Cries from the Deep
Created | Updated Aug 23, 2005
Wilson Maxwell was not a great sailor, the slightest motion of the ship left him the feeling of having had his stomach transplanted.
The stars shone in the clear night sky, the moon reflected in the still ocean, the Atlantic that night looked like a millpond, how calm everything was tonight. This did not do anything for his feelings of nausea though. He was en route from Southampton to New York for the press release of his latest book ‘A Stitch in Time.’ Wilson Maxwell was a writer of crime fiction and he was one of the best in his field.
His publisher thought him a great asset to the company, was that why they had paid for him to travel to New York in the luxury of the Queen Mary II at great expense, or was it because he was late handing in the first draft of his next masterpiece? Had he been isolated on a ship for two and a half weeks to finish his works? If that was the case then the deep thinking ones at Hargreaves Press House would be disappointed, he couldn’t concentrate on a ship, his laptop would remain unopened for the rest of the journey. Thankfully he was flying back to England.
Wilson stood on the forward observation deck, this privilege was reserved for first class passengers only, he really should be grateful to be here, it was just ships, he didn’t like them.
As he stared into the inky blackness of the night he tried to distinguish where the line of the horizon was, but it was just black on black. Then out of the corner of his eye a flash of light caught his attention. A bright streak of white light shot across the sky, a shooting star? It must have been. He waited a few more moments to see if he could see any more. He patients were rewarded, he did see another, but it wasn’t a shooting star as he had first thought. The ribbon of light came up from behind the horizon only to turn back on itself and fall back into the blackness again.
So, he had found the line of the horizon. His mind started to think about the display of pyrotechnics showing itself from the over the horizon, maybe it was a birthday celebration or a wedding party. As he turn to return to his cabin he wondered if the party revellers were enjoying themselves then he was on this magnificent liner, the answer he thought must be yes.
It was now three o’clock in the morning and quite cold even though it was the middle of summer. One of the many night shift stewards passed him as he left the observation deck.
“Good evening Sir.” The steward said in a cheerful voice. Far too cheerful for Wilson at that time of night.
“Evening, did you see the fireworks over there a minute ago?” he asked the crewmember. . Maybe it was his lack of sleep, but now he was doubting whether he himself has seen them.
“I didn’t Sir no.” a grave tone had now suddenly entered his voice, “What did these fireworks look like Sir?”
“Well, I don’t know really, just rockets really.”
“Would you come with me for moment Sir?”
Wilson was curious, what had he said to cause such a reaction? The steward led him through a door marked private. The corridor now entered was not designed in the palatial style, as were the public areas of the ship.
Quickly they walked along the corridor before coming to another door. Passing through it both men climbed up the flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a door marked, ‘Strictly No Access’. The steward opened it and ushered Wilson through.
He could not believe his eyes. He was standing on the bridge of one of the biggest liners in the world.
The night watch all turned their collective faces to see who the new comer was. It wasn’t uncommon for the Captain or first mate to make an appearance in the early hours to see how the ship was operating.
Wilson suddenly realised the man he thought was a steward was actually an officer, a point confirmed by the bridge crew standing to attention on their arrival.
“This gentleman had reported seeing flares of the port bow, Mr Parker, check the radar, Mr Fossley check all communication channels, someone inform the Captain.”
The bridge crew came alive, each man a professional in his own field. The radio operator had donned a set of headphones and was sweeping the airwave on his brand new digital radio, the radar operator scanned the sea area for any sign of other craft.
“Captain Chambers,” said one of the voices on the bridge, “Your presence is required urgently on the bridge Sir.”
The radar operator removed his headphones, “Mr Smith,” he was addressing Wilson companion, “All I am getting is an old fashion SOS repeating, no voice contact as yet.”
Smith gave him an order, “Reply to it, in voice and Morse, Tell them we are on our way with assistance.” As he spoke Mr Fossley sent his message as instructed, Smith turned his attention to the radar operator, “Mr Parker, do we have a position?”
“Not as yet Sir, nothing is showing on the screen.”
“Lets hope to God we’re not too late.”
Outside in the cold night air another flare lit up the sky.
If there was a ship in peril here in the middle of the Atlantic it was a thousand to one chance that another craft would be close enough to give assistance, tonight though was one of those occasions. The Queen Mary II steamed toward the explosions of light, a cry for help in the darkness.
The door opened onto the bridge, framed within it stood Captain Chambers, a large framed bearded man, his uniform immaculate, not a crease to be seen in any part of the white fabric. “What is the problem Mr Smith?”
His voice was full of authority, the entire bridge crew stood to attention on hearing his distinctive voice.
Smith explained to the Captain the events of the previous fifteen minutes.
“Have we had any voice contact?” asked Chambers.
“No Sir, just an SOS.”
“Do we have a fix on the position?”
“Er no Sir.” Smith sounded somewhat embarrassed by his lack of information. “We cannot find a trace on the radar Sir. The only point of reference we have are the flares.”
“And you sir,” the Captain said turning toward Wilson. “You saw the flares?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do I know you?” the Captain asked staring at him. He has seen his face before, but where from?
“Wilson Maxwell Sir, I…”
“Of course, my wife’s favourite author. You must have dinner with us tonight.”
“Thank you, I’d be honoured.”
“Now back to the business in hand. Mr Smith, what’s the current situation?”
Smith was bent over the radar and satellite tracking machines. He and the operator were deep in conversation, “I don’t understand it Sir, we should be almost on top of it by now.”
The sky outside was now beginning to lighten now. The clouds were deep shades of red and orange, the first mate took a pair of binoculars off of a hook and scanned the ocean. Nothing was in sight.
“You won’t see anything.” Captain Chambers said in a melancholy tone, we’re too late, eighty years too late.” He turned to leave. As he opened the door he spoke for the last time, “Don’t forget dinner tonight Mr Maxwell.” With that the door closed and he was gone.
A sombre mood had fallen on the occupants of the bridge, no one mentioned the Captains strange comment.
“Resume course for New York.” Smith ordered. Without a word the wheel man turn the small wheel and the ship continued on its way.
Two days later the Queen Mary II arrived in New York dock. The decks and quayside were full of cheering crowds. Wilson was one of the first off the ship, he was desperate to get back onto terra firma.
After checking into the Drake Hotel he took a trip to the offices of the New York Times and requested to look at the archive section.
He had not been able to take to the Captain the previous night at dinner, he was placed on the other side of the table sitting next to the Captains wife. He was desperate to find out what the Captain had referring to as he left the bridge early that morning.
He now sat behind a microfilm reader and sorted through a box full of reels of film. He found the year he was looking for and loaded the machine. The film flashed past his eyes on the screen, it took only a matter of minutes to find the edition of The Times published on the 23 July 1925, almost eighty years ago to the day.
A chill came over him as he looked at a picture of a ship and read the headline above…
‘ALL HANDS LOST AS SS GLORIA SINKS’
The stars shone in the clear night sky, the moon reflected in the still ocean, the Atlantic that night looked like a millpond, how calm everything was tonight. This did not do anything for his feelings of nausea though. He was en route from Southampton to New York for the press release of his latest book ‘A Stitch in Time.’ Wilson Maxwell was a writer of crime fiction and he was one of the best in his field.
His publisher thought him a great asset to the company, was that why they had paid for him to travel to New York in the luxury of the Queen Mary II at great expense, or was it because he was late handing in the first draft of his next masterpiece? Had he been isolated on a ship for two and a half weeks to finish his works? If that was the case then the deep thinking ones at Hargreaves Press House would be disappointed, he couldn’t concentrate on a ship, his laptop would remain unopened for the rest of the journey. Thankfully he was flying back to England.
Wilson stood on the forward observation deck, this privilege was reserved for first class passengers only, he really should be grateful to be here, it was just ships, he didn’t like them.
As he stared into the inky blackness of the night he tried to distinguish where the line of the horizon was, but it was just black on black. Then out of the corner of his eye a flash of light caught his attention. A bright streak of white light shot across the sky, a shooting star? It must have been. He waited a few more moments to see if he could see any more. He patients were rewarded, he did see another, but it wasn’t a shooting star as he had first thought. The ribbon of light came up from behind the horizon only to turn back on itself and fall back into the blackness again.
So, he had found the line of the horizon. His mind started to think about the display of pyrotechnics showing itself from the over the horizon, maybe it was a birthday celebration or a wedding party. As he turn to return to his cabin he wondered if the party revellers were enjoying themselves then he was on this magnificent liner, the answer he thought must be yes.
It was now three o’clock in the morning and quite cold even though it was the middle of summer. One of the many night shift stewards passed him as he left the observation deck.
“Good evening Sir.” The steward said in a cheerful voice. Far too cheerful for Wilson at that time of night.
“Evening, did you see the fireworks over there a minute ago?” he asked the crewmember. . Maybe it was his lack of sleep, but now he was doubting whether he himself has seen them.
“I didn’t Sir no.” a grave tone had now suddenly entered his voice, “What did these fireworks look like Sir?”
“Well, I don’t know really, just rockets really.”
“Would you come with me for moment Sir?”
Wilson was curious, what had he said to cause such a reaction? The steward led him through a door marked private. The corridor now entered was not designed in the palatial style, as were the public areas of the ship.
Quickly they walked along the corridor before coming to another door. Passing through it both men climbed up the flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a door marked, ‘Strictly No Access’. The steward opened it and ushered Wilson through.
He could not believe his eyes. He was standing on the bridge of one of the biggest liners in the world.
The night watch all turned their collective faces to see who the new comer was. It wasn’t uncommon for the Captain or first mate to make an appearance in the early hours to see how the ship was operating.
Wilson suddenly realised the man he thought was a steward was actually an officer, a point confirmed by the bridge crew standing to attention on their arrival.
“This gentleman had reported seeing flares of the port bow, Mr Parker, check the radar, Mr Fossley check all communication channels, someone inform the Captain.”
The bridge crew came alive, each man a professional in his own field. The radio operator had donned a set of headphones and was sweeping the airwave on his brand new digital radio, the radar operator scanned the sea area for any sign of other craft.
“Captain Chambers,” said one of the voices on the bridge, “Your presence is required urgently on the bridge Sir.”
The radar operator removed his headphones, “Mr Smith,” he was addressing Wilson companion, “All I am getting is an old fashion SOS repeating, no voice contact as yet.”
Smith gave him an order, “Reply to it, in voice and Morse, Tell them we are on our way with assistance.” As he spoke Mr Fossley sent his message as instructed, Smith turned his attention to the radar operator, “Mr Parker, do we have a position?”
“Not as yet Sir, nothing is showing on the screen.”
“Lets hope to God we’re not too late.”
Outside in the cold night air another flare lit up the sky.
If there was a ship in peril here in the middle of the Atlantic it was a thousand to one chance that another craft would be close enough to give assistance, tonight though was one of those occasions. The Queen Mary II steamed toward the explosions of light, a cry for help in the darkness.
The door opened onto the bridge, framed within it stood Captain Chambers, a large framed bearded man, his uniform immaculate, not a crease to be seen in any part of the white fabric. “What is the problem Mr Smith?”
His voice was full of authority, the entire bridge crew stood to attention on hearing his distinctive voice.
Smith explained to the Captain the events of the previous fifteen minutes.
“Have we had any voice contact?” asked Chambers.
“No Sir, just an SOS.”
“Do we have a fix on the position?”
“Er no Sir.” Smith sounded somewhat embarrassed by his lack of information. “We cannot find a trace on the radar Sir. The only point of reference we have are the flares.”
“And you sir,” the Captain said turning toward Wilson. “You saw the flares?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do I know you?” the Captain asked staring at him. He has seen his face before, but where from?
“Wilson Maxwell Sir, I…”
“Of course, my wife’s favourite author. You must have dinner with us tonight.”
“Thank you, I’d be honoured.”
“Now back to the business in hand. Mr Smith, what’s the current situation?”
Smith was bent over the radar and satellite tracking machines. He and the operator were deep in conversation, “I don’t understand it Sir, we should be almost on top of it by now.”
The sky outside was now beginning to lighten now. The clouds were deep shades of red and orange, the first mate took a pair of binoculars off of a hook and scanned the ocean. Nothing was in sight.
“You won’t see anything.” Captain Chambers said in a melancholy tone, we’re too late, eighty years too late.” He turned to leave. As he opened the door he spoke for the last time, “Don’t forget dinner tonight Mr Maxwell.” With that the door closed and he was gone.
A sombre mood had fallen on the occupants of the bridge, no one mentioned the Captains strange comment.
“Resume course for New York.” Smith ordered. Without a word the wheel man turn the small wheel and the ship continued on its way.
Two days later the Queen Mary II arrived in New York dock. The decks and quayside were full of cheering crowds. Wilson was one of the first off the ship, he was desperate to get back onto terra firma.
After checking into the Drake Hotel he took a trip to the offices of the New York Times and requested to look at the archive section.
He had not been able to take to the Captain the previous night at dinner, he was placed on the other side of the table sitting next to the Captains wife. He was desperate to find out what the Captain had referring to as he left the bridge early that morning.
He now sat behind a microfilm reader and sorted through a box full of reels of film. He found the year he was looking for and loaded the machine. The film flashed past his eyes on the screen, it took only a matter of minutes to find the edition of The Times published on the 23 July 1925, almost eighty years ago to the day.
A chill came over him as he looked at a picture of a ship and read the headline above…
‘ALL HANDS LOST AS SS GLORIA SINKS’
