The Light in the Darkness 2

by Carla Louise Robinson

  “Poppycock,” someone muttered, but Eliana didn’t believe them any more than they seemed to believe their own denial.

  “There really weren’t enough lifeboats?” one woman sounded in awe, though Eliana couldn’t fathom why. To her, everything was happening slowly, as if from a distance. She wondered if that was how Henry’s films worked, and a pain in her chest twinged as she thought that Henry likely wasn’t alive, either.

  George, please be alive. Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. George.

  “I hope Charles didn’t make it on board,” one woman muttered. She was terribly overdressed in a blue ballgown, with a white fur wrapped around her body. A large diamond necklace graced her neck. “I would prefer to be Lady Lambeth, formerly the wife of Lord Charles Lambeth.”

  He made it. He had to have made it. He couldn’t die. George wanted to leave with me. He didn’t want to wait. George wouldn’t have waited. He just wouldn’t.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” another woman snapped. “Those weren’t cries from our men. They were the cries from the steerage passengers. Captain Smith would never allow first-and-second-class passengers to die instead of steerage.” A few people made titters; Eliana wondered if the woman who had spoken had forgotten that the vessel was comprised of mostly crewmen and second-and-third-class passengers.

  Despite the bickering among the passengers, one thought remained lingering in Eliana’s mind: There weren’t enough boats.

  “Were there really not enough?” whispered Eliana, unable to meet the woman’s cloaked eyes.

  “Not by half,” the woman said, blowing another ring of smoke. “That was the word, anyway. Not that Brucey would confirm; but in a sorts, his refusal to comment suggested more, did it not?”

  Oh, by gods, George. I can’t do this alone. I love you. I need you. George. Please.

  “Being a widow is rather respectable,” the woman, who spoke in awe and not horror, announced. It sounded like the Lambeth woman.

  “It would be nice,” mused another woman, and Eliana thought they must have lost their minds. “To have wealth, freedom and independence, but still remain with such a high status in society? It’s the impossible dream.”

  What are these women talking about? What about George?

  “Well, if that’s your wish, consider it granted,” the woman replied haughtily. While she didn’t shy from giving ghastly news, she didn’t seem to relish in it, either.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” cried one of the crewmen. “Do some of us mean so little?”

  The bickering between the women – who “did not like the tones of the crew members, and would be reporting them to White Star Line, thank you very much” – and a few of the men continued, but Eliana couldn’t bring herself to focus on the conversation.

  Eliana thought back to the screams – the screams that had sounded like thousands, though she’d convinced herself that was the echoes; that it was merely the third-class passengers, and maybe a few crewmen, like the Captain.

  If there weren’t enough lifeboats, had Georgiana and Cecilia made it? She hadn’t thought to worry for them – they were women. But Cecilia was missing, and Georgiana had elected to wait for their younger sister.

  What if Cecilia remained missing, and Georgiana was unaware of the lifeboat shortage? Afterall, Eliana didn’t know there weren’t enough lifeboats. Why would Georgiana know either? It didn’t appear to be common knowledge. Her mother’s shaking, ragged sobs confirmed that she hadn’t considered there might be a lifeboat shortage, either.

  The woman’s tone changed; it was kinder now. “I’m sorry, love, but anyone who didn’t get onto a lifeboat is dead.”

  All of Eliana’s genteel practice of hiding her emotions could not prevent the tears from streaming down her face. She wrapped her arms around Primrose, who was sleeping next to her baby brother, Albert, named for his grandfather.

  His dead grandfather, if the dreadful woman was right.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Monday, April 15th, 1912

  Barrett

  “Mister, mister,” a woman’s voice came, shaking Barrett firmly. He was dimly aware that he was in a life raft, though he wasn’t sure what time had passed. The sea was quiet, and the night was dark; though the stars shone perfectly, sparkling brightly like fairy lights, through the night sky. He had never seen the stars so bright before.

  “Mister, take a fur,” the woman insisted, holding out a long brown fur coat. She had dressed warmly, and formally, for the evening.

  “I cannot, Ma’am,” whispered Barrett, his teeth clunking together. “Not whilst there be women who are also cold.” He darted a glance at a young girl, scarce but thirteen, who was shivering herself. She looked as if she’d likely come from third class.

  He wondered if she had any family left. Likely not, if she were alone.

  “Miss, please take my fur,” the woman insisted.

  “I am thanking you, Ma’am,” the young girl replied, with a sweet Irish accent.

  “I have some blankets!” came the cry of a young girl’s voice. She sounded younger than even the little Irish girl.

  “Blankets?” a few of the other men perked up; there were a few other stokers in the lifeboat, all dressed as little as Barrett was. “Chuck ’em down here!”

  “What’s your name, little girl?” Barrett called.

  “Ruth,” she replied. “Ruth Becker. My mother bid me to return to the suite, collect as many blankets as I could gather. I did as I was bid, and it was lucky I did so.”

  “I thank you, Miss Becker,” Barrett said, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. He had never been so grateful for such a comfort.

  “May the Lord bless you,” one of the other stokers said.

  Barrett nestled back down, hugging the wool blanket tightly. He closed his eyes, trying to remember Mary’s beautiful face, her small lips coming to kiss his. Her words of comfort and solace as she held him and told him “everything would be alright”.

  “Is that a light?” someone whispered.

  “It’s the Northern Lights,” responded a man.

  Then, a crack filled the night sky, and Barrett sat up, suddenly alert. “That was a cannon!” he exclaimed. He turned, his brown eyes searching the horizon. The sun was slowly rising, he noticed, albeit barely. However, the soft orange glow left a haze, illustrating the large ice field around him. Barrett couldn’t locate the ship, however, until he saw the second flare.

  “Is the ship looking for us?” the young Irish girl asked.

  “Of course she is,” responded the same man. Likely a rich sod, with the way he speaks. He acts as if he knows everything; the women were right. It wasn’t the Northern Lights.

  “What if she doesn’t see us?” one of the women cried.

  “She’ll see us,” Barrett said, hushing the passengers. He’d been entrusted with their care, and he would see it through. “Don’t you see? She’s sending the rockets because she’s searching for us. She’s slowing, now. It won’t be long until we’re safe aboard her.”

  “Safe?” someone scoffed. “That’s what they said about the Titanic.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Monday, April 15th, 1912

  Cillian

  Cillian wrapped his arms around Claire – she was so tiny, spindly and bony – trying to hush her, though he doubted anything he or anyone else could ever say would help her. Cillian was by and sure that he himself would never recover; the screams still echoed around him, as if a ghostly orchestra was silently playing.

  “Claire?” he whispered, his voice gritty. He hadn’t realised he’d been crying, but he must have been his face was damp. “Can you sing me that song I like?”

  Claire raised her head, her almond eyes turning towards him, curious. She had beautiful brown eyes. She frowned at him, and she could tell she was thinking of telling him off, saying it wasn’t the time or the place. Cillian did not know if, now they had survived the ship’s end, they would be rescued. He
did not know if other ships were aware of Titanic; if they had been able to contact other ships. He knew ships could contact each other; he just didn’t know how, and he hadn’t ever concerned himself with if the Titanic could.

  It had seemed like useless information, until now.

  What Cillian did know, however, was that he did not his final moments (if such a thing were to come) to be the screams of the dying echoing through his head. He wanted to hear Claire’s lovely voice, singing the way she did at Church, over the hearth, or at the town hall. Claire’s voice was thick and sultry, singing beautiful Irish songs with heart and soul.

  “I don’t know,” Claire whispered.

  “Please, miss, could you sing a song?” someone in the boat pleaded. Cillian smiled; he was not alone in wanting a distraction, it seemed. Perhaps if Claire sang, it would warm her some. Perhaps, in time, she would one day remember how she sang to the survivors, helping them in their time of need, instead of focusing on those lost.

  “For those lost,” another woman whispered. “For our husbands and fathers and brothers and sons. Please, miss.”

  Claire cleared her throat, and Cillian rubbed her arms.

  Against the vast, quiet ocean, Claire’s voice began to ring through as she sang, her voice beautiful and angelic:

  “My love said to me

  My mother won’t mind

  And me father won’t slight you …”

  Cillian closed his eyes, imagining the hills of Ireland, of home, as he listened to Claire sing She Moved Through The Fair.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Monday, April 15th, 1912

  Evans

  Evans was sure he hadn’t been asleep for very long – the night was still dark, dawn a distant creature – when he was rudely interrupted from his slumber. It took him a moment to register it was the Chief Officer in front of him; and a few more minutes to understand what Chief Officer Stewart was saying.

  “Sorry?” he asked groggily. He felt as if he’d spent the night drinking, not working.

  “There’s been a ship, Evans, firing rockets in the night. Can you see if anything is the matter? D’you know if there are any ships in the area?”

  Evans nodded, though he was confused; didn’t rockets mean distress? Why had the Captain not ordered the boilers to be lit, if that were the case? He slipped on his slippers and trousers as fast as possible, making his way to the wireless desk, sending out “C.Q”, requesting all stations; the Frankfurt answered his call first.

  The news caused Evans almost to drop his phone. “Did you know the Titanic has sunk during the night, collided with iceberg?”

  He could not believe the matter-of-fact statement; how could the world’s most significant steamship sink, in what could only have been a few hours? He’d heard them chattering before he’d gone to sleep; there would have been no chatter had the Titanic struck a berg. He felt sick.

  Had they been in peril when Charlie burst in, waking me?

  Evans prayed not. He did not know how he could bear to live with himself it that were to be the case.

  He typed back, asking for an official report of what had happened, as well as the Titanic’s last known position; the Virginian replied.

  To his horror, they were only a few miles from the ship’s position.

  He rushed to the Bridge to inform the Captain, trying not to wonder how many had perished, nor if his friends, Jack and Harry, were among the losses.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Monday, April 15th, 1912

  Rostron

  “Captain, it’s half three,” the purser, Brown, said, his voice tired, grim. The adrenaline had drained the men; no longer did anyone think they were reaching a ship that was sound and safe. It had been an hour since they’d last heard the Titanic’s call, and Cottman had stated that it was broken and distant. Rostron assumed the ship likely had lost power; once they had lost power, their state-of-the-art Wireless system would now be less than useless.

  He wondered how many engineers had been aboard the Titanic.

  Without them, the wireless system would fail.

  Rostron doubted any of them had survived.

  “We’re nearing the Titanic’s last known coordinates,” Hughes added, his implication clear: They were nearing Titanic’s location, and despite firing rockets in fifteen-minute intervals, as Rostron had ordered, they had not seen any sign of the Titanic.

  If they couldn’t see the Titanic now, the Titanic had found its graveyard. Rostron closed his brown eyes, gripping the helm so tightly his white knuckles bared. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to himself, but when he’d heard Cottman’s message, he had doubted that they would find the Titanic at all. He even wondered if they would find survivors, if any passengers had escaped. If Rostron hadn’t realised the CQD was serious – that the Titanic could really sink – did that mean the crew on the Titanic had thought the same? What if there hadn’t been any urgency in the ship’s demise? It had sunk faster than anyone would have thought possible. It was widely assumed among captains that it would take a ship of their size days to sink, if they ever did.

  Perhaps the Olympic had given them a false sense of security.

  Rostron couldn’t help but wonder if he were heading toward a graveyard, where he would find pieces of the ship that hadn’t yet sunk. He wondered if he’d find bodies.

  No one could survive long in the Arctic ocean, Rostron knew. A man that fell into the waters was seldom retrieved; too often, people lost consciousness quickly, unable to physically handle the temperatures that pierced through their skin. Rostron found those that did lose consciousness were lucky; it was far more unbearable to suffer through the agony brought on by hypothermia.

  Fatigue was beginning to set in – Rostron’s muscles ached from being pulled taut – when he saw it: a green flare.

  The green flare was low to the water, directly off Thia’s port bow. Hoped surged Rostron; it was too small to the be Titanic, but perhaps some of the lifeboats had made it, like of the wireless messages had said. Perhaps there would be more survivors than he’d once hoped. Perhaps God had helped steer him so that there would be survivors.

  Rostron ordered the immediate slow of the ship, closing his eyes for a brief second, thanking God for all his kindness and mercies. He listened as his men shouted excitedly; they, too, had not been expecting survivors of any kind.

  Rostron strained his brown eyes, searching for lifeboats below. While dawn was setting in, it was still too dark to distinguish anything clearly.

  And then it happened; it was bigger than the first had been.

  The iceberg seemed at least twenty feet tall, perhaps larger, and glittered like a castle under the pink-blue hue and remaining few stars.

  “Iceberg, dead ahead!” screamed a lookout, at the same time Rostron yelled, “Hard-a-starboard!” for the second time that night.

  This time, even as Rostron held the wheel as tightly as possible, he knew the iceberg was too close.

  It was scarcely a few hundred metres from the Thia, and the iceberg was racing toward them.

  Rostron closed his eyes, praying to God: Please don’t let my passengers and crew suffer for my follies, for my pride, he begged. Perhaps he should have heeded his men’s warnings, instead of assuming dominance, like he often did. Who will rescue us? He wondered. Were there other ships on their way to the Titanic’s location? When would they reach Thia? What would happen, with two ships sunk?

  Rostron tried to calculate the lifeboats versus passengers they had; twenty, and they held a full ship.

  There wouldn’t be enough for all Thia’s passengers and crew, let alone the Titanic’s.

  He wondered if Ethel would consider him brave or a fool when she learned of his death. Some captains were destined to go down with their ship, should it ever sink.

  He knew Captain Smith was one of them – he, among others like him, wore it like a badge of honour, even though they likely knew they would not be in a severe accident.

 
Rostron knew he would do the same. He could not imagine being so cowardly as to steal a seat from a passenger, or a man or woman he oversaw, for his own selfish well-being.

  Yet, despite Rostron’s brace for impact – his men had done the same – none came.

  For the second time that night.

  Rostron slowly opened his eyes, staring at the wheel, knowing that there was no way he could have missed that iceberg, not for a second time, and not so close.

  God had helped him, answering his prayers.

  And then, as if God had not yet finished his miracle for the morning, revealed one of the small, wooden lifeboats, baring the White Star Line insignia.

  “All ahead stop!” Rostron shouted, though disbelief filled his entire body. He could not believe they had avoided their own calamity. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d almost hit the iceberg that had taken the Titanic, if God had deliberately spared Thia, so that they could reach the survivors.

  Perhaps the Titanic hadn’t sank after all; perhaps they’d simply lost power. The boats, Rostron noticed, were not full. He searched the horizon, first only seeing a few, but they were spread out across miles. Some were hidden by growlers.

  By God’s own hand, he had found them.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Monday April 15th, 1912

  Eliana

  Eliana hadn’t remembered dozing off, but she must have. She felt her daughter, Primrose, shaking her awake, and she awoke with a start, her eyelids crisp, icicles latching onto her eyelashes. She had to blink more than a few times to be able to see, and she noticed the sun rising on the horizon. The morning light – still dark in places where the sun had yet to reach – had created a beautiful pink-blue hue, as if the weather wanted to apologise for everything the passengers had been through. As if a beautiful sunrise could help the passengers of the Titanic forget what they’d witnessed.