Touched by Angels

by Alan Watts

  It looked as though the water had spat it back up again, as if it didn’t want it, but then Molly Brown said softly, “Her back is broken. The rest will follow. Davy Jones’s locker keeps what it is given.”

  And it did, scant minutes later.

  With a sickening roar, the ship was swallowed up forever.

  Forty-seven

  They sat on the gentle swell for the next two hours, huddling together to keep warm. Some were crying, though most were too numb, both with the cold and what they had seen and lost, to do anything but wait.

  Some were in terrible pain, others, who had lost loved ones, were being comforted by fellow survivors.

  Lil had dozed on and off, groggy with concussion. She dreamed vividly, seeing the ship’s captain swimming up to the boat with the lost baby and delivering it safely aboard, before sinking beneath the sea one last time. She awoke suddenly, her eyes casting around, certain she would see the dripping infant and somebody wrapping it against the chill.

  Many a time she would snap awake, look briefly at Molly Brown, who never seemed to stop scanning the horizon, nod off, and it would start all over again.

  When she was fully conscious, she held her sleeping son tighter than ever, determined to do whatever it took to protect him.

  As her faculties slowly returned, she thought of the money taken from them and fury gripped her. If the thief had survived, she reasoned, he must be in one of the thirteen other lifeboats dotted around them… or in their own. The thought set her heart racing, as much with fear as anger.

  There were fewer men than women and children. She looked from face to face, in the growing light, seeing their breath pluming, trying to pick him out.

  There were three men, but he was not among them. Perhaps he had stolen a dead crewman’s uniform, perhaps even murdered him to get it. Perhaps he was even dressed as a woman.

  She looked across the water, at the other boats, but some were too distant to make out individual features, and a thin mist covered the sea.

  “I’m hungry,” Robert muttered.

  “We’re all hungry, sweetheart,” she whispered, tenderly finger-combing his hair.

  Her attention was taken by a sudden cry. “There’s a ship!”

  Shouts and cries drifted across the water, though it was pointless. The ship must have received the distress call long before their own had gone down, in spite of Lil’s misgivings about the wireless.

  As it drew near, they could hear its engines slow, and see her name on her side, in simple white letters. Carpathia.

  Forty-eight

  It was a single funnel Cunard liner, which had been on its way to the Med with seven hundred and fifty passengers on board. They were still sleeping in their cabins.

  Forty-three-year old Captain Arthur Rostron stood on the bridge, wrapped in his great coat against the freezing cold, though his fingers were numb. Dismayed, he gazed through binoculars at the handful of frail looking boats, some of which he saw were collapsible.

  A consummate professional, he made scrupulous arrangements for his unwitting visitors. He had ordered the ship’s three doctors to station themselves in the three dining rooms to receive the sick and injured.

  The Chief Steward had also been ordered to have ready copious amounts of hot coffee, soup, drinks and blankets, while each passageway was manned by a steward, to keep the ship’s passengers off the deck.

  ***

  Lil and Robert were hoisted aboard with chair slings, while she watched the other survivors the whole time, for anybody acting furtively. She looked for the suitcase too, but couldn’t see it, and knew he had probably transferred the valuables to another container to throw her off the scent.

  They were huddled in thick grey blankets in one of the restaurants, after guzzling water, in spite of the steward’s warning not to.

  Now, there were mugs of steaming soup in their hands, though Robert had barely drunk a third of his before he was dead to the world. His head lolled against her breast, as she kept her arm around him.

  Fourth Officer Joseph Boxhall sat propped against the opposite wall, though there was no sign of Mr Philips, the wireless operator. Boxhall was on the floor, as all seats were taken, knees up by his ears. His head was gashed and his hair was all over the place. His uniform was ruffled and torn. A trickle of blood had dried in one corner of his mouth. His hand shook madly as he raised a cigarette to his lips.

  She caught his eye briefly. His head dropped and his shoulders shook as he sobbed.

  A man next to her squirmed in agony and gasped as a grey-haired doctor with a pince nez perched on his thin nose dabbed his mangled finger with iodine. He was apologising softly for the stinging, but insisting too that it would help prevent infection and gangrene.

  There were a lot of broken arms, legs, and other cuts and grazes that also got the dreaded iodine therapy, making the younger victims howl with pain. Most of the maladies were of frostbite and hypothermia.

  When the doctor looked at Lil’s black eye and swollen face, he didn’t seem unduly concerned.

  He was about to move on to the next, more serious case, when she said in a low voice, “We’ve had a lot of money stolen from us.” Her voice was gravelly.

  He glanced back at her, irritated by what he saw, in light of all that had happened, as pettiness. “You are alive, madam, and you have your child. Many of these other people are not as fortunate.” He made to move on.

  “But you don’t realise. It’s not just a few shillings or pounds…” She looked around herself, before adding, in an even lower voice, “It’s a vast fortune.”

  He regarded her with even grey eyes. “Even so, with what has happened, a few hundred pounds…”

  “Sixty thousand, some in cash, some in…”

  “How much?!”

  She repeated it and saw him looking once more at the bruising and swelling around her left eye.

  “My job is to minister to the sick and to ease suffering. I’m not a detec…”

  “The thief is on board this ship. He’s already stolen from some of the other passengers, before the ship sank. Please, he’s got to be stopped. He might be disguised as a crewman!”

  The doctor kept his face deadpan, although she was sure he suspected delirium. She saw the captain walking through, whose eyes too, were red rimmed from lack of sleep.

  “Please!” she whispered, as Robert muttered in his sleep.

  The doctor stopped the captain, who seemed irritated by the intrusion.

  She could just make out the doctor saying, “… massive blow to her head and she’s got hypothermia. I think she’s imagining it. Well, I ask you, sixty thousand?” He shook his head adding, “She has managed to convince herself he has disguised himself as crewman.”

  The captain looked around the dozens of crewmen in the room.

  He seemed to relax and said, “Well, I hope I find the blighter, what, with my salary.” They both laughed.

  Lil sank back, knowing that nobody was going to believe her.

  As if to confirm it, the doctor said, a little condescendingly, “We’ll keep our eyes peeled, madam, and if we see or hear anything…”

  She closed her eyes, as she listened to a very well-to-do woman whining because her hands were blistered, where she had had to ply an oar.

  As the afternoon came, her strength returned.

  She grew restless and began prowling the ship, above and below, looking from face to face, not caring a damn about acid looks or any restrictions she met below decks.

  The stewards took one look at her face and seemed to know better than to argue. She wasn’t sure what she would do if she found him, though she knew if she did, it wasn’t wise to shout and scream. She would find a quiet corner and keep a still tongue while she planned and schemed.

  Lil looked at some of the men so closely and sometimes for so long, her gaze seemed to make them feel uneasy. She had left Robert under supervision with the other children, to give herself more freedom, after he had been told, on
pain of death, to keep his mouth shut about the money.

  She hunted everywhere and slowly began to accept that he may have perished after all. She never did see Philips or the Strauses.

  Night time came.

  As it wore on, most of the men slept in the smoking rooms, or even on deck, while the more numerous women were offered the co-use of berths by Carpathia’s passengers. Exhausted by her fruitless search, Lil slept through the whole of that night in one of the staterooms, a luxury afforded her because she had a child.

  Soon after daybreak, they found their way to the dining saloon, where dozens had already gathered to weep and pray about the misery that had befallen them.

  Having had enough, she left them to it and took Robert up on deck, where they stood at the rail, seeing the distant sky darkening.

  The wind was freshening too, so they knew they were riding into a storm.

  Robert said, as he gripped her hand hard, “You said God has decided to punish us.”

  She looked down into his eyes and whispered, “Yes,” before gazing out to sea again.

  He held the rail with his other hand and added, “When will he stop?”

  “I don’t know!” Then she gritted her teeth in bitterness and regret. “Maybe never.”

  As the hours passed, they thought they had missed the storm, until it hit them savagely shortly before midnight, tossing and shaking the small ship like a cork.

  Sometimes the lights would go out briefly, bringing screaming, as memories of the sinking, bright enough as they were, came alive like freshly lanced boils. Then they would flicker on again and people, already huddled together in their fear, whimpered and screamed as lightning lit everything up in dazzling blue-white bites. The bangs that followed made them jump.

  The tempest held them in its grip until about three in the morning, when it lifted only briefly, before returning with doubled ferocity.

  The older survivors were trying to convince everyone they had brought their curse with them, certain that where the iceberg had failed, the squall would finish the job.

  The storm raged through Wednesday and Thursday too, compounding their misery with a fog so thick, it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead.

  Continuous pounding rain kept all but the most resolute inside, who were driven out only by the stench of vomit.

  The foghorn kept howling too, to warn other ships of their presence, increasing the hysteria on board.

  It was not until late that afternoon before Captain Rostron, himself weakened, and wanting nothing more than to be on dry land, was relieved to be told the foghorn could be heard off Fire Island.

  Lil was half dozing, as she sat at a baize-covered table, strewn with cards and empty whisky glasses, long ago abandoned by the men. Robert sat beside her, his head buried in his arms.

  With their money now seemingly gone forever, she had been thinking about what they should do, when she glimpsed a familiar face passing the porthole on the far side.

  She felt joy and rage all in one, knowing that with disembarkation imminent, the thief had been forced out of hiding. There was no disguise whatsoever, though he looked extremely pale and drawn. There was a swatch of black, maybe grease, across his right cheek. His centre parting was gone.

  She realised now how he had managed to elude her for the past three days. He had stowed away, knowing damn well she would be on the prowl, in some nook where nobody would ever think of looking; perhaps the engine room, which would explain the grease mark.

  It wasn’t hard to imagine how terrible it must have been, with the incessant noise and fumes and the tossing of the storm. Considering the amount of money at stake though, he had probably thought the wretchedness worth it.

  She looked out of the porthole again, this time past him, at the wild land of America, knowing that in it there were no Marquess of Queensberry Rules. The time had come to cast aside the gloves, as he had, and throw away any notions of fair play.

  Whatever it took, she would not be beaten again.

  Forty-nine

  He was wrapped against the chill in a great thick coat, with the same striped suitcase clutched in his hand. He had not tried to disguise it, perhaps thinking that doing so was even more likely to draw attention. The first chance he had, he would bolt, and in the confusion, there would be nothing she could do about it.

  She knew it was a waste of time approaching the police, who, according to English newspapers, were very corrupt here.

  The only possible solution came when her eyes lit upon a tough-looking man standing nearby. Half a head above the pink chinless faces and potbellies surrounding him, he gazed at the world from under a wide brimmed hat, through narrow green eyes. Cigar smoke trickled lazily from his lips. Stubble covered his face. The butt of a gun poked from under a long blue jacket, and behind that, a fancy waistcoat and bootlace tie.

  Truth be told, she didn’t like the look of him one bit, but there was so little time. It was this or nothing.

  She whispered quickly in Robert’s ear, knowing the part she should play for greater appeal and plausibility. “You are the son of a lord, all right?”

  “Eh?”

  He looked up. He too looked at her as if she was delirious.

  “Ssshh. You want the money back, don’t you?”

  “Course I do.”

  “Then follow my lead. Call him Sir. Shake his hand. Talk nicely. You know what to do.”

  She tugged his forearm, sidled over, and said, in a more enunciated voice than usual, “I’m sorry for staring. It’s just that I’ve not spoken to anybody since…”

  He nodded to show he understood and regarded them evenly.

  “Your son?”

  “Yes.”

  She held Robert by his shoulders and pinched one of them lightly in prompt. He glanced up.

  She sighed as she glared at him, embarrassed.

  He said, a little parrot-like, “Oh… it’s a pleasure to meet you,” adding, “Sir,” as she pinched him again.

  Perplexed, he held out his hand, and the man shook it smiling.

  “And you are?”

  “Lady Emma DeVere.”

  She kicked Robert lightly on the ankle, as she saw his head suddenly turn.

  “And this is Robert DeVere, sole heir to the family fortune, since his father, Major General Oliver De Vere, was killed at Ladysmith, fighting the Boers.”

  “I see. My condolences. My name is Jackson Quint. Why are you visiting America?”

  “To start a new life. But…”

  She let her eyes drop to the swaying deck, as Carpathia eased into the Cunard pier.

  “It’s so humiliating. To have been so stupid, to have let my guard drop. I thought, as I expect you did, that Englishmen were gentlemen but…”

  “What happened?”

  Robert piped up without warning, “Some bastard nicked all our lolly!”

  She cringed, though after managing a polite laugh, and construing the term ‘lolly’, she explained that her son had, unfortunately, been in contact with the steerage passengers.

  As the gangplank was being lowered, she said quietly, “I had intended that as little attention be drawn to us as possible, but I suppose in view of what has happened, we are desperate. Helpless too. What my son told you is true. Since the sale of the family seat in Berkshire, all our worldly goods are in the suitcase the thief carries, mostly cash and jewellery. He stole it from us as the ship was sinking. As of now, we are penniless, with not even the means to escape back home.”

  She saw the thief, hopping impatiently from foot to foot as he waited, stuck behind a man with bandaged feet being carried slowly from the ship.

  Then, just as he reached the pier, a man with a camera stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Lil heard him say, “I’m John Gleason, Sir, Hartford Times. Have you a story for me?”

  As he was trying to blather his way out, she said quickly to Quint, “He’s the man who took our money. It’s in the suitcase. Help me get
it back and there will be a reward.”

  She noticed Quint watching the man the whole time, as if absorbing as much detail as he could.

  The thief must have guessed he was being watched, as she saw him snap something at the reporter, before stalking off, inside the pier itself where everything was lit by huge spot lights.

  ***

  Quint ran after him, fully aware that Lady DeVere, if that was her real title, could be lying through her teeth. They were on his heels as he gave chase.

  The thief was almost running by now, as he charged through the crowd, pushing people out of the way.

  By now, as Quint followed him out onto the road, where thousands had gathered, the man took off in the rain, down the road and into the docks.

  Quint followed, scared the police might be on his tracks.

  “Stay where you are,” he shouted. He pulled his revolver from under his jacket, as the man ran into the jungle of concrete and iron that Quint knew like the back of his hand.

  ***

  Lil soon stopped running, her hands on her knees, as she panted for breath. A stitch dug like a hot blade in her side. Her ankle-length dress and block heels were not conducive to running anyway, and she didn’t like the look of the place Quint had given chase into.

  “Mum, come on!”

  “No!” There was a coppery taste at the back of her throat. “We’ll… we’ll wait… He’ll be back.”

  She could only stand and watch, as she saw a hazy outline of Quint against distant lights. She was sure they would never see their money again.

  Fifty

  Quint stopped and listened hard, as rain trickled from the front of his hat.

  There was a dead end ahead, with derelict warehouses to his left and a tall wall extending right across to where it ended, twenty feet above the icy water of the Hudson River.

  The man was trapped, unless he jumped, which would be as good as suicide. After the scuttling of rats had stopped, he could hear the soft patter of rain, and the low whistle of the wind, as it streamed through shattered windows and broken roof slates.