Chapter 16 #3
THE LOUNGE WAS filled to nearly overflowing.
Several latecomers had to make do with standing behind the rows of chairs that had been arranged in a semicircle to face the makeshift stage.
It wasn’t truly a stage, of course, just a cleared area of carpeting in the middle of the chamber, with a table for props and that grand piano at the edge.
Rita and Jenny found seats near the back to minimize the risk of being called up to perform.
Vanderbilt sat with them, along with Charles, George, and an absurdly good-looking British military captain whom George introduced as Alick Scott, on his way from the Straits Settlements, by way of Japan, to volunteer for the home forces.
Rita wasn’t the only one struck by his features. She noticed with some relief that Jenny couldn’t seem to look away from him. George noticed as well; they exchanged sly smiles.
There was no ambitious lady willing to perform either Juliet or Delight, as it turned out, but there were plenty of acts, most of them amateurish, a few polished, all heartfelt.
A Scotsman dressed as Bonnie Prince Charlie, kilt and all, told jokes that had his comrades hooting with laughter, although his brogue was so thick Rita could hardly follow anything he said.
A matron took her place at the piano and gamely accompanied her teenaged daughter, who sang “Jolly Good Luck to the Girl Who Loves a Soldier,” managing to hit nearly every note.
You should go over there and sing, Rita whispered to George.
After you go over there and soliloquy, he whispered back.
A young man in spectacles recited a poem he had written about his horse. Another picked out a delicate song on the mandolin. Mr. Hubbard read a passage from his latest book in a low, sonorous voice, his intonation so rhythmic and predictable Rita’s eyelids began to sag.
I’ll pay you five pounds to sing, she whispered.
I’ll pay you ten to start clapping now, to shut him up, he whispered back.
A pair of women from second class were circulating through the audience, quietly selling embossed programs for ten cents apiece, all proceeds going to the charities.
Alfred Vanderbilt, at the end of their row, smiled up at the pretty blonde shyly offering him one, pulled out his wallet, and handed her a five dollar bill, no change.
Rita thought the lady might faint at his feet in admiration.
The final performance before intermission was the Royal Gwent Male Voice Singers singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” just as they had when the Lusitania had departed New York. They took their bows to enthusiastic applause.
As people began to rise from their seats, ready for a break, for a drink at least, Captain Turner appeared in his navy jacket and splendid gold braid, walking up the middle of the room to stand beside the grand piano.
The audience hesitated, voices quieting, slowly sinking back into their chairs.
The captain rested a hand on the frame of the piano as he waited for their full attention.
“As you know,” he began, not even bothering to project his voice—but then he didn’t need to, did he, because every single person before him was watching him, nervously alert—“soon we will be entering the so-called war-zone waters. We have received wireless warnings of submarine activity ahead—”
At this, the audience began a collective murmur, but Turner spoke over it, still not raising his voice, so the murmuring swiftly collapsed.
“—however, there is nothing to fear. Upon entering these waters, we will be safely under the escort of the Royal Navy. Tomorrow morning, we shall carry on full steam ahead to Liverpool. You’re in good hands, I assure you.”
He began to leave, stopped, and turned back to them. The murmuring that had risen once more subsequently died once more.
“You’ll notice our running lights are dark tonight, and all skylights and windows and portholes are being covered.
You will not remove any of the coverings for any reason.
All doors leading to the outside decks are to remain closed.
If you see one open, close it. If you see window curtains open, close them.
Finally, I must remind the gentlemen not to smoke outside for the duration of the night, lest the light from your matches or cigars or cigarettes be visible to enemy eyes. Thank you, and good evening.”
AND THAT, AS the saying went, was a tough act to follow.
The fundraiser did continue, with the audience that returned to it fortified by at least a glass of wine or gin or lemonade, but the mood had changed.
The previous sense of levity felt unnatural now; after each act, the applause came more sparse.
By the time the ship’s orchestra ended the evening with “God Save the King,” followed by “America,” everyone seemed in a hurry to get away.
Rita and George said their good nights to Charles and Jenny and Mr. Vanderbilt. Captain Scott offered them a cheerful salute before heading off himself.
“Strange times,” George said, as they passed a couple quietly arguing about whether it would be better to sleep in their cabin or in one of the public rooms, fully dressed.
“Yes,” Rita agreed. The bare beginning of a headache was starting to uncurl along her left temple. She rubbed at it absently.
The couple were not the only ones with the thought of remaining near the lifeboats.
All around them in the lounge, people were claiming settees, pushing chairs together to form makeshift beds.
Stewards began fanning through the chamber with armloads of pillows and blankets, distributing them to any who asked.
A few of the passengers were audibly debating if they should bed down in the lifeboats, just in case.
Just in case.
Rita looked forward to her actual bed, with its thick feather mattress and satin comforter.
Even so, as she watched the men and women in their diamond-and-silk evening best remove their gloves and shoes, settling like weary nomads in whatever nook or cranny they could find, she turned to her brother-in-law and asked, “Do you think it safe to go back down to our staterooms?”
“Yes. Come with me. I’ll show you something.”
He led her outside, both of them making certain the double doors were quickly opened, quickly shut.
There were others there already—none of them smoking—some pacing the deck in muffled footfalls, some lingering near the lifeboats, eyeing them, maybe wondering the best way to climb in. The world had gone misted again, bepearled, as great walls of fog rolled in, thinning and thickening.
Through it all, the Lusitania sliced confidently ahead, spume in her wake.
“I spoke with the staff captain during intermission. We’re expected to pass through this Scotch mist for most of the night.
Eventually they’ll have to sound the foghorn for it, but even so, U-boats can’t spot us in this.
Even if they can hear our engines, they won’t waste a torpedo on a ship they can’t see. ”
Rita wiped the moisture from her cheeks, wrapped her arms around her torso. The fog was cold, slimy cold, chilling her marrow.
“We should go back in,” George said. In the murk, she caught only a suggestion of his features, his shadowy hair and the planes of his face, his shadowy eyes. “It’s getting late, anyway. Tell you what, tomorrow we’ll wave a hearty hello to the emerald coast of éire as we pass by.”
“I’ve never been,” she said, as he opened the door and they both hurried through. “To Ireland, I mean.”
“It’s enchanting. People say that all the time, trying to anchor a feeling to a place, trying to digest it in a neat word, but Ireland truly is.
Olden. Magical. Someday, after all of this madness is over, we’ll visit, Inez and you and me.
Giuseppe too, if we can pry him away from his Italian Arcadia. You’ll love it.”
“Yes,” Rita said. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the entrance hall, the grand potted palms in their huge jardinières, the slick tiled floor, the low-burning electric lights. Even this late, the elevators hummed, carrying restless souls up and down the heart of the ship.
She rubbed her temple again, trying to massage away the pain, but it was only spreading.
“Yes,” she repeated. “Of course. Let’s all go.”