Cone of Plenty

Bartlett woke with a sudden start. The prickle on the back of his neck told that somebody, something was watching him. Lifting his head from the pillow, he could make out a tall tapered shape at the foot of his bed, darker by far than the curtained gloom of the hotel bedroom, not so much dark as void, a deep, bottomless emptiness. At the same time a picture sprang into his brain: the great ship foundering, its hull levered into icy skies, surrounded by bobbing heads and lifeboats. After a few seconds the thing – presence or whatever it was – vanished abruptly into the shadowy recesses of the bedroom. Bartlett almost laughed. It was absurd. How could so mighty a vessel, the most advanced product of modern engineering come to grief in this way? 

Why, a few hours earlier the Managing Director had emphasised that very point. The titan of commerce had been celebrating the liner’s forthcoming maiden voyage with Bartlett, his personal secretary, in one of the hotel’s private dining rooms. They had finished working their way through the soup and fish courses, the amuse gueules of sweetbreads and jellied tongues, the refreshing lemon sorbets and the roast pheasants, followed by fresh fruits and delicately flavoured blancmanges, all accompanied by glasses of champagne and rich red burgundy and topped off with fine cognacs and cigars. Spread before them the ruins of the meal seemed to Bartlett miniature landscape of culinary delights, a choice selection of the fruits of the earth.

‘The vessel itself is absolutely unsinkable,’ the Director opined. Then, his face ruddied by the food and wine, he began to wax eloquent, twirling the dark luxuriant waves of his moustache. ‘More than that, it is a sign of our new age of invention and discovery, the age of electric power, of aeroplanes, motor cars and telephones. Only three years ago Bleriot crossed the Channel in his monoplane and Peary reached the North Pole. Even now Scott may be planting our Union Jack at the South Pole! Our ship’s maiden voyage will break all previous speed records. It will stand proudly alongside these achievements.’ 

The Director, a tall heavy man leaned forward, thrusting his beaming face towards his secretary. ‘It symbolises our will to overcome all obstacles and conquer nature. What is nature after all but a mechanism, albeit a highly evolved and complex mechanism, that one day will be fully grasped and mastered?’ 

 Bartlett had smiled in return and nodded agreement. Remembering the evening now, he snorted, rolled over, dismissed his bizarre vision and tried to go back to sleep. As he did, some words he had read somewhere came to him: What does not kill me makes me strong.

The following morning he woke feeling refreshed and dressed himself carefully in the uniform of the Edwardian business class: wing collar, black morning coat and high-waisted pinstripe trousers. In his mid-twenties, Bartlett was of medium height and build with a pale smooth shaven face, with short centre-parted hair and dark solemn eyes that glinted from time to time with an inner fire. He checked his appearance in a cheval glass with approval, then went down to join the Managing Director in the hotel’s breakfast room. 

As the plates and knives and forks clattered and the rays of the morning sun flooded cheerfully through the breakfast room windows, Bartlett felt his experience of the previous night was even more absurd. He was on the point of mentioning his dream as a joke when he stopped himself. Would it not make him look weak and superstitious in the eyes of his employer? And, worse still, in some obscure way even disloyal? Better to say nothing. Bartlett lowered his head down and directed his attention to the plate of devilled kidneys before him.

Breakfast over he headed towards the shipping line’s new and specially designed deep dock, where the great liner with its four elegantly raked funnels looking the very epitome of modern streamlined efficiency, loomed over the gawking, rubbernecking crowds massed on the quays. What a masterpiece of planning and precise execution, Bartlett thought.

Bartlett, a committed citizen of the new century – none more so – believed firmly that reason lay at the root of everything.. And yet his experience of the previous night still nagged at him … Very well, he would learn from the liner. He would plan and execute precisely, would take all possible steps to corral his fears, however baseless, and so confine them that, even in the remote chance that they reared up into reality, he would remain utterly secure. Two days remained until the ship set sail. He would make the best use of them he could.

Afternoon the next day found him in his hotel bedroom equipped with two travelling trunks, the first of which he had brought with him to the Southampton hotel, the second purchased that morning. Spread out on the carpet next to them was an array of objects: a collapsible rubber boat, a new product of Hancock and Sons, the famous boat-makers; a rope ladder attached to a pair of steel hooks: a rucksack containing waterproofs, cork life jacket and a flask of brandy; and, finally, a Webley revolver, the personal weapon of choice, he had been assured, of Her Majesty’s officers. Who knew what contingencies might arise? Forewarned should also be fore-armed. 

Bartlett carefully placed his acquisitions in the second trunk and chalked on it a large white star. Next, he telephoned the dockside office to give instructions for stowing his luggage. One trunk was to go into the hold, he said, the other – the one marked with the chalked star – was to be stored in his cabin. Having stated his instructions, he insisted on having them repeated back to him until satisfied that they would be carried out to the letter.

The next day was the day of sailing. Promptly at 9.30 the captain, resplendent in his spanking white uniform and cap, began welcoming the first class passengers, many of them fabulously rich and famous: financiers, captains of industry, generals, governors, editors, actresses and socialites. Meanwhile on the quayside the third class passengers were scrutinised for any signs of infectious disease.

Bartlett dutifully trotted on board behind his employer. As the Managing Director’s assistant he was already fully conversant with the liner’s designs and fittings but his breath was nevertheless taken away by their opulent reality: the staterooms, saloons, the tea gardens, the Parisian-style café, the palm court and the library and – several metres below sea level! – the heated sea water swimming pool together with gymnasium and Turkish bath. There was even a set of kennels for the many guests who had brought their pets along for the journey. Dominating all was the Grand Staircase, its twin sweeping curves elaborately carved from the finest English oak and illuminated by an enormous glass dome above.

In-between the boat and promenade decks with their first class cabins and the orlop deck housing the ship’s mighty engines and the cargo hold, were sandwiched six other decks that included the accommodation for lower class passengers. Bartlett marched immediately to the first class cabin that had been assigned to him. There, as he expected, stood a trunk next to the bed. But it was the wrong one – the unmarked one! The fools had bungled his instructions. The other trunk, the one with all his equipment had been buried down in the hold higgledy-piggledy alongside all the other passengers’ luggage. 

Bartlett paced up and down fuming, then sent for the chief steward and stormed at him. ‘There can no question about it!’ he yelled. ‘You have ignored my most precise instructions. The other trunk must be retrieved immediately and brought to my cabin.’ The steward grovelled and wrung his hands and apologised but was immoveable: ‘It would be impossible to find your other trunk amid such a vast volume of luggage. With the voyage only just under way we simply cannot spare the staff or the time. Can it not wait until the luggage is unloaded in New York?’ Finally, in desperation Bartlett fluttered a handful of notes in the steward’s face. The man eyed the money, then took it and promised to see what he could do. Two hours later a pair of grinning ship’s mates heaved the chalked trunk into Bartlett’s cabin and left with the other trunk and a sovereign apiece clasped in their sweating palms for their trouble. 

Promptly at noon the liner set sail to thunderous cheers from the crowds lining the docks. Further stops were made in France and Ireland to take on more passengers and supplies, then the crossing got fully under way. With its thousands of passengers and crew it was a small city in itself, a floating bubble of the society from which it had sprung, catered for by a whole range of professions: chefs and waiters; hairdressers, bakers, butchers and fishmongers: launderers and bed makers; musicians and masseurs; wireless operators to send and receive Marconigrams: even a printer to publish the ship’s daily newspaper. In addition many of the first class passengers were accompanied by their own servants: valets, diet cooks, nursemaids, governesses and chauffeurs. 

A round of entertainments had been laid on for the first class passengers: banquets, parties and receptions, balls, games and concerts. Simpler pleasures were on offer to the lower class passengers: games of skittles, sing-songs and rope jumping contests. Bartlett meanwhile danced attendance on the Captain and the Managing Director and capitalised fully on the opportunities to introduce himself to the VIP passengers. The manging Director had told him before the voyage that he would not be returning to England but would remain in New York and take command of the shipping line’s American headquarters. It would be his first frontline position, a step up – the first of many if Bartlett had his way. 

He glimpsed the peaks of advancement glittering before him. One day he would take his place alongside other commercial titans of the age, a colossus bestriding the business world! And why not? He was young, energetic, full of ideas. Until now he had played the obsequious subordinate. One day, though, he would burst out of that dull larva-like shell and emerge in his full and perfect imago.

Meanwhile the weather, at first mild and cloudy, had turned crisp and clear. Crystals of ice glinted on the ship’s upper works while, below, the stokers, stripped to the waist, heaved and sweated to feed the insatiable hunger of the boilers. Warnings of icebergs were received in the wireless room and relayed to the Captain but he pooh-poohed the danger. Icebergs, awe-inspiring though they might look, presented no threat at all to a vessel of this size and strength. Publicly announcing that the voyage was not a race, he privately ordered the engine room to put on more speed in accordance with the Managing Director’s instructions.

Buoyed up by the sparkling social effervescence of the ship, Bartlett’s anxieties faded away. What a fool he had been to act on that absurd hallucination! He squirmed with embarrassment thinking of the precautions he had taken. They must never become known. As soon as the ship reached New York he would ditch the second trunk and its contents.

One evening shortly before midnight Bartlett was in his cabin, preparing for bed after a most gratifying dinner at the Captain’s Table when he felt a sudden shock, then a harsh griding shudder along the ship’s starboard side, and a peculiar twanging sound as the hull rivets popped open like champagne corks. The cabin light flickered, went out, then came back on. So the premonition had not lied! At once Bartlett leapt into action, flinging open his trunk and yanking out the contents. Once he had donned his waterproofs and life jacket, he rushed out of the cabin, his rucksack on his back and his boat hanging limply beneath his arm. 

Already other passengers, wide-eyed with anxiety, were crowding the corridors and stairwells. Bartlett shouldered his way through them but, as he did so, he felt a pair of hands gripping him strongly from behind. ‘What’s all this, Mr Bartlett? Don’t you know that in an emergency senior staff are expected to wait for instructions?’ It was the steward. ‘You must return to your cabin, sir, and stand by for your orders.’ 

‘Let go of me, you bloody fool!’ Bartlett roared but in response the steward simply tightened his grip. Bartlett cursed and squirmed against his grasp, then, in a fever of panic half-turned and rammed his paddle into the man’s face. the steward fell back spurting blood, and released his hold. Without so much as a backward glance Bartlett raced up to the main deck where he paused for a few moments, gulping down lungfuls of the icy arctic air.

Somewhat calmed, he looked round and spotted a secluded corner behind a lifeboat, There, he pulled the rope ladder out of his rucksack, hooked it to the guard rail and let it drop over the side. Next, he turned his attention to the rubber boat. Inflating it was far from easy as the intake nozzle slipped time and again from his frozen lips, but at last the task was done. The boat too he then let fall over the side. Now there was nothing for it. Gritting his teeth, Bartlett clambered on top of the rail, his boots fighting for purchase on its icy surface, swayed there for a moment, bucking under the weight of his rucksack, then launched himself into the darkness.

The heart-stopping chill of the ocean numbed him for several seconds but somehow he managed to heave himself into the rubber boat along with a great quantity of sea water. Using the bailer fixed to the floor, he began furiously scooping water over the side. Satisfied at last that he had got rid of most of the liquid, he seized the paddle and drove the boat away from the stricken liner, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and the ship before it finally sank. Ten yards went by, twenty, fifty, then a hundred or more. At length Bartlett lay back exhausted. As he rested he noticed absently that a skim of ice was forming on the remaining water at the bottom of the boat.

Recovered somewhat, he looked back at the ship. Flares were arcing in bright parabolas across the night sky and lifeboats were being lowered, many only half full. In one of them he could make out the Managing Director – no longer the all-powerful man of business but a pallid trembling wreck, crouched among the women and children. Typical of that opportunist to save his skin, thought Bartlett

To counter the cold Bartlett sipped a little brandy from the flask in his rucksack. As he did so, it dawned on him that he might have some questions to answer about how he too had managed to escape. Would the steward survive? Would other witnesses? Perhaps at some point he should abandon his craft and make for one of the lifeboats. For the moment Bartlett thrust such thoughts aside. He would deal these problems when he had to.

Slowly, almost infinitesimally slowly, the ship sank into the waves. Then, after a couple of hours it suddenly levered, stern upward, surreally exposing its three great propellers. A mass of tiny figures slid and skittered on the tilting deck. Finally, with a tremendous crack the vessel snapped in two. There was a terrible roar and hiss of steam, and it was all over. An after-ghost of the ship remained visible for a time as it slowly descended to the ocean floor, its cabin and deck lights glimmering and winking like those of some strange underwater city. 

But Bartlett had little time to spare for the spectacle. The sinking vessel’s violent suction pulled him irresistibly back among the floating mass of survivors. He heard screams, pleas for assistance, offers of money – help whatever it cost, for God’s sake, help. Arms swarmed, squid-like, over the sides of his fragile craft, threatening to drag it under. Time and again Bartlett beat them off with the paddle, only for them to return in ever increasing numbers. At length Bartlett struggled to his feet, drew out his Webley revolver and fired shot after shot into the mat of bobbing, screaming heads. 

Suddenly his feet slipped from under him on the skim of ice lining the bottom of the boat and he lost his balance. As he fell, his fingers closed convulsively on the revolver’s trigger. Bartlett heard a shot, then the slow hiss of air from his rubber boat. Inch by inch it sank, plunging him into the freezing water. There he floated for a time, supported by his lifejacket. Alive for now but for how long, he wondered, in such freezing cold? Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes at the most.  

There was something in the distance that caught his attention: a tiny tapering shape, darker than the night sky spinning towards him over the waves. Nearer it sped, then when it reached him, it paused for a few seconds and hovered over him. At once a tumult of sights embraced him: armies of mud men floundering in a blasted moonscape of trenches while strange new mechanical leviathans thundered over and around them; lines of hungry unemployed, mobs and street battles, wild-eyed men on platforms, their arms stabbing the air, banners with hammers, sickles and twisted crosses; more images of battle and of starving skeletal figures in striped clothing staring dully through barbed wire. Then scenes too many to follow spun round him: a host of abominations, spreading towers, plagues and, finally, a flock of fiery suns mushrooming out of the earth. 

The shape passed on and darkness descended on Bartlett. A chill drowsiness overcame him, and he surrendered to it almost gratefully, sinking into endless, bottomless sleep.