He would forever miss that ship. For fifty years, Captain Edward J. Smith had commanded the Admiral, the jewel of the British fleet that sailed to the Indies from Bristol. On board, he and God alone were masters. The Admiral sometimes transported passengers, but primarily it shipped precious cargo: salt, fabrics, spices and tea. What would become of England without tea? Edward J. Smith carried the responsibility for his compatriots’ beloved tea time, and he had crossed the ocean many times over for a splash of milk in a china cup. For a scone and a squeeze of lemon he had faced down storms and raging waters. Luckily his violin came everywhere with him, in the cabin or on the bridge. When the dark and impenetrable sky was cleaved by lightning, he’d play a Schubert sonata. When the horizon was azure blue, and the sun beat upon his forehead, he played a Mozart symphony. When his heart commanded him, the Captain played Bach. But outside his country house, in his home county of Yorkshire, he played Beethoven. The children stopped as they passed, astonished, and the little country mice would sometime linger to listen, baskets in their hands.
Still, he missed the great ship. At the age of eighty-four, the old captain remained lucid. With violin in hand, he recalled a life spent manoeuvring that giant of the seas over the ocean to Mumbai. Those memories were sacred to him. Early in the morning, even before the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, he would smoke his cigar on the deck. Its bitter scent mingled with the briny spray of the ocean. It brought him peace, smoking a cigar with a hot cup of tea. Then he would watch the horizon fill with daylight, admiring the red, orange and turquoise lines painted across the sky. Then the young sailors began to wake. A crew of thirty young adventurers obeyed his orders. Cats scuttled over the deck between the legs of the sailors. They were more practical than beloved, for they ate the mice and cockroaches that swarmed in the hold. Time passed quickly. If only he could sail the passage to India once more, he thought as his bow scraped over the strings, and he pictured himself holding the brass helm, his gaze lost in the infinite sea.
When they set sail from Bristol it was always with great pomp. The naval officers’ wives would gather on the dock to wave them off with their hankies. They cried as their men set off on a mission that would endure several years. Once the gangway was raised, the foghorn would sound. It was the beginning of a great adventure. The chimneys belched great white plumes of steam. The prow cut through the waves, and the sailors set to their work.
Winston Churchill said the sun never set on the British Empire, yet their journey would endure many long nights, and the many hidden faces of the moon would each look down in turn upon their long voyage. The days and nights ticked on like the pages of a book. The sailors were brave, and contended with terrifying storms. Their courage never failed, not when the waves shook the sides of the colossal ship, or when the prow smashed down upon the water, or when the deck was swallowed over. They had faith in their captain, you see.
India was another world, and he remembered the great structure that led into the port of Mumbai. It was a monumental arch, built in honour of King George V. It looked almost like a palace, a temple, a sacred place joining sea and land. Even before the boat had moored in Mumbai, hundreds of children would gather on the docks in the hopes of picking up a trinket from the Old World. They jumped into the water, giddy with joy at the arrival of the English, of men in fine suits and beautiful women. Once the Admiral had docked, the captain made his way to the Chor Bazaar in the old city to buy himself some spices. This was one of Mumbai’s most iconic locations, where anything could be found, where bright yellow spices mingled with mauve and emerald fabrics. The fishermen sold mullets and barracuda. Captain Edward J. Smith had seen it all, and it was in the Chor Bazaar that he had bartered for a price on this violin.
Alan Alfredo Geday