What they’d heard.
Eliana had convinced herself that it was likely her sisters, at least, had found a boat. She hoped Georgiana hadn’t waited too long, and that Cecilia hadn’t been missing in the first place. Perhaps she’d gotten on one of the first lifeboats, like Lady Duff Gordon had. It had been so noisy in the beginning, and crowded within the gymnasium, that they had not really searched for Cecilia. It was possible she had been on the boat deck the entire time, and they had not even realised. How could we have been so fool hardy with our time? Eliana couldn’t help but wonder. Why had none of the crew expressed the seriousness and danger the passengers were in? Why had so many insisted on lowering the lifeboats half empty, even when there were passengers waiting?
What if George didn’t make it?
Eliana closed her eyes, allowing the pain to wash over her, so she could turn to her fussing daughter with a smile planted on her face. “Mama, I need to go pee,” Primrose whispered. Eliana looked at Monaghan, who simply shrugged; she had not brought extra napkins for the little girl. But why would she? Primrose is five, and we thought we’d be back on board by morning.
I thought I would have reunited with George by now, and earnt his forgiveness, and told him of my love for him. That he was the only man I ever dreamed of.
It was surreal to imagine that the conversation may never happen. She tried to think that crass woman wasn’t true. While there were plenty of near-empty lifeboats that she could spy, some appeared dangerously full, their occupants barely an inch away from the ocean, each wave threatening to swamp them.
“Try and hold it, darling,” Eliana whispered. “There is simply nowhere for you to go at the moment.”
“When will there be a toilet?” the girl asked.
The answer frightened Eliana: she didn’t know. She didn’t know if another ship was sailing toward them – what if the call had never been received? What if there was no one in the vicinity? What if they drifted alone, forever, before succumbing to death?
As the sun rose higher, it began twinkling down on the ice field that surrounded the lifeboats. For the first time, Eliana could clearly see the other boats, though they were spread out over a mile, at least, in varying directions. They, too, it seemed, had no idea of what or where they were meant to go. They, also, had been deprived of light, left to sit in the darkness with their despair, wondering what would happen next.
Wondering, like Eliana was, if their loved ones had died, and they had listened to their screams as they froze to death.
Wondering, like Eliana was, if their loved ones had found safe passage, and that they would be reunited when rescued.
If.
Despite Eliana’s layers, including two coats and an over jacket, she shivered as she saw icebergs the size of castles she’d described in her stories to Primrose before bed. Some glittered like diamonds, and others were flatter. They were surrounded, on all four sides, by the ice.
Had the Captain known they were heading into an ice field?
Eliana swallowed bile. She’d put all her faith in the Titanic, but as she glanced at the ice mountains surrounding her, she knew that no ship stood a chance against the beasts of the ocean. She earnestly could not imagine the Carpathia safely navigating through the ice maze in broad daylight, let alone a ship finding save passage through the night.
Enmity filled her heart for the first time; if she had lost her George to the captain’s negligence, she would kill the man with her bare hands.
“Mummy, please,” begged Primrose, her voice becoming whiny. Both her and Master Albert were over-tired, exhausted from the long night, unable to understand or process what was happening around them.
Eliana hoped that the worst was behind them, that she was fretting for nothing, that of course her George was safe.
Her children weren’t orphans. She wouldn’t be raising a baby alone. Eliana didn’t know if she’d have the strength to give birth without George.
And with all the losses, she could not imagine wanting to leave if she gave birth to another child that did not come with breath.
“It won’t be much longer now, my sweet,” Eliana lied. She just hoped there was at least some truth to her lie.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Rostron
Rostron stared out at the vast ice field. Thia was surrounded, growlers lurking behind glittering bergs that were twenty feet high and stretched for miles in each direction. Weeping and wailing have begun filling the ship as the survivors started to realise that the Titanic, indeed, had sunk. Rostron was surprised that so few of them seemed to realise this fact; it appeared only those that had been close to the ship realised what had taken place. Others had assumed, of course, but it was not a pleasant reality that one wished to be confronted with. He could see the bodies of the victims floating nearby, though he tried his best not to look. Even a seasoned man, conditioned with the brutal realities of war, could not bear the sight of so many lifeless bodies.
Rostron watched from a distance as the Californian – they had contacted their wireless operator a while ago, where the young operator (Rostron didn’t know the boy’s name) had learnt that the Titanic had sunk. He wondered if Captain Lord would be as horrified as he was when he came upon the Titanic’s wreck site.
He wondered if Lord had known of the Titanic’s distress and had chosen not to act.
Rostron pursed his lips, trying not to judge the man for his possible craven behaviour. He had to remind himself that he did not know the situation, nor Lord’s location. After all, the word of God said, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” It was not Rostron’s place to judge, though his pride would often help him forget the validity of that sentiment.
Rostron slowly manoeuvred the Carpathia, as near to the lifeboats as he could. His men made a makeshift ladder, though he could tell that some of the survivors would not be able to climb the rope ladder.
He watched as people – mostly women and children, though a surprising number of stokers and more than he would have liked – flooded from above, some lifted individually by a chair harness his men had created. They looked worse than any man he’d spied during his time of war, and he wondered what they had seen, what they had heard.
He found himself wanting to ask where the Titanic was – surely, she had to be obstructed by ice – but his brown eyes kept darting toward the debris field.
He knew that the reason he didn’t see the Titanic was because the Titanic was at the bottom of the ocean. However, Rostron also knew that he needed to find the Titanic’s most prominent officer as soon as possible to understand the severity of the situation. That way, he could ensure the correct protocols were in place. He’d already ordered Cottman to keep the Marconi lines free of as little information of the Titanic’s sinking as possible; the last thing that Rostron, and the victim’s families needed, were the papers printing misinformation.
Misinformation spread like wildfire; the truth seldom did. His time at sea had taught him that people were unreliable narrators, that the same thing could happen to two people, but they would both describe entirely different circumstances, recall different memories.
Rostron, who had been helping the survivors, spotted Ismay, dishevelled, huddled under a White Star Line blanket. Ismay was in the eleventh boat to reach the Carpathia, and one of the fuller boats, though they could have spared more room if they’d had the mind to do so.
Rostron frowned; he did not think that a man should be sentenced to death for merely being the owner of the ship he was on board, and yet it seemed ungentlemanly. Perhaps Ismay regretted the decision, he thought; the man’s face was whiter than the ice surrounding them, and the ship’s last moments seemed to be permanently playing behind Ismay’s brown eyes. He looked a man broken, and Rostron did not doubt for a moment that he was anything less.
If Rostron had lost his vessel, no matter the circumstances, he did not think he could heal. It was a fate
that a captain could not recover from, a folly that could not be overcome.
When Ismay reached the deck, to Rostron’s surprise, he shunned all help, including refusing a hot beverage. He immediately asked for the captain, to which Rostron stood to attention.
“I have a private room sorted for you, Mr Ismay,” Rostron stated proudly.
Ismay nodded. “Thank you. I will need a word with your Marconi man, as I need to relay vital information to the White Star Line.”
Rostron hesitated. He didn’t want the press to grab a hold of the headlines, sensationalising the news and traumatising the victims any more than was necessary. “I’ve barred most transmissions,” he hedged. “The last thing we need is for the public to find out more information than what we actually know. They’ll run mad with it, and it won’t matter what’s right or wrong once it is in print.”
Ismay nodded. “I agree.” The man sounded weathered and weary. “I’ll sign as Yamsi and keep the message brief. With any luck, the press will not understand the information. We need to hope that the public maintains the belief that the Titanic could not founder so quickly, so he can assess the dead and reunite victims with families.” The two men reached Ismay’s quarters. Ismay took a deep breath. “There were plenty of third-class passengers. They will have nothing. We need to organise that they are taken care of, to ensure that they are not treated poorly when they arrive in New York.”
Rostron nodded in his agreement. “As the Titanic was bound for America, do you think we should continue to New York? Or return the Carpathia to Titanic’s port in Southampton?” He spoke nothing of his own passengers, who had been bound for Austria-Hungary. Their troubles were small in comparison; he had assisted passengers who had lost everything in the disaster. He was not sure what would become of many of them. The rich, of course, would be fine – some women even seemed delighted by the prospect. When he’d overheard to women chattering about their hope that their husbands had perished, it had taken great effort for him not to yell at the women. Instead, he helped two little French boys – whose father appeared lost – onto the deck, plying them with hot chocolate.
“New York, I think, would be best. That was their destination, after all. I will order the White Star Line to organise tickets for some of the passengers, so that they may get to where they are needed.”
Rostron nodded. Many of the passengers who had survived were, indeed, Americans; the majority that weren’t were intending to immigrate to America. There would be a few people holidaying among the rich, but it would be fewer than those that called America home. The British, Rostron knew, did not tend to travel as much. He did not understand why; to travel was a luxurious thing, and he had seen more than one magnificent site in his lifetime.
“I’ll set the coordinates, then, and when we have collected every life vessel, we will make our way to New York. Ensure that is recorded in your Marconigram.”
Ismay’s blank eyes met Rostron’s. “Thank you, Captain Rostron; I am most obliged. If you will see to it that I am not disturbed for the remainder of the journey, I would be sorely grateful. I need to ensure that the correct message meets the right people. The last thing we need is a circus of misinformation spreading.”
Rostron nodded, leaving the empty corpse of a man alone in his room.
As he did, he couldn’t help but wonder if Bruce Ismay would ever recover from the night.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Eliana
Eliana sat in the first-class cordoned area – the steerage passengers had been moved to the stern of the Carpathia – unable to cry, speak, or move. She’d long been rendered silent. She hadn’t had the strength to pull herself up the ladder, so the men had furnished a chair rope lift. It had been meant for the men that had survived the night on a collapsible lifeboat – one man’s legs had been so frostbitten he had to be carried everywhere before one of the Carpathia’s doctors fitted with him crutches. Eliana had not seen the man since; she hoped he had not died, as one man had already expired by the time the Carpathia had reached them.
She’d been handed a hot coffee, that had whiskey or scotch added to it. She couldn’t tell which as Eliana had never been a fan of any hard liquor before, but she recognised the smell, or at least thought she did. It was hard to tell against the bitter black coffee. Normally, Eliana would complain, as she hated coffee, but this morning she found she did not care. The drink was primarily tasteless to her, but it warmed her body, something that felt like it was an impossibility. The cold still resided in Eliana’s bones, and she was sure and certain she’d never forget it.
She wondered how it must be for her sister, Georgie, who had only been dressed in a nightgown and a fur coat.
Eliana and her mother watched from the deck as the lifeboats continued to make their way to the Carpathia. They watched as Bruce Ismay was ushered onto the Carpathia – he had reportedly been in the last lifeboat before the ship had sunk, or so the whispers said – before heading to his own private room. He looked more corpse than man, in Eliana’s eyes, as if he had died that night, but his earthly body had not yet realised it. Eliana could not help but feel sympathy for the man.
Eliana tried as she might, but now that the sun had risen clearly, she could make out more than the glittering icebergs that surrounded them. While it surprised her that the Carpathia had arrived for their rescue without striking a berg herself, she did not realise the gravity of the calamity that had taken place.
Now, as the sun rose – nearing eight in the morning, ship time – she could see the debris the Titanic had left in its wake.
Mattresses, paintings – including the beautiful one that had hung in the first-class lounge – doors, lounges – even some of the deck chairs, lay strewn across the ocean, bobbing in the water.
What was worse than the wreckage was the people. There were more people than debris, a sight that caused Eliana to heave, though her empty stomach didn’t produce much more than bile and the small amount of coffee she’d ingested. She stared in horror at the people who bobbed like wedding cakes in the ocean, and part of her couldn’t help but wonder if they were alive. They looked so relaxed and calm, in Eliana’s mind, as if they’d simply fallen asleep.
Eliana knew it wasn’t true – after all, she could see the frozen clumps of people that had clung to the grand staircase that was floating in the water, as well as each other.
Is one of them George? Papa?
My sisters?
She didn’t know. She hadn’t seen them yet, and until the Carpathia had assembled all the passengers, she doubted she ever would know for sure.
For the first time that night, she started crying, realising she might never see her husband again.
The loss was more than Eliana could bear.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Cecilia
Cecilia felt unsteady as she climbed up onto the Carpathia’s deck, where an officer helped her, and a passenger wrapped a blanket around her, while a stewardess thrust a mug of coffee and a splash of brandy into her hand. She sipped it gratefully, the liquid warming her slightly.
She must have appeared injured, because she was led to the first-class dining saloon where she was assessed by a Doctor McGee. He lifted her injured arm and Cecilia yelped as a white-hot flash of pain seared through her elbow, up to her shoulder. “I think it’s fractured, Miss,” he told her gently. “I will need to bandage and set it, if you are alright with that.” Cecilia nodded hesitantly, her eyes blurring. It wasn’t that her arm was broken – it wasn’t even that her family and Henry were missing.
It wasn’t even her fear of what had happened to Georgiana, after she had fallen – though surely William had forced her into a lifeboat?
It was the kindness of total strangers. Already, many of the passengers had given up their rooms. Madeleine Astor, she had heard, had been given her own cabin, though she was one of the only ones. Some Carpathia families gave
up their entire rooms, choosing to sleep on the floor or in hastily assembled cots in the dining room areas, stating that a few nights’ rough sleep was the least they could offer as comfort to those who had lost everything. Cecilia had not yet been assigned a room; many people had not recognised her in her dishevelled nightwear.
As far as Cecilia could tell, Madeleine was refusing to see anyone bar her husband, who had not left the ship with her, and had not yet been picked up by the Carpathia. Cecilia wondered if Jack would be found; she somewhat doubted it. Henry and William had been left behind when she had boarded a lifeboat, and she had not thought to ask after her father.
What hope did Jack Astor have, when so many other men had none?
While some women remained convinced that the numbers were too little – they simply could not fathom that so few people could survive such a disaster – and therefore they’d likely been picked up by another ship – likely the steamer that had arrived at Titanic’s wreck site around the time Cecilia was boarding the Carpathia, most of the survivors had seen the wreckage, and the floating bodies that looked like meringue cakes, bobbing in the water.
They had come to the conclusion Cecilia had; that more had died than had lived.
If Jack hadn’t found Madeleine, and he wasn’t in one of the last remaining boats to be collected, he wasn’t alive. There hadn’t been another steamer nearby, and Cecilia had heard the screams of the dead. She was sure and certain she could live a hundred years and never forget those screams.
With a heavy heart, and a now-bandaged arm, Cecilia set off, determined to try and find her family.
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