The Lusitania Murders (3 page)

For this reason, the
Lusitania
was designed—its sister, too—for a dual purpose: Decks bore gun emplacements, coal bunkers ran along the sides of the hull to protect boilers from shells and deep storage spaces were fashioned for easy conversion into magazines. In effect, the
Lusitania
was a luxury liner ready to metamorphose into a battleship.
*

This blurring, between commerce and combat, must be understood for the
Lusitania
’s tale to make any sense at all . . . if such is possible.

Sailing day for the
Lusitania
was the first of May, 1915, a drab, drizzly Saturday. All sailing days were bustling affairs, what with the processing of hundreds of passengers, and thousands of pieces of luggage to be lugged aboard and stored. But any time the
Lusitania
set sail (if that phrase could be loosely applied to a mighty turbine-powered ship), a throng could be expected dockside, though she had tied up there more than a hundred times, and was a familiar sight at the foot of Eleventh Street. New Yorkers had embraced the Big
Lucy
ever since that day, eight years before, when she had docked here upon completion of her maiden voyage; even the stench of the nearby meatpacking district couldn’t keep them away.

And indeed an even larger than usual crowd had braved
the growling gray sky and the sticky spring drizzle to cluster along cement-fronted Pier 54 with its massive green-painted sheds blotting out the Manhattan skyline. This was in part because an uncommon number of Americans would be boarding the
Lusitania
today, many of them women in second class and steerage—wives on their way to join soldier husbands, and nurses who had volunteered to work with the Red Cross.

But the primary reason for the dockside swarm of what might loosely be termed as humanity related to a warning from the German embassy that had appeared in virtually every New York newspaper either last night or this morning. In some of the papers, this warning had appeared side by side with Cunard’s advertisement announcing the sailing of the
Lusitania
today at noon.

This notice had warned travellers “intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage” that “a state of war exists between Germany and Great Britain”; and that the war zone included the waters adjacent to the British Isles. It went on to remind would-be travellers that should they board “vessels flying the flag of Great Britain,” they did so at their own risk.

Because of this, a fair share of walleyed rubberneckers had come out for a morbid good time, and a gaggle of hardboiled reporters and photographers, including newsreel cameramen, had converged upon Pier 54. Sidewalk photographers were taking shots of the looming ship with assistants yelling, “Last voyage of the
Lusitania
!” and taking down orders. Like a grotesque parody of a Broadway opening night, wide-eyed faces bobbed in the crowd to the discordant tune of burbling chatter and inappropriate laughter. Added to this were the smells of sea and oil,
almost dispelling the meatpacking reek, and the sounds of a colossal ship coming to life.

As I stood dockside with my bulldog of an employer, Rumely, I was struck like a schoolboy by the immensity of the hull and the four funnels that reached higher up than my neck could crane back. And looking from left to right, one’s field of vision was consumed by a black field of steel with an army of rivet heads lined up in orderly ranks.
*
Normally the great ship would have been festooned with flags; but today, under clouds of war, even the brass letters on the bow were painted black, and the formerly scarlet and black funnels were simply black now, to make enemy identification harder.

Impressive as the
Lusitania
was, one could hardly deem her a beautiful ship—one man’s tour de force in naval architecture was another’s aesthetic monstrosity. From her ventilator-strewn superstructure to those colossal ungainly funnels, the
Lusitania
was at once the largest movable object yet built by Man . . . and one of the most maladroit—a top-heavy study in ponderous bulk lacking the slim grace of the
Olympic
(and her fallen sister,
Titanic
).

“There seems to be a bit of a delay,” Rumely said. His broad brow was flecked with sweat; the morning was as warm as it was damp, and his three-piece gray tweed suit was a poor choice for the time of year.

I wore a gray homburg and a crisply new three-piece
light blue suit, part of the spiffy wardrobe the
News
had sprung for me, to help me fit in with the nobs. I stroked the drizzle off my beard. “Why is that?”

“I understand the
Lucy
is taking on extra passengers from the
Cameronia
.”
*

“Overflow?”

“No—the British Admiralty has requisitioned her. . . . It’ll probably amount to several hours, at least. Do you want to go on aboard?”

I shook my head. “I prefer to maintain my ringside seat, and allow those lines to thin themselves out. That way you can point out my interview subjects, in case the photographs you provided don’t do them justice.”

“Don’t be alarmed by this elaborate boarding procedure,” Rumely said, nodding toward the three separate lines leading to three separate gangways (for Saloon Class, Second Cabin and Third Class) where all the passengers and their baggage were being carefully inspected.

“I’m sure the documents you gave me will do quite nicely,” I said. “And if they don’t, you’ll bail me out of the pokey.”

Rumely frowned at my levity. “I hope you appreciate the seriousness of your mission.”

“I do, I most certainly do.” Actually, what I appreciated was the one-thousand-dollar bonus that Rumely had promised me for taking his sub-rosa assignment.

Pinkerton men and U.S. Immigration officials aided Cunard staffers in what was obviously a serious security
effort. Pursers at tables screened each passenger and said passenger’s luggage, then marked them (the luggage, not the passengers) with chalk before Cunard deckhands in starched white sport jackets carried the bags aboard.

Still, for all of this—and the carnival-like hawking of “final” photos and little British flags on sticks, and the handing out of leaflets quayside by men warning against travel—the passengers who had run the security gauntlet, and were now sauntering up the gangways, seemed happy and at ease. Why should the war interfere with their travel plans? Wars were, after all, the enterprise of armies—soldiers took the battlefields, while politicians negotiated, and civilians stood on the sidelines.

I was aware, however, that the passengers boarding the Big
Lucy
were at least as naive in the ways of politics as I was—or at least as I had been, prior to signing on as Edward Rumely’s journalistic spy.

The evening before, after S.S. McClure had left us alone, Rumely had informed me that I had been chosen for this job because of my pro-German sympathies. I had explained that while I considered Germany a diverse and culturally progressive modern state—and not the British-concocted caricature of the press—I had no interest in politics.

And Rumely had only smiled and said, “Well, I am content that you are, at least, aware of the preponderance of British propaganda, and the need for balance.”

I really wasn’t interested, but he was picking up the check, so I said, “That’s certainly true.”

“Are you aware of the recent scandal on the very pier from which you’ll be sailing?”

I admitted I was not, and Rumely, in some detail, told of German cargo ships that were trapped in port by British
ships lying in waters outside the three-mile zone. In violation of President Wilson’s neutrality proclamation, a group had been supplying food and fuel to those British ships.

“I have credible reports,” Rumely told me, “that the Cunard line itself is involved in this criminal effort.”

“Really,” I said, and tried to put some indignation into it.

“Further reports indicate that the Cunard line is using its passenger liners to transport contraband—including ammunition, weapons and perhaps even high explosives.”

“Mr. Rumely, that would seem patently ridiculous—the
Lusitania
is a passenger ship, not a freighter . . .”

“Exactly why Cunard hopes she will be given a free pass by German U-boats. And there are other reports that the
Lucy
is heavily armed—three- or possibly even six-inch guns.”

“Wouldn’t these be apparent?”

“Not if they were effectively disguised in some fashion.”

I was beginning to see what Rumely expected of me. “You’d like me to ascertain whether these big guns exist . . . and whether guns and ammunition are secreted away in the cargo hold.”

“Exactly . . . and, of course, you must conduct the interviews Mr. McClure has requested.”

“And how will Mr. McClure react if I come back with a story of American collusion with the British in smuggling contraband through the war zone?”

Rumely’s expansive face expanded further in a wide smile. “For all his pro-British leanings, he will be delighted—he made his reputation on publishing exposés. You, of course, will have stumbled upon these facts
innocently, in the course of pursuing your shipboard interviews.”

I said nothing; the likelihood of arranging an interview with Alfred Vanderbilt in a cargo hold seemed distant, but the promise of a trip to Europe to fetch my brother—plus a handsome check—made mentioning this seem imprudent.

Now Rumely and I were dockside, well-positioned to watch as reporters buttonholed prominent passengers who waited in the security line, the war threat having temporarily made equals out of all men. One of those queued up was, in fact, Alfred Vanderbilt himself . . . travelling with a valet but without his wife or other family members. Judging by the familiarity of their conversation, Vanderbilt and the slender fellow in line behind him were friends.

In what I would take to be his mid-thirties, Vanderbilt had a handsome oval face characterized by thick dark eyebrows and a dimpled ball of a chin. The slightly built multimillionaire presented a breezy appearance in his charcoal pin-stripe suit, blue polka-dot foulard bow tie and jaunty tweed cap.

The reporters pelted him with questions about the danger of taking this voyage, and he laughingly replied, “Why worry about submarines? We can outdistance any sub afloat.”

“Is this trip business or pleasure, sir?” one reporter called.

“I’m attending a meeting of the International Horse Show Association. And that’s all I have to say, gents.”

While Vanderbilt was known to be happily married (to his second wife), he had long been a popular figure at sporting events; but some said his love for fast horses, and fast cars, was matched by a fondness for fast women.
It was no surprise that these reporters might assume the European trip would include discreet appointments that were not exclusively with horse breeders.

“You’ll have your work cut out for you with that one,” Rumely said. “Alfred doesn’t like to talk to reporters. He’s had some unhappy experiences with the press.”

Before long the reporters were descending on a squat, even frog-like figure in a black double-breasted suit with a stiff collar and dark felt hat; he leaned on a cane, which made him seem even shorter. Something in the cheerful expression on his moon face appeared forced—was he in pain, I wondered?

“That’s Charles Frohman,” Rumely said, but I had already guessed as much.

This was the legendary Broadway producer, the so-called “Napoleon of the Drama.” I put him at around sixty years.
*

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked Rumely.

“Articular rheumatism. He had a bad fall, some time ago, and has never been the same since. Yet he makes these pilgrimages to London, twice a year.”

A reporter was asking, “Are you afraid of the U-boats, Mr. Frohman?”

The producer grinned, a pleasant smile on an ignoble face. “No—I only fear IOU’s.”

Another reporter called, “Going to check out the current crop of West End productions, sir?”

“Yes—in particular,
Rosy Rapture
at St. Martin’s Lane—we’ll see if it’s Broadway material.”

Another chimed, “Is it true you’ve secretly married Maude Adams?”

He seemed genuinely embarrassed as he shook his head. “If only I were so lucky—I’m afraid this cane is my only wife.”

I said to Rumely, “Seems like a decent sort.”

Rumely nodded. “By all accounts, he is. . . . That fellow there, with the black bushy beard, that’s Kessler.”

In a well-cut brown suit with darker brown bowler, the sturdy-looking, forty-ish Canadian wine merchant—known as the Champagne King—carried a brown valise so tightly his knuckles were white.

The reporters had questions for him, too.

“What sends you to Europe under this threat?”

“Business and pleasure,” Kessler said, a smile flashing through the black thatch that obscured much of his face.

“Which do you enjoy more, Mr. Kessler?” another journalist asked, good-naturedly. “Making money, or spending it?”

I knew from materials Rumely had provided me that Kessler loved to throw extravagant dinners and parties, particularly in Europe.

“That’s all part of the same process,” the bearded wine magnate said, with another grin.

“What’s in the bag, George?” a reporter asked, with impertinent familiarity.

The grin disappeared and Kessler said, “My clean underwear,” and turned away from the reporters, his good humor turned to irritation.

But the press boys didn’t seem to mind; Kessler was a minor celebrity compared to another man who’d just fallen into line.

In a wide-brimmed Stetson, an oversize blue velvet
bow tie and a knee-length, loose-fitting duster-type tan overcoat, Elbert Hubbard (like Kessler) stood clutching a valise—a battered-looking leather one—waiting his turn next to his handsome wife, Alice, modestly attired in a blue linen one-piece travelling suit and straw hat. Hubbard was knocking on sixty’s door, and his wife was perhaps ten years younger. They both had brown, graying, shoulder-length hair.