The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  Wells looked into Andrews’ face. “How long until we have matters in hand?”

  “Matters in hand? She’s been gutted along the greater part of her length. The lower decks forwards to F deck are awash. The squash court is flooded, and the water is rising too damn fast.”

  Wells made a quick calculation in his head. The iceberg had struck the ship on her port side. Historically, the Titanic had been snagged to starboard, receiving a glancing blow along the first three-hundred feet of her hull. The first four compartments and forwards boiler room had been damaged and in less than ten minutes the ship had flooded to fifteen feet.

  This time it appeared that more than four-hundred-and-fifty feet of hull had been torn along the port side. The consequences would be the same. It didn’t matter if it was the port or starboard side. It didn’t matter if the tear was an inch wide or a jagged gash. If more than five of the Titanic’s sixteen watertight compartments flooded, the ship could not remain afloat. And according to Andrews’ description, at least seven watertight compartments had been compromised.

  She was going to sink. Again.

  Wells cast about furiously in his mind. There was one possibility... something he’d read, something that might at least buy them time.

  Clouds of steam billowed up from below. The air was moist and thick in their lungs. Lightholler turned to his companions, suppressing a cough.

  “Any word from the wireless room, Charles?” Andrews asked.

  “None as yet. So far we’ve only been able to raise the Olympic. Everyone else appears to have switched off for the night.”

  “What about the Carpathia?” Wells urged. “Or the Californian?”

  Lightholler seemed to notice him for the first time. “What are you talking about?”

  The Californian was a tramp steamer that had been locked in a field of ice, allegedly in full view of the sinking Titanic. It had been the Carpathia that had rushed to the Titanic’s rescue. Captain Rostron had given the order to ‘go north like hell’. The Carpathia had arrived too late to save the ship, but had taken all seven-hundred-and-five of the survivors on board.

  Wells asked again, “Have we heard from the Carpathia? Is she coming?”

  “The only ship we have heard from is our sister ship and she is five-hundred miles away. Cape Race is attempting to contact other vessels,” Lightholler replied. He glanced at Andrews. “I had best be returning to the bridge. Is there anything I can tell Captain Smith?”

  “I have told him everything,” Andrews said softly.

  Lightholler nodded.

  Wells cleared his throat. It was worth a shot. “Perhaps if we kept moving?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lightholler said.

  “Perhaps if we kept the ship moving. We might take on less water.”

  Lightholler stared at him blankly.

  Andrews shook his head. “I don’t know, Jonathan,” he said. “I don’t know. It is impossible to say.”

  Wells continued hopefully. “Back in New York, we conducted a study on ship collisions. Projections suggested that ships with tears along their bow would ride higher, take on less water, if they kept in motion.”

  Lightholler shook his head. “I’m not familiar with that article.”

  Wells persisted. “The passengers might find it reassuring as well, if we were under steam.”

  He turned to look at Andrews. Suffused in the red reflection of the furnaces, the man’s face shone wetly. Condensed steam—or tears—streamed down his cheeks.

  “In the face of the damage we have sustained, I cannot be certain whether it will help or hinder our situation,” Andrews replied.

  They all fell silent.

  “I shall run it past Captain Smith,” Lightholler offered finally. He gave a brisk nod. “See you up top then,” he said, and he strode back the way they’d come.

  Water was coursing through the lower portion of the bulkhead, swirling at the feet of the engineers and boiler men.

  “What are you going to do now?” Wells asked Andrews. “I have to remain down here for the moment. There still may be a way we can purchase some time.”

  Wells left him in the boiler room.

  IV

  Scotland Road was empty.

  Wells imagined a low tide at its bow end, inexorably working its way up in frigid ripples to swallow them all. He spun around in the empty passage, aimless, and his eyes fell upon an axe cradled within a sealed glass cabinet. Above it a sign read “In case of Emergency, smash glass”. He lashed out with a booted heel. The glass cracked. He kicked again and it shattered, spraying his leg and chest. A shard stung his face. He stood breathing raggedly, staring at the broken cabinet, the axe that hung within.

  He leaned back against the wall and slowly sank to the floor. His hands were splayed out on the cold steel floor. Flecks of drying blood peppered his knuckles.

  Did I do all that I did just to end up here?

  A faint vibration teased his fingertips. He felt it through the heels of his boots. He spread his palms wide, confirming the fact. They were moving again.

  He raised himself off the floor uncertainly. “Well, what do you know?” he murmured. He brushed the flakes of broken glass from his coat and trousers. He looked up and down the corridor. Ahead lay the stairs to second class that he had descended. He started up the inclined passageway.

  On the D deck stairwell, crewmen stood shouting at a small crowd that had formed behind the flimsy barricade. The steerage passengers were calling back in their native tongues. Other members of the crew were erecting a small metal gate of trellised iron. One of them turned to see Wells on the staircase, surveying the scene. “Back in business?” he shouted.

  Wells shrugged and continued up the staircase. On C deck he glanced down the corridor that led to his cabin. Two men had a steward penned up against a wall. He couldn’t hear their words. The steward broke away from their rough embrace and continued walking up the passage, checking the cabins. The men, clad in a blend of dinner wear and nightshirts, observed the steward’s retreat. Dogs, lost in the rain.

  Approaching the boat deck, Wells could hear the rising clamour. More crewmen stood at the entrance to the second-class stairs and were arrayed further down the stairs. They blocked the passage of third-class passengers from below and first-class passengers from above. Pandemonium reigned. He broke through the assembly and dashed over to the starboard railing.

  Far below he could see a lifeboat in tow near the ship’s stern. Another drifted into view, caught in the froth of the ship’s wake. Its passengers were shouting at the crewmen who stood by the tiller, at the people at the ship’s railing.

  The ship was moving slowly. Five, ten knots per hour. He couldn’t be sure.

  An officer stood nearby at an empty lifeboat cradle. It was William Murdoch, the ship’s first officer. He was calling out to the crewman in the first lifeboat Wells had seen. Another officer ran up to join him, his uniform in disarray, his hat crushed under one arm.

  “Mr Murdoch,” he panted, “what should I do? I was asked to lower the lifeboats not ten minutes ago. Now we are making headway again.”

  “Lower your voice, man. Compose yourself.” Murdoch scowled. “Ensure that the lifeboats are ably manned. We can always return, or send another ship to retrieve them.”

  The dishevelled officer nodded frantically.

  “For the moment, though, keep the remaining lifeboats uncovered.”

  Wells made his way towards the stern. He descended the narrow stair to the poop deck. A few of the steerage passengers were already gathered there. He followed their gaze.

  The two lifeboats had both been drawn into the ship’s wake. The ropes securing them to the liner hung taut. The tiny craft rolled and swayed in white foam. They could not have been more than one-third full; all of the passengers were women, who sat gripping the gunnels. Each small crash of the lifeboats in the ship’s spume was punctuated by their cries.

  The officer appeared at Wells’ side and called o
ut to the crew manning the ropes. Two of them grabbed lengths of chain from piles of twisted cable at their feet. They threw the chains over the straining ropes and wrapped the metal links about their wrists. As one they stepped over the rail and balanced precariously there. They launched themselves from the ship’s stern, sliding down the ropes into the darkness. When it seemed as though they would crash into the small boats, they released the chains and dropped into the seething water. In a tangled flurry of arms and legs they were dragged into the boats.

  A cheer rose from the passengers on the poop and upper decks. Wells was surprised to find himself joining in.

  Crewmen were working on the secured portion of the ropes at the flagpole’s base, preparing to cast off. Wells stared down at the two small boats. They seemed so fragile in the wake of the mighty liner. In moments they would be released.

  His gaze shifted, up past the red flag that hung limply from the flagpole. The ship seemed to rise to the heavens. It stretched out before his tired eyes towards the horizon. Invulnerable. Indestructible. Unsinkable. For the first time he truly understood why the lifeboats had been undermanned. Who could leave this vast city of a ship for the insecurity of the small, frail craft that creaked and swung in the lifeboat davits? Even with everything he knew, the choice seemed unclear.

  Should he jump now and risk the cold waters? Try to make his way to one of the boats? He looked down at the water’s surface, trying to judge the distance in the gloom. His head swung crazily back and forth, from the ship to the lifeboats and back again.

  Beside him, two passengers rushed the railing. One swung himself over the top and stood there, facing the crowd. He met Wells’ eyes with a brief look of comprehension. A crewman swung a swarthy arm to grab at the passenger’s worn coat sleeve.

  There was a sharp twang as both ropes snapped free from their restraints, whistling through the icy air. The passenger’s face tore open in an ugly red weal. Its flayed remnant managed to convey his astonishment before he dropped into the ocean.

  There was a groan of dismay from the assembled crowd. Wells backed away from the railing, shaking his head. In the distance he could see the two small boats recede, lanterns swinging from their prows like fireflies courting in the gathering dark.

  V

  Most of the lifeboats on the port side had been lowered to the level of the boat deck. No more would be released until the ship was once again still. Passengers stood close by the cabin entrances, as far back from the railings as possible. In the cold, black night it seemed as though the amply lit bulkheads were their only sanctuary. The ship’s railing had become a border between the safety of the ship and the ocean’s abyss.

  Wells couldn’t remain still. A cacophony rang dully in his ears. The voices of the passengers and crew, mingled with the music of the band and the churn of the ship’s mighty propellers, formed a continuous howl that penetrated his brain. With every step, his perceptions jarred and staggered so that it appeared as though the ship was populated by drunkards or marionettes. He clenched and unclenched his fists by his sides as he walked, dazedly, towards the first-class promenade.

  Here, the crowds had thinned. He saw Aida and Isidor Straus standing in earnest conversation with a young woman. Aida was offering her a fur-lined coat. Further back, Archie Butt stood sharing a joke with Colonel Gracie. Widener stood alone. He was reading from an ancient cloth-bound book that fluttered in his small white hands. Wells knew the book’s title without a further glance. It was the only existing 1597 edition of Bacon’s Essays. He recalled the story of how Widener had purchased the volume. He’d joked with the bookseller, saying that should he ever be lost at sea the Bacon would go down with him, clasped to his heart. He’d been seated in a lifeboat when a companion reminded him of his oath. Widener had then returned to the sinking ship to find the precious work, never to be seen again.

  Wells weaved through the small groups without purpose and found himself standing outside the wireless room. He arrived just in time to see Captain Smith stoop through the small doorway. The captain was ashen-faced, staring vacantly ahead, seeing nothing. Wells approached hesitantly. What was there to say?

  I came back to save you all. With a pair of binoculars.

  Smith’s face told the entire dismal story. His hollow eyes held no hope, his mouth hung slack. A young officer in a torn jacket stepped out of the night, cutting between Wells and the captain. Words spilled out of his mouth in a tripping rush. “Andrews... E deck... flooding...”

  Smith motioned for the young man to follow him and stumbled back towards the bridge. The officer gave Wells a despairing look before trailing after the captain.

  A little way ahead he made out the silhouette of John Jacob Astor, standing near an empty davit, smoking. His valet stood to one side, gloved hands folded behind his back. According to the varying accounts of survivors, Astor’s last moments had been heroic. Astor had assisted his wife, Madeleine, onto lifeboat four. He asked the officer loading the boat, Charles Lightholler, if he might accompany his wife, as she was in a delicate condition. Lightholler refused, stating that at present it was women and children only. Astor hadn’t mentioned that his wife was pregnant. Had he told Lightholler, he might have been allowed on board. He might have survived along with her.

  Wells remembered the first time he had read the story, sitting in an operating theatre’s tearoom, killing time between cases. It had been a thin Reader’s Digest history of the sinking of the Titanic, found among a pile of old magazines.

  Colonel John Jacob Astor IV, merchant prince and heir to millions, had stood there and accepted the judgment of the ship’s second officer with quiet acquiescence, as if it had come from the Lord on high. And then he had descended to F deck and released all the dogs from their kennels.

  What would I do?

  What will I do?

  Wells approached the railing, and realised he was standing in almost the same place he’d occupied during last night’s vigil. It felt as though long ages had passed.

  Astor was speaking to his valet. He fell silent at Wells’ arrival.

  “May I have a cigarette?” Wells asked through chattering teeth.

  “Good God, man, you must be freezing,” Astor said, reaching into a coat pocket. He withdrew a thin lacquered case and thumbed open the latch.

  Wells accepted with trembling fingers. “I gave someone my coat,” he muttered.

  Astor’s valet produced a lit match and ignited the tip of the cigarette.

  Wells thanked him and turned back to face Astor. He inhaled a lungful of rich Moroccan tobacco. “Where’s Mrs Astor?”

  “Lifeboat two,” Astor said quietly. He leaned over the railing.

  Wells peered down over his shoulder. A lifeboat hung just feet above the water, fully laden with first-class passengers. All women and children. Crewmen had secured the boat snugly against the Titanic’s hull where it scraped gently against her side with every tempered wave.

  She’s supposed to be in lifeboat four.

  Astor was speaking to him but the words didn’t penetrate. He felt a numbness spreading within.

  Port side, even numbers. Starboard side, odd.

  He sucked at the cigarette as if it might combat the cancerous ice at his core with its fragile flame. He felt a firm hand on his arm. The valet said something. Was trying to lead him towards the bulkhead. He resisted.

  Small changes, rippling...

  What have I done?

  The valet became more insistent. Wells finally allowed himself to be taken to the Grand Staircase. On the landing, a stewardess was attending to a young boy’s lifebelt. She cooed like a dove, murmuring softly in reassuring tones as she fastened the last buckle. The boy examined her clear face with wonder throughout the entire procedure. Behind him, a man in a tuxedo stood with a long, thin hand outstretched on the boy’s head, tousling his hair casually. A woman was talking urgently into his ear. The man nodded slowly in reply.

  Wells inched past them and followed his companions do
wn the staircase to the smoking room. It was decorated in Edwardian splendour, and resonated the sum and substance of an age unknowingly on the verge of extinction. Here, the spirit of empire reigned undisputed, from the elaborate mahogany furniture, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, to the lavish Axminster carpeting.

  There were a few men leaning awkwardly against the unattended bar. Four more sat around a low table, playing a round of bridge. A cloud of blue cigar smoke swirled above their heads.

  Wells shambled towards the fireplace, where he fell into a semi-crouch, rubbing his hands, falling into the meticulous rhythm he’d adopted when scrubbing for surgery. He felt his face begin to flush, his hands smart in the crackling heat.

  After a few moments he rose and approached the bar. A silver-haired man absently waved at some bottles that sat opened near several upturned glasses. Wells grabbed a bottle without reading the label and poured a measure into a crystal glass. The alcohol seared its way down his throat in long gulps.

  A sudden high-pitched scream tore the air, followed by the muffled crump of an explosion. He recognised it immediately. Turning to the silver-haired man he said, “They’re launching the rockets.”

  The man stared back at him warily.

  “See,” Wells continued, “they’re going to launch them, one by one, every five minutes. And the thing is, if anyone sees them, they’re going to think that we’re having a celebration on board.”

  The silver-haired man turned away.

  “And then,“ Wells said, louder now, “they’re going to launch them all, and that fucking band is going to keep playing, and this ship is going to sink like a fucking stone.”

  The man shot him a dark look, picked up his glass and stormed away.

  “This filthy fucking ship is going to sink, and I’m going to drown.”

  Fifty years before I’m even born.

  He refilled his glass unsteadily. He felt a light tap at his shoulder.