‘I’ve got it,’ he said tersely as he reached them. ‘No more delays, come.’
The lifeboat deck was chaotic, seething with hordes of passengers in livid-yellow life jackets trying to find salvation. Those who had been put in cabins had been allocated numbered seats on the boats. But all those who had been billeted in the public areas – many hundreds of people – had none. The crew were bawling orders through loudhailers, telling those who had no numbers to make for the crew lifeboats in the stern of the ship. But some were clambering into lifeboats not meant for them, and others were being pushed aside in the crush; and some, still under the impression that this was a drill, were asking whether they could go back to their cabins, now. But it was not a drill.
Bleary-eyed children clutching dogs and cats trotted in the wake of fathers clutching babies. Mothers with little ones hanging on their skirts hunted frantically for their boats. They passed an elderly man being hauled out of his wheelchair and dumped unceremoniously into a boat.
Alternately pulling and pushing the girls along, Thomas forged a path through the mob. ‘Thomas, where are you taking us?’ Rachel shouted.
‘Your boat is number sixteen. It’s the very last one at the rear of the ship, on this side.’
‘How do you know that?’ she demanded.
He didn’t waste his breath replying. Reaching their lifeboat, he gave their names to the rating stationed there, and then helped them climb aboard.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Masha called from her seat.
He shook his head. ‘I’m going to get Monsieur Stravinsky.’
‘Thomas, no. Come back!’
But he was already gone.
Cubby Hubbard, bundled into his life preserver, was running from lifeboat to lifeboat, hunting for Rosemary. She was nowhere to be seen. But at last he caught sight of Mrs Kennedy, sitting in one of the boats with Teddy and Patricia. He hauled himself into the boat and clambered over the cursing passengers.
‘Where’s Rosemary?’ he demanded.
Mrs Kennedy, who seemed dazed by events, turned to face him. ‘Rosemary?’ she repeated, as though hearing the name for the first time.
‘Yes, Rosemary. Where is she? I don’t see her anywhere!’
Her eyes focused on Cubby, recognising him. Her expression hardened. ‘Rosemary’s not on the ship, you poor fool.’
‘What?’
‘I sent her back to her father. Do you really think I would leave her to your tender mercies?’
He stared at her blankly, thunderstruck. A rating laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘This isn’t your lifeboat, son. You have to get out of the way.’
Stunned, Cubby allowed himself to be led away. Mrs Kennedy’s eyes followed him. She put her arms around her children and held them tight. For all her care, for all her ceaseless struggle to strengthen and protect them, they were about to be set adrift on the wide, rough sea of the world, there to sink or swim as God and the fates decided.
U-113
‘They’re manning the lifeboats,’ Hufnagel reported, watching through his night-glasses.
‘Ten minutes are almost up,’ Todt replied, hunched over the bridge aiming column beside him.
‘They need more time.’
‘Are any lifeboats in the water?’
‘Not yet.’
‘A torpedo in their guts will hurry them up. I am ready to launch.’ His hand was on the torpedo launch lever.
‘Wait.’ Hufnagel moved forward, focusing his glasses and cursing the condensation in them. ‘I can see her funnels.’ His voice changed. ‘They’re red, white and blue.’
‘The British colours,’ Todt said impatiently.
‘Also the American ones. Duchess of Atholl’s funnels are yellow and black.’
‘For God’s sake, man. We can establish her identity from the survivors.’
‘She keeps signalling that she’s an American ship.’
‘Of course – to save herself.’
‘There’s also something painted on her sides. You’d better take a look.’
Todt tore himself away from the aiming column with a curse. ‘You are wasting precious minutes, Hufnagel.’ He snatched the binoculars from his first officer and held them to his eyes.
‘You see?’ Hufnagel prompted.
After a moment, Todt thrust the binoculars back at Hufnagel. ‘She is the Duchess of Atholl,’ he said curtly. ‘Prepare to fire.’
SS Manhattan
Thomas König had fought his way back to the cabin and had found Stravinsky sitting on his bunk in a clouded state, staring at his unlaced shoes. As he’d done on the very first morning, he now knelt at the composer’s feet and fastened the laces tightly.
‘What is happening, Thomas?’ Stravinsky dully asked the top of Thomas’s head.
‘They say it’s a German submarine. It’s going to torpedo us.’
‘But this is an American vessel.’
Thomas grimaced. ‘That will make little difference to them.’ He spoke from hard experience of Nazi measures. ‘They already see America as an enemy.’ Having laced Stravinsky’s shoes, he helped the older man to stand, and tried to fit the life jacket over his head.
Stravinsky pushed him away. ‘I don’t want that thing.’
‘You have to wear it,’ Thomas said briskly. ‘It will keep you afloat if you end up in the water.’
‘I don’t care to remain afloat,’ Stravinsky said petulantly. ‘I prefer to go down with the ship.’
‘We have to get to our lifeboat quickly. There isn’t any time.’
‘Let someone else have my place on the lifeboat. I’m staying here.’
Thomas stared at him for a moment. ‘Don’t be a stupid old fool.’
Had it been shouted as an insult, it might have angered Stravinsky, and determined him to remain in his cabin; but the matter-of-fact way it was spoken was somehow calming. Silently, he allowed the boy to pull the bulky yellow thing over his head and tie the straps in a secure knot.
Thomas took Stravinsky’s hand. ‘Hold tight. We have to hurry.’
He pulled Stravinsky out of the cabin and along the passageway. Almost all the passengers were on the open decks or in the boats now. Stravinsky was tired, and the ascent from the ship’s underworld was steep. His feet occasionally stumbled on the metal stairs. But the boy pulled him upright each time, and at last they reached the top deck.
The scene was to Stravinsky’s eyes like the Last Judgment. He stared, open-mouthed. Two thousand passengers had come up from below. In the harsh deck lights, the life preservers they wore gleamed like folded golden wings about to open and take flight. The figures had already all but filled the boats, and yet hundreds more queued at each one. Overhead, the sky arched pitch black.
Thomas did not allow him to pause. He dragged Stravinsky towards the senior steward, Mr Nightingale, who was directing passengers to their boat stations with a list in his hands.
‘It’s Monsieur Stravinsky,’ Thomas shouted. ‘He’s in boat twelve, but there are too many passengers trying to get on.’
‘We can’t leave Monsieur Stravinsky behind,’ Mr Nightingale said cheerfully. ‘The ballet-lovers of the world would be very annoyed with us.’
Deftly, he got the milling queue of passengers to make way, and ushered Stravinsky on to the lifeboat.
U-113
Todt had the cross hairs of the master sight set amidships on the target. The red lights on the calculator were glowing, indicating that the machine was making its final calculations. There was a breathless silence in the control room, broken only by the voices of the captain and the torpedo aimer.