They did not see another passenger as they walked slowly towards the bow. Barely visible in the dark stood the great funnels churning out smoke into the Atlantic air. The boilermen never stopped working; the engines kept going night and day. From beyond the railings they could hear the sweeping, splashing water against the steel hull.
Soon they were passing close to the wheelhouse and the bridge which stood one level above them on what was called the boat deck. Not far ahead stood the bow mast with the crow’s nest perched halfway up. They could just discern the white cage and a flicker of a blue uniform.
‘I still can’t quite take in the magnificence of this ship,’ Frieda said as they reached the forward railing and looked out to the dark vista, a wall of blackness in which the precise line of the horizon could only be guessed at.
‘Yes,’ Fortescue replied. ‘It is something very special indeed.’
‘Do you ever feel scared by it?’
Fortescue gave her a puzzled look and tilted his head slightly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you not feel it is rather conceited? An act that is rather presumptuous?’
‘Presumption towards whom? Neptune?’ Fortescue retorted with a grin.
But Frieda looked at him seriously. ‘I think it is arrogant of us tiny human beings to build this Leviathan.’
Fortescue was startled for a moment. He was used to miracles. He had performed some himself. But then again, he could understand what Frieda was saying. He knew that some people questioned the right of scientists such as himself to probe what they considered ‘God’s domain’, but he could not now talk of such things — it was hardly the preserve of a barrister.
‘What an extraordinary notion!’ he said. ‘Are you sure it should be referred to as a Leviathan, Fräulein Schiel? That would imply the Titanic is a monster. I see it as entirely benign, our servant; a beast of burden perhaps, but a truly magnificent one.’
‘Possibly’ Frieda replied and shivered.
‘You’re cold.’
‘It’s nothing. Manchester may be cold, but Switzerland is colder.’ They both laughed.
‘So, when you arrive in New York you still have a very long journey ahead of you,’ Fortescue said.
A week by train to the west coast.’
‘Even so, I envy you.’
She turned and surveyed his face with her brown eyes. ‘I don’t think for a moment that it will be easy. Being a star in Switzerland is one thing but, well, I was a big fish in a very small pond. The film studios in Hollywood make many films, but there are also many starlets and hopefuls. I’ve been told that the vast majority of aspiring actresses end up waiting tables. But my brother and I will try our best.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Fortescue commented. ‘And now I think we ought to get you inside before you freeze to death.’
They walked back at a faster pace. Fortescue was chilled to the bone. They dived inside at the first opportunity and followed a wide corridor down to the landing around the forward Grand Staircase. From there they descended one flight to B-Deck and stopped at the foot of the stairs.
‘Well, thank you,’ Frieda said.
‘For what?’
‘For saving me when I almost injured myself earlier, Mr Wickins.’ Then she produced a faintly mischievous smile.
And thank you for an enchanting evening,’ Fortescue replied. He shook Frieda’s hand and watched as she turned towards the corridor leading away to her cabin.
23
Fortescue opened his eyes to see a beam of bright white light coming through the porthole, dust motes floating in their thousands. He felt a sharp stab of a headache and remembered how much he had drunk with Frieda and her brother, then turned over and went back to sleep.
By afternoon, he felt a little better and ordered room service — a fulsome meal of egg, sausage, bacon and pints of strong coffee which served to sweep away the last vestiges of his hangover and tiredness, allowing his mind to wander where it should: into the realms of theory and mathematical abstraction. So, at his desk alone with coffee and brandy as well as a pair of fine cigars, he pushed forward his thinking on the new atomic theory he had begun in Manchester.
He knew he had to note down everything, write out everything and keep meticulous records of his reasoning because he planned to have them couriered to Rutherford as soon as Titanic docked in New York. Out here in the middle of the Atlantic he felt cut off from his usual academic network, but also sure of himself and aware that what he was developing was beautiful and true. Even so, it would be good to have a second pair of eyes, afresh mind such as Ernest Rutherford’s, to offer a different perspective. He always valued the older man’s opinions and contributions. With this work there could be no room for error — the fate of nations depended upon it.
RMS Titanic had been at sea for two and a half days. They were now over 1,200 miles west of Queenstown and, according to the daily bulletins posted on the First Class promenade, averaging an impressive twenty-one knots. So far, everything had been smooth sailing: the weather superb, the giant ship domed by clear blue sky and surrounded by calm ocean.
Fortescue checked his watch. It was 6.05 p.m., an hour before dinner. He made a snap decision, called up the butler in charge of his corridor, ordered dinner in his room, pulled on his overcoat and walked towards the promenade.
He could not get the equations out of his mind. At his desk he had been concentrating on the page of notation in front of him so long the figures had started to distort. He had reached a dead end in his thinking.
Out on the promenade the mathematics would not fade away; the numbers kept tumbling through his mind. He sat down on a bench, his back against cold metal. There was a porthole a few feet away and he could hear music spilling from the room behind it. He guessed he was outside one of the First Class drawing rooms and then remembered there was a Mozart quartet booked to play between six and seven o’clock. He recognized the piece: the Allegretto from ‘Klavierkonzerte No. 25’.
He pulled out a pencil from the top pocket of his coat and began to search for a piece of paper. Checking his jacket and finding nothing, he rummaged through his trouser pockets and in his back pocket was a folded page from the desk drawer in his cabin. Leaning forward, paper on knee, he licked the tip of the pencil and began to scribble.
Instantly the outside world dissolved. He could no longer hear the waves lapping against the hull of the ship. The almost subliminal throb of the engines was stilled. He wrote a single line, then stopped, the pencil poised over the paper. Another line came, followed by a third. He started to feel the familiar buzz of expectation, a thrill running along his spine as he jotted down a fourth line, a fifth, and the equations began to intermesh. ‘Yes,’ he said under his breath. ‘Yes…’