Unsinkable PRINT

Excerpt From: Unsinkable

The White Star Dock, Southampton

Wednesday 10th April, 1912

10 a.m.

Robert was spun around in the crowd as a steward barged past him, so loaded down with cases and hatboxes that he could barely see over the top of them. He held his cello case closer to his body, protective of the instrument in this monstrous crush. His cello-and his hands-were the most precious things he had. So many people had wanted to see the launch of the RMS Titanic that tickets had had to be issued to keep the crowds under control. Robert could quite see why.

It was a bright, brisk April morning, and Robert had to squint against the sunlight as it struck off the myriad windows of the magnificent ocean liner. She was immense, making the other ships docked nearby look like toys beside her elegant bulk. The sheer size of her was enough to turn Robert into a bundle of nerves, and he peered anxiously through the throng, looking for the upright figure of Wallace Hartley, the band leader, with his long face, always composed, and his dark hair. Robert liked Wallace-most people did. He was a friendly, gentlemanly sort, and Robert would feel more at ease once he had found him. Failing that, though, he'd be pleased to see anyone clutching a violin case, because that would mean he'd found one of the other professionals who would be providing musical diversion for the passengers on the Titanic's maiden voyage.

He'd been performing since he was a boy, but suddenly, amongst these hundreds of people, he felt a queer sort of stage fright that made him feel slightly ill.

Even a stranger would be a welcome sight. There was a kind of brotherhood among the musicians who played on the liners. They looked out for one another. They had to, with the agents giving them as few rights as possible and the White Star Line washing its hands of the whole affair. Still, there were dozens of cellists who would have jumped at the chance to take Robert's place on board the Titanic.

The porters were bustling around the dock. Near where he stood, a harried-looking pair were loading crate after crate of lettuce—what must be thousands and thousands of heads of the stuff. He thought about the other supplies that they must be loading—magnums of champagne, barrels of oysters, sides of beef. As he watched in wonder, a small boy tried to sell him a postcard of the ship. It was a picture of the liner sailing out from Southampton, tinted with watercolours. He shook his head and the lad scampered away, unperturbed, to tug at the skirts of a stern-looking elderly woman in old-fashioned black bombazine.

The passengers and crew were all sorts, from babes in arms to the very elderly, and grubby-faced stokers still smelling of beer from their celebrations the night before to debutantes decked out in furs and jewels. But Robert couldn't see the other musicians anywhere. How could he expect to find anybody in this insane crush?

As Robert pushed his way towards berth forty-four, he was startled when a pleasant voice called his name and he turned to see a young man juggling the handles of two violin cases in one hand and extending the other in enthusiastic greeting. Robert fidgeted where he stood, like an excited kid.

A gangling kind of chap, with curly blond hair, pale eyes and a friendly grin, he seemed to give off a sort of contagious energy that Robert immediately found appealing.

Still, he heard the caution and reserve in his own voice when he confirmed, "I am Robert Briceaux." He felt a little self-conscious about his French accent, which was still very pronounced even after his time with an English orchestra. Still, he'd been told he'd been selected for this voyage partly to add a sense of authenticity to the Café Parisien, where he would play as part of a trio, so perhaps it was just as well that he'd never been able to get his tongue around the plummy vowels and clipped consonants of the British upper and middle classes.

"John Hume," the curly-haired youth went on gaily, "only do call me Jock-absolutely everybody does. I'm first violin. I've already met Wes—that's the other cellist-so when I saw you struggling with your kit I knew it must be you."

Robert found himself swept along in Jock's wake. He envied him his effortless, effervescent self-confidence. The crowds seemed to part for him as he gestured expansively with his free hand, babbling with good-natured excitement about the expense and glamour of the ship they were about to board, from the thousands of pieces of silverware to the fully-equipped gymnasium and the heated, salt-water swimming pool.

Robert didn't suppose there'd be a great deal of time for them to explore the ship in between playing, and in any case he wasn't the best of swimmers, but Jock's excitement was palpable and Robert found his spirits lifting. Jock seemed like somebody who'd be easy to get along with. He hoped his other companions would be as agreeable.

He was a bit flustered and out of breath by the time they reached berth forty-four. His cello was bulky and as he tried to keep up with Jock's long, energetic strides, he limped slightly, the legacy of a motor bicycle accident. He was only glad it had been his leg that had been injured, not his hands. He hadn't ridden on one of the machines since.

By the time Robert and Jock had found the other members of the ship's on-board orchestra, the first of the passengers were starting to board, swarming up the second- and third-class gangways in excited, chattering groups, pushing perambulators or scolding children.

Wallace Hartley greeted them warmly and presented them to their fellows. The other cellist was Wes Woodward. He had a soft, unexceptionable sort of face, small, round eyeglasses and a moustache that was waxed into points at the end. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, and a little stiff in his bearing, though not unfriendly.