Morton was hard at work when he heard the sound of small shoes charging toward him, and looked out from under the boat to see two girls intently watching. These were Anna and Gwendolyn Allan, ages fifteen and sixteen, the two daughters of Lady Hugh Montagu Allan, of Montreal, one of the ship’s most prominent passengers. The three occupied a Regal Suite on B Deck, which included two bedrooms, bathroom, dining room, and parlor. The Allans traveled with two maids, who stayed in a tiny room squeezed between one of the ship’s funnels and the dome of the first-class dining salon.
The girls were a popular and vivid presence aboard. “I could not help thinking what lovely children they were and how beautifully dressed,” Morton wrote. “I seem to remember the eldest one was wearing a white accordion pleated skirt and sailor blouse.”
One girl asked, “What are you doing, sailor?”
Morton answered, “I am painting the lifeboat.”
“May we help you?”
Morton noted again the girls’ clothing and also the sound of heavier steps quickly approaching—these the footfalls of a woman who appeared to be a nanny. The woman did not look pleased.
Morton said, “I don’t think this is a job for little girls.”
The eldest girl, clearly accustomed to having her way, grabbed the improvised brush, which was soaked with paint, and started applying it to the boat and in the process applied it to her clothing as well.
“I was horrified,” Morton wrote. He heard the still heavier footsteps of his approaching supervisor, the bosun, or senior deck man, “coming along at the double.”
The girls fled, and so did Morton. He eased out from under the boat, toward the water, and climbed over the side to the deck below. “I did not feel there was any purpose in stopping to argue the point with either the irate bosun or the extremely angry looking Nannie.”
A BOY NAMED Robert Kay missed all the morning’s excitement. Kay, seven years old, was an American citizen from the Bronx, in New York City, traveling to England with his British mother, Marguerita Belsher Kay, who was in an advanced phase of pregnancy. She wanted badly to return to her parents’ home in England to have the baby and was willing to brave the passage, despite the German warning and her own tendency to get seasick.
By midweek Robert himself had begun to feel poorly. The ship’s surgeon examined him and diagnosed a full-blown case of measles. The boy, he said, would have to spend the rest of the voyage in quarantine, two decks down. The Kays were traveling in second class, but his mother chose to go below as well, to room with her son.
The monotony was crushing, but there was, at least, a porthole through which the boy could watch the sea.
CAPTAIN TURNER ordered the usual midmorning lifeboat drill. The team of “picked” crewmen climbed into one of the emergency boats as an audience of passengers looked on. One witness was George Kessler, the “Champagne King,” who went up to the sailor in charge, and told him, “It’s alright drilling your crew, but why don’t you drill your passengers?”
The man replied, “Why not tell Captain Turner, sir?”
Kessler resolved to do so.
U-20
SPECTACLE
THURSDAY MORNING, MAY 6, FOUND U-20 ADVANCING slowly along the southwest coast of Ireland, into waters mariners knew as the St. George’s Channel. Though the term channel connotes a narrow body of water, the St. George’s at its broadest was about 90 miles wide, tapering to 45 miles between Carnsore Point on the Irish coast and St. David’s Head in Wales. A lightship was anchored at the Irish side to steer ships away from a notorious hazard, the Coningbeg Rock, routinely misspelled by telegraph and wireless operators as Coningberg or Koninbeg. Beyond this point, the waters broadened again to form the Irish Sea, Muir éireann, with Liverpool another 250 nautical miles to the north and east. Even at Schwieger’s best speed of 15 knots, he would need another sixteen hours to reach his assigned patrol zone.
But the weather was not cooperating. Persistent fog had forced him to remain submerged throughout the night. Just before 8:00 A.M., he found signs of clearing and brought the boat to the surface, but did so using only its hydroplanes. He kept the diving tanks filled with seawater in case of emergency. The boat moved through striations of heavy fog.
A steamship appeared ahead, off to starboard. It flew no flag and showed no other indicator of registry. Schwieger ordered his gun crew on deck for a surface attack. Despite the poor visibility, some sharp-eyed soul aboard the steamer spotted the submarine. The ship turned hard and fled at full speed.
Schwieger raced after it, his gun crew firing round after round. Two shells hit the steamer, but it continued to run. The ship entered a fog bank and disappeared from view. Schwieger followed.
Clarity returned. Schwieger’s men resumed fire. U-20 was making 15 knots; the steamer probably only 8 to 10. The attack went on for nearly two hours, with U-20 gradually gaining, until one shell struck the target’s bridge. This proved persuasive. The steamship stopped and lowered its boats. One foundered, Schwieger saw, but three others pulled away, “full to capacity.”