The Ship of Dreams (Chapter 2)

Geoffrey was just chuffed to bits for his momentary break between travels. The morning left him feeling rather knackered, to say the least, as he had been required to wake up at the crack of dawn so that he may catch the early boat train destined for Southampton, London. For all intended purposes, he had chanced waking so early to see if he could get his hands on a ticket for an earlier departure ticket.

Seeing that he was listed as a first-class passenger, he was expected to take the second train that was to depart Platform 12 of the Waterloo station via LSWR, or the London and Southwestern Railway at precisely 9:45 a.m. Now, while the Chelmsford Chronicle, or the, Titanic Special, as the locals were calling it, would have been more than satisfactory for any of the other first-class passengers, this simply was not the case for Geoffrey, for he was more than aware of the fact that the first train for the second and third-class travelers was due to leave Platform 11 at 6:30, which would, of course, give him more than ample time to gather and collect all the intel he needed in that three-hour window.

To his great fortune, it had seemed that he had been graced by God’s good grace as he encountered a weary couple at the station that was trying to get a refund for their own Platform 11 tickets. However, they had been refused such, as the reason that they provided was not one that was acceptable; something about how the wife had had some sort of premonition the night prior, which had her believing beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they should not board the Titanic, and which spoke of the sullen look on her face. Overhearing their little dilemma, Geoffrey had offered the couple to pay them their fair share in the exact price paid for said vouchers, plus an additional five percent. In total, it cost him something like 20 dollars, which the pair had been extremely pleased with. Looking back on it all, the only thing he regretted was the fact that he had not been in Southampton by the 5th when the White Star Line had temporarily showed it off to the public.

Despite this brief pause in things, this did not mean that he was not fast at work, acting as a productive member of society, no, far from it. Geoffrey was of the vehement opinion that excellence was, in fact, a habit and that that routine as it were, consisted of seventy percent hard work, and thirty percent talent. To Geoffrey, the craft of writing was a simple one that almost any such person could master with enough time, practice, due diligence, and hard work. Talent, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter.

In order to be an exceptional journalist, talent meant learning to be the most versatile social chameleon, knowing exactly how to mingle with the very lowly, as well as the social elites in any given situation or environment. Not only that, but it also meant thinking and acting as the most astute of investigative detectives; essentially, he had to become like Sherlock Holmes. At times, it also entailed abandoning ones’ own morals and ethics, acting as if one did not have any, which is exactly what he was being called to do. It was through this pedagogy, or code of sorts, that lead him to the fine little drinking establishment known as The Grapes Pub, which was located at the core of the Hampshire Port on the Southside of Oxford Street, in a short berth directly across from where the Titanic was docked.

Still, it was the same tactics and methodology that had provided him with a bit of information that had left him rather disappointed and unsettled for it was a heavy blow to the little chronic he had been working on. As a result of the type of crowd that the luxury liner attracted, tabloids everywhere had coined it as, ‘The Millionaire’s Special.’ Through his research and kind of reconnaissance practices, he had learned several weeks prior that the list of individuals that were speculated to be aboard the Titanic, included none other than mister J.P. Morgan himself. The thought had delighted Geoffrey, who had hoped that he could find a means to hear Morgan’s thoughts on the creation of the speculated Federal Reserve. However, the fortnight prior, he had learned that in an eleventh-hour decision, Mr. Morgan had bailed on the trip during the concluding days of March. According to his associate, he had extended his vacation in Aix for reasons related to both health and business, as well as some other mention of an art collection.

With a little more than an hour to spare, it being 11 a.m., on the morning of April 12th, 1912 in Southampton, England, Geoffrey sat at his vacant table at the forefront of, The Grapes Pub, in a fervent attempt to compartmentalize these pent up frustrations so that he could formulate a plan for conducting his inquiry on his intended target. In his survey of the surrounding area, he had overheard or rather eavesdropped, on a couple of chaps who were discussing rather loudly, their various positions aboard the ship, stokers he believed they said, and as such, he followed them, and many of their colleagues to this particular pub, where they sat at the bar, taking in shot after shot. Even at this moment, he could hear them clamoring on about the unsinkable Titanic.

What should be known about Geoffrey Archibald, was that he had rejected his moral compass insofar as that he, in all of his pious Catholic faith, detested drinking, pubs, and everything even remotely associated with the consumption of alcoholic beverages. He did not partake, and asides from his need for a caffeine nicotine vaccine on occasion could hardly name any vices that his character indulged in. To be frank, he thought the stuff dulled the senses, and achieved nothing more than to lower the individual's intellect and sense of consciousness, as can be testified in the drunken shouts and fights that it creates, such as could be observed even now, in the indistinct chatter issuing from the far side of the pub, where some bloody idiot had just wagered his ticket aboard the Titanic in an amateur’s game of poker and lost.

Still, he strategized as to how he could generate for a doorway into the conversation. See, one did not lead with the fact that they were with the press, no, this sort of thing scared the stranger, and was more likely than not to result in nothing more than being told to piss off. It was the kind of thing that was off-putting, that blew one’s cover, and that caused serious harm to one’s line of questioning, and as such, required the most cunning conversational approaches.

True as all of this may be, The Grapes Pub was a wide venue, that was of brick-built composition, but that had with it great paned windows that made up the entrance of the building, and from his seat, it was hard but not to be distracted at the sight of the shipyard, and with it the sight of what was being referred to as the next wonder of the world in the Titanic.

Her legacy was to be forged in her majestic design, and as he looked out at the White Star’s most grand liner, he could see every reason why. The aesthetics of her all-black makeup with white trim made the Titanic very sleek, elegant, and appealing to the eye, especially the way the sun glistened off of the steel plates, as well as that of her sharp edges and corners. It was so awe-inspiring, that it was damn near blinding. And the size. There was really nothing quite like it, as the Titanic towered over the port and the city below like some impressive skyscraper, the only difference, was that she stretched for many blocks, for what seemed like a mile, or a good portion. Most interesting of all, however, was the way in which her four massive tunnels billowing away in the morning's breeze, sending great black clouds out seaward bound, were the source that seemed to catch the onlooker's attention most of all, and perhaps this was because it was the sight of the highest point of the ship. From what he had heard, the fourth funnel was inoperable, and was merely for looks, in White Stars' attempt to outperform rival ships such as the Carpathia.

Geoffrey literally had to shake his head out of this trance and return his thoughts to the task at hand. As it turned out, he was thankful for this unconscious gesticulation, because in doing so, he noticed a small mason jar sitting on the edge of one of the tables. Curious, he looked all about him to come and discover that all of the glasses within of pub were of the same design. It was in the aesthetics of things that the legacy of the Titanic was to be built on, and it was also where Geoffrey was to find his in. Feeling satisfied with himself, Geoffrey removed himself from where he was sitting, picked up the glass jar from off the edge of the table, and made his way over to where the unknown crew members that he had followed were sitting.

“Alright then lads,” Geoffrey started, coming to a full stop at the bar’s end so that he could casually lean himself in a kind of tripod stance with his elbow on the counter and his hip at the edge, his chest puffed out so that he could emulate all the exaggerated masculine confidence in the world. “Now, tell me, which one of you would fancy a good ole’ pub-related joke for the sake of things, this being the appropriate setting and all,” he asked having a good look at the boys around him, for mere boys were exactly what they were.

“Alright yourself, and who might you be,” the middle-most gentleman inquired with a tone that breached upon drunken hostility and defensiveness, turning about-face to meet Geoffrey’s gaze.

“Yeah, who might you be,” repeated the man sitting to his immediate left to whom followed up by mirroring the same gesture and stance as his counterpart. Geoffrey, who was quite taken aback by their reproach which was all but apparent with the puzzled expression that was etched on his face, as it smooshed inward upon itself as if he were smelling something putrid, surveyed the youth in front of him, surprised to see that these three fine lads had with them a striking resemblance amongst them.

The three individuals that stood before him shared this very striking yet stoic feature to their facial countenance as if they had lived the most serious of lives. This impression was held by all of them upon a very distinguishable round face that was on three of them which suggested a very prominent Anglo-English origin, and that they were most likely natives to the area. In fact, as far as Geoffrey could tell, the only identifiable feature that made one stand out to that from the other was found in the way they groomed themselves. Of them was most noticeable, as he was the only one with a premature sort of receding hairline. Apart from him, the other two men had a good head of hair of the same jet black color, but, whereas the man in the center combed this over to meet and part at the middle of his crown, the other to his right had a more rugged tangled mess atop of his head that parted out in every which direction.

“Oh, nothing to get all concerned with,” the man in the middle, who was the trio’s ringleader it seemed to Geoffrey, went on with a little scoff to himself. “The name is Bertram, Bertram Slade. And these lads, so you call them, and very rightfully so, are my brothers, Alfred and Thomas, although there are times where I right believe they were picked up at the orphanage. Anyways, go right ahead and tell the joke. I do quite enjoy a good laugh.”

“The name is Geoffrey Archibald, and it’s a pleasure, I’m sure. And very well then. So, a man walks into a pub, and as he does so, he notices a mason jar of money sitting on the bar,” Geoffrey began, placing his own glass down for effect as he did so. “The man addresses the barkeep and asks, ‘Sir, what is the jar of money for?’ The bartender responds by saying, ‘Ah, the jar of money is to see who can get my horse to laugh. You simply place a pound in the jar, at which rate, you can go right in that back door there where it's kept and give it your best shot. Whoever can get my horse to laugh, gets the jar of money. Upon hearing this, the man puts his pound in the jar, and with a little nod of the head, tells the bartender, ‘I’ll be right back.”

Amused, the bartender watches as the stranger walks into the back room. However, his look turns to surprise as a couple of moments pass, and the wayward traveler exits with the horse just absolutely rolling around in the hay, laughing its tail off. With a curt smile and a nod, the man collects the jar of money and makes his leave.

Now, about a week goes by, and the same man walks back into the bar. And much to his own surprise, there is another mason jar full of money sitting atop the bar, just as before. Interest peaking, he walks up to the bartender and asks, ‘So what’s this jar of money for then.’

With a hint of frustration in his voice, the bartender answered, “The thing is, since you’ve left, my horse has not stopped laughing. When you were last here, the jar of money was to see who could get my horse to laugh. Now the jar of money is to see who can get my horse to stop laughing. And with another smile and a nod, the lad put another pound in the jar and made his way into the back room. To the bartender’s astonishment, he left just a few moments later with the horse rolling around in the hay, just crying its eyes out.

At this point, the mangoes back up to the bar to collect the jar of money, but he is stopped by the good ole’ bartender. Holding back his frustration, the bartender asks him, ‘Usually, I wouldn’t say anything, but I simply have to ask. What the hell did you do to my horse mate?’

With his trademark smirk, the man answers, ‘Well, you see last week, I told your horse that I had a bigger pecker than it did, and this week, I showed it.’

At first, with the suffocating silence that was only broken by the sound of shattering glass, Geoffrey estimated he had failed to gain the drunken sailor's trust with his crude joke. More times than not, such a joke had been the exact remedy that he had needed, for he found that it was a good means to lighten the mood, and with the laughter, it broke through the ego just enough to get one straight to talking, but this did not seem to be the case.

It came much to his relief as Bertram bent himself over in a royal fit of laughter, his brothers chiming in with their own rowdy fits, all leaning themselves onto each other to support each other from the pain that could be felt in the abdomen area as will happen when a spell takes you over for a little while to the point that the individual can no longer breath, which is something that they will sometimes say.

“Bloody hell, you’re a right funny bastard that you are. That was a good one. I think I just might like you yet,” Bertram exclaimed with a silly expression carved on his round face. His brothers nodded their heads in their own approval, and Bertram extended his hand to Geoffrey who shook it firmly.

“Well, I’m certainly glad that you enjoyed it. Tell me, Bertram, what brings you and your brothers to this fine establishment? Are you simply a mere social drinker, or are you here to as a spectator to offer all the bon voyages’ in the world to the passengers and crew of the Titanic? Or, is it that you are passing time by as you wait to board the luxury liner, and if so, are the lot of you off to Cherbourg, or is it New York then, as it were?”

“Actually, I’ll have you know that you are quite wrong on all accounts. We are neither spectator nor passenger, but immensely proud crewmen of the White Star Line,” Bertram boasted proudly, turning all red and lighting up like some greatly illuminating light bulb. “Now, I must be modest. The lot of us are but cogs in the grander gears of her operation, as we are but mere firemen to the ships engine rooms, but it is honest work nonetheless, finished, with his brothers nodding all the more in the backdrop to the conversation, muttering their own, “It’s true you know,” and other sentiments of the concurrence. “But enough about us, what about yourself Mr. Archibald?”

“Wow, that is really amazing, I would have never guessed. I swear, especially without your uniforms, no one would have known. First, I must say that I quite envy the three of you. Not only are you riding on the greatest feat of modern engineering, but you are getting paid to do so as well. How fortunate you all are. On that note, I must thank you. Without your hard-earnest efforts, the Titanic would hardly be capable of going anywhere, so thank you, again. As for myself, I am an aspiring writer,” Geoffrey fibbed with his little white lie, once more abandoning his own moral compass for work's sake. “I managed to land myself a ticket back to the states, and as it would turn out, the Titanic is actually the subject matter of my current work in progress. I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Titan, in terms of maritime literature, but it is a book somewhat of that similitude,” Geoffrey continued saying the first thing that popped in his head. “In fact, seeing that you are all crew, is there anything you might be willing to tell such a novelist about the unsinkable ship as she is, maybe something about the Millionaire Captain, speaking of course about Captain Smith, or maybe some hearsay that you’ve picked up during your time on board?”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of that one, sorry mate. As for the ship itself, I can say much about her asides from the obvious fact in that she is a floating mansion as I’m sure you already very well know. Every section has been carefully and elaborately designed so that no one is like the other. Entering the Titanic trumps walking into any of the finest European hotels, with the most magnificent wood carvings, chandeliers, furniture, and things of that nature which were are specifically chosen to capture the hearts of the most wealthy of individuals, which, given your line of work, I bet you also know. As I said, we are but mere fire stokers, and anything outside of the realm of the engine room is well outside of our awareness. So, sorry I could not be any more help to you. However, those gentlemen sitting there at the booth across from us might have something that might interest you. The whole lot of them made the rather odd decision to quit their various posts all together for no apparent reason. Maybe it is worth looking into to see what all that is about,” the English native offered in earnest with a big hearty swig of a dark draught beer, of what Geoffrey guessed was Guinness.

“Oh, it’s nothing really, not a problem at all. I assure you, there is nothing to apologize for. I am simply curious like a cat, but very well then. I thank you, and I think I will take that bit of advice, for it certainly does seem like a bizarre occurrence, to say the least. On that note, I bid you all adieu, and will mark my farewell by saying that I hope that we shall all run into each other again for another score of jokes, or maybe over some coffee in your spare time aboard the floating mansion to use your own words,” Geoffrey finished with a slight bow, which was more of a slight nod of the head than anything else, and then he turned on his heel without so much as a second thought and made his way in the direction that Bertram had pointed him.

His head held high; Geoffrey glided across the wooden planks of the pub’s hardwood floors with all the confidence in the world. He maintained his quickened pace towards his destination, chest puffed out to denote a sense of superiority which he felt he deserved amongst the lower-class dregs of society, even though in all honesty he was only a tier or so above even them until all of a sudden he came to an abrupt stop about halfway between the two groups of people. There was no conscious explanation for this pause, but to him, it was as if he was stuck or frozen where he stood as if he had run into some unforeseen wall.

And at that moment, as he stood rooted to the ground beneath him, he became intensely aware that the atmosphere directly ahead of him was much different than what was immediately behind him. There was a palpable tension that clouded the rowdy and disorderly booth that he was approaching; one that was a sultry ambiance consisting of some pent-up and otherwise primitive aggression and violent hostility, and that very nearly touched on rage. It was irrefutable that this upcoming interaction would be far less friendly and pleasant than that of the company of the Slade brothers.

Geoffrey remained in the same spot for some thirty seconds, taking in the entirety of the extreme shift in mood and the tense aura of masculine testosterone before he made a quick conscious decision to completely abandon every last tactic and methodology of his practice. There would be no illusory charades of the not-so-innocent bystander making general inquiries to see their way around town.

No, as he inspected the handful of individuals, who were still dressed in their dirtied work attire; cheap white button-up shirts that were smudged with all the grime, sludge, grease, slime, and soot of the engine rooms, complete with equally soiled beige suspenders and denim khaki jeans to boot. One quick glance at these men and their large round muddied faces told Geoffrey everything that he needed to know. The occasion called for him to resort back to square one; he simply had to be direct and forward with them in presenting a grand show about him being a reporter, and the caliber of his writing.

There were some men that simply needed their fifteen minutes of fame; they would crawl out of almost any dark hole and do damn near anything to attain that fifteen minutes. Making one final assessment of the individuals he had been sent to, he made the judgment that these were exactly that type of people, and all he had to do was promise them their due. And with that thought in mind, Geoffrey took a deep breath and continued his way toward the group of men.

Upon arriving at the table, it appeared to Geoffrey that he was looking down on the living personification of the whole lower-class industrial industry. This impression was given to him in the totality of the soiled clothes that were sweat-stained tightly onto the personages before him. They also imparted this impression on him in the way that every one of them took deep long drags from the cigarettes that hung perfectly balanced and untouched between their dry chapped lips. The only exception was that of the individual closest to him on the right side of the booth, who was savoring a thick cigar as opposed to the cigarettes that the other men were smoking.

Overlooking the firemen crew and the whole he felt very much like he was viewing a miniature model of an industrial in the form of living breathing men. In his mind’s eye, the men’s cigarette and filthy composition was likened to an individual factory complete with large billowing smokes tunnels, whose toxic waste otherwise poisoned, contaminated, and polluted its community surrounding it, with little or no regard to the immediate environment or climate in the nearby vicinity, and this effect was compounded all the more as several of the men took to spitting the excess saliva in their mouth onto the ground below them.

“Da’ frick you lookin’ at there mate,” the man closest to Geoffrey spat out as he came to a complete stop in front of the crew’s booth. As he did so, Geoffrey caught the way in which his eyes rolled over to get a better look at him, which, combined with the sardonic grimace on his face, a gesture that was mirrored by the other men at the table, Geoffrey couldn’t help but feel that the men in front of him carried the deepest sense of disdain and contempt for him.

“Pardon me, I do not wish to intrude on your leisure time, that is no way part of my intentions, not far from it,” Geoffrey responded, placing his right hand on his chest as if he had just been taken aback from a heavy attack. “Again, I do not mean to be any bother. My name is Geoffrey Archibald, and I am a member of the press. I am working on a big article for The New York Times regarding the Titanic, and I was wondering if you fine men could answer a few questions for me coming from your own experience and insights. As I understand it, you all have sort of empirical information about the ship, having worked on it yourselves. At least, that is what those blokes over there at the bar told me,” Geoffrey continued pointing over in the direction of the Slade brothers. “They told me that randomly, out of the blue, that you all abandoned your posts for whatever reason, resigning on account of sensitive information about the ship in question. Is that true, and if so, could you tell me why? I am sorry to ask, but it all seems rather odd all things considered. But if, you do, I am sure that I can work it out that you all end up in the piece, and see to it that you receive what is obviously your dues worth mentioning,” Geoffrey finished, his brow and face bunching together in unison to create for a quizzical looking expression.

“You hear dat’ boys? Da bloody friggin skinflint of a reporter wants us to tell him what we know about the Titanic. Isn’t that rich,” the man closest to Geoffrey let out to his crewmen after a momentary pause where he indulged himself with a long healthy drag of his cigar, after which he proceeded to blow the smoke up into Geoffrey’s face. His remark generated a tremendous uproar of laughter followed by undistinguishable grunts and lofty nods of approval. It was also a comment that encapsulated all of the bureaucratical pecking order of the social classes, as well as that of the kind of human denigration that was typical amongst men on trips such as this one, and it helped explain the scornful reproach and looks that he was receiving from all of the men. “And tell us, what is it that a fancy, proper, and well-to-do Yankee-doodle-dandy such as yourself, would like to know coming from us,” the man grunted in his unintelligible, uneducated, and illiterate way, answering Geoffrey’s inquiry with a question of his own.

Geoffrey stared down at the men in a look of astonishment, taken aback by the bloke’s harsh disposition. Nevertheless, deep down, there was a part of him that had to admit that he reserved a small sliver of admiration for the man before him. More than anyone else at the table, he alone seemed to embody the very essence of the gilded age, as if he himself were a product that had been manufactured on one of those great monumental factory assembly lines.

Not only did it seem to Geoffrey that Harland & Wolff created colossal leviathans like transatlantic ocean liners, such as The Titanic, or even the Olympic, but now it appeared that in the process, they made for an insensitive breed of an Irish man. For, the individual’s cruel, harsh, vulgar, and downright nasty personality carried with it all the inhumane characteristics of the working conditions that could be associated with his line of work, as if in the blaze of the fire, they had forged and molded these attributes in the breath of his own lungs.

That, however, did not account for his physique which was a huge bulky mass of sheer size and strength. Had he not been dressed in his work attire along with his other comrades, Geoffrey would have mistaken him for someone who made a living off fighting for sport, like a boxer or something to that extent. His chest was so wide that the two topmost buttons had popped free, revealing a good deal of hairy prime real estate. As for his burly arms, which were just as hairy, they were like massive cannons built of muscles on top of muscles.

It surprised Geoffrey that he even fit in his clothing, let alone found the means to roll his sleeves up. There was no doubt in Geoffrey’s mind that it was all the result of long laborious hours, overseeing the painstaking toils of shoveling unprecedented amounts of coals into the monstrous engines that were all ablaze.

And, in the same way, that his personality reflected the working conditions of the engine room, so too does it seem that his physical strength could be compared to the whole of the strength of what the industrial revolution had produced, and the power that it had given to the notorious individuals who oversaw it. If there steel and other metals were not a testimony to its strength, then certainly this rare specimen, this man of steel, certainly was.

“Come off it man,” Geoffrey blurted out, placing his hands firmly onto his hips as he did so. “You simply can’t ignore the state of the economy as far as your occupation is concerned. This last year alone has ravished the whole countryside and yielded more strikes and riots than ever before. And you have lost many a good soul at the earnest and noble endeavor of earning a fair minimum, which you so rightly deserve, considering how grossly underpaid the whole lot of you are. Not only that but you have won. You won, so why stop the fight now? Now that you have only begun to see that in which you were fighting for this whole time. Just as you cannot ignore that we are going through a coal strike, which makes your job all the more in demand, and as such harder to acquire. That, and the state of the economy, being in the depression that it is in, makes any job difficult to attain, and to hold for that matter. So, yes, please, explain this to me, because it does not make a lick of sense. What on this God-given green earth could possibly force your hand so much as to make you leave your comrades, your friends at work in a last-minute whim of a notice? And what could so convince your men to make the same conscious decision themselves?”

“Well, Geoffrey is it,” the tank of a man started as he adjusted himself into an upright position, a look of consideration on his face as if something in his speech had stirred something in the depths of his spirit, albeit there was still a grimace of disdain and disgust marked across his wrinkled face. “Have da record state, as one Dermot Murphey has it, that he reports from his experience that something about the whole situation feels a little off. That’s it, tell the people at the papers that there is something that’s not quite right with the Titanic, something is afoul as far as the unsinkable ship concerned,” Dermot concluded, his men nodding and shaking their heads in approval, as if what he said spoke for all of them, and all of the lower working class.

It’s a pleasure Dermot, and don’t you worry, I will make sure to make a note of it. If you don’t mind, would you care to elaborate on the issue further? I mean, do go on, how do you mean, something feels off. In what way,” the cunning linguist inquired the further, delighted that his antics had worked in his favor, leaning forward towards the table as if each word that departed the Irish man’s lips were the equivalent of liquid gold.

“This much I can tell you. I may just be a lowly fireman, a stoker of fires as my father was before me, but in all my years I have not seen anything of the likes taking place at White Star. Something’s wrong with the lot of them, ever since that rich Merican’ chap took reigns of things. For me, this all started with the Olympics as it were, my last vessel of occupation. I was there you know. That foggy September night of last, when the ole’ reliable collided with the Hawke, tearing a big fat gash in her hull, and you think your jobs difficult. Was one of the longest days of my life. Anyways, you might not think it, but we fire crew knows just about as much about the shipping business as the fancy coats at the top of the ladder do, if not more, being in the center of all the action, and from that moment on something just didn’t feel right,” Dermot let out, with the utmost seriousness, and a kind of twinkle in his eye, as if he were some Greek poet, relaying a tragedy of epic proportions to Geoffrey and his fellow companions, or at least some ghost tale that one might tell to scare off their wives and children before bed.

“I’m not quite sure I follow Dermot. Granted, the Olympic is a White Star vessel, but as far as I know, she is not even an ocean liner. From what I understand, it was her service as a troopship that gained her respect as ole’ reliable, the same class of ship that was damaged in the incident you speak of. What role does the R.M.S Olympic have to play in all of this,” Geoffrey intervened, completely at a loss as to what this possibly had to do with their entirely rash decision of leaving their duties?

“Oh, that’s just the beginnings of it. No, what is interesting is what was to follow after it. For two weeks, the Olympics undergoes the necessary repairs. Not everybody knows it, but it’s thanks to da Olympics that everyone is going about calling the Titanic the unsinkable ship. You see, she took survived quite a gash to her hull, that she did, but thanks to that genus’ idea of Andrews, with those watertight compartments and all, she still was able to make the journey back to port. So, if the Olympic is unsinkable then by comparison, her sister ship must be all the better off right? No, where it really gets interesting is what happens next. From there, she is sent to Belfast, where she is docked right smack next to her newer sister ship. But that’s the thing mate. From what I heard while we were stationed there, was that the ship workers should be able to make a speedy task of it; have it patched up in the same amount of time, about two weeks. Six weeks, however, was the time that it took, to dock there next to the Titanic, and all the whilst, I thought my eyes, they were deceiving me, I thought to myself. For, with each passing day, while it was under the premise of repairs, Titanic and Olympic started looking less and less like sisters, and more and more like some kind of identical twins; I could hardly tell the twos apart, I could,” the fireman divulged to Geoffrey, a maddened glint in his eyes as if he were confiding to him the innermost workings of some sinister plot.

“I’m not quite sure I follow. You mean to tell me that the lot of you got spooked because the two ships look alike,” Geoffrey inquired as he scratched the back of his head with deep bends in his eyebrows, the confusion he felt all but apparent in his posture. Perplexed though he was, there was no denying that this little fireside story had all but peaked his interests.

“Aye, if you knew a thing or another about the shipping industry, twin ships would be an omen of sorts of bad things to come, at least as far as I see it. Swapping ships out is the oldest insurance scam in da books, and I can’t exactly in good consciousness rule that one out. White Star and the whole organization are the biggest pain in Mr. Morgan’s side, and everyone right knows that much. The company failing as it is, combined with the screwed-up show that went on with the Olympics, as well as the coal strike all at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised if at this very moment that that wealthy skinflint of a dirtbag isn’t having a big ol’ fit about the whole thing, and all the money it’s losing him. And to be completely honest, all things considered, I am right shocked myself that the ship is seeing the sales and attraction that it is given the companies history,” Dermot spewed out, the leathery skin of his face all scrunched upon itself, as if he was trying to solve some very difficult mathematical equation in his head.

“So, let me get this straight. You and your crew are under the opinion that the company swapped two eight-hundred-foot-long ocean liners weighing some 50,000 tons at Belfast right before everyone’s eyes as an insurance scam? I do not mean to be rude, but that does seem like a bit of a stretch. Or is there more to it,” was the rebuttal Geoffrey had to offer in jest to the fireman’s loft claim. He was now completely at a loss and getting to the point where he simply discredited the whole account as sheer malarkey.

“Bloody friggin a, there is much more to it than just that. As I said, none of it adds up. Not in the slightest. Let us just toss the scenario at Belfast under the bus, shall we? What I can tell you is that I smell something fishy. Titanic has gathered all the who’s who in the social world, the wealthiest individuals in the world, a good majority of whom would like a chance to chat with Mr. Morgan. But the bloke up in a last-minute decision cancels his trip on account of some difficulties with his prized art collection. The man owns a bloody 800-foot ocean liner, and he cannot simply stow them on his ship, because of regulations as it were. That, and some hogwash story of his health not being up to par, when one of your journalist buddies right well reported that they saw him in tip-top shape, and very merry at that will you. So, he cancels, and a hand full of his other social elite do as well, a sizable some of them too.”

“Trust me, I am part of the long list of individuals who are deeply upset by said recent development. Believe me. A good portion of my news correspondence was centered around his being on Titanic. I can hardly forgive him for it myself, for my own personal reasons, but I hardly feel that that is some indication of a diabolical plan on his behalf. He is an extremely busy man. Not only that, but maybe you are not quite familiar with the habits and routines of the social elite that you speak of. One of the trademark characteristics of the wealthy is that they have a taste for speed, in all things, and they are inclined, for whatever reason, to make last-minute decisions and cancelations, as if their ability to do so, to make a huge impulsive decision is some sort of indication of the level of power that they have, and with little to no care as to how said choices affect the lives of others involved, again, something that they feel exerts their power, control, and dominance,” Geoffrey issued. He rubbed at the back as he did so and began looking all around the room for a clock, for what interest he has was waning, and he was starting to feel incredibly pressed for time.

“There’s part of me that sympathizes with you mate. Perhaps you are not far enough down the social ladder to see the length that the upper class will go to get their hands on more, more, more, of just about everything. The way that they will absolutely walk on and around everyone to get what they feel is rightly theirs as if anything were entitled to anyone. At the end of the day, we all bleed red and give a good hearty scream when we are injured. Enough on that. Though it goes against my better judgment, I will leave you with this boyo. There have been made many justifications for it, but that ships sea trials were a speedy little affair, hardly on par with what is custom. They will say that this was due to bad weather, of course, they will, or that it was hardly needed, her being the unsinkable ship that she is. Still, with the black gang, and all crew on board, including us firemen, she only accounted for six hours of these trials see. They might as well have just called her seaworthy on looks alone the second the lot of them boarded, might as well not even had them as far as my opinion is concerned. But heed these words boy. If what I have said thus far is not enough to get the gears in that big ole’ head of your turn, this sure as daylight should. Out on the mighty seas, there is a lot of dangers and hazards that strike fear in the hearts of those on board, but with all the elements and conditions aside, there is one thing in particular that straight out scares the hell out of us more than anything else. What might that be you ask? I will right well tell you mate. Nothing scares the daylights out of us more than the thought of a fire on board, which is exactly what has been stirring in the belly of that beast, and not just that, but for the most part completely overlooked, for it was hardly even a pressing issue in said trials. They did not even stop to look at it. No, if you had ahead about you, you’d listen to these words that I impart to you, take my words at their face value, and right well cancel your trip with haste, as soon as you can, right now while we are at it. It is not too late. Cancel the trip, take another one, and get as far away from Titanic as you possibly could. That is what I have to report, and you would be the better off for taking my advice.”

“What,” Geoffrey exclaimed with a look of grave reproach as if what he heard was the most disgusting and vile thing to be ever be uttered, his body leaning back and tensing up all at once as if his posture spoke directly to the deep-seated rejection that he felt at the mere thought of the proposition. “Are you quite mad? That would very surely cost me my occupation, and just about everything that I can say that I have to my name. The very notion is suicide. I might as well sign away my death certificate and say one final adieu to all my loved ones. I do not mean to come across as rude Dermot, but that is perhaps the most absurd advice that I have ever been given in all of my life. And on that note, I have a ship to catch, and the story of a lifetime to follow. A good day to you all gentlemen.

It is interesting to observe the way in which the universe subtly gives us indications as to what lies in store for our fate and destiny. On his departure from the Grapes Pub, he had only just received what was his third, and final warning of sorts, that it was not in his best interests to board the ship. Thrice the external world almost shouted at him not to go, but these things are so low-key and indistinct, that they go unnoticed most of the time, until looking back on it at a point that is most cases is too late. And still, it was three times that the universe did beckon with its inquiry of, ‘are you sure you want this experience,’ to which Geoffrey’s mind was irrevocably made up that he was quite sure.

And what is perhaps the most intriguing variable in the way that things worked themselves out boils down to a matter of timing that could not have been planned out with even the most meticulous of planning. For, when Geoffrey exited the Grapes Pub, it was at the sight of a tremendous train barreling down the street that separated the pub from where Titanic was docked and towered over the town of Southampton. Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, he darted across this point of intersection, just nearly beating the train by a matter of about thirty seconds or so. Thirty seconds. This was all the time in the world needed that made the difference between boarding the ship and otherwise. While Geoffrey managed to slink his way onto the boarding ramp, and safely onto the ship, the Slade brothers meanwhile, had to wait for the very same train to pass through town before carrying on their way to Titanic, an interval that was just enough for them to miss the ship, and to rewrite their destiny entirely.