Titanic 2012 Part 6

I found the Captain and his first officer standing on the starboard bridge wing, conferring. I was struck by his remarkable resemblance to Captain E. J. Smith: the regal bearing, the snow-white beard. I'm sure this was deliberate, that Harlan had chosen the man both for the resemblance and presumably for his seamans.h.i.+p. I was more than a little curious about where and how he'd come to t.i.tanic.

The tone of their conversation changed when they noticed me standing a few feet from them. The Captain said something to his first officer, who nodded and moved off. He then turned to me.

"May I help you, sir?" the Captain asked. His tone was affable, if a little remote.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Captain, but once we got underway, I couldn't resist coming up here. I hope it's all right."

His face creased in a warm paternal smile. "Of course. She's a beautiful s.h.i.+p. She should be explored."

"How fast are we going, by the way?"

He turned his weathered face to the wind, blue eyes squinting into the sun. "About eighteen knots. Would you like to see the wheelhouse?"

"Try and stop me," I replied.

The sense of deja vu overwhelmed me again when we entered the wheelhouse. I'd seen it so many times in the film and in old black and white photos I could picture it in my sleep: the main telemotor and the auxiliary wheel, the commutator, and the intercom system, so primitive, yet so elegant. The Captain watched me examining every artifact, then turned to the crewman behind the wheel. "Mr. Harper, let our guest take the wheel."

I suddenly felt like a kid again, like the time my grandfather had arranged for me to drive a train in the yard where he once worked.

This, however, was far different. I grasped the wheel in my hands and watched the ocean through the bank of windows fronting the wheelhouse.

I was on top of the world.

"You're that writer friend of Mr. Astor's, aren't you?" the Captain asked.

"Yes, though sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't get a real job."

The Captain nodded, staring out the window a moment, my humor lost on him. I could tell something was on his mind, something that bothered him. "Is anything wrong, Captain," I asked.

He turned back to me. "I was wondering," he said, hesitating a moment, "if you'd like to hear an old man's story?"

I smiled. My first interviewee had found me.

Returning the wheel to the crewman he'd called Harper, I pulled out my iPod touch and placed it on a nearby ledge. "Do you mind if I use this?" I asked.

"Not at all."

I said a silent prayer, hoping the miniaturized wireless camera hidden in the frame of my gla.s.ses would work. "Just state your name for the record," I said.

He nodded, and I reached over and pressed "record."

5.

Interview with Captain Earl Pierce Location: Wheelhouse Captain Pierce hesitated a moment, his eyes darting from the iPod touch back to me. "Is it on?" he asked.

I sensed it might be intimidating him and reached for it. "Yes, but if you're uncomfortable-"

"No, no, leave it on. It just reminded me of my old life for a moment. What should I say?"

"Anything you want. Your name, age, that sort of thing."

The Captain nodded, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

"...My name is Earl Garrett Pierce, I'm sixty-two years old, and I remember as clear as a bell the day my life started going downhill....

"I was an advertising executive at one of the top agencies in New York, started in the mail room when I was twenty-five. G.o.d, it was exciting back then. All the old taboos were fading, people were willing to take chances, and I loved every minute of it. I got my break through a fluke. I'd been working on house accounts at home in my spare time, coming up with dummy campaigns. I was waiting for my big chance, never realizing it was about to ambush me." Pierce chuckled. "You see, somehow one of those dummy campaigns I'd brought into work got mixed up with the mail. I've often suspected my cohort in the mailroom of taking matters into his own hands. To make a long story short, it ended up on the desk of one of the partners, who read it and called me in. I thought my career was over." Captain Pierce smiled wistfully.

"He liked it, didn't he?" I prompted.

"He loved it, thought it was the freshest idea he'd seen in ages."

"What happened next?"

Pierce looked out over the ocean, then turned back to face me. "I was promoted to Junior Account executive and given the account, over the objections of the Senior Account Supervisor. She was one of those ball-buster types, had clawed her way up, and resented a young college boy upstart waltzing in and dazzling the boss. She did everything she could to sabotage me. Christ, she even had the nerve to go to my clients behind my back and accuse me of stealing my colleagues' ideas. But my patron saw through it, and gave her an ultimatum: fly straight, or she was out. She tried to get along with me, but she knew it was all over for her. She was gone within a year. By that time, I'd proven my mettle, as my boss liked to call it, by not only increasing the sales of the accounts I'd handled, but by bringing in new ones, as well.

"Those first years saw phenomenal growth and I grew with it, helping to branch the agency out into different arenas."

He paused a moment and I took the opportunity to gently nudge him back on course. "You said you remembered the day your life started going downhill. What did you mean by that?"

Pierce sighed, took off the dark-navy-blue cap with its bullion embroidered White Star Line c.o.c.kade, and wiped his brow with a folded handkerchief. "It all began in 2003. I'd been with the agency for almost thirty years, was a full partner and pulled down a salary of over a million and a half annually. And suddenly...I didn't want to do it anymore. I began spending more and more time sailing my forty-foot ketch. Sailing was my saving grace, you see. Spent all my spare time on that boat, and it kept me from succ.u.mbing to the madness the business had become. Creativity was dead. All they wanted was to follow someone else's trend, rather than set them. My wife, Bette, finally made me see the light and I cashed out.

"Being a partner has its advantages, the main one being stock in the company. We might not have been half the company we used to be, but we were worth ten times as much as when I started. With my share in-hand, Bette and I took our boat around the world. The trouble began when we got back...."

Pierce fell silent, and I resisted the urge to prompt him again, sensing he needed the moment to gather himself.

"Bette had cancer, you see, had known for months. It was something the doctors told her was inoperable, nothing they could do. I was livid that she'd kept it from me. Felt betrayed. I told her, 'What good is a marriage if we don't tell each other the good and the bad?' She looked at me for the longest time, not saying anything except with those sky-blue eyes of hers, and then she said, 'Because I knew you would want to leave no stone unturned, and I couldn't bear the thought of your fighting so hard, only to lose.'"

Captain Pierce averted his face, tears welling in his eyes.

"Excuse me," he said, wiping his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"That's all right, sir. Would you like to stop?"

He shook his head.

"No, I need to tell this."

I nodded for him to continue at his own pace.

"Of course, she was right, which only made me all the more angry. And yet, I loved her for it...her courage.... She died six months later, quietly and with little pain. I thanked G.o.d for that much, at least. And when I came home from the funeral, I suddenly realized I no longer knew how to be alone. I went to bars and struck up conversations with whomever sat next to me. At first these people were charmed, and then they began to avoid me. I suppose I was lousy company in the long run. Soon, I stopped using the loneliness as an excuse and drank in earnest. The house began to deteriorate, my boat sat in its slip rotting...."

"How did you-"

"-end up here?" Pierce said, antic.i.p.ating my question. "After five years of steady drinking, I'd nearly hit bottom. Most of my friends, who weren't too numerous to begin with after Bette's death, deserted me. I was a very sloppy drunk, you see, couldn't keep from telling the truth about people, pointing out their faults." Pierce laughed without a trace of humor. "As if I were without sin.

"The crisis point came one night in August last year. I'd been on a bender for five days straight, ran out of booze and tore my house apart, screaming at the top of my lungs. I finally pa.s.sed out, at least that's what they told me at the hospital, where I woke up shaking from the DTs and without a clear thought in my head, except that I wanted a drink.

"It didn't even register when the doctor, a young fellow who reminded me of myself, told me my liver was shot and I was too old to be worth the expense of a transplant. He told me in no uncertain terms I was living on borrowed time and any more alcohol and I'd be dead. I looked into his mercenary eyes and asked him for a tall gla.s.s of 190 proof grain alcohol, the kind they keep under lock and key. 'That ought to do it,' I told him.

"He looked nonplused, to say the least, mumbled something about rehab and left me alone. It was then I received my little epiphany. The man in the bed next to mine told me about Harlan Astor and the t.i.tanic. I thought he must be worse off than me, that he must be raving, but his eyes were clear and his hand on my arm was steady and firm. I asked him, "How come I've never heard about this before?' and he smiled, 'Because Mr. Astor wants only special people to know and has the money to make sure people keep quiet.'

"Well, I didn't think I was so special, and I told him so. He just laughed and then reached into his bedside table, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. All it had was a telephone number and the phrase: For the voyage of your dreams printed on it. I still thought it was d.a.m.n strange, stranger still because they had a rerun of t.i.tanic on TV that night.

"Bette and I always loved that film. I guess, maybe because we saw a little of ourselves in those two lovers. After it was over, I fell asleep, and when I woke up the next morning, my roommate was gone. I never found out who he was."

"Is he on the s.h.i.+p?" I asked.

Pierce shook his head. "No, not that I've been able to ascertain. But after I dried out, I called the number on the business card and an hour later was picked up at the hospital door by a large black limousine. Inside the car was none other than Harlan Astor himself. As soon as he saw me and heard I'd been a sailor, he offered me the captaincy of t.i.tanic. To say the least, I was floored, still not quite believing my good fortune, but he flew me to Gdansk and showed me that it was indeed real, as was the offer."

"And here you are."

"And here I am."

"Forgive me, Captain, but there's something I don't quite understand." I paused and he nodded for me to continue. "How is it you were able to get licensed to captain this s.h.i.+p? A forty-foot ketch is not the t.i.tanic."

"No, it isn't," he said. "The first officer is fully-licensed. And I suppose he is the legal captain, insofar as piloting the s.h.i.+p is concerned. Even still, I've learned a great deal in the last few months."

"Does this give you the same thrill that advertising once did?"

"You're very perceptive. And the answer is: yes. I can't imagine doing anything else."

"Well, Captain, here's to a long and ill.u.s.trious career."

He looked at me then, his expression ineffably sad.

"One thing I've learned, young man, is to appreciate what I have right here, right now. We may never have tomorrow." He paused looking out toward the bow. "You'll have to excuse me, now, but I must make my rounds."

I watched him stride from the wheelhouse erect and proud, and I waited until he'd disappeared before reaching for the iPod touch and pressing "Stop-"

6.

Solly frowned, watching while I ejected the disk from the computer and replaced it into its plastic jewel box. "Guy sure had it tough."

I didn't say anything, remembering both the sadness and the joy in Captain Pierce's eyes.

"So, what happened next? Ken asked. "All you'd gotten from Harlan up to then was his note, right?"

"Right. It was my plan after the Captain's interview to file a dispatch in the radio room and then go down to his stateroom and talk. But I got sidetracked."

Solly's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah, how so?"

I yawned then glanced at my watch. "The club's closing in half an hour. What do you say we call it a night?"

"Come on, Hughes, you can't just leave us hanging like this," Solly said.

Ken picked up my shoulder case, which I'd forgotten to zip, and the contents spilled out.

"Sorry, Trev," he said, bending down. He picked up a DVD, his eyes innocently scanning the label. "Who's Madeleine?"

I took it from him, avoiding his eyes. "She's not important," I said, regretting my tone of voice and the words as soon as I'd uttered them.

A sly grin spread across Solly's face. "Oh, I bet she's plenty important," he said, chuckling. "Trevor, here, is just too much the gentleman to kiss and tell, aren't you, Hughes?"

I stood and began packing my computer, shoving the DVDs in after it with quick angry jabs. "You know, Solly, I put up with you in school because you were always good for a few laughs. Well, you're not funny anymore. You're just a pompous windbag with a lot of money to throw around. I've got news for you, pal, it doesn't impress me."

Solly jumped to his feet, face mottled pink. "Just one f.u.c.king minute, Hughes! I worked hard for that dough. And I couldn't give a rat's a.s.s what you think. You owe us!"

"For what? Just because I know something you don't, you feel you have the right to know it?"

"No! Because Harlan was the best friend I ever had, and I want to know why the h.e.l.l he died! Is that so hard for Mr. Big-Shot Writer to understand?"

"Guys, please!" Ken said, his hang-dog face crimped with worry. "This isn't the place."

Solly turned on Ken, his mouth twisted into a snarl. "The h.e.l.l it isn't."

"He's right, Ken."

They both turned to me, expressions registering mild surprise. It was a picture that under any other circ.u.mstances would have made me laugh. Now, I was just too d.a.m.ned tired. "You do have a right to know, as much as any of us. But you don't have the right to unreasonably demand it. We've all had a bit too much to drink, and it's late. How about we meet here tomorrow morning?"

"For a little hair of the dog?" Ken asked.

I did smile then.

"Sure, Ken. You bring the dog."

Solly grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "Sorry about the 'kiss and tell' crack, I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did, Solly. The thing is, you're right about that, too. I am too much of a gentleman."

Without another word, I picked up my shoulder case and left them.

Outside, the air had turned cool and I hurried to the taxi stand near the corner. One of these days I was going to have to break down and buy a car, but not having one was one of those quirks of mine. Besides, in Boston, I didn't really need one.

The ride back to Charlestown was blessedly quick and uneventful.