The Dressmaker (30 page)

“We are only up there to report anything we see,” Fleet responded. “I’m not so good at judging distance.”

A titter spread through the room. The lookout for the largest, grandest ship in the world couldn’t judge time or distance.

“Were you given glasses of any kind?” Smith asked.

“We had nothing at all, only our own eyes, to look out. We asked for them in Southhampton, and they said there was none for us.”

“On this ship, the largest in the world, there was not one set of binoculars?”

“That’s right.”

Pinky wrote out the two words in block letters in her notebook: “
NO BINOCULARS
.” This would lead her story.

“So how do you think it’s going?” she asked Smith at the lunch break.

“You again,” he said shortly, walking away.

She followed him. “Senator, all I’m asking is, how is this testimony affecting you? I know how it’s affecting me.”

“And how is that?” he said, coming to a stop.

“It’s worse than sad. It’s a mess of inept people and bumbled jobs and selfishness—that’s what it seems to me.”

Smith allowed himself a small smile. “We’re trying to put together a puzzle, Miss Wade. There are a lot of pieces not yet in place. I think we may come across more honorable stories than you expect. But remember, human nature is not necessarily courageous.”

Impulsively, Pinky threw in another question. “It’s as much about what some of the survivors did as what White Star did, right?”

“I know where you’re going with that,” Smith said, and once again turned away.

“The British are mad at you, sir,” she said hurriedly. “They’re calling you stupid and narrow and—”

“I know, I know—I had a report this morning.” His voice turned testy. “Anything else?”

It was worth a shot. “You have the crew members sequestered until they testify, Senator, but can I talk briefly with one of them, Jim Bonney? For background, you know. I won’t write anything until you’re done with him.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “After the day’s testimony.”

“When does Bonney go on the stand?”

“Thursday.”

“And when are you calling the Duff Gordons to explain themselves?”

Smith turned on his heel and walked away.

Pinky watched him go, satisfied. If she kept up the pressure, maybe she could make him do it.

NEW YORK CITY
TUESDAY NIGHT

Tess stopped in front of a modest building not far from the Flatiron Building, looking down at the crumpled piece of paper in her hands. Yes, this was the address. Eagerly she stepped up to the front door and pushed one of the two keys into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. She felt a second of panic before realizing the obvious. The other key must be for the front door of the building; this one was for her upstairs flat.

She inserted the right key and the door swung open. She took the stairs quickly, saw the right number, and inserted the second key. Again, miraculously, the door swung open. And, for the first time in her life, Tess Collins walked into a place that was all her own.

She spread her arms wide and danced slowly around the modest space. A tiny kitchen, but with an iron stove. A somewhat battered pair of oak chairs, but solid, with legs that would not collapse the minute she sat down. A bed with a cheerful quilt of red and green; a small table with an electric lamp. It was hers; all hers. Whom could she tell? Whom could she share this with? She suddenly wished Pinky were there. She had a feeling that Pinky would understand.

“I will earn it,” she said out loud, a little startled at the sound of her own voice. “And I will keep it.”

TERRITORIES CONFERENCE ROOM
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 24

The man was not going to give an inch. A disgusted William Alden Smith watched Bruce Ismay step down from the stand. Twice up there, and still only defensive haughtiness from the cold face of the White Star corporate world.

No, he had not urged the captain to increase the speed of the
Titanic
past the point of safety. Yes, he had heard of the possibility of ice, but their speed was not excessive.

“Would you not regard it as an exercise of proper precaution and care to
lessen
the speed of a ship crossing the Atlantic when she had been warned of the presence of ice ahead?” a puzzled committee member had asked.

“I have no opinion on that,” Ismay had said. “We employ the very best men we possibly can to take command of these ships, and it is a matter entirely in their discretion.”

And now there he was, back in his chair with arms folded, looking smug. You’re not home free yet, Senator Smith thought grimly. I’ll let you hightail it back to England only when I’m good and ready.

He looked down at his witness list. Next up was Harold Lowe, the ship’s fifth officer, a man of reputed bravado and colorful language, and probably the seaman most qualified of the lot of them.

“You helped load the lifeboats, is that right?” Smith began.

Lowe nodded vigorously.

“Did you know any of the men who assisted you?”

“No, sir, not by name.” He hesitated, but only for a second. “But there is a man here, and had he not been here I should not have known that I had ordered Mr. Ismay away from a boat.”

A stir in the room. “You ordered Mr. Ismay away from a boat?” said Smith with surprise.

“I did, because Mr. Ismay was overanxious and he was getting a trifle excited. He said, ‘Lower away! Lower away!’ I said—”

“Give us what you said.”

Lowe ran fingers through his hair, clearly considering whether he should be discreet. His blunt nature won out. “I told him, ‘If you will get the hell out of that I shall be able to do something. You want me to lower away quickly? You will have me drown the whole lot of them.”

Senator Smith allowed himself a moment to enjoy Ismay’s flustered demeanor. Quite satisfying, really.

Lowe was at ease now. He told of shouting down at sailors to get
the plugs in the collapsible boats before they hit the water, or they’d sink, and watching as the more inept struggled with oars.

“Was there no training before the ship set sail?” asked Smith incredulously.

“There was one drill, but only two boats,” Lowe said. “We were brand-new to the ship, just the same as everybody else.”

Smith let a silence fall. A collective sigh for what might have been, for what should have been, filled the room.

“So you helped load boats. Tell us what happened when you were in the water,” Smith said finally.

“I got my boat near four others, herded them close—five boats altogether. Then I roped them—figured we’d be seen better by a rescue ship. Then I emptied the passengers out of my boat into the other four.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So I could go back.”

The room went very still. Pinky waited, her pen poised. Senator Smith leaned forward.

“So you could go back to rescue people?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, I had to wait until the yells and shrieks had subsided—for the people to thin out—and then I deemed it safe to go among the wreckage.”

“You waited until the drowning people had quieted down?” Smith’s voice had a slight wobble.

“Yes, sir.” Lowe was obviously not a man about to sugarcoat his story. “It would not have been wise or safe for me to go there before, because the whole lot of us would have been swamped and then nobody would have been saved. When the cries subsided, I rowed off to the wreckage and I picked up four people. Three others were dead.”

“What did you do with them?”

“I thought to myself, I am not here to worry about bodies; I am here for life, to save life, and not to bother about bodies, and I left them.”

“You could have saved more if you hadn’t waited.”

Lowe looked straight at Smith, his voice resolute. “I made the
attempt, sir, as soon as any man could do so, and I am not scared of saying it. If anybody had struggled out of the mass, I was there to pick them up. But it was useless for me to go into the mass.”

“You mean for anybody?”

“It would have been suicide.”

The crowd stayed quiet as the seaman’s words sank in. Confused glances were exchanged; Pinky sat still, staring at her notes. No one yet had so vividly put the safe, insulated courtroom observers of this tragedy out there on the water themselves, making them face the question of what was right and what was wrong. Where were the niches and holes in which to hide their proper indignation; no, to hide themselves from a key question:
What would they have done?
Her pen slowly began to move on the page.

Jim was waiting for her on the steps of the Senate Office Building after the hearing recessed for the day. Hands jammed into back pockets, he walked restlessly back and forth, jacketless, seemingly oblivious of the cool evening air of early spring. He looked up as Pinky hailed him.

“I’m told I can talk to you today,” he said. “But not for a story, right?”

“For background. I’ll use it after you testify tomorrow. You see, I have a hunch that you’re going to put Lady Duff back on the front pages. Am I right?”

“All I can say is I’m going to truthfully answer the questions I’m asked.”

Together, they began strolling down the hill.

“Were you in the hearing room?” Pinky asked.

Jim nodded.

“What did you think of Lowe’s testimony?”

“He’s an honest man, and a brave one.”

“Seems to me he took his time going back, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you trying that idea out on me, or do you really believe it?”

That wasn’t the reply she’d expected; she hesitated.

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

He looked toward her, his voice tense and serious. “Think of it,
will you? Lowe was scared. We all were—what the bloody hell is wrong with saying it? He did what he felt he had to do, and those smug people exchanging shocked glances in the conference room have no idea what it was like. Sorry for cursing, but there it is.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Pinky said cheerfully. “You should spend some time in a newsroom—we’re all sailors there.”

“I can’t quite picture you spewing out curse words; I’ll bet you don’t even know the ones I know,” he said with a faint smile.

“Will you come to dinner with me?” she asked impulsively.

“Sure. As long as it isn’t at that dingy hotel we’re stuck in.”