members of the crew and the other three quartermasters he was to share a cabin with. The cabin was small and contained four metal bunks, four metal wardrobes and a solitary metal wash-hand basin. It reminded him of his days as an apprentice which helped cushion the realisation that these primitive conditions would be home for the foreseeable future. Left alone, he closed the cabin door to shut out the noise of the fo'c'sle banter and expletives.

     Since the trial he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. At this very moment, given the opportunity, he would have drunk a gallon of the stuff just to drown the misery that was cursing through his tormented mind. He sat on the edge of the lower bunk his head resting in the palms of his hands thinking of what might have been, what he had lost.

The tragedy that had enveloped him, stripped him to the bone, taken away everything he loved most the world. He had given up every thing. It was if he now wanted to pay some kind of penance to try and make amends for the horrors of an accident that he blamed himself for.

     A sudden knock on the cabin door stirred him from his deep anguish. A voice shouted from the other side, "Tea up, mate."

     Peter stood up, shook his head as if to clear his mind. He looked around the stark cabin before he opening the door. ‘This is a beginning, not an end,’ he kept reminding himself in an attempt to lift his gloom. Within minutes he was drinking tea and joining in the seaman’s cackle and expletives.

     The maitre d’ greeted Louis Neilson and his daughter, Gwen.

     "Good evening, Mr. Neilson, Miss Neilson, I have arranged a table for two in a quiet corner of the dining room, sir, as requested."

     Louis Neilson smiled, thinking back earlier when he had slipped a gratuity into the expectant hand of the maitre d’ prior to sailing.

     There were nods of acknowledgement as they both entered the dining room, having successfully and elegantly, descended the staircase. Gentlemen, dressed in evening suits and ladies dressed in myriad designs and colours glittered like Christmas tree decorations, each trying to outshine the other. Diamonds and rubies winked as they passed tables dressed in white napery. Silver cutlery nudged and tinkled to the soft vibrations of the ships engines below. In the background a string quartet played quietly, unobtrusively, challenged occasionally by the loud pop of a champagne cork.

     They both settled down at their table partially hidden behind a large veined marble pillar.

     The maitre d’ flicked the starched napkins free from their rigid folds and placed them gently across their laps.

     "What do you think, dear?"                

     "About, what father?"

     "Why, the table, of course."

 "Sorry, I was miles away," she said, turning to catch his eyes. "It's perfect."

    "Good, I'm glad you approve."   

    Gwen gave him a quizzical look. "Just a few green backs in the right hands, yes!"

     "So, it's not my natural charm then?" he said, mockingly.

     Gwen smiled and placed her hand over his. "You're the most charming person on board this ship."

     A steward, dressed in a crisp white coat adorned with a single line of regimental brass buttons, approached their table.

     "Good evening, ma'am, sir, your menus for the evening," he said, reverently.