The third deputation to the Commodore was much smaller, but promised to be more effective. It came in the shape of Mrs Joseph P. Kennedy, holding her youngest son, Teddy, by the hand. They arrived on the bridge shortly after lunch. She was wearing a pale-green twin-set and pearls, both of which set off her eyes, which seemed to have taken on a softer hue in the Irish sea. The boy, in an obvious compliment to Randall, was wearing a sailor top in navy blue and white, complete with a square collar knotted under his chin.
‘Might I have a word, Commodore?’ she asked.
Groaning inwardly, Randall forced himself to smile. ‘Of course, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘It’s about our unfortunate fellow Americans who are stranded here in Cobh. I hope you don’t think me too forward, but their plight touched me deeply, and I took the liberty of calling my husband in London.’
‘I see.’
‘He replied, of course, that this is a matter entirely for you to decide.’
‘Quite so.’
She gave him a charming smile. ‘But he has asked me to beg you, dear Commodore, to do everything you possibly can to help these poor folk. They are truly in a sad plight.’
Randall spread his large paws. ‘But Mrs Kennedy, you know how overcrowded the Manhattan already is. And I’m sure you know what happened on the Iroquois.’
‘The Iroquois was an old tub. The Manhattan is an awfully big ship.’
‘The size of the ship has no bearing on the number of passengers it can conveniently carry. Manhattan was designed to offer a luxurious experience. She is not equipped as a troopship might be. Almost every possible space has been used. Extra cots have been put in all the cabins and staterooms. People are sleeping in the public areas. It’s already taking many hours each day to feed them all. How can I take more? We’re crossing the Atlantic. Three thousand nautical miles!’
‘I do remember a little geography,’ she smiled.
‘We’re risking serious problems of food, water, ventilation, hygiene, comfort, movement around the ship, fresh air, risk of infection—’
‘But isn’t the distress they face on shore even greater than any discomfort they may face on board?’
Commodore Randall, baffled by Mrs Kennedy, noticed that her young son was staring around the bridge. ‘Would you like to drive the ship, sonny?’ he suggested amiably, indicating the control room, where the gleaming brass telegraph signals stood like golden sentries.
‘The ship isn’t going anywhere,’ Teddy pointed out with cold logic. ‘It’s stopped.’
‘Well, you could pretend.’
Teddy frowned. ‘What for?’ he asked.
‘Wouldn’t you be able to stretch the limits just a little,’ Mrs Kennedy wheedled. ‘Just to, let’s say two hundred? My husband would take it as personal favour.’ She laid her fingers on the heavy gold bar on his sleeve, looking up at him. The beauty of her youth had faded somewhat, but she could still be very appealing. And she was the wife of the influential Joseph P. Kennedy. ‘As for myself, I could ask you no greater favour – Rescue Randall.’
Commodore Randall produced a groan somewhat like a harpooned walrus. ‘Oh, very well, Mrs Kennedy. To please you – nobody else, mind – I will take two hundred.’
She beamed and blew him a kiss. ‘I’ll see you get a medal for this.’
‘Indeed.’
‘We’re all in your hands, you know, Commodore. You are our guardian angel.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he sighed, ‘I know that.’
Leaving the bridge victorious, Mrs Kennedy suggested to young Teddy that he get some exercise and warm his cold legs by seeing how fast he could run three times around the great forward derrick. Although this did not seem a very appealing prospect, he knew better than to defy his mother, and he set off at a reluctant jog.
In his absence, Mrs Kennedy unfolded the letter which Mr Nightingale had given her. She read it through again. It was from Cubby Hubbard to Rosemary, and it was a thoroughly contemptible document, with its protestations of love couched in the most clichéd forms (the boy was steeped in the language of popular music) and its bold invitations to his ‘honey’ to ‘give everybody the slip’ and rendezvous in New York. In the hands of an attorney, this would be enough evidence to ensure a conviction on the grounds of criminal seduction, particularly as there was clear evidence, from certain passages in the letter, that sexual intercourse had already taken place. And that further sexual intercourse was envisaged. She uttered an exclamation of disgust.
Going to law, however, was no longer needed. Joe, in his clever way, had solved the problem. Joe always solved the problem. He could be relied on for that.
She tore the letter carefully into small pieces, walked to the rail, and scattered them into the sea.
Two hundred extra voyagers had somehow been squeezed aboard the Manhattan. That brought her passenger compliment up to almost nineteen hundred. Together with the crew and the extra help they’d taken on, the ship was carrying well over twenty-three hundred souls. She was overloaded and she felt overloaded.
Commodore Randall had not involved himself in the decisions as to who would sail and who would stay, but he understood that there had been acrimonious arguments on the subject. Nor was he surprised that the Reverend Ezekiel Perkins had made sure that he was one of the saved, rather than staying to shepherd his remaining flock in Cobh – and was, in fact, one of the first on board, where he soon struck up a close alliance with Dr Emmett Meese of New York.
The ship had been re-provisioned, and the overworked kitchens had welcomed a score of new cooks, which promised to speed up mealtimes as they crossed the wide Atlantic.
Following the example of his old friend Captain Chelton, Randall had the baggage of the new arrivals examined thoroughly, and conducted a careful search of the entire ship, including the trunk hold, for anything suspicious. He was feeling uncharacteristically nervous about his last crossing. But when the searches were complete, and Manhattan found innocent of explosive devices, there was no reason to postpone sailing any longer.
To guard against any unpleasant last-minute incidents, he cancelled permission for any of the passengers or crew to go ashore, and had the pursers make sure that all visitors were ushered off the ship by noon.
The next morning, Manhattan left Cork Harbour, accompanied by all the good wishes of the ships around her. By evening, the wild cliffs of Ireland were fading dim and violet behind her, and she turned her bows to the cold Atlantic.
The Western Approaches
It was U-113’s youngest crewmember, a hydrophone operator, who first picked up the sound of a four-screw ship. He sent for the First Watch Officer.
‘A destroyer?’ Hufnagel asked, holding the earphone to his ear.
The operator shook his head. ‘She’s still too far away to tell. Around twenty miles. We need to submerge and stop engines to be sure.’
‘Very well.’
Hufnagel went to Todt’s cabin with the request. Todt got out of his bunk and gave the order. U-113 submerged to twenty meters and turned off all her engines. Hanging motionless in the dark sea, the U-boat’s crew were silent while the hydrophone and radio operators listened to the swishing in their headphones and made careful calculations.
After fifteen minutes, they had an answer. ‘It’s not a warship. We think it’s either a tanker or a liner.’
Furthermore, they had triangulated the position and bearing of the other vessel as lying almost directly on the U-boat’s track. Four screws meant a large vessel, at least fifteen thousand tons. The atmosphere on board changed. Emerging from his sulk, Kapitän-leutnant Todt ordered the torpedomen out of the engine room and into their natural habitat, to check over the monsters and ensure that this time there were to be no errors.