The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  The icy numbness of the night was wearing off into an aching in all her joints.

  She knew when the baby had been declared unharmed by her experience, she should have spoken up to the ship’s doctor and confessed her mistake. But still she couldn’t spit out the words that would separate them. Perhaps later, when they docked, she would tell the truth, but she knew in her heart the deed was done.

  ‘You were given to me, the captain’s gift. It’s meant to be, you and me. Mum’s the word!’ she whispered into the baby’s ear. The baby was already nudging May’s chest for milk, fidgeting in her blankets and staring up at her in hunger.

  ‘Ella wants a feed,’ smiled her new friend, Celeste Parkes. The name suddenly came back to May.

  ‘I’ve no milk left,’ May muttered. Her own child had been weaned months ago.

  ‘I’m not surprised, the shock alone will have stopped your breast milk,’ Celeste replied. ‘Let me find her a bottle.’

  Out of earshot, May bent over the baby. ‘I’m not giving you to no strangers after all we’ve been through together. I’ll be taking care of you from now on.’

  The ship was heading back towards the site of the disaster. The passengers were warned not to stay on deck and it was raining, but May still refused to go below. She could see white objects bobbing on the horizon: wreckage and bodies. She turned her back on the sea. There was no point tormenting herself. Joe was never coming back, nor little Ellen. She felt sick at the thought of them out there somewhere at the mercy of the waves. How could she leave them and sail away? How can I live without you both? What shall I do now?

  Suddenly she knew she hadn’t the courage to go on to Idaho alone. She couldn’t go back to Bolton either. How could she explain the change in Ella’s size and colouring? Ella. Mrs Parkes had misheard her name but this suited May. Ella Smith was close enough to the name on her own baby’s birth certificate but different enough not to cause a shard of pain to pierce her heart every time she uttered it. Already she was proving adept in planning this terrible deceit.

  Her mind was racing now. The two of them must go as far away from the sea as possible and from the memory of this terrible night, somewhere where no one knew them, where she could start over, and live this lie.

  Hanging over the railings, she sobbed into the wind. I have to do this, fill this emptiness in my heart with a bigger secret. There was no hope for her now, only a lifetime of pain, but Ella was a remedy of sorts. May could hardly breathe for the ache in her ribs, that wave of relief to be alive, yet guilt, fury and loss were drowning her at the same time. She must turn aside from her own grief and live for this baby in her arms. In the purple twilight between darkness and daylight, she stared out to sea, wild-eyed, bewildered like a frightened child watching the sea crash against the ship, her eyes searching for something that was no longer there.

  It came to her then that this was the most she could make of life now, a lonely journey carrying such a momentous secret in her heart, crippled with pain and guilt, with only this tiny mite in her arms. Numb as she was, part of her mind was alert, reasoning her actions. God be with you, my darlings. I hope you understand there’s a little one here who needs me now. You will remain in my heart for as long as I live but now I have another purpose. She had survived to take care of this baby. Ella would be her reason to live.

  18

  Later on that long morning came the muster roll of survivors.

  ‘Your name?’ said the officer, consulting his list, making sure every rescued passenger was accounted for.

  ‘Mary Smith, but I am called May,’ said May, hesitating, looking at Celeste. ‘My husband, Joseph Smith, is twenty-seven, tall and dark. He’s a carpenter.’ She looked up hopefully.

  He didn’t meet her eye. ‘The baby?’

  ‘Ellen Smith . . . little Ella, we call her. The captain saved her,’ she added almost proudly.

  ‘She’s right, ask the fireman on our lifeboat. He tried to drag him in . . . but he swam off,’ Celeste added.

  ‘I see. And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Celestine Parkes, Mrs Grover Parkes from Akron, Ohio. I was with this lady in the same lifeboat. Do you have a Mrs Grant on board?’

  The officer shook his head. ‘We’ve not mustered everyone yet. The Carpathia will sweep over the site and then return to New York so I suggest you go down into the dining room and take instruction from there,’ he ordered. ‘There will be a service of remembrance shortly.’

  ‘But this lady needs new clothes, as you can see,’ Celeste insisted.

  ‘The women passengers aboard will see to that when you go below deck. This is no place to be out with a baby,’ he insisted. ‘Everything you need is down there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Celeste muttered as the officer rushed to another group of survivors.

  May was reluctant to descend. ‘I can’t go down there. I can’t move.’

  ‘I’ll help you down. Let me take little Ella. She’s such a picture,’ she said. ‘So dark . . . not a bit like you.’ Celeste paused, hoping she didn’t take offence. May was the sort of girl you would never notice in a crowd. Celeste could read the panic on her face as she relived terrible memories.

  ‘Joe was dark. They said there was gypsy blood way back when the weavers walked,’ May replied, not looking at her. It was an effort to say her husband’s name out loud.

  ‘Really? Those eyes are as dark as coal. My son, Roderick, is so fair his eyes are almost silver. He’s safe at home with his father. I was back in England attending my mother’s funeral in Lichfield.’ Celeste stopped in her tracks. She didn’t normally tell strangers her business but they were hardly strangers now. They had shared the worst a person could face. ‘Do call me Celeste . . . I’m afraid my parents got carried away. I was the last, the only girl in a tribe of brothers, and my mother thanked the heavens for my appearance!’

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother. It must be a wrench to live so far from home,’ May replied as she gingerly took one step at a time below deck.

  ‘Papa is well cared for with the other retired clergyman in Cathedral Close. I have to go back to be with my little boy. He’s only two and I’ve missed him so much.’

  ‘We were heading out to somewhere in Idaho. I had the address but it’s gone now. Where’s Akron?’ May, clutching the baby, edged down the corridor to a door opening into a vast dining room where people were sitting around looking lost.

  ‘It’s in Ohio, close to a city called Cleveland. It’s not exactly pretty or ancient, like Lichfield, but I suppose I call it home. America is huge; you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m going back to England. I can’t stay here, not now,’ May replied.

  ‘Don’t make any decisions yet. See how things turn out.’

  ‘But I want to go back. There’s nothing for us here. This was Joe’s dream, never mine.’ Her lip trembled. She’d never felt so alone, so far away from all she knew. ‘They’ll give us a return ticket, won’t they?’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’ Celeste could see the panic on her face and wanted to comfort her. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ll help you. The White Star Line must compensate you for your loss. Now I must go in search of news of Mrs Grant . . . I do hope she survived.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been so kind.’ May started to shake again and Celeste found her a corner to sit down. ‘Joe had such plans. I can’t believe this is happening. What did we do to deserve this, Celestine?’

  ‘We did nothing but trust ourselves to the good offices of the White Star Line. They will have to account in a court of law for all this. Now you must rest. You’ll feel more yourself with fresh clothes and a warm bath. I’ll go with Ella and see if my old lady was rescued. Your baby’s safe with me and may possibly tug some heartstrings for information.’

  ‘No!’ May shouted. ‘I mean, please, the baby stays with me. I don’t want to let her out of my sight.’ May clutched the bundle of blankets for dear life. ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am, but we’ll stay put.’r />
  The poor girl couldn’t let Ella out of her sight. It must be the shock, Celeste thought as she went back on deck. Looking up, she saw that the ship’s flag flew at half mast. Soon they would all be gathering down below for the remembrance service. She didn’t envy the person having to lead such a sorrowful gathering but the dead must be honoured.

  19

  May was glad to be alone, away from prying questions, however kindly meant. Celeste’s offer to take Ella had rattled her resolve. Should she disappear, take Ella to the purser’s office and confess her mistake? Should she give up the baby and hide away from the world with just her grief for company? She could claim her dreadful error was brought about by shock. There would be no harm done and she needn’t face the lady again. Celestine. What a name to have to cart around.

  She kept bouncing the baby on her knee, barely hoping someone would recognize her but no one did, walking past with dazed looks on their faces. She has no one and you have no one, where’s the harm in passing her off as your own? The battle for and against keeping Ella raged in May’s mind like a fever. They had to salvage something out of this terrible event. If Ella was orphaned, she might be adopted by rich Americans and given every luxury far beyond May’s means. What did she have? She had nothing to offer her but love.

  But what if the baby was dumped in an orphanage? They would do their best for her but house mothers were busy and surrounded by needy children. There was never enough attention to go around. May could all too easily recall the pushing and shoving, the second-hand toys, the same grey uniform and regimented routines. Even hair was bobbed and cropped to save time. No one was going to cut off these beautiful black curls.

  May took a deep breath. What was done was done. There was no going back now.

  20

  After the remembrance service, the survivors crowded together in the First Class saloon. May and Celeste stood in silence with the other shocked passengers and crew. It was whispered that some survivors had died on the ship and would be buried later in the afternoon. Celeste, who’d had no information so far, made for the purser’s office to check once again if anyone had heard of Mrs Grant. The news was good. She was somewhere in the ship’s infirmary suffering from exposure. Celeste rushed to visit her but the old lady was asleep under sedation. Then she made for the laundry, collected Ella’s dry clothes and was given a bright dress from one of the Carpathia’s passengers, a soft woollen garment with darted bodice that fitted her like a glove. She swapped it for her own black garment, which was pressed and sponged down. Instinctively Celeste knew that May, so recently widowed, would prefer to wear mourning rather than the brighter colour, and Celeste was willing to pass on to her the warm and dry black dress.

  She clutched the baby clothes and sniffed the fresh scent of clean laundry. How could plain little May have produced such a beauty? How she longed for a chance to have another child of her own but Grover was adamant that one son and heir was an elegant sufficiency.

  Their life in Akron seemed so far away. She thought back to when they’d met in London, at a dinner party given by her grandfather, a retired bishop, in London, for visiting American Episcopalians. Grover had been on a business trip for the Diamond Rubber Company and had come along with a friend, sweeping her off her feet with roses and gifts, putting a ring on her finger before she had a chance to blink, and had her on the first ship to New York. It all seemed such a long time ago.

  All marriages take time to settle down, but theirs was taking longer than most. Their worlds were far apart but Roddy was such a joy. She must wire to tell them she was safe but how would Grover understand what she’d just been through? The screams of those drowning souls would echo in her ears for the rest of her days. The sight of the sinking ship flashed before her eyes as if it was still happening. How could things ever be the same after this?

  As Celeste passed through the dining room she noticed a group of women sitting round on the floor, wrapped in furs and paisley shawls, listening to a large woman holding forth.

  ‘Now, ladies, we can’t just sit here and do nothing. Before we leave this ship we must form a committee and make some firm resolutions. This disaster is going to shake the world and heads must roll for what went on last night. Here are all these poor souls without a stitch on their backs, not a cent in their pockets. Who’s going to see they get justice? How will they make out when we dock in New York if we don’t get to work right now?’

  ‘But, Mrs Brown, the White Star Line is responsible for their welfare, not us,’ said another lady, standing by her side.

  The stout woman shook her head and held up her hand. ‘I’ve known what it’s like not to have a dime to my name. America can make men rich or make beggars of them. I was lucky, my husband struck gold, but I know one thing: if you don’t shout, you don’t get!’

  Celeste moved closer. The woman was on fire with indignation, voicing just the sort of sentiments she was feeling herself. Surprisingly she felt bold enough to add her tuppence worth.

  ‘You’re so right. I was on a boat where a poor woman was dragged from the sea. Everything she possesses is gone – her husband, their tickets, their money. Her baby was rescued, praise the Lord, but she is destitute.’

  Mrs Brown turned towards the new arrival and smiled. ‘There, you see . . . Welcome. Don’t you just love that accent? Come and join us, sister. We need women like you to stand up and be counted. Who will thank Captain Rostron and the crew of the Carpathia if we don’t? Who will see that the immigrants get recompensed, if not us? When we land, it’s going to be chaos at first. Everyone will want to help now, but when the poor souls disperse, someone has to follow up and see that their needs are met.’

  ‘But, Margaret, dear, isn’t it too soon to be taking responsibility for such things? The government will want to do that,’ said a First Class passenger wrapped in fox furs.

  ‘Ethel, the government is an ass! Pardon my French. It’s women who do the caring. Always have, always will. We must make sure that no one goes hungry because of this disaster. Kids must get a proper education. How many pas have been lost, rich ones as well as poor? How many orphans has the Titanic made? Who’ll bury those poor frozen bodies of the poor? It all needs a woman’s compassion. Charity can be awful cold. I’ll pass round a paper. Sign your names, add your addresses and what you are prepared to do and give for the unfortunates amongst us.’

  ‘But some of us have lost everything too,’ one woman sobbed.

  ‘I know, sister, but the good Lord helps those who help themselves. It’s better to get organized now, before we all scatter to the far corners of this great country of ours. You must spread the word, sisters! Tell your story and get the tins rattling. Doing something is better than weeping into your coffee.’

  Celeste started to clap, enthused by Margaret Brown’s rousing words. She couldn’t stand by and not get involved, not when she had seen how bad things were for the sick and destitute on board. There were those so shocked they wandered around like ghosts. How would they ever stand up for themselves?

  When the impromptu meeting dispersed, Mrs Brown made her way to Celeste, a beaming smile on her face. ‘And where’re you heading, sister?’

  ‘Back to Akron, Ohio. I like what you said. I’d like to help,’ Celeste replied.

  ‘I heard there are some poor folks heading for Rubber Town who lost their menfolk. We lost Walter Douglas of Quaker Oats fame. His wife is over there, do you know her?’ She pointed to a woman weeping in a corner. ‘Still in shock but she’ll come round. I want to make sure we thank the crew properly, not just some letter but a real token of our appreciation,’ she added.

  ‘Like a medal, perhaps?’ Celeste offered.

  ‘You’ve got it! A medal struck for each of the crew presented at a ceremony . . . not now, of course. It’ll take some organizing . . . you interested?’ Margaret Brown fixed her with a look that demanded no excuses.

  ‘But I live in Ohio.’

  ‘So? I’m out west . . . There are train
s. We’ll hold another meeting before we leave. Welcome aboard. You are . . . ?’

  ‘Mrs Grover Parkes.’

  ‘But who are you? First names only on my watch . . .’

  ‘Celestine Rose . . . Celeste . . .’ She hesitated, nervous now about what she was letting herself in for.

  ‘What a heavenly name,’ Margaret Brown chuckled as she led her round the room chatting to other supporters. ‘You’re English. There’s a lot of them on board, see if you can corner them and don’t take no for an answer. If they won’t help, at least get a donation off them or an address where we can badger them later with our appeal.’

  Celeste sighed at this gutsy larger-than-life lady who was making a beeline for the Astor contingent. The confidence was bursting out of her.

  If only she could be more like that, she mused. If only she didn’t feel every ounce of her own self worth had been ground out of her over these past years by Grover’s constant criticism. He’d take one look at Mrs Brown and dismiss her as an interfering do-gooder with more money than sense. Well, he was wrong. She was the sort of woman who got things done and Celeste would be sticking close to her no matter what, hoping some of that brash, go-getting confidence might rub off on herself.

  21

  May was dozing when Celeste returned and she awoke with a start. She fingered the two-piece black dress folded over Celeste’s arm with a sigh. ‘How can I ever thank you? What lovely cloth.’

  Celeste said nothing about how important it was to Grover that she dressed to suit her station in life. She must always look like a suitable consort to a successful businessman, clad in only the best fabrics and trimmings. Appearance was everything to Grover, Celeste thought darkly. And as the Titanic so terribly demonstrated, appearances could be deceptive.

  ‘Let’s see how it fits you. We can always take up the hem.’

  May hung back. ‘There are women walking round in skirts made out of blankets over there. This is too good for me.’