The Derelict

Under ordinary circumstances, the final evening of a cruise aboard
the luxury turbo-electric ocean liner SS Morro Castle was a
splendid event. Hundreds of lady and gentlemen passengers would
gather in the Grand Ballroom in their finest evening attire for the
customary Farewell Dinner, where veteran sailor Captain Willmott
would captivate his guests with salty tales from his years at sea
over endless glasses of champagne. Reality, bills, hangovers, and
economic depression were all far away, on the other end of tomorrow
morning's gangplank in New York. But on the night of Friday, the
7th of September 1934, circumstances aboard ship were not ordinary.
Passengers were indeed draped in their finery in the ballroom, yet
the captain's chair at the captain's table was conspicuously
vacant. He had somewhat suddenly felt unwell. And atop the typical
worries lurking outside were two near-hurricane-force storms, one
approaching from the north and another from the south. The agitated
sea and gusty winds were beginning to cause some sway in the decks,
putting already-eaten entrées in danger of unscheduled egress. The
surly weather was bound to be a considerable distraction.
Nevertheless, the Morro Castle was a large and modern cruise ship
quite capable of handling inclement weather. Chief Warms was in
command of the bridge for the night shift, and he knew well enough
to keep her slicing through the sea near top speed to minimize
passenger discomfort. The ship made 20 knots against a gale-force
headwind, so shuffleboard was out of the question, but in the Grand
Ballroom, festooned with colorful flags and balloons, drinks were
drunk and rugs were cut. The waitstaff served a steady supply of
Cuban lobster broiled in butter, ham in champagne sauce, roast
turkey, and candied sweet potatoes. The ship’s orchestra served a
steady supply of dance tunes. Just before 8:00pm, the orchestra
abruptly stopped playing mid-song. The previously foxtrotting
passengers turned to see what was the matter, and there at the
bandstand they saw cruise director Bob Smith beckoning for
everyone's attention. He announced that he had some sad news to
share. Their captain, Robert Willmott, had died suddenly in his
quarters. The official farewell party and dance contest were
therefore canceled, but the orchestra and barkeeps would remain on
station late into the evening for passengers who wished to linger.
Smith instructed the passengers to have a pleasant evening, and
departed. The ship's doctor had determined the captain's cause of
death as "heart attack brought on by acute indigestion." He had
been just 52 years old. William Warms and the other officers were
shocked and saddened by the turn of events, but there was also an
unmistakable undertow of apprehension on the bridge. In recent
weeks Captain Willmott had confided in some of his fellow officers
that he had reason to believe that a "red" was aboard the ship
plotting revenge against the Morro Castle and her captain. Although
Willmott had never seemed particularly prone to paranoia, his
remarks had been dismissed as such. The wild sabotage speculations
were more difficult to ignore under the new circumstances, but
scrutiny would have to wait. Chief Warms--now Acting Captain
Warms--was understandably anxious. It was he who had discovered the
captain's body face-down and motionless in his bathtub, and he was
having trouble keeping the image out of his mind. Now he was
obliged to assume command during some of the worst sailing weather
he had ever seen, and he had already been awake for over
twenty-four hours. Even if sleep had been possible under such
conditions, there was no time for it. It was going to be a long
night.