On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  He took them back past the dining room and up to the third-class deck. The expanse was mostly deserted, except for a few people milling at the bottom of a crane that sat midship, a crane that had been used to load baggage in Southampton. Emil strode toward them, his feet sliding on the wet wood, and Anna and Sonja shuffled carefully behind him. Emil called out to one of the Norwegians from his cabin, and the two men had a quick consultation.

  Emil turned to Anna. “We’re climbing up, to the lifeboats.”

  “We can’t!” Sonja protested. “That deck is first class!”

  “What are they going to do to us now?” Emil argued. “The ship is sinking!”

  Belatedly, Anna understood why her footsteps had been so unsteady: the ship was leaning. Shock and fear heightened her senses, and she clutched at the crane, seeking reassurance in its solidness.

  The Norwegian was already testing out footholds, moving like a spider up the steel bars. Another man, dressed in the white uniform of a kitchen worker, was already halfway up the other side. Emil motioned to Sonja.

  “My bag . . . ,” she protested.

  “Leave it.”

  Sonja looked like she was about to cry. Anna wanted to cry, too, when she thought of what she’d left in her cabin. Her best stockings, her only hat, her Sunday dress. None of it valuable, yet every piece priceless, because it was all she owned.

  “We’ll fetch it later,” Anna said.

  The certainty with which she delivered the lie had the desired effect. Sonja put down her bag and took hold of the first crossbar. Anna climbed alongside her, their hands and feet moving in a tentative joint rhythm. When they reached the railing of the upper deck, the Norwegian leaned out and helped them over.

  Anna expected to be shouted at or quickly shooed off the deck. But the people she’d seen there earlier, gawking at the ice, were gone. From this vantage point, one of the highest spots on the ship, the Titanic’s fate was chillingly clear. Its prow was pointing precipitously downward, only a few feet from the water. And the lifeboats that had hung along the edges of the deck were gone.

  The enormity of the absence silenced them. The lifeboats had been their guiding light, a way to channel their fear into action. Now, there was nowhere else to go.

  “The boats can’t be far. We can get to them.”

  Emil’s voice was firm, but his face made Anna want to weep. He was trying so hard to prove himself, to show he was a man who could protect the women in his care. But he was only seventeen.

  The tears Sonja had managed to hold in earlier came flooding down her cheeks. “I can’t swim.”

  “The life belt will hold you up,” Anna said. “I’ll help you.”

  Their scramble up the crane hadn’t gone unnoticed, and other third-class passengers began coming over the railing. Like crabs making their way to higher ground at high tide, they scuttled toward the stern.

  Emil crouched down, bracing his back against the rail to counteract the increasing slant of the deck. “We only have to hold on a little longer,” he said. “Until a rescue ship comes.”

  Anna remembered the talk about Marconi and hoped it was true. A deck chair slid past them, and Sonja’s tears swelled into sobs.

  I can’t tell her it will be all right, Anna thought. No kind words could blot out the horror of what was to come. Her legs ached with the effort of holding herself upright. All she could do was squeeze Sonja’s shoulders and tell her the words pounding through her like a heartbeat: “Josef is waiting for us. Think of Josef.”

  Emil’s foot was braced against Anna’s, his weight pushing her down. She watched as the nose of the ship slipped into the water. Below deck, dishes were breaking in a distant clatter. But Emil’s voice was steady as he told them the safest way out was to meet the sea on their own terms. To jump into it before it pulled them in.

  Anna’s assent was more of a sigh than a word. She was on her knees by then, with Sonja collapsed beside her. Her hand was numb from the effort of holding on to the rail. And then the pressure was eased, as Emil grabbed hold of Anna with one arm and Sonja with the other. Sonja curled her face toward her lap, but Anna watched the water inch relentlessly forward as the Titanic slid gently into its grave.

  “Now!” Emil shouted.

  They careened down the deck, splashing into the sea in a tumble of limbs. The cold shot through Anna in a burst of pain; she wanted to scream, but couldn’t. Sonja floated beside her, eyes enormous in the moonlight, with Emil close behind. It was impossible to take in the enormity of what was happening: the drowning ship, the detritus floating around them, the shouts that shattered the peace of the arctic night.

  “The lights,” Emil gasped, his breath forming a cloud of smoke.

  The cold was slowing Anna’s thoughts as well as her movements. She saw an intermittent glow amid the crush of objects that surrounded her and tried to figure out what it was. A firefly? An angel? Then she remembered—as if in a dream—what Emil had said about the lifeboats. The gleam in the distance was a lantern.

  Anna tried to block out the screams of the passengers still clinging to the railings, fighting to hold on to a ship that would soon abandon them. She reached down, willing her numb legs to obey her mental commands. She kicked off her boots—thank God she hadn’t tied them!—and pulled up her skirt, tucking the hem into her life belt. She pushed at the water with her palms, firm and steady, just as Papa had taught her. Slowly, painstakingly, Anna swam.

  But Emil couldn’t keep up. He was holding on to Sonja, whose shivering lips were emitting a low, constant whimper, and his frantic movements weren’t pulling him forward. He’d never be able to drag Sonja far enough.

  It took all the strength Anna had to think, let alone speak.

  “I’ll get the boat.”

  Her lips felt heavy, and her cheeks were stiff; the words came out jumbled. But Sonja looked grateful—she even attempted a smile—and her effort strengthened Anna’s resolve. Anna was dimly aware of crashes and metallic groans as the Titanic ripped apart, but she didn’t look back. The air around her exploded with a roar, and the ocean surged from the impact. Salt water cascaded up and over her, and she was pulled down and around, dizzy with horror, her lungs shrieking for air. She was seven years old, in the lake, drowning. Then her head bobbed out of the water, buoyed by her life belt. She gulped in the frosty air, its chill searing her throat.

  Sonja was screaming, her cries joining hundreds of others in a chorus of terror. She and Emil had been swept away by the waves, and Anna watched as they struggled to return to her side. Emil was holding Sonja, and he was breathing too hard, and Anna wanted to tell him to conserve his strength, but she couldn’t move her lips. She searched desperately for the light, and when a heavy mass careened into her, she didn’t even flinch when she saw it was a dead man, his face crushed to bone and blood. The sight came back to her years later, in nightmares, but in that instant she was immune to such horrors. All that mattered were those who were still alive.

  Emil’s face was flushed, his hair—for once—smoothed flat across his forehead. He looked so much older, as if each minute since they’d left the ship had aged him a decade. He was trying to tell her something, and Anna nodded as if she understood. She wished he would stop trying to talk; it was costing him too much effort. A gentle swell pushed him forward, and Anna could hear the rasp in his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  On the edge of her field of vision, Anna caught a flicker of light. She twisted her head toward it and thought she saw the outline of a person. A sailor, holding up a lamp.

  “They’re coming,” she called out to Emil. “The boat is coming.”

  Sonja lay slumped against Emil’s chest, her head across his shoulder. Had she been hurt? Anna knew she was their only hope for rescue; she had to keep kicking and moving her arms, even if she could no longer feel them.

  She thought of Josef, a hazy, golden figure in an imagined America of endless pasture. He couldn’t lose his futu
re wife and brother in one night. She would not allow him to suffer such pain. Please, she begged God. Save Sonja and Emil. I willingly trade my life for theirs.

  Emil was no longer trying to swim. He glided like a leaf on the water, giving himself over to the currents, his arms floating uselessly beside him. Sonja was gone. Anna reached out and grabbed Emil’s hand. Her flesh was so chilled that his didn’t feel cold. It was solid and strong, a hand that was used to carrying others’ burdens. A hand that would never let her go.

  “Come,” Anna grunted, and she kicked and kicked, her senses so dulled that she couldn’t tell if she was making any progress forward. The water swirled around her like an embrace, and an oar brushed against her shoulder. A voice called out, and firm fingers took hold of her arm.

  Just like Papa, Anna thought, as Emil slipped away.

  US SENATE COMMITTEE ON COMMERCE

  Titanic Disaster Investigation

  Thursday, April 25, 1912

  Testimony of Edmund Healy, Seaman

  Senator Perkins: What boat did you go from the ship in?

  Mr. Healy: Number 21, sir.

  Senator Perkins: Who was in command?

  Mr. Healy: I was, sir.

  Senator Perkins: How many passengers did you have on her?

  Mr. Healy: Thirteen, sir.

  Senator Perkins: Could the boat have taken more?

  Mr. Healy: Yes, sir. A good deal more.

  Senator Perkins: Why was the lifeboat not filled to full capacity?

  Mr. Healy: I could not say, sir. It was the officers who decided who would board.

  Senator Perkins: What orders were you given on leaving the ship?

  Mr. Healy: Mr. Murdoch, the first officer, pointed to a light in the distance and said it was another ship come to our rescue. We were to unload our passengers there and come back for more. It took some time to get the boat moving properly, and when we looked for the light, it was gone.

  Senator Perkins: And the Titanic?

  Mr. Healy: The Titanic was also gone.

  Senator Perkins: Did you hear any cries of people in the water?

  Mr. Healy: Yes, sir. Awful cries.

  Senator Perkins: Were you able to make any rescues?

  Mr. Healy: A Swedish girl swam up to us, and we pulled her in. That was soon after the ship went down.

  Senator Perkins: Could you see others in the water?

  Mr. Healy: Our lamp wasn’t working properly, and it was difficult to see. I did hear voices, close by. I thought we should try to reach them, but there were objections from some of the passengers. They feared we’d be swamped if we took any more in.

  Senator Perkins: Did you give the order to leave?

  Mr. Healy: There were no orders given. Two men in our boat started rowing toward the other lifeboats. Only one of the lady passengers objected. The rest were anxious to go.

  Senator Perkins: At that time, were you still hearing calls for help?

  Mr. Healy: Yes, sir.

  Senator Perkins: How long did you hear such cries?

  Mr. Healy: It was quite some time.

  [Witness requested a break in the proceedings to compose himself.]

  Mr. Healy (cont’d): I hate to think on it, sir. It was the most terrible sound I’ve ever heard.

  PART TWO: AFTER

  CHARLOTTE

  September 1932

  “You’ll never guess who’s bought it!” Teddy Ranger called out.

  Charlotte could barely hear him over the usual cacophony of the London Record’s office: the chiming telephones, the metallic clack of typewriter keys, the joking taunts of the reporters banging away at those keys. Charlotte managed to muster an expression of mild interest. If anyone really important had died, Teddy would be barking out orders rather than strolling leisurely toward her.

  Teddy held up a telegram. “Charles Van Hausen. Two days ago.”

  The sensation that swelled up inside Charlotte couldn’t be grief. Twenty years had passed since she’d last seen Charles Van Hausen, and even then, they were barely acquainted. Yet the news settled into her body like an onset of sudden illness, slowing her reflexes and thoughts. An image appeared, clear as a film still, of Charles in the lifeboat, clutching an oar, his face reddened with effort and cold. It shouldn’t matter to Charlotte that he was dead. But it did.

  Teddy, no fool, was looking at her with the same twitchy expression he got whenever a juicy rumor solidified into fact. “Did you know him?” he asked.

  “Not here,” Charlotte muttered.

  Turning away, motioning for Teddy to follow, she led him to the door marked “Theodore Ranger, Editor,” nodding to his secretary as they passed. Once inside, Charlotte sat in the chair opposite Teddy’s desk and leaned back. Were anyone else in the room, she’d be perched on the edge of the seat, primly poised, but there was no need to observe the formalities when they were alone.

  “You’d think this were your office, rather than mine,” Teddy chided.

  “It might be, if I were a man.”

  “Didn’t suffragette rants go out with hobble skirts? Or are they back in fashion?”

  It felt, to Charlotte, like pulling off a pair of tight shoes. Here, in private, she needn’t address Teddy as Mr. Ranger or defer to his opinions; she was protected by their shared history. Teddy’s waistcoats had tightened in the years Charlotte had known him, just as her once-striking looks had altered with age, but they’d both reached a level of success that would have pleased their younger selves. At forty-one, Charlotte knew she was no longer beautiful, but she’d managed the next best thing. By investing in the best clothes and hairdresser she could afford, Charlotte exuded nonchalant elegance, an effect achieved only by concealing the effort behind it.

  “Tell me,” Teddy said, shifting abruptly into the blunt manager’s voice he used in meetings. “You. Van Hausen.”

  “We were in the same lifeboat,” Charlotte said.

  The revelation obviously delighted Teddy. “You don’t say?”

  “We barely spoke.” Best to quash his hopes and any further questions. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know, except it was sudden. He had to be about our age, don’t you think?”

  Charlotte nodded. He’d seemed so much older back then. It was the money, she supposed. He’d grown up being waited on, his very name conjuring up admiring nods and bows. He’d been bred with the confidence it had taken Charlotte years to build for herself.

  “I’d rather not write the obituary, if that’s what you were going to ask,” Charlotte said.

  “Oh, this calls for more than that,” Teddy said. “It’s a big story. One of the richest men in America, notorious Titanic survivor, unable to shake the suspicion that hovered over his all-too-brief life.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already written it.”

  “I could do,” Teddy said. “But think how much better it would be with your personal touch. What was he really like? And his wife—was she in the lifeboat as well?”

  Charlotte nodded. She remembered Esme in the front of the boat, swathed in fur, clutching Charles’s arm. Snapping at Charlotte to be quiet, her face twisted into an expression of affronted alarm.

  “Think she’ll talk to you?” Teddy asked.

  Charlotte shot him her coldest glare. “We’re hardly friends.”

  “There’d be good money in it. The New York Express will pay through the nose for the American rights to an interview, and I’d see you were properly compensated. You’d get a free trip to New York, besides. Why not make a holiday of it? I could get you a few weeks off, if you like.”

  “The Titanic’s old news. No one cares.”

  “Our readers love to revisit a good scandal. You know that better than anyone.”

  Scandals, after all, were Charlotte’s specialty. She had a talent for simultaneously celebrating and castigating society’s upper echelon, turning the ups and downs of their domestic lives into melodramas worthy of grand opera. If it had been anyone other than Charles Van H
ausen who’d died, Charlotte would have a column finished within the hour. Already, her nebulous thoughts were arranging themselves into sentences: “The handsome heir to a Boston banking fortune, Van Hausen miraculously survived the sinking of the Titanic, a fate that would haunt him in the years to come. For even as Van Hausen’s rescue led him into the arms of love, he could never escape the question that shadowed the rest of his life: Why did he live when so many others perished?”

  But this wasn’t the sort of story Charlotte could assemble into her usual confection of clichés and trite sentiment. Writing about Charles Van Hausen would mean boarding a ship and crossing the Atlantic, something she’d avoided ever since she returned to England in the spring of 1912. It would mean confronting Esme and asking her to relive one of the worst nights of her life. Still, Charlotte couldn’t help wondering what had become of them. Had Charles and Esme been happy? Had they made peace with their past?

  For twenty years, Charlotte had purposefully avoided thinking about the lifeboat, but now, fragments of the past reached out, cajoling her to glance back. She thought of the Swedish girl, Anna. Mrs. Trelawny and her terrified children. Mr. Healy, the sailor, whom she’d always meant to thank properly but never did. What had happened to them?

  Perhaps, at last, it was safe to remember.

  “All right,” Charlotte said. “Best I go without writing to Mrs. Van Hausen first. Take her by surprise. But mind you, she may very well slam the door in my face.”

  “Not you, my dear,” said Teddy, beaming. “I have faith in your powers of persuasion. I’ll have McClaren set you up at the Express.” Teddy and his New York counterpart often shared sources and tips and encouraged the occasional plagiarism by their underlings. “How soon can you leave?”

  If Charlotte was really going to America, there was one obligation she’d have to face first.

  “I’ll need a few days to get things in order. Let’s say Monday.”

  “Very good. Have Agnes make the arrangements.”