The Company of the Dead Read Online Free PDF
Author: David Kowalski
the banister for guidance. He crossed the metal causeway that led to the first of the boiler rooms.
Andrews was there, hunched in conversation with an older frosty-haired man in a crumpled brown suit. He glanced up at Wells’ approach, rolled up the set of blueprints he had been studying and tucked them under an arm. “What brings you down here, Wells?” he asked. He looked appalling. His brown hair hung in thin damp clumps, his shirt was stained with perspiration and oil.
Wells was now more thankful than ever that he’d made the man’s acquaintance earlier in Belfast. “I came to see you,” he said. “To see if I could help. The steward said we’ve struck an iceberg.”
Andrews sighed heavily. “And so we have. Short of manning the pumps, however, I don’t think there’s much you can do down here.” He turned and said something quietly to the older man, who made a small bow and disappeared down the walkway. “Ship’s carpenter,” he explained, and headed towards the forwards boiler rooms.
Wells dogged his heels.
The elevated walkway was dimly lit by the occasional lantern. Most of the light came from below. He followed Andrews from boiler room to boiler room, glancing down at the piles of black coal, the shadowy black-masked faces of men under-lit by the red stage lights of the furnaces. Their inarticulate shouts merged with the rising shrieks of the boilers. He looked to his guide and thought of other guides and infernos. Recalling that Dante’s vision of Hell ended in a lake of ice made him shudder.
They stopped in the fourth boiler room. Charles Lightholler, the ship’s second officer, stood in the middle of the passageway, his eyes fixed on the scene below. Engineers struggled to repair the frothing mouth of a wound that coursed along the visible length of the bulkhead. Firemen manned the pumps. Inches away from the tumult, sweat-soaked boiler men continued shovelling coal into the furnace’s gaping mouths.
“It’s the same in boiler room five,” Andrews said. “Number one hold, number two hold, boiler room six, the mailroom...” His voice trailed away.
Wells looked into Andrews’ face. “How long until we have matters in hand?”
“Matters in hand? She’s been gutted along the greater part of her length. The lower decks forwards to F deck are awash. The squash court is flooded, and the water is rising too damn fast.”
Wells made a quick calculation in his head. The iceberg had struck the ship on her port side. Historically, the Titanic had been snagged to starboard, receiving a glancing blow along the first three-hundred feet of her hull. The first four compartments and forwards boiler room had been damaged and in less than ten minutes the ship had flooded to fifteen feet.
This time it appeared that more than four-hundred-and-fifty feet of hull had been torn along the port side. The consequences would be the same. It didn’t matter if it was the port or starboard side. It didn’t matter if the tear was an inch wide or a jagged gash. If more than five of the Titanic ’s sixteen watertight compartments flooded, the ship could not remain afloat. And according to Andrews’ description, at least seven watertight compartments had been compromised.
She was going to sink. Again.
Wells cast about furiously in his mind. There was one possibility... something he’d read, something that might at least buy them time.
Clouds of steam billowed up from below. The air was moist and thick in their lungs. Lightholler turned to his companions, suppressing a cough.
“Any word from the wireless room, Charles?” Andrews asked.
“None as yet. So far we’ve only been able to raise the Olympic . Everyone else appears to have switched off for the night.”
“What about the Carpathia ?” Wells urged. “Or the Californian ?”
Lightholler seemed to notice him for the first time. “What are you talking about?”
The Californian was a tramp steamer that had been locked in a field of ice,
Andrews was there, hunched in conversation with an older frosty-haired man in a crumpled brown suit. He glanced up at Wells’ approach, rolled up the set of blueprints he had been studying and tucked them under an arm. “What brings you down here, Wells?” he asked. He looked appalling. His brown hair hung in thin damp clumps, his shirt was stained with perspiration and oil.
Wells was now more thankful than ever that he’d made the man’s acquaintance earlier in Belfast. “I came to see you,” he said. “To see if I could help. The steward said we’ve struck an iceberg.”
Andrews sighed heavily. “And so we have. Short of manning the pumps, however, I don’t think there’s much you can do down here.” He turned and said something quietly to the older man, who made a small bow and disappeared down the walkway. “Ship’s carpenter,” he explained, and headed towards the forwards boiler rooms.
Wells dogged his heels.
The elevated walkway was dimly lit by the occasional lantern. Most of the light came from below. He followed Andrews from boiler room to boiler room, glancing down at the piles of black coal, the shadowy black-masked faces of men under-lit by the red stage lights of the furnaces. Their inarticulate shouts merged with the rising shrieks of the boilers. He looked to his guide and thought of other guides and infernos. Recalling that Dante’s vision of Hell ended in a lake of ice made him shudder.
They stopped in the fourth boiler room. Charles Lightholler, the ship’s second officer, stood in the middle of the passageway, his eyes fixed on the scene below. Engineers struggled to repair the frothing mouth of a wound that coursed along the visible length of the bulkhead. Firemen manned the pumps. Inches away from the tumult, sweat-soaked boiler men continued shovelling coal into the furnace’s gaping mouths.
“It’s the same in boiler room five,” Andrews said. “Number one hold, number two hold, boiler room six, the mailroom...” His voice trailed away.
Wells looked into Andrews’ face. “How long until we have matters in hand?”
“Matters in hand? She’s been gutted along the greater part of her length. The lower decks forwards to F deck are awash. The squash court is flooded, and the water is rising too damn fast.”
Wells made a quick calculation in his head. The iceberg had struck the ship on her port side. Historically, the Titanic had been snagged to starboard, receiving a glancing blow along the first three-hundred feet of her hull. The first four compartments and forwards boiler room had been damaged and in less than ten minutes the ship had flooded to fifteen feet.
This time it appeared that more than four-hundred-and-fifty feet of hull had been torn along the port side. The consequences would be the same. It didn’t matter if it was the port or starboard side. It didn’t matter if the tear was an inch wide or a jagged gash. If more than five of the Titanic ’s sixteen watertight compartments flooded, the ship could not remain afloat. And according to Andrews’ description, at least seven watertight compartments had been compromised.
She was going to sink. Again.
Wells cast about furiously in his mind. There was one possibility... something he’d read, something that might at least buy them time.
Clouds of steam billowed up from below. The air was moist and thick in their lungs. Lightholler turned to his companions, suppressing a cough.
“Any word from the wireless room, Charles?” Andrews asked.
“None as yet. So far we’ve only been able to raise the Olympic . Everyone else appears to have switched off for the night.”
“What about the Carpathia ?” Wells urged. “Or the Californian ?”
Lightholler seemed to notice him for the first time. “What are you talking about?”
The Californian was a tramp steamer that had been locked in a field of ice,