The Sea Hunters Part 23

Turner seemed unimpressed. He jammed the message into his coat pocket and said nothing. Will Turner was a tough old salt. He had gone to sea as a deck boy on sailing s.h.i.+ps, and over the course of thirty-seven years had worked up to master of Cunard Lines' biggest and most prestigious s.h.i.+ps. A strange old duck, as one officer remembered him, Turner never liked to mingle with the pa.s.sengers. "A lot of b.l.o.o.d.y monkeys," he once called them. s.h.i.+pwrecked on one occasion, he was later commissioned a commander-in the Royal Navy by King George himself.

The messages came fast and furious the rest of the morning: "The British Admiralty recommends using a zigzag course when approaching areas of danger," followed by "Submarine active in southern part of Irish Channel . . . " Still another warning: "Submarine five miles south of Cape Clear proceeding west when sighted at 10 A.M."

Crumpling the paper, Turner tossed the latest warning in a receptacle.

"d.a.m.ned management," he grunted. "If the main office would allow me to fire all the boilers, we could simply outrun the d.a.m.n U-boats and their torpedoes."

Why Turner, an experienced mariner with almost four decades as a trusted s.h.i.+p's master with Cunard, ignored the warnings and failed to act on their instructions is still a mystery today. It was almost as if he tried to put Lusitania directly in the path of Walter Schwieger and his Unterseeboot, U-20, sister submarine to Otto Hersing's U-21.

In less than an hour the two men and their commands would meet in a way neither expected.

In one of the luxurious first-cla.s.s staterooms of Lusitania, Charles Frohman, the famed theatrical producer, lounged in an ornate flocked chair. Dressed in silk pajamas and robe, he paused from reading a ma.n.u.script by a composer of musical plays, and wiped his reading gla.s.ses with a handkerchief.

"How do you find it?" asked his valet, William Stainton.

"With the right musical numbers, it has possibilities."

Unlike most servants, Stainton enjoyed his employer's company.

Over the years he had worked for the producer the men had become close. Frohman treated his valet more as an a.s.sistant than a servant.

Instead of speaking only when spoken to, Stainton never hesitated to question his employer to determine his needs.

"Will you be taking lunch in the dining room, or shall I have food brought to the suite?" valet Stainton asked.

"I'll be dining with friends in the saloon," answered Frohman as he began dressing in the freshly pressed blue suit Stainton had laid out on the bed for him.

Stainton poured several pills onto a silver tray and set them alongside a gla.s.s of tomato juice. The producer suffered from arthritis that affected his leg joints. "I had the s.h.i.+p's doctor prepare some pills that will ease the pain in your knees."

"Is it that obvious, William?" Frohman said as he swallowed the pills.

"I couldn't help noticing you limp when you awoke and walked to the bathroom," Stainton said with concern as he handed Frohman a cane.

"You can remain here if you like."

"If it is all right, sir," said Stainton as he opened the door leading to the deck, "I would like to accompany you to the dining room and make sure you are seated properly."

"As you wish," Frohman said, smiling as he made his way down the pa.s.sageway before stepping into the heavy mist outside the suite, his cane tapping lightly on the polished teak deck.

Wealthy socialite Alfred Vanderbilt entered the dining room and made his way to the table near the window he had requested from the purser.

He was dressed in a charcoal pinstripe suit with a blue polka-dot bow tie, his head covered in a trendy tweed cap. In his pockets he carried no money or identification. He was so well known and so rich the mere mention of his name was all that was required to throw open doors and lay out red carpets.

The only object that Vanderbilt carried on his person was a pocket watch, a custom shared with most of the pa.s.sengers, including the women, who generally wore smaller models around their necks. He opened the ornate solid gold timepiece and stared at the face. The hands on the Roman-numeral dial read 12:42.

His valet, Ronald Deyner, pulled the chair back, seated Vanderbilt, and then stood off to one side. "Please see if any radio messages came in for me," he asked Deyner- Then he turned. "Good morning,"

Vanderbilt said pleasantly, as a waiter held out the luncheon menu. He held up a hand and refused the menu. "I'll have whatever your head chef recommends."

Charles Frohman walked by Vanderbilt's table and paused. "Good afternoon, Alfred."

Vanderbilt noticed the producer's limp. "Injure one of your legs, Charles?"

"Arthritis." Frohman shrugged resignedly. "It plays h.e.l.l with my joints."

"Have you tried sulfur baths?"

"And just about every other chemical bath known to man."

"Are you traveling to the Continent for business or pleasure?"

asked Vanderbilt.

Frohman smiled. "My business is pleasure. I'm seeing what the London revues have to offer. Always on the lookout for good material and talent, you know."

"I wish you luck."

"How about you, Alfred? What are your plans?"

"I am examining some horses in London for my stables," answered Vanderbilt.

"I wish you an enjoyable trip. When you return, please have your secretary call my office and I'll send you tickets to my next production."

"I'll do that, thank you."

Frohman nodded courteously and made his way to his table in a corner, where he could observe the other diners, many of whom were celebrities of their day. There was the eccentric publisher and author of A Message to Garcia, Elbert Hubbard. Acclaimed playwright and novelist Justus Forman. Famed suffragette Lady Margaret Mackworth.

Theodate Pope, noted architect and psychic.

Frohman and Stainton smiled at seeing the six young children of the Paul Cromptons of Philadelphia. They were boisterous and totally ignoring a frustrated nanny, who was failing miserably at making them sit quietly around a table. Mr. and Mrs. Crompton took it all in stride and seldom reprimanded them.

Frohman and most of the people seated in the dining room around him had no forewarning that this was to be their last meal on earth.

As if exiting a steam bath, Lusitania's bow suddenly broke into bright sunlight. Captain Turner looked up from the log book as the sound of the automatic foghorn ceased its monotonous blaring. Gazing astern, he saw the big funnels, their red Cunard color painted black for the war, slip from the fog like hands from gloves.

Luncheon over, pa.s.sengers filed outside, some settling in deck chairs, others strolling the open decks still wet from the heavy mist.

Excitement arose as they sighted the rugged coast of Ireland in the distance.

Confused as to his exact position because of the dense fog, Captain Turner was surprised to find he was so close to land. He should have been at least forty miles further out in midchannel.

The chairman of Cunard, Alfred Booth, appealed personally to the Admiralty to alert the pa.s.senger liner to the loss of the Candidate and Centurion just hours earlier. But the message somehow became watered down, and Turner, as he did with the others, simply ignored it.

Lusitania sailed on, unsuspecting of her fate.

Schwieger did not have a particular course in mind. U-20 cruised aimlessly on the surface, her commander unable to sight a victim through the fog. He waited patiently for it to clear in hope of finding an opportunity. He did not have long to wait.

Suddenly, the lookouts found themselves under blue skies and a bright sun. Running blind during the last hour had brought the submarine nearer to land. Standing below in the control room, Schwieger turned at the shout from First Officer Weisbach on watch in the conning tower.

"s.h.i.+p to port."

Schwieger rushed topside and peered through his binoculars. The vessel was large, sported four big funnels, and was making good time.

He guessed she was about twelve miles distant. He turned to Weisbach and sighed. "She's too far away and too fast for us. We'll never catch her."

"We're not going to try for an attack?" asked Weisbach.

"I didn't say we weren't going to try," said Schwieger. "Prepare to dive." The dive bell clanged harshly as the crew began twisting a row of valves that flooded the ballast tanks and dropped the boat beneath the surface. Keeping a practiced eye on the polished bra.s.s depth gauge, the diving officer waited until reaching periscope depth before leveling U-20 on an even keel.

"Come to heading zero-seven-zero," Schwieger said quietly.

"Periscope depth," reported the diving officer.

Peering through the scope, Schwieger saw that the situation was hopeless. There was no way U-20 could maneuver into position before the big s.h.i.+p showed him her stern. At their maximum speed of nine knots underwater, it was an exercise in futility to think they could overtake a fast pa.s.senger liner. He gave a Turn at the periscope to Weisbach, who studied the distant s.h.i.+p.

"At least twenty-five thousand tons," he reported. "Probably an armed liner used for troop transport."

"Can you make an identification?" asked Schwieger.

Weisbach began thumbing through a s.h.i.+p-recognition book. "A number of British liners have four stacks," replied Weisbach. "Judging from her superstructure, she belongs to Cunard. Could be either Aquitania, Mauritania, or Lusitania. Too many ventilators showing on her top deck for the first two. My guess is Lusitania." "A pity," said Schwieger wearily. "She would have made an easy target."

Then abruptly, as if guided by the devil, the s.h.i.+p made a Turn to starboard.

"We've got her!" Schwieger cried suddenly. "She's come about directly toward us."

Turner recognized a lighthouse perched on a high cliff protruding from the sea and knew he was off the Old Head of Kinsale. He motioned to his first officer. "Alter course to starboard and put us on a heading for Queenstown."

Lusitania was less than twenty-five miles from a safe harbor, but now only ten miles from U-20 and heading directly toward the submarine.

No spider ever had a more cooperative victim. The web was spread and waiting.

Schwieger could not believe his luck. If the great liner kept to its new heading, he would be set up for an ideal broadside shot.

In the lives of many men some moments are etched in time. Motion and thought seem to merge, the event takes a life of its own.

Schwieger watched in awe as the s.h.i.+p in the lens of the periscope grew until it was framed like a picture postcard.

Tension smothered the interior of the submarine. By now, the entire crew were aware that they were stalking a giant ocean liner. A mixed bag of emotions ran through their minds.

"Ready torpedo," connnanded Schwieger.

Charles Voegele, U-20's quartermaster, stood fixed as if in a trance.

In a moment that defied discipline and tears at men's souls, he was unable to pa.s.s the order onto the forward torpedo compartment.

"Ready the torpedo," Schwieger repeated sharply.

Voegele remained motionless. "I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot bring myself to destroy a s.h.i.+p with innocent women and children on board.

Such an act is barbaric."

To ignore a captain's order at sea during wartime was tantamount to treason. Voegele would later be sentenced to prison for his refusal to take part in the tragedy.

An ordinary seaman relayed the instruction. In the torpedo compartment, the order was carried out. Back came the acknowledgment.

"Torpedo ready."

The antic.i.p.ation of the next few seconds seemed to hang like mist.

Schwieger was calm and relaxed. He was the only member of his crew who was pessimistic. He doubted that he could sink a vessel the size of Lusitania with his one and only remaining torpedo. Time and again, German torpedoes had proved insufficient, striking vessels and failing to explode. And quite often, when they did explode, the resulting damage was not enough to sink their intended victims. He had already written in his log that he thought that his torpedoes could not sink a s.h.i.+p whose watertight bulkheads were secured.

At 2:05 he uttered the words that would send twelve hundred men, women, and children to their deaths. "Away torpedo."

With a loud hiss of compressed air, the torpedo shot from the tube.

Powered by a little four-cylinder engine turning two counterrotating propellers, it drove through the water at twenty-two knots with its depth set at nine feet. Though he had underestimated the liner's speed, Schwieger watched with great satisfaction as the churning wake beat a trail straight for the ma.s.sive starboard hull of the helpless Lusitania.

It was a textbook bow shot from only seven hundred yards. It seemed to Schwieger as if Lusitania steamed right into it. The torpedo slammed into the great liner just aft of the forward mast, shredding hull plates and blowing a hole as large as a barn door. Damage was serious but not fatal. Half expecting the s.h.i.+p to continue as if it were merely stung, Schwieger was stunned by what he witnessed in the next few seconds.

The first explosion was followed by an even larger one that twisted the entire bow on an angle, causing the s.h.i.+p to heel over almost immediately on a fifteen-degree list. Thousands of tons of water poured into what had now become a gigantic cavity. Controversy would later erupt over whether Lusitania was holed by two torpedoes, a sympathetic explosion from the coal dust in the empty bunkers, or the detonation of 1,248 cases of three-inch shrapnel sh.e.l.ls clandestinely carried in the forward cargo hold.

It is an enigma that continues to this day.

Turner stiffened when the lookout's dreaded cry of "Torpedo on the starboard side!" rang out. He rushed over to that side of the bridge wing just as the explosion rocked his s.h.i.+p. "Close the watertight doors!" he roared above the fading rumble. Disaster followed catastrophe. A second, much larger, thunderous blast entirely different from the first shook the deck under his feet. The list came so quickly he barely was able @to grip a handrail to keep from spilling over the side.

Down deep, in the depths of his soul, William Turner knew his s.h.i.+p was doomed.

Within seconds, the tranquil scene under a peaceful sky and calm sea deteriorated into ma.s.s confusion. There was no panic, but everyone milled around the lifeboats without benefit of direction.

Pa.s.sengers frantically searched for loved ones or wandered about the decks as if lost. The chaos became ever worse as Lusitania, still underway, began her roll to starboard in unison with her plunging bow.

Turner telegraphed "Full astern" to slow the progress of the s.h.i.+p, but problems with the turbines-one of the main steam pipes split open-prevented the order from being carried out. The helmsman spun the wheel to bring Lusitania around, but the rudder refused to respond.

Lusitania continued moving ahead with just enough speed to swamp the lifeboats as they were lowered into the rus.h.i.+ng water.

Only six lifeboats out of forty-eight carried by the s.h.i.+p floated away intact. Most were badly damaged or destroyed when they slid forward toward the bow, cras.h.i.+ng through other boats and crus.h.i.+ng any pa.s.sengers who stood in the way.

Many of the crew in the engine room were either killed outright or swept upward on a torrent of water cascading through the hatches that remained open. In the radio room, second wireless operator David McCormick tapped out, "Come at once. Big list. Ten miles Old Head Kinsale." The message was heard and everything that could float rushed to the scene.

Alfred Vanderbilt remained impa.s.sive. It was not his nature to show emotion. Other than stopping a child running past, to secure his life jacket properly, he awaited death stoically like a grand lord.

Charles Frohman, it was said, quoted Peter Pan to frightened pa.s.sengers. "Why fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure in life."

Crippled by arthritis, he waited until water washed over the deck.

Then he simply stepped over the side, followed by his faithful valet, Stainton, and drowned.

A bounty of one thousand pounds was offered for Alfred Vanderbilt's body. But neither he nor Frohman was found.