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Prompt : 1.2K Historical Fiction/Action Mashup
December 6th, 1917, 8:15 am
Captain From watched as Hayes piloted the cargoless supply ship through the narrows of Halifax Harbour. They were behind schedule and trying to make up time with speed. He knew from experience that the near-empty ship, bobbing like a cork too high in the water, was a demon to steer and her 20 foot right-hand propeller continually pushed the bow of the ship towards the port side. Hayes was a good pilot though, and he maneuvered the Norwegian ship along the starboard side of the channel with ease. The city of Dartmouth slid by on the right.
"Ship 40 degrees to portside, sir," the lookout said.
Captain From turned to look. A Tramp Steamer was coming up the narrows, right in their lane. If they maintained course, the two ships would collide.
"Damn it," From growled. "What's he doing? He's on the wrong side of the channel."
As they approached, From could make out the lettering on the side of the Steamer. SS Clara.
The Clara sounded two short blasts of their signal whistle. I intend to leave you on my starboard side.
From looked to Hayes, who nodded.
"Altering course," Hayes said, "reply back."
Captain From motioned one of his men and a moment later, the SS Imo replied with their own two short blasts.
The ship, already pulled left by its propeller, adjusted course easily and the two ships passed, starboard to starboard.
Hayes was struggling to veer the ship back towards the Dartmouth shore on the right when the lookout called again.
"Ship 60 degrees to starboard side."
A tugboat, two scows in tow, was approaching mid-channel.
From swore again and Hayes let the ship steer further left, while the tugboat hastily corrected to their left, approaching the Halifax shore line. The tug boat, the ST Stella Maris, slipped by harmlessly on their right.
"Ship straight ahead," the lookout called again.
This time it was Hayes who swore.
"We're too far left," he said, "we'll never get her turned in time."
December 6th, 1917, 8:45 am
Francis Mackey rubbed his heavily whiskered upper lip nervously. He didn't like his cargo. Over 2,000 tons of TNT and several more tons of picric acid, guncotton and benzole made the French freighter wallow like a fat sow on the water.
Forced to spend the night aboard the ship and denied the special protections he had requested, Mackey had spent most of the dark hours of the night, waiting for the harbour submarine nets to rise, picturing German U-boats lurking in the shadows of the harbour mouth.
Seven thirty couldn't have come soon enough, and when the nets dropped, Mackey had ordered the Captain to enter the harbour not far behind the Tugboat Stella Maris.
Despite not understanding more than a word or two at a time under his thick French accent, Mackey liked the Captain of the SS Mont Blanc.
Thirty-nine-year-old Aimé Le Medec was both cautious and conscientious, the men of his crew banned from having so much as a pack of matches to avoid any chance igniting of his volatile cargo.
"Navire de charge, Capitaine," the lookout said, "Droit devant. S'approche vite."
Mackey turned towards where the young lookout pointed. A supply ship, far into the left lane of the channel, approached well above the harbour speed limit. He sounded the signal whistle once. I intend to leave you on my portside.
To his surprise, the Cargo ship responded with two short blasts.
Why wouldn't he move? He was in the wrong lane.
Le Medec, thinking fast, ordered his men to cut the engines and angle to starboard, hoping to give the other ship more room to maneuver right.
Mackey sounded another solitary blast from the whistle, but once again, the Norwegian ship responded with two short blasts. Both ships had cut their engines now, but they still coasted towards each other like two lumbering bulls, unable to change direction.
Men from nearby ships gathered along the rails to watch as the two ships drifted closer.
"Hard to Port!" Mackey yelled and the Mont-Blanc pulled to the left, crossing the bow of the Imo at the last minute.
For a moment, the two large ships ran parallel to each other and then the Imo sounded three short blasts. They were reversing.
"No!" Mackey called, but it was too late.
The Imo, her transverse thrust propelling her right, collided with the Mont-Blanc.
Mackey felt the deck shudder beneath him and he held his breath, waiting for the explosion. It didn't come, but shouts from below deck made fear crawl up his throat as he exchanged glances with Le Medec.
Hastily shouting orders in French, the captain departed the cabin briefly before returning, apprehensive.
"Some of the barrels were spilled," he said in his thick accent.
Mackey swallowed and nodded. "Let's get out of here slowly then."
As he said it, the screech of metal on metal told him the Imo was already backing up. Too late again.
The shouts from below deck grew louder and the smell of smoke quickly filled the air. All it had taken was one spark.
Fire crept up the side of the ship, and thick, black clouds roiled, shooting straight up into the crisp December air.
There was nothing left for Mackey to do, but follow the crew into lifeboats as they abandoned ship. Together, they shouted warnings at the crowds of onlookers lining the coast of the channel, but their voices never made it over the din. The world exploded with terrible force and black misery rained down.
December 7th, 1917, 11:15 am
Davies re-wrapped the scarf across his face as he followed his dog across the snow-covered ruins of Barrington Street.
Residents, those left standing, searched through the rubble, hoping to find loved ones left alive. It had been 26 hours since the black rain had stopped falling, leaving everything coated in wet, sticky tar.
Time was running out for those still trapped within the flattened buildings of Richmond district. If it wasn't already out. A blizzard, like the cruel hand of God, had blown in overnight and covered the soot soaked debris of the Halifax peninsula with a blanket of white and cold. Few could survive long in that.
A bark brought Davies' attention back to the dog.
"What is it, girl," he asked. "Did you find something?"
She barked again and in the silence that followed, rose a thin wail.
Davies breath caught and then he was shouting, "Over here! Over here!"
He set to digging, joined by another man. As his hands made contact with the remains of what was once a kitchen stove, he heard the sound again. Louder this time.
He didn't stop until they found her, buried in the still warm embers of the ashpan. Crying, but alive.
1,600 dead and 9,000 injured, yet here she sat, this little girl, saved only by the grace of having been blown under the stove.
As her cry lifted up out of the snow, Davies knew, that now and forever, she was the most beautiful thing he would ever see.
