After a moment of silence, Cecilia listened, her heart racing in fear he would open Henry’s door as his keys jangled, before she realised to her horror that he was locking the cabin door. Cecilia fought the urge to run forward, shrieking and weeping, pounding on the door, pleading to be released, but she caught a hold of herself. She may be locked in, but she wasn’t trapped, not really. It wasn’t like a steward couldn’t be found to unlock the doors, and Henry had keys. Surely his would work, once he returned to his berth.
Besides, where was safer for her to reside than inside a berth on the Titanic?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Eliana
“Where is Cecilia?” Eliana’s mother was wringing her hands anxiously, and it took every ounce of self-control not to roll her eyes at her mother’s melodrama. Eliana was certain that Cecilia, once realising that an incident had indeed taken place, was likely hiding out somewhere, so as to punish her parents. It seemed likely, especially after her horrid behaviour over dinner.
“I’m sure she’s fine, wherever she is,” replied Eliana calmly. “She’s probably with that dreaded photographer.”
“Don’t say that, Eliana. Can’t you ever hold your tongue?”
Eliana wanted to scream that she always held her tongue, but daren’t. Her mother’s tensions were riding high, and even her father now looked anxious. Georgiana looked sickly and clung to William’s side as if he was a pillar, and George kept saying, “It really is unfair that they’re not letting any men on this side. Honestly, there’s not very many women around now, is there? Plenty more women would likely get in if they were allowed to take their husbands with them. I’ve heard the Duff-Gordons already left, including Cosmo.”
Eliana tried not to let her husband’s cowardice bother her; she wished he were more like William and her father, stoic and resilient.
“I’m sure there’ll be room for you, George,” Georgiana said sweetly, because Georgiana said everything sweetly. “Please do not fret; they’re not likely to separate a father from his little ones. It would be very improper.”
“Georgiana’s right, George,” Eliana interrupted coldly. She hated that Georgiana acted wiser and more self-righteous than everyone else around her. “No doubt they’ll be boarding by class, too. They’re not going to want passengers like us consorting with those from steerage.”
“Eliana!” cried Georgiana, and Eliana watched as tears brimmed her sister’s eyes. “What is wrong with you? Are women and children of second and third worth less than any passenger in first? How could you say such a thing?”
Eliana shrugged. It wasn’t quite what she said, but she didn’t disagree. Eliana believed that the blood that ran through her veins held her to a higher standard than others. “I’m just saying it would be tasteless. The rest is your own interpretation, dear sister.”
“Leave it,” whispered William, turning Georgiana away. Good, let her flee, Eliana thought saltily. Eliana watched as Mr Ismay tried to hurry another group of women into one of the lifeboats. Ismay, in Eliana’s opinion, was becoming ungentlemanly, his voice rising when passengers protested, wanting to stay in the confines of the safety of the ship. A few boats had already left – it was nearing one, the last Eliana had saw of the time – but already, some of them were impossible to distinguish. She knew many of the boats hadn’t left with many passengers, which seemed to be a source of Ismay’s anger, as he kept imploring the officers to fill them as much as possible. At one point, the incredibly handsome, young officer had yelled at Ismay, cursing him to live him be, which had frightened Eliana some, for a time, but quickly the young officer redeemed himself, comforting more than one woman or child making the leap from ship to life vessel. Eliana had thought Ismay kind, when he’d tended to her sister; now she found him beastly, berating passengers to take seats in lifeboats they didn’t want to enter. Eliana wondered what was making the man, a known recluse who Eliana had not even known the name of prior to boarding the Titanic, so vulgar.
A pop sounded, similar to fireworks she’d watched at celebrations, causing Eliana to look up as the sky lit up with a white distress rocket; it was beautiful, the way it shimmered across the night sky.
There were hushed tones that suddenly spread across the deck.
Everyone knew what rockets at sea meant, even if they weren’t ready to yet accept their fate.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Barrett
Barrett returned with rope and ripped rags he’d retrieved from the stokehold. Harvey had already climbed down the well, which was now shin-deep, lapping eagerly at Shepherd’s leg. Shepherd was shivering uncontrollably; blood had mixed with the water, leaving a reddish tinge in the bottom, swirling, as if the gods were collecting a blood debt.
“Thanks, Barrett,” Harvey murmured. Barrett watched as he wrapped Shepherd’s leg as gently as he could, before he turned to Shepherd, looking the man deep in his eyes. “Shep, I’m not going to lie, when I pull on this, hopefully your bone will go in a little. Regardless, it’s gonna hurt like a fucking bitch, but we won’t be able to move you with ease without it.” Shepherd nodded, his face ashen, the water removing some of the coal that had coated his face, though snot laced his dark-brown moustache. “Okay, on the count of three,” Harvey said, and Shepherd nodded, closing his eyes, bracing himself for the count, when Harvey pulled the cloth tightly. Shepherd screamed loudly, his screams reverberating across the boiler room, thanks to the well’s echo.
“I thought you were gonna count to fucking three,” Shepherd hissed, after a few minutes had passed.
“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t count,” Harvey replied. “I don’t know shit about medicine, Shep, but it’s meant to hurt less when you don’t see it coming or something. It’s what my Mam always said, anyway.”
Shepherd nodded in reply, and Barrett could see the endeavour had cost him dearly. He barely looked conscious, his face ashen, his eyelids droopy. “I think your mam may be a fucking liar, Herb.”
“Okay, Barrett, you ready with the rope there?”
Barrett through part of the rope down, as Harvey looped it through Shepherd’s upper torso, creating a makeshift seat. “Okay, we got it tight. I’m going to help you up the ladder, while Barrett’s going to pull on the rope for extra support, okay? Then we’ll move you out to the pump room, get you dry.”
And then what?
“Okay,” Shepherd replied. Barrett wondered if the man knew how dire his situation was, even once they moved him to the pump room. Surely, as engineers, they saw and felt what Barrett did? Surely they knew that the water was rising, and quickly? That the decision to restart Titanic’s engines, however brief it may have been, was one that had forced a wall of water into the ship’s hull?
Harvey looped Shepherd’s arm around him, and the pair took a step up the ladder one at a time, with Barrett pulling tightly on the rope, his hands burning and blistering. Every nerve in his hand was screaming at him to let go, but he daren’t; he would not sentence another man to his death because he had sore hands. Just a bit more, he urged himself, biting down on his tongue, holding back to avoid any show of pain, blood laced around the rope.
After a few minutes, Shepherd was above; Harvey collapsed beside him.
“Good work,” heaved Harvey. “You okay, Shep?” Shepherd murmured an inaudible reply.
“And you,” Barrett replied. “Let’s get him to the pump room.”
“Yes, let’s,” Shepherd replied, closing his eyes, pain coursing through his body as the men lifted him again, transferring him to the pump room.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Adene
Just as Adene had went to take her last breath, one that would see her meet her demise quickly as the icy-cold seawater would have raced to fill her lungs, the Titanic lurched violently again. This time, the cabin tilted the opposite way, and suddenly the water was flung half out of th
e room, pushing the white wooden door open, allowing Adene to rise to the surface, gasping.
The ship’s constant tilting had trapped her, all but causing her death; and yet it had sought to free her when she scarce had a chance. Perhaps God was watching over her; perhaps He deemed it not her time.
Adene, her entire body frozen stiff, pain reverberating throughout every nerve, muscle and fibre of her body, pulled herself forward in waist-deep water out of the cabin, before the ship could sentence her fate a second time. It was unlikely God would intervene, saving her life a second time.
Heaving, she scrambled out into one of Scotland Road’s many halls, crying out Isla’s name. The corridors weren’t as crowded anymore; there was plenty of luggage strewn about, and water was steadily rising. In places, it ran up the walls, an ungodly sight, as if God was taunting the ship.
Adene wasn’t confident the Titanic would allow her much longer to search for her daughter; she needed to trust that Claire was with her. Looking down at her frozen, ungloved hand, Adene realised she had lost Abigail when she’d been swept in the maelstrom of water that thrust her into the cabin; if that was all Adene lost this night, she would be a lucky soul indeed.
Adene focused, trying to bring warmth into her body. Part of her wished to abandon her woollen dressing gown, as it was soaked through, but she had not stopped to grab her coat from her cabin room, and she only wore a nightdress beneath her robe. Her modesty won over; besides, it would be frightfully cold once she reached the Boat Deck. When she’d taken the wee ones to the Orlop Deck after supper, the chill had increased dramatically. Adene wasn’t sure, but it felt as if it had dropped at least ten degrees in a few hours; even with both coats, and a scarf, Adene could not keep herself warm. While Isla had a large, over-sized coat – one of Adene’s older ones, cut short – Nora did not have the same winter gear. She had a coat and woollen, hand-sewn shawl, but little else to protect her. Adene had given the little girl a second pair of woollen socks, but it did nothing to help protect the wee girl’s chest.
After a few twists and turns, Adene heard someone talking – it was a group of people, she realised, her heart soaring with relief. If she were to die in the bowels of the ship, she would not perish alone. She wondered if the thought made her craven and unchristian-like. Perhaps a steward would be among them, able to provide Adene with help. She hadn’t seen many stewards and could not help but wonder why they were not at their posts, assisting passengers.
Adene’s heart soared; she could see the back of a steward’s head; he seemed to be speaking to a small group that consisted primarily of women and children. “If you’ll follow me,” the man said, preparing the group of twenty-five to take to the Boat Deck. Adene wondered if she should follow, or if it meant that she was abandoning her daughter.
Then, as the passengers began parting, following the steward, she saw Isla, crying, sucking her thumb; Nora held her hand gently beside her, Claire’s face ashen, Cillian’s arm around her, comforting her.
“Isla!” Adene cried, running to her daughter, lifting her up and kissing her repeatedly.
“Mummy!” she cried, and she felt Claire at her side, grabbing her in a small hug.
“We couldn’t find you, and I daren’t risk waiting,” Claire said. “When the stewards came … they said if we stayed, we would die. I prayed that I would be able to spare your bairn, if I could not find you.”
Adene, who was still hugging her tightly, whispered, “Thank you,” as she cried.
“Oh my golly, you are dreadfully cold,” Claire whispered, touching the ice crystals that had already begun materialising on her robe and in her hair tangled hair. “We need to get you out of this, immediately. The cold will take you otherwise.”
“Have my jacket, Mrs Coffey,” Cillian said, taking off his grey, moth-eaten coat. She took it gratefully, thanking him repeatedly, knowing he was not only sacrificing his warmth for hers, but likely forfeiting the only jacket he possessed. Adene’s lips were blue and her mouth could not stop chattering; she had not realised how cold she was until she had spied her daughter. She dropped the robe to the floor, abandoning it.
“Mummy, you’re wet and cold,” whined Isla, her fingers twisting in Adene’s hair. “Did you forget to heat the water when you went to have a bath?”
“Something like that, my love,” Adene replied, her voice cracking, her hands raking through her daughter’s long, brown hair. She closed her eyes, inhaling her daughter’s scent as she kissed Isla’s forehead.
“Miss?” the young steward turned to her, and Adene realised the steward – and group – had stopped, watching Adene’s reunion. “I’m Steward John Hart. I’m taking this group up to the Boat Deck, for the lifeboats. We’ll not be wanting to wait,” he added pointedly. “There isn’t time to spare.”
“Of course,” breathed Adene. Could it really be so simple? After being lost in the twisted maze of Scotland Road, trapped in a cabin where she almost met her maker, that a young steward would help them find safe passage? Was that why she had seen so few steerage passengers? Perhaps she had been mistaken in what she had witnessed; perhaps the stewards were not visible because they were carefully taking groups of passengers up to the Boat Decks.
“Where’s Cillian?” Adene asked, as they trailed quietly behind Hart. Hart took them through Scotland Road expertly, leading them through a once-locked gate, emblazoned with a sign that, due to US Immigration Laws, steerage passengers were not permitted to cross the quarantine barrier, up more stairs, before they reached a wooden door. As they entered – C Deck, according to the engraved nameplate – Adene was blown away by the fine, red-carpeted staircase. She could scarcely believe how beautiful the area was; everything was a deep, dark wood; the lights above were different than the basic ones below; they were encased in small domes. “Is this first?” she breathed. She’d never seen anything so luxurious in her life, and she hadn’t had interest in taking mass up in first-class, deeming the idea ill-fitting.
“No, it’s second, I think. Cillian’s been helping Hart,” Claire replied, holding Nora’s hand tightly. “This was Hart’s second journey. The first left around twelve-thirty; we stayed and waited; in the hopes you would appear. Isla was afraid. We all were.”
“This is the aft second-class grand staircase,” Hart said, in response to Adene’s question. “We’ll be coming out at the Boat Deck, at the aft. One more flight to go,” he added, sounding winded. Adene wondered how the man could be so calm whilst surrounded by such an ordeal. Did he not worry for his safety?
Adene wasn’t even sure she could recount the route that Hart had taken them on. Thank the heavens that there is a steward taking care of his passengers. I would never have managed to find my way to safety without him. Adene gripped her daughter’s hand tightly. If it wasn’t for Hart, perhaps Isla wouldn’t be safe, either.
If it hadn’t been for Claire’s quick-thinking, perhaps none of them would be safe. Adene felt indebted to the girl.
As Hart opened the door to the stern, Adene was terrified by what she saw. There were white rockets lining the night sky, flickers of light raining down. Families were being separated; mothers were screaming for their husbands and sons. Adene watched as one of the officers ordered a boy, who couldn’t have been older than thirteen, out of the boat, telling him he “needed to be brave, now”. The boy was sobbing loudly, his mother screaming, “But he’s only thirteen! He’s just a boy!”, and once the boy managed to lift himself out of the boat – his body trembling, eyes transfixed on the revolver in front of him – lay himself on the Boat Deck, as if hugging the floor. Adene wanted to strike the man; why should a child have to be brave? The boy could barely stand; he was openly crying. Why couldn’t he board with his mother? Especially since there are spaces to spare, and more than a few. A tall, lean man, sporting a large, thick brown moustache, dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, who looked to be one of the wealthiest passengers Adene had ever seen, even in his nightwear, was trying to persuade a young cou
ple to enter the life vessel. Adene wondered why a man, who looked to be a passenger, with the attitude of an officer, was trying to usher so many people into the lifeboats. The man had taken to comforting the boy, though he seemed reluctant to question the officer’s decision.
“Here,” Hart said, hurrying them along the starboard side. “This is lifeboat fifteen. Get in carefully, now.”
Adene carefully helped her daughter in, trying not to glance at the widening gap below, and Claire did the same, with the assistance of both Hart and the officers attending the boat.
Adene stepped into the lifeboat first; the list caught an awful gap between the boats and the ship, and for a moment, she was sure she would fall; however, the other passengers grabbed around her, making the transition as easy as possible. Claire glanced around, nervously, before calling Cillian’s name.
“This is …” Claire trailed off, her eyes wide, a small stutter filling her empty words.
“It will be fine,” Cillian nodded, hugging Claire tight. Adene would normally have corrected such intimate behaviour, but not tonight. Not when boys as young as thirteen were being ordered out of boats, trembling and crying after being ripped from their mother’s hands.
Adene would not say it, but she knew as well as Cillian clearly did that the chances for his survival were remote.
“Officer Murdoch,” Hart began, “this is the second group. From steerage.”
“We’ll be lowering to A Deck,” Adene heard the officer say, “so that we can get more of the women and children that are down below. Then you’ll be off.” Almost as soon as the officer had instructed those of what to do, the doors flooded open; more people from steerage, and men from the boiler rooms below, scrambled onto the open deck, rushing for the lifeboats. Hart tried pushing several of the men away, though more than one made it on board. Adene couldn’t help but notice that Cillian, a gentleman through and through, was not one of those men. The lifeboat seemed filled with more men than women, leaving a sour taste in Adene’s mouth. A child had been ordered out at gunpoint, and yet the child showed more bravery than these craven men. A child sentenced to die, while men lost their wiles, fighting to save their own skins.
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