Page 60 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

How was that possible?

The statistics were horrifying.

“My God,” whispered Clara. “One thousand and twelve people died?”

She was reading from Myrna’s laptop, as were the others. Huddled around it, as though it were a hearth. But if they were seeking warmth and comfort, they were in the wrong place.

“Eight hundred forty of them were passengers,” said Myrna. “More than the Titanic.”

“More than the Lusitania a year later,” said Ruth.

“Of the 138 children on board, only four survived,” said Reine-Marie. She looked into the glistening eyes of her friends. “Four.”

“All ninety-six children in third class died.” Myrna continued the litany, her voice hushed.

“Jesus wept,” whispered Ruth. Though she could have wished he’d done more than weep. A life raft would have been nice. More time would have helped.

Avoiding the sinking altogether would have been an idea.

But it had happened and then been forgotten. How was that possible?

Now that was another reason to weep.

And weep the women did.

The Empress of Ireland was part of the Canadian Pacific fleet, Armand read.

By May of 1914, she’d made ninety-five successful round-trip crossings between Québec and Liverpool. Many of them on the leg from England to Canada carrying so-called Home Children. British orphans bound for farms in the west of the young country. Supposedly to be taken from the filthy slums of England to be raised as milk-fed, free-range, happy family members.

In reality, most became unpaid, uncared-for laborers. It was a disgrace that the nation had still not come to grips with.

When the Empress docked in Québec City, she let off her latest load of passengers, including another group of Home Children.

On the afternoon of May 28, the next passengers boarded the great ocean liner. They were from all over Canada. Some from the United States. Some returning home to Britain. A few heading to homes and families in other countries.

There was a large contingent from the Salvation Army going to their congress in England.

There was much excitement when some of the passengers recognized a famous face. Laurence Irving, the son of the celebrated Victorian stage actor Sir Henry Irving and an actor himself, was onboard with his wife and stage partner, Mabel Hackney.

Neither survived the sinking.

Just after midnight, when most of the passengers had gone to their berths and were fast asleep, the Empress reached Pointe-au-Père, Québec, and let off the pilot. By that stage in any voyage, the most difficult, certainly the most dangerous, part of the journey was behind them. They were headed for the open ocean. No need for the pilot to guide them.

It was a calm night. The stars bright overhead. The pilot called up to the bridge that they should have no more trouble. Clear sailing, he said, and waved them on their way.

A few minutes later, when underway again, the Empress spotted the lights of another ship. It was the SS Storstad, out of Norway, carrying a load of coal destined for Montréal.

Likewise, the Storstad saw the masthead lights of the Empress up ahead.

All was normal. All under control. The visibility perfect.

On the bridge of the Empress, Captain Kendall judged the Storstad to be about six nautical miles away. After continuing for a while, the Empress altered her course to head downriver to the gulf and then out to the Atlantic. This was a maneuver she’d done many, many times before.

After the Empress made this change of course, the masthead lights of Storstad were still visible, about four nautical miles away now. Captain Kendall intended to pass starboard to starboard, as was routine and expected. That way there’d be no risk of collision.

On the Storstad, the first officer had the same thought. He’d easily spotted the ship, though hadn’t identified her, and planned to pass starboard to starboard, as was the rule.

All was going smoothly until a fog bank rolled in.