SHATTERED the Titanic Affair

Mr. Barry J. Whyte stood just inside the hospital ward entrance, clutching a small, leather-bound briefcase. Within it lay a letter from the US Secretary of War himself, Henry L. Stimson — a document granting Whyte extraordinary authority to conduct his investigation. His eyes scanned the sterile corridor until a familiar figure appeared.

Whyte glanced down at his pocket watch as the tall, thin man with cold, dead eyes approached. “Funny, NOT,” muttered Sir William Turnbull with a sharp edge. Turnbull, a former Provost Marshall hardened by campaigns from the Boxer Rebellion to the Boer War, wore his loyalty like armour, and had no patience for American levity.

Whyte smirked inwardly. Diplomatic niceties were one thing; matters of national security were another. “Sergeant Daniel Wittle is in the third bed on the right,” he said quietly. “He’s being moved to the private room across the hall. We need to speak with him alone.”

As if summoned, a gurney rolled out, bearing a pale, blond man in his twenties, his leg and head heavily bandaged. The nursing staff finished their work swiftly, then a stern, heavyset nurse fixed Whyte with a cold stare.

“Ten minutes, no more. The man may not live through it,” she warned.

Sir William stepped forward, voice low but authoritative. “Sergeant Daniel Wittle, I am Sir William Turnbull of His Majesty’s Secret Service. This is Mr. Whyte from the American War Department.”

The door shut behind them.

Daniel’s eyes flickered with pain and resignation. He’d expected this. Sometimes he wished the icy waters or that damn ship’s chaos had ended his story—especially if the Chief Inspector or the American Major had survived. “Is the Canadian Mission aware I’m alive?” he asked faintly.

“Not yet,” Turnbull replied as he cleared his throat. “But they will be soon. You’re the only one left who can tell what happened. And we intend to hear it.”

Whyte leaned against the wall, notebook ready. He barely concealed his impatience with the British officer. “We know you were loaned from the Dominion of Canada for this operation. We are also aware of what happened up to Southampton. After that—”

The room’s cold silence held a thousand unspoken dangers.

Daniel’s gaze grew faded, his voice softening as the past began to reclaim him.

"It started in Liverpool,” he murmured. “I was summoned—out of the blue—to the regional Scotland Yard office. I had almost completed my year’s duty on the exchange program. But suddenly a Chief Inspector Calihand wanted a word.”

He paused, as his memory flickered and almost went out like a candle in the wind.

“I’d just wrapped up nine months undercover working the docks between Liverpool and London. Smugglers, agitators, union men, you name it. I had Navy service too, which made me useful. Too useful, maybe.”

He paused once more as he looked at the ceiling.

“The Inspector handed me sealed instructions—eyes only. Said the assignment would place me aboard a transatlantic voyage. Posh ship, new design. Turned out to be the bloody Titanic. I was to pose as a bartender in the À La Carte Restaurant. Impress all the rich bastards with my Canadian accent and speak a little French occasionally. But in reality, I wasn’t there to mix cocktails. I was there to watch.”

“Watch who?” Whyte interjected.

Daniel’s lips curved ever so slightly and seemed so dry. “Passengers. Crew. Certain names are flagged in intelligence circles. People who knew things—things they shouldn’t. I wasn’t alone, either. There were three of us. Inspector Hanover—under cover as a wealthy passenger—and his ‘nephew,’ a young agent from His Majesty’s Service. We were told an American operative would join us in Cherbourg. But we never got his name.”

Sir William and Whyte exchanged a glance.

“The first night aboard, before we even left port,” Daniel continued, his voice slightly raspy, “I heard the rumours. Some of the staff—stewards and stokers—spoke in hushed tones. Fire. In one of the coal bunkers. Boiler Room Six. Persistent. Contained, they said, but stubborn. The ship left port with it still burning.”

He nearly sat upright, fire flashing in his eyes. “Bloody hell. They set sail with a damn fire in the hull!”

Neither Sir William nor Whyte showed emotion, but their pens paused.

Daniel leaned back, grimacing. “Some of the cleaning staff whispered other concerns. Shoddy fittings, rushed craftsmanship, and corners cut for the schedule. A floating palace, they said, but not all that glittered was gold. The thinking was: after a few voyages, they’d fix what needed fixing. But there was never a second voyage.”

Sir William cleared his throat. “Important context, Sergeant. But not our immediate concern. Tell us about the men. The ones you were watching.”

Daniel nodded as he reached for a small glass of water. Barry Whyte reached over and handed it to him.

“The first one I saw was William Stead. You know the name. Editor. Crusader. Enemy of empires and backroom deals. He boarded with the weight of something heavy pressing down on him. Came into the La Carte just before we left port, muttering under his breath. Ordered a small brandy. I served him myself. He was pale and distracted. He seemed to be the kind of man who knew something is coming and coming soon. The kind of man people want silenced.”

Barry Whyte tapped his pen once against his notebook.

“And you think what happened to the Titanic wasn’t just misfortune?”

Daniel met his eyes, unblinking.

“I think too many people with dangerous knowledge boarded that ship. And those icy waters of the sea claimed it all.”

Later, Luigi Gatti—the renowned Italian restaurateur—would remark to anyone who’d listen, “Newspapermen always carry too much in their heads. But that one—Stead—he was a crusader. The kind that makes enemies in high places.”

As the Titanic glided toward the French coast for its first scheduled stop, the mood aboard remained light, elegant. But Daniel had learned long ago to see beyond polished surfaces.

Just before noon, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the À La Carte Restaurant. He ordered a bourbon and a light lunch, his movements deliberate, his gaze surveying the room with quiet authority. Major Archibald Butt—decorated veteran of the Spanish-American War and military aide to two U.S. presidents—was unmistakable. Close behind him trailed a young officer, Captain Wiser, who lingered slightly behind with the kind of practiced discretion that betrayed experience far beyond his years.

Daniel observed them both closely. The Major greeted other First-Class passengers with a warm familiarity, while the captain seemed more calculating, scanning the room before whispering something into the Major’s ear and quickly stepping away.

Shortly after departure from Cherbourg, Inspector Hanover found Daniel behind the bar and ordered a brandy. He sipped slowly, leaning in just enough to avoid suspicion.

“I’ve spoken with our American contact,” Daniel said under his breath. “The fire in the coal bunker’s still burning. Below Boiler Room Six.”

Hanover didn’t blink. “Keep your eyes on the real heat, boy. Word is that someone onboard plans to sell classified schematics. Caribbean and Central American defence sites. Naval positions. Fort blueprints.”

Barry Whyte, listening intently, stopped writing mid-sentence. “That matches the intelligence brief my office shared.”

Sir William Turnbull shot Whyte a glare sharp enough to slice paper. “Excellent. Now don’t interrupt the lad.” He turned back to Daniel, his voice softer now. “Did you identify the buyer or the seller?”

Daniel tried thinking through a growing pain in his head. The answer danced just out of reach—until his thoughts drifted back to a peculiar luncheon two days prior.

The À La Carte had been a frenzy of movement. Every First-Class guest seemed to covet a table. Daniel, weaving between them with practiced ease, found himself working double-time with the rest of Gatti’s staff. It was there that the second strange moment had occurred.

Major Butt entered first, dignified and composed. Behind him, Captain Wiser offered a polite excuse and veered off toward the bar. As he passed the crowded dining room, Daniel caught something unusual—Wiser paused just briefly to lock eyes with a thickset, bearded man puffing on a briar pipe near the entrance. No words exchanged. Just a look.

Moments later, the bearded man stood and quietly made his way toward the hallway.

Daniel followed casually, adjusting a tray as a cover.

Near the doorway, Captain Wiser leaned in close to the man and muttered, “No more delays. Tomorrow, after breakfast, you’ll see the documents. You have the cable set? Good. Once I get confirmation from the bank, the package is yours. Then we’re done.”

The two parted as if they’d never met.

Back in the hospital room, Daniel fell silent; the pain in his head was pounding a little worse by the minute.

Sir William sat back in his chair, the weight of something unsaid pressing in.

“Captain Wiser,” Barry said softly. “Wasn’t listed among the survivors.”

“No,” Daniel replied. “Neither was the bearded man.”

He looked up, eyes shadowed by the burden of horrifying memory.

“Whatever was about to happen... someone made damn sure it sank with that ship.”

Daniel waited near the entrance to the dining room, pretending to buff a stubborn wine stain from the floor. His eyes flicked discreetly toward the stout, bearded man who had just exchanged words with Captain Wiser. The man’s eyes briefly met Daniel’s—a sharp, assessing look—before he turned, as if melting into the crowd of linen and laughter, disappearing into the midday swirl of aristocracy.

Daniel waited until he could slip into the back kitchen and quietly pull aside Guy, the French waiter who had been serving the man’s table.

“Guy,” Daniel said in a low voice, “that heavy-set fellow with the pipe. Who is he?”

Guy scoffed with a shrug. “Did he stiff you on the tip as well? That one acts like he owns the ship. Real pompous arse.” Guy wanted to spit but the place was too formal for that, “Un putain de salaud, si tu veux mon avis.

Daniel nodded slightly. “Bumped into me at the entrance. Didn’t say a word. Just stared—like he knew something.”

Before Guy could answer, a passing busboy—no more than seventeen—paused, pushing a tray cart with rattling cutlery.

“You two don’t know who that is?” he whispered, eyes darting about, “That’s Louie Cyclops Lewis.”

Guy blinked, stunned. “How do you know that name?”

The busboy grinned, slicking his hair back like a street tough. “Saw him in a New York paper a few weeks ago. Five Points Gang. Real muscle. Says he’s here as some meat tycoon, but I say he’s got a caper brewing. Cleared his table yesterday—he's no gentleman.”

Daniel’s instincts prickled. “Thanks, kid,” he said, gripping the boy’s shoulder. “Appreciate it. Stay away from that table from now on.”

Later, in the shadows of the ship’s library, Daniel shared what he’d learned with Inspector Hanover.

“Louie Cyclops Lewis?” the Inspector muttered, eyes narrowing as he rubbed his jaw. “He’s registered under a false identity. Lorenza Alberto Caplin. Claims to be a meat wholesaler with businesses in New Jersey and Albany.”

Daniel felt the knot of danger tighten in his gut. The last time he felt like that a miner busted a chair over his head in Dawson City.

Just then, another man approached them—a lean figure with sharp eyes and a predator’s calm. Daniel had not seen him before, but something about his stillness hinted at a very specific kind of training.

“About time I joined the dance,” the man said, cracking his knuckles with quiet menace. “MI5. Name's classified. Let’s just say I specialize in situations that require more... persuasion.”

He caught the raised eyebrows from both Daniel and Hanover and smirked.

“Relax, gents. I don’t break diplomats or bankers. I break mobsters. And rats.”

Inspector Hanover nodded curtly and moved to speak with Third Officer Pitman, who escorted him through the ship’s narrow corridors to the bridge. The Inspector had crossed paths with many commanding officers over his years at the Yard, but Captain Edward Smith struck him as a man who carried duty like armour.

The ship’s captain greeted him with polite reserve, but his expression soured at the mention of espionage.

“I was informed of a potential traitor,” he said, voice low. “Now you’re telling me we may also have a known American gangster aboard under a fabricated identity?”

“Yes,” Hanover replied calmly. “And we have reason to believe a transaction is imminent, documents, possibly stolen military intelligence. If this leaks, it will not just compromise several governments. It could drag reputations into the fire, including the White Star Line itself.

Smith’s jaw tightened.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But make no mistake—I won’t have a manhunt on my ship. You’ll have your men. Quietly. Discreetly. We’ll have these two in a locked service compartment by morning.”

Hanover allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

“Captain, I know this is a floating palace. But perhaps a voyage cut slightly short is a fair trade to keep her reputation intact—and the Empire’s secrets from being sold.”

Smith gave a single nod. The storm they feared wasn’t the one on the horizon.

It was already aboard.

Captain Edward Smith stood on the bridge, his eyes scanning the still, icy waters of the North Atlantic. The horizon was deceptively serene; the ocean hushed under a silver sky. Seems he was no longer a captain of a floating, burning Palace but now a partner in political intrigue, espionage, and only God knew what else.

“You know, Inspector,” he murmured, not turning his gaze, “the North Atlantic is a treacherous mistress. Right now, she sleeps—but she never slumbers for long. I’ll authorize a bit more speed later tonight. Fewer eyes in the dark, if you catch my meaning.”

Down below, in a small compartment on E Deck, the quiet pulse of another operation beat like a secret drum. Inspector Hanover and the British field agent met with Master-at-Arms Thomas King in his Spartan office. The decision was made: the first to be taken into custody would be the American officer, Captain Wiser.

“The cargo hold will serve well enough,” the British agent said coolly, brushing lint from his sleeve. “We’ll need a cot, one steel bucket, and two large candles. And have a Mr. Peter Mattison brought there as well.”

Thomas King exchanged a glance with the Inspector.

“Mattison? He’s the agent for the U.S. War Department. Friendly fellow. Plays a brilliant game of chess.”

The agent gave no reply, only a faint smirk, “You would be surprised at what he plays at.”

Up in the restaurant, Daniel Wittle approached Captain Wiser, catching him just as he was preparing to sit down for an early dinner.

“Captain,” he said, voice casual but firm, “the Purser requires your presence—something about updated cabin manifests. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

Wiser, unbothered, rose and walked off, unaware of the trap quietly closing around him.

Moments later, Daniel slipped away to rendezvous with the second Master-at-Arms, Henry Bailey. Together, they approached Major Archibald Butt at his table.

“Major, we need you to come with us immediately,” Bailey said in a low voice. “Matter of national security.”

Before Whyte could stop himself, he broke in from his corner of the hospital room, notebook raised. “And what was Major Butt’s reaction to all this?”

Daniel glanced up at the American, expression tight, he gulped down the last portion of his water.

“So much was about to unfold… and you want to know how an officer reacted?” He exhaled slowly, as if choosing what not to say. “You’re about to find out.”

Back aboard the Titanic, the scene unfolded with quiet, clinical efficiency.

Wiser was already protesting by the time they reached the hold. His shouts echoed against the steel bulkheads as handcuffs snapped into place. The flicker of candlelight made the room look like an improvised chamber of judgment.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Major barked as he entered, indignant and flushed.

Inspector Hanover turned toward him with measured calm. “Major Archibald Butt, I am Inspector Hanover, Scotland Yard. These are the ship’s Master-at-Arms. The man who served you drinks during this voyage—Sergeant Daniel Wittle—is a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on special assignment.”

He motioned toward the man now watching from the shadows. “And this is Mr. Randolph Thule, His Majesty’s Intelligence Service.”

Major Butt stiffened. “Titles are fine,” he said, voice sharp. “But I’ll ask again—what in God’s name is going on?”

Hanover folded his arms.

“Captain Wiser is being taken into custody for espionage, theft of classified government documents, and attempting to pass intelligence to foreign agents.”

The words hung in the cold air like frost on steel.

Hanover’s gaze moved slowly over the Major. “For the moment, you are not under arrest. Nor are you a suspect.”

Major Butt drew himself up, jaw clenched.

“I should hope not!” he hissed, but the edge of indignation in his voice had dulled. A shadow of unease flickered in his brow, as though he had just realized the true scale of what he had stepped into.

And somewhere in the steel belly of the ship, beneath layers of wood, luxury, and whispered secrets, another game of shadows had begun.

.

“We have confirmation,” Inspector Hanover said coldly, eyes narrowing. “The captain’s going down into the hold to make a statement—one way or another.”

Captain Wiser barely had time to react as three men closed in around him. One of the Masters-at-Arms led the descent into the lower decks, with Daniel and a quiet deckhand in tow. The echo of their footsteps rang hollow against the metal stairwell. Some steps sounded commanding and others frail and full of fear.

Agent Thule had vanished—his absence ominous, like a shadow that had simply shifted out of frame.

Up top, Hanover remained to wring what he could from the other American officer. Time was a luxury they no longer had.

Two crewmen loitered outside the heavy cargo hold doors, their postures stiff, faces pale.

“Two lunatics already inside,” one whispered as the others approached. “Waiting on the guest of honour.”

“That’ll be all,” the Master-at-Arms said briskly, brushing past.

Inside, the hold smelled of oil, sea salt, and something sharp and metallic. Wiser pushed back, eyes wild. “I demand to see Major Butt! This is unlawful detention!”

But as he turned toward the door, it was far too late.

A figure burst from the shadows and grabbed the captain by one shoulder and hurled him across the room like a bag of rice. He landed hard against the makeshift cot. The man moving toward him no longer resembled a government official. Dressed in a butcher’s apron streaked with unnameable stains and gloves thick as furnace mittens, Agent Thule now moved like something out of a nightmare.

His golden hair slicked back, face clean-shaven, he grinned—too wide. “Texan by blood. Government by occupation,” he drawled. “But traitors?” He chuckled darkly. “Well, they’re just my hobby.”

Captain Wiser, shaking, looked around the room. He still had his jacket on. Thule stepped closer.

“You’ll want to take that off,” he said softly. “Gets warm… under the bucket.”

Wiser’s protests turned into curses, but eventually he stripped down to his shirt and undershirt. Thule gestured. The men bound him to the cot—wrist, ankle, wrist, ankle. Tight.

Thule snapped his fingers. A metal bucket was placed squarely on the captain’s chest.

“Let’s make this simple,” Thule said, kneeling beside him. His voice is now silk. “Tell me who you were selling to you worthless piece of garbage? Where are the missing documents?”

Wiser’s eyes locked on the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Go to hell.”

A small, amused breath escaped Thule. “Captain, I enjoy moments like this, you sir, are already in HELL!”

He reached into a sack near his feet and slowly—deliberately produced a large rat. The rodent squirmed in his gloved hands, nose twitching in the low cargo hold light. Its front claws are moving all about, trying to get its freedom.

Wiser’s mouth parted. Horror grew across his face, and his eyes began to weep.

“They’re excellent little motivators,” Thule said softly, letting the rat sniff the cold rim of the bucket. “You see, heat can make these little critters go stark raving mad.. And when they panic—well, they only have one way to escape.”

He raised the rat so Wiser could see its claws.

“I can start with wax... or metal-on-metal banging. Or, if you prefer, we can skip the foreplay.”

“You’re mad! Somebody, for the love of God, stop this, I am an officer in the United States Army,” Wiser shrieked, pulling against the restraints.

But no one moved. The silence was worse than any shouting.

Thule tilted his head. “You’re choosing ‘no wax’? Brave.”

He dropped the rat into the bucket, sealed it with a sickening clang, and pressed it down firmly. Wiser immediately began to thrash.

The rat, sensing motion, scurried—then stopped. Then scratched.

Wiser let out a deathly shriek as his body twisted about.

“You have two options,” Thule whispered, now at Wiser’s ear. “Tell me where the documents are and who your contact is… or let our furry friend dig his tunnel.”

More screams rang out, his body still twisting, pulling at the straps that held him. Then gasping and finally words of confession.

Broken words.

A few minutes later, Daniel stood outside the hold, heart pounding. When he saw the Inspector and Major Butt approaching through the long hallway of crates and shadows, he moved quickly to intercept them.

The Major insisted on going inside, it was his officer they were holding.

Together, they passed the Renault automobile and approached the back of the hold.

Captain Wiser sat up right now, sweating, pale, visibly shaken. A flask of brandy trembled in his bound hands. A rough bandage across his stomach was stained nearly through with blood. Thule stood beside him, wiping his gloves with a cloth as though drying after a light supper.

“Perfect timing,” Thule said, eyes glinting. “Captain Wiser, tell your commanding officer what you just told me.”

Wiser turned to Major Butt, eyes glassy. His voice cracked like rotted wood. His hands and legs were shaking as the words began to form.

“You must… understand.”

Thule’s voice cut through the cargo hold like a blade:” Need I summon my friend again, Captain?”

Captain Wiser’s eyes flicked to the cold steel bucket on the floor. He paled. “No—no! Major, please—I confess! I’ve been selling documents and items… as we travelled through Europe. But not to foreign governments!”

The Major recoiled. “What?”

“I owed debts, you see—gambling debts. Family… things I had to fix. I was close to clearing it all.”

The Major stepped forward, ripping away the towel from Wiser’s torso. Beneath, angry red scratches and bite marks bloomed across his flesh.

“You tortured him,” the Major hissed.

“Excuse me, Major,” Thule interjected smoothly, unbothered. “Sergeant Wittle, the time?”

Daniel, standing rigid, answered quietly. “Nine p.m., sir.”

Inspector Hanover took a long, slow breath, then addressed the room.

“By tomorrow morning, your Captain will have the chance to redeem himself by completing the handoff to his contact aboard. We'll follow. Quietly.”

One of the Masters-at-Arms nodded. “I’ll assign two reliable men to guard him. And get the ship’s surgeon to tend to his wounds.”

“Excellent,” said Hanover, tipping his bowler. “Let’s have this wrapped up by lunchtime. Dinner on the 13th is on me, gentlemen.”

Daniel followed as Wiser was escorted to a crew room near the Master-at-Arms' office. This deck—“E”—was familiar to Daniel; it housed most of the working crew. A guard took post outside the room. The others dispersed, heading above deck to send coded messages, or to the Smoking Lounge for brandy and cigars—politics was exhausting work.

Daniel remained with the prisoner, awaiting the ship’s doctor. Dr. William O’Loughlin—a seasoned sea physician—entered moments later. Upon examining Wiser’s wounds, he raised his brows. “Rodents? Claw marks? You mean to tell me this was part of an interrogation?”

“I’ll be briefed in full come morning,” the doctor muttered, clearly disturbed.

Later, Daniel made his way up to the Smoking Lounge, only to find Inspector Hanover and the Major deep in conversation with Thule. Their brandies were half-full. The safe in Thule’s possession now held the damning documents—proof of espionage, if not outright treason. A message had already gone out to London and Washington: situation under control.

But control, Daniel would soon realize, is an illusion.

A crewman sidled up beside him and whispered, “We’re not supposed to be up here off-duty… but… word is we struck something. Iceberg. Officers are checking damage.”

Daniel immediately shared the news with the others.

Hanover frowned. “Strange. One of the ship’s officers was here moments ago. Disappeared without a word.”

The conversation darkened. It was decided—quietly, but firmly—that Captain Wiser might need to be moved again if the situation deteriorated.

Just then, a steward burst into the lounge, face ashen.

“Gentlemen… you need to come up on deck. Now.”

Thule arrived seconds later. His voice was taut. “It appears our evening just got a great deal more complicated.”

Daniel sprinted back to “E” Deck. What he saw chilled him to the bone: the gates sealing off the Third-Class passenger areas were locked. He flagged down a fleeing steward.

“Orders from above,” the man gasped. “First Class off first… then Second… Third if there’s time.”

There was no guard. Only the creeping rise of cold seawater.

Daniel’s instincts took over. He found a Master-at-Arms hurrying from his office. The man, eyes grim, handed Daniel a revolver.

“Panic’s coming,” he said. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

Daniel returned to Wiser, who was sitting upright, face pale.

“You want to redeem yourself?” Daniel asked. “Help me unlock the Third-Class gate.”

To his surprise, Wiser nodded. “Let’s move.” Some part of him still had the hint of an officer and gentleman.

Together, they reached the locked gate. Daniel raised the revolver. Bang. The lock shattered.

“Stand back!” Wiser shouted as the mob surged forward. Water was now ankle-deep.

Daniel and Wiser pushed upward through the chaos. As they reached the upper decks, the haunting strains of music floated through the air. Somewhere, a quartet was still playing.

But Captain Wiser had vanished again swallowed by the panic.

Daniel searched the promenade until a young steward handed him a life jacket. He continued upward, finally reaching “B” Deck, where the restaurant owner, Luigi, sat calmly at a tilted table sipping wine.

“We need to leave!” Daniel insisted.

“I heard you’re some kind of foreign agent,” Luigi said with a smile. “One glass. Then we go.”

Daniel sat, swallowed two, maybe three glasses. Then—blackness.

A blow from behind. He collapsed.

When he awoke, seawater was swirling at his feet. A child cried nearby. He grabbed the boy, passed him to a dishwasher scrambling by.

And then—Captain Wiser.

The man stood over him, grinning darkly.

“Your turn now, Sergeant. You tied me down once… now I tie you down.”

Daniel awoke once more, except his wrists were lashed to a group of deck chairs as the deck tilted beneath him. He was sliding—slowly—into the freezing black.

He fought free as the Atlantic swallowed the deck. Luggage and corpses floated past. He found part of a deck umbrella and used it to paddle away from the wreckage.

Through the chaos, he saw Guy, the young waiter, swimming desperately toward him.

“Take it!” Daniel shouted, extending the umbrella shaft.

Guy grabbed hold.

And then, the lights of the Titanic flickered and died.

“Stay with me!” the French waiter shouted. “You are not going to die beside me tonight!”

Mr. Whyte quietly closed his notebook.

“Did you ever see the captain again?” he asked softly.

Daniel’s eyes lingered on the horizon outside the window, distant and grey.

“Not after that night,” he murmured. “He disappeared into the water… like so many damned others.”

.

““I awoke on the Mackay-Bennett. Lucky, I suppose.” Daniel’s voice was low, steady. “No, I never saw any of them again.”

Sir William Turnbull tapped ash from his cigarette into a silver tray. “Curious, the French waiter. Guy, was it?”

Daniel nodded once. “He died shortly after we were taken aboard the Carpathia. Internal bleeding, they said. He saved my life.”

“A pity.” Sir William stood, brushing his coat into place with clinical efficiency. “Sergeant Wittle, you are not to speak of these events again, except maybe to your government. Nothing to the papers, Not to your horse or your other red-coated mates.. Not even to your conscience, if you can manage it. Officially, no espionage took place. No documents were smuggled. Just another regrettable maritime disaster… and a waste of the Crown’s money.”

Daniel gave a faint, weary smile. “As you English say… ‘Capital idea, old chap,’” as he waved his empty glass.

Mr. Whyte smirked at the remark, then stood beside Turnbull. “Be seeing you, Sergeant. Maybe someday I will get up to the wide north .”

The two men exited without a backward glance.

Moments later, the quiet hum of the medical bay returned. An orderly entered with a clipboard, adjusting the blankets at the foot of Daniel’s cot.

“You’ll stay here overnight. Easier on the lungs.”

Daniel barely glanced up—until he heard the voice.

“You didn’t think an Agent of the Crown would go down that easily, did you?”

His eyes rose to meet a familiar smirk. The orderly’s cap, now tilted back, revealed a face he knew too well.

“Thule,” Daniel whispered.

The agent winked. “You never saw me tonight. But maybe—just maybe—you’ll see me in a week or two, always wanted to see the colonies.”

Daniel opened his mouth, then closed it. The words were gone.

Thule smiled, a quiet, tired thing. “We don’t get medals for this work, Daniel. Just silence.”

And just like that, he slipped away through the curtain and into the ward beyond.

Daniel leaned back into the stiff hospital pillow, he thought he felt the soft creak of the ship rocking beneath him. Somewhere on the ocean, the wreck of the Titanic lay buried beneath miles of black water. A ship of secrets that would never truly leave his memories.

He closed his eyes and thought of the rough coastline of Canada and how much he longed to be home.

Author's Notes

A great deal of research went into this story. Many characters' names are created, but many background characters and events follow the historical record of the RMS Titanic. The original story I created has somewhat changed, but the facts about the Titanic have not.

If you enjoyed my story please comment and follow my writing.

Bruce Curle 2025