the
Lusitania
.”
Erskine remained lugubrious. “They said the same of the
Umbria
when it came into service over twenty years ago. Yet it went badly adrift in 1892 and was later involved in a major collision in New York Harbor. As for the much-vaunted
Etruria
,” he continued, hitting his stride, “that, too, was involved in a collision. When I sailed on her four years ago, she was the target for gangsters who tried to blow her up.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Ada Weekes.
“You are causing unnecessary alarm, sir,” warned Dillman.
Erskine was unrepentant. “I believe in facing facts, Mr. Dillman.”
“What was that about gangsters?” asked Weekes. “Who were they?”
“Italians,” said Erskine. “Members of the Mafia Society. An evil organization which swore to destroy all British ships leaving New York.”
“But they failed miserably,” said Dillman, wanting to reassure the others. “Security aboard all Cunard vessels was far too tight. On the occasion to which Mr. Erskine refers, the
Etruria
crossed the Atlantic without incident.”
“That was not the case earlier this year,” said Erskine solemnly, scratching at his beard. “Did you know that two members of its crew were killed during bad weather in January? Then there is the
Campania
, another Cunard ship with a reputation for safety. It was involved in a bad collision in 1900 and, a mere two years ago, it was struck by a freak wave which killed some of its passengers.”
“That’s dreadful!” cried Ada Weekes.
“But highly atypical,” insisted Dillman.
“I had no idea that an Atlantic crossing was so perilous.”
“It’s not, Mrs. Weekes. Believe me.”
“Inclement weather is only one hazard,” said Erskine, settling into his role as a prophet of doom. “Bad seamanship is another problem. Only two years ago, the
Caronia
, biggest and newest ship of the line, ran aground off Sandy Hook. Size is no guarantee of safety.”
“So it seems,” said a meditative Weekes, patting his wife’s arm to calm her. “But I am sure we are in no danger here. The Cunard Line will have learned from its earlier mistakes.”
“Indeed it has,” emphasized Dillman, wondering how two such affable people as Cyril and Ada Weekes had been drawn to such a melancholy individual as Jeremiah Erskine. “What you have heard are isolated examples. Hundreds of thousands of people have sailed across the Atlantic without any whiff of danger. As for the tragedy aboard the
Campania
, it was caused, as Mr. Erskinetold us, by a freak wave. What he did not say was that it was the first time in sixty years that any passengers were killed on the Cunard Line.”
“You seem to know a great deal about this subject, sir,” said Erskine, annoyed at being robbed of his ability to spread unease. “May I ask what allows you to speak with such apparent authority?”
“I come from a maritime family, Mr. Erskine.”
“You have been an officer aboard a liner?”
“No, sir. But I have helped to build oceangoing yachts and that has given me great insight into the safety features of any vessel as well as the vagaries of weather.”
“Yet you have not crossed the Atlantic as often as I have.”
“I concede that,” said Dillman. “What suprises me is that a veteran like yourself would not wish to offer a degree of reassurance to passengers, like our friends here, who are crossing for the first time.”
“When I sense disaster, Mr. Dillman, I must speak out.”
“Even if it causes willful distress?”
“I have a premonition, sir.”
“Then why sail on the vessel in the first place?”
“It is a business necessity.”
Weekes stepped in to change the subject to the dinner menu for that evening and Erskine was diverted from his gloomy prognostications. Ada Weekes visibly relaxed. Dillman took the opportunity to excuse himself. The teatime session with Jeremiah Erskine had left him feeling the need for more cheerful company. Since the weather was still