And indeed an even larger than usual crowd had braved the growling gray sky and the sticky spring drizzle to cluster along cement-fronted Pier 54 with its massive green-painted sheds blotting out the Manhattan skyline. This was in part because an uncommon number of Americans would be boarding the Lusitania today, many of them women in second class and steerage-wives on their way to join soldier husbands, and nurses who had volunteered to work with the Red Cross.
But the primary reason for the dockside swarm of what might loosely be termed as humanity related to a warning from the German embassy that had appeared in virtually every New York newspaper either last night or this morning. In some of the papers, this warning had appeared side by side with Cunard’s advertisement announcing the sailing of the Lusitania today at noon.
This notice had warned travellers “intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage” that “a state of war exists between Germany and Great Britain”; and that the war zone included the waters adjacent to the British Isles. It went on to remind would-be travellers that should they board “vessels flying the flag of Great Britain,” they did so at their own risk.
Because of this, a fair share of walleyed rubberneckers had come out for a morbid good time, and a gaggle of hardboiled reporters and photographers, including newsreel cameramen, had converged upon Pier 54. Sidewalk photographers were taking shots of the looming ship with assistants yelling, “Last voyage of the Lusitania!” and taking down orders. Like a grotesque parody of a Broadway opening night, wide-eyed faces bobbed in the crowd to the discordant tune of burbling chatter and inappropriate laughter. Added to this were the smells of sea and oil, almost dispelling the meatpacking reek, and the sounds of a colossal ship coming to life.
As I stood dockside with my bulldog of an employer, Rumely, I was struck like a schoolboy by the immensity of the hull and the four funnels that reached higher up than my neck could crane back. And looking from left to right, one’s field of vision was consumed by a black field of steel with an army of rivet heads lined up in orderly ranks.* Normally the great ship would have been festooned with flags; but today, under clouds of war, even the brass letters on the bow were painted black, and the formerly scarlet and black funnels were simply black now, to make enemy identification harder.
Impressive as the Lusitania was, one could hardly deem her a beautiful ship-one man’s tour de force in naval architecture was another’s aesthetic monstrosity. From her ventilator-strewn superstructure to those colossal ungainly funnels, the Lusitania was at once the largest movable object yet built by Man. . and one of the most maladroit-a top-heavy study in ponderous bulk lacking the slim grace of the Olympic (and her fallen sister, Titanic).
“There seems to be a bit of a delay,” Rumely said. His broad brow was flecked with sweat; the morning was as warm as it was damp, and his three-piece gray tweed suit was a poor choice for the time of year.
I wore a gray homburg and a crisply new three-piece light blue suit, part of the spiffy wardrobe the News had sprung for me, to help me fit in with the nobs. I stroked the drizzle off my beard. “Why is that?”
“I understand the Lucy is taking on extra passengers from the Cameronia.”*
“Overflow?”
“No-the British Admiralty has requisitioned her. . It’ll probably amount to several hours, at least. Do you want to go on aboard?”
I shook my head. “I prefer to maintain my ringside seat, and allow those lines to thin themselves out. That way you can point out my interview subjects, in case the photographs you provided don’t do them justice.”
“Don’t be alarmed by this elaborate boarding procedure,” Rumely said, nodding toward the three separate lines leading to three separate gangways (for Saloon Class, Second Cabin and Third Class) where all the passengers and their baggage were being carefully inspected.
“I’m sure the documents you gave me will do quite nicely,” I said. “And if they don’t, you’ll bail me out of the pokey.”
Rumely frowned at my levity. “I hope you appreciate the seriousness of your mission.”
“I do, I most certainly do.” Actually, what I appreciated was the one-thousand-dollar bonus that Rumely had promised me for taking his sub-rosa assignment.
Pinkerton men and U.S. Immigration officials aided Cunard staffers in what was obviously a serious security effort. Pursers at tables screened each passenger and said passenger’s luggage, then marked them (the luggage, not the passengers) with chalk before Cunard deckhands in starched white sport jackets carried the bags aboard.
Still, for all of this-and the carnival-like hawking of “final” photos and little British flags on sticks, and the handing out of leaflets quayside by men warning against travel-the passengers who had run the security gauntlet, and were now sauntering up the gangways, seemed happy and at ease. Why should the war interfere with their travel plans? Wars were, after all, the enterprise of armies-soldiers took the battlefields, while politicians negotiated, and civilians stood on the sidelines.
I was aware, however, that the passengers boarding the Big Lucy were at least as naive in the ways of politics as I was-or at least as I had been, prior to signing on as Edward Rumely’s journalistic spy.
The evening before, after S.S. McClure had left us alone, Rumely had informed me that I had been chosen for this job because of my pro-German sympathies. I had explained that while I considered Germany a diverse and culturally progressive modern state-and not the British-concocted caricature of the press-I had no interest in politics.
And Rumely had only smiled and said, “Well, I am content that you are, at least, aware of the preponderance of British propaganda, and the need for balance.”
I really wasn’t interested, but he was picking up the check, so I said, “That’s certainly true.”
“Are you aware of the recent scandal on the very pier from which you’ll be sailing?”
I admitted I was not, and Rumely, in some detail, told of German cargo ships that were trapped in port by British ships lying in waters outside the three-mile zone. In violation of President Wilson’s neutrality proclamation, a group had been supplying food and fuel to those British ships.
“I have credible reports,” Rumely told me, “that the Cunard line itself is involved in this criminal effort.”
“Really,” I said, and tried to put some indignation into it.
“Further reports indicate that the Cunard line is using its passenger liners to transport contraband-including ammunition, weapons and perhaps even high explosives.”
“Mr. Rumely, that would seem patently ridiculous-the Lusitania is a passenger ship, not a freighter. .”
“Exactly why Cunard hopes she will be given a free pass by German U-boats. And there are other reports that the Lucy is heavily armed-three- or possibly even six-inch guns.”
“Wouldn’t these be apparent?”
“Not if they were effectively disguised in some fashion.”