On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  Grunting, the sailor drags Anna inside. Water streams from the hem of her dress, and she collapses into a self-protective huddle at Charlotte’s feet. The boat settles into an even sway. Charlotte looks down at the bedraggled creature below her, whose face is hidden beneath a tangle of brown hair. Indistinguishable shapes churn in the surrounding sea. Charlotte keeps her eyes on the girl instead.

  Esme sees someone bobbing in the water, a few yards off. The face is a blurry flash of white amid a tangle of deck chairs and wreckage, and Esme can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman, dead or alive. Charlie and the sailor look at each other, silently conferring. Already, Charlie has assumed a certain authority, which Esme thinks no less than his due. It’s only natural that the crewmen would look to a first-class gentleman for leadership. She places the handkerchief on the bench between them, hoping Charlie might use it as an excuse to touch her, if only for a moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “We should go,” Charlie says.

  His decisiveness spurs the sailor into action. He and Charlie had both taken up oars to row free of the ship, but they’d made little progress and stopped completely when they saw the girl in their path. Now, the sailor cuts the rope binding the rest of the oars and hands one to the bearded, sour-faced crewman in the back, whose clothes are grimy with soot from the engine rooms.

  “Mr. Wells, is it?” Mr. Healy asks.

  The fireman nods.

  “Able Seaman Edmund Healy. We’ll turn her around at the bow.”

  Mr. Wells takes the oar and dangles it from his hands, testing out its weight. He points the paddle away from the boat and down, and it splashes ineffectually at the surface of the water.

  “What are you doing?” one of the three matrons snaps.

  “Saving our lives,” Mr. Wells shoots back.

  “Have you ever rowed before?” Her voice is a mix of sharp British consonants and broad American vowels, an accent widespread among well-traveled, well-funded society women. “You must put it in the oarlock, to hold it in place.”

  With a gruff exhale, Mr. Wells slides the handle into position. “Never held an oar before in my life,” he says, boastful of his inexperience, and the matron gives her companions a pursed-lipped look of disapproval. He doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

  “We’ll need someone to steer,” Mr. Healy says, looking doubtfully at his prospects. The old woman will be no use; neither will the fretful mother. The pretty young woman in the middle might do—she’d impressed him with her steely self-assurance when she stepped into the boat—but she’s busy tending to the girl they’ve just rescued. Mr. Healy’s eyes meet those of a middle-aged woman with broad shoulders and the unruffled composure of a longtime headmistress.

  “I’m from Portsmouth,” she says. “I know a bit about sailing.”

  Just as he’d hoped: no fuss and no dithering. Mr. Healy takes her hand and escorts her to the triangular bench that fills the rear tip of the boat. The woman grabs the wooden tiller and pushes it from side to side, testing the movement of the rudder below. When she nods in satisfaction, Mr. Healy gingerly winds his way back to the middle of the boat.

  Sitting on the front bench of the boat, Charlie secures his oar, his movements forcing Esme to shift away. Her right arm and leg press against Sabine, and though it’s awkward to be so close to one’s maid, Esme pretends she doesn’t mind. They’re all in this together, and she must set a good example.

  Behind Sabine, Mr. Healy begins rowing. The bow jerks unsteadily. Mr. Healy looks back toward the woman at the tiller—she gives him a “Don’t blame me” shrug—then sees Mr. Wells’s oar hanging limply from its lock, while Mr. Wells rubs his hands with exaggerated vigor. Two minutes in, and the man’s already shirking his duty. Mr. Healy, flustered by the weight of command, says nothing. If all these lives are in his hands—an unbearable, unwanted responsibility—he can’t afford to provoke the other men. He needs them too much.

  A few feet from Mr. Healy, Charlotte is kneeling by Anna. Water has pooled from the girl’s soaked dress, and Charlotte feels it sink into her skirt and chill her legs.

  “Don’t worry,” Charlotte says. She reaches around Anna’s back and pats her shoulder, tentatively at first, then more firmly when Anna doesn’t resist. “You’re safe.”

  Anna doesn’t understand what Charlotte is saying, but she recognizes the voice as a kind one. She can’t stop shivering. Even if Anna herself has lost the will to keep fighting, her muscles are determined to shake her back to life.

  The girl must be freezing, Charlotte thinks, in such a thin dress. And only a shawl around her shoulders, thoroughly drenched and likely to freeze solid. Charlotte takes off Reg’s coat and wraps it around Anna. Then she pulls Anna up onto the bench, rubbing her hands to warm them.

  Anna is only dimly aware of Charlotte’s efforts. Her mind is struggling to make sense of what has happened. She was on the deck with Emil and Sonja; then they were in the water. Is Sonja dead? Even thinking it feels like a sin, as if Anna were wishing it true. Emil was swimming right behind her, but he isn’t here, which can only mean they will pull him in next. She can see the sailor, the one who appears to be in charge, looking out, searching.

  Mr. Healy holds up his lantern. Its glow is stubbornly faint, despite his attempts to strengthen the flame, and the moonlight isn’t strong enough to illuminate the turmoil around them. “Where’s he gone?” he calls out.

  “Who?” the old woman asks, bewildered.

  “There was a man, near the girl we rescued,” Esme tells the old woman. “We’re trying to find him.”

  Charlie’s expression is intent as his eyes survey the darkness. “He was close.”

  Mr. Wells thrusts his oar down with an angry shove, splashing the matrons in the back. They glare at him furiously, displaying the same expression in triplicate. Esme is pleased to see that the other passengers look to Charlie as much as Mr. Healy for guidance. As she shifts in her seat, she catches a glimpse of the Titanic’s back half, rising like an accusation from the sea. The monstrous image dominates the horizon, yet no one points or gasps or cries. The passengers sit straight-backed and silent, and many turn their faces away from the unfolding disaster. Anxious to show Charlie that she’s as strong as the rest, Esme gulps down her dread.

  “No use looking for ’im now,” Mr. Wells says sharply. “If we stay here, we’ll be caught in the suction.”

  The mother frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “The ship’s going down. Its weight will pull down everything around it.”

  Mr. Wells’s pronouncement sends a ripple of alarm through the previously stoic passengers. Sabine drops her head and presses her hands together in prayer. Esme, touched, remembers Sabine’s father and how Esme promised him she’d keep his daughter safe. Brimming with motherly protectiveness, Esme gives Sabine an approving pat, but the maid’s eyes remain shut. She is praying fervently for Mr. Harper, the kindest man she knows.

  “Is it true?” Esme asks Charlie in a whisper. “Will we be pulled down?”

  “I don’t know. It might be like a whirlpool, only a hell of a lot bigger.”

  It’s the swearing that makes Esme realize Charlie is afraid, too.

  “We must look to our own safety first, mustn’t we?” Esme asks Mr. Healy tightly.

  Mr. Healy speaks to her with the deference due a lady wearing a fur coat. “I will do everything I can.” Turning to the back, he calls out to the woman steering, “We’ll make a turn to port.”

  Behind him, Anna’s muddled thoughts shift into place. They are leaving. They can’t! Emil is there, in the water, and if they don’t pull him in, he will die. She straightens up with a jolt, knocking Charlotte’s arm away.

  “Emil!” Anna cries. “We have to save my friend!”

  Charlotte gives Anna a sympathetic but puzzled look. She doesn’t understand Swedish, of course, and Anna tries to remember the dialogues in her English phrase book. She studied those pages for hours, but none of the suggested convers
ations have prepared her for this. All she can think of are childish, useless words: “Train.” “Bread.” “Please.”

  “My name is Anna Halversson,” she blurts out. It’s the only English sentence that comes to mind.

  Charlotte smiles, a patient mother encouraging her baby’s first steps. “My name is Charlotte Evers,” she says slowly, pointing to her chest.

  Anna struggles to make Charlotte understand. “Name Emil Andersson,” she tries, pointing out toward the blackness. “Emil!”

  Charlotte can only shake her head, helplessly apologetic. She’d thought, at first, that Anna spoke some English, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. Poor thing—she must be shouting about someone she left behind on the boat. Her father, a brother. Charlotte thinks of Reg and her chest seizes with a sudden sharp pain. Where is he?

  Anna looks frantically at the water. Emil can’t be far away. She remembers the final kick she made to reach the boat, and how her left foot had hit something hard. Was it Emil’s life belt? His face? She doesn’t think she is strong enough to have hurt him, but he’d been weakened by the cold. She thinks of Emil, half frozen and suffering, and her heart pulses with panic. She has to find him. If he dies this close to rescue, she will never forgive herself. She will not deserve to live.

  Anna tries to tell Charlotte all this, in a frenzy of words she knows Charlotte won’t understand. She hopes the desperation in her voice will be explanation enough. She throws her hands out, toward the water, pointing blindly, until an English word pops into her mind, a word Sonja had told her would be useful during their travels.

  “Help!” Anna shouts, pointing away from the boat. “Help!”

  Charlotte grasps Anna’s flittering hands, trying to calm her down.

  “Yes,” Charlotte says with exaggerated nods. “We’re going for help.” She says the last word slowly, emphasizing it for Anna’s benefit.

  Anna, despondent, breaks into ragged sobs. Perhaps the girl simply needs a good cry, Charlotte thinks. It’s no wonder, with what she’s been through.

  “Make her stop,” the mother mutters from the row behind. “She’s going to upset the children.” The boy and girl sitting on either side of her look more curious than upset. The mother nudges their faces away from the Titanic, but the boy keeps sneaking looks.

  “The poor dear,” the elderly woman says. Her hands, a lumpy mass of arthritic joints and swollen veins, rest on the top of her cane. “She’s lost someone, I imagine.”

  Anger simmers beneath the mother’s cool English restraint. “We’ve all lost someone.”

  Charlotte feels an overwhelming urge to slap the woman. How dare she talk as if everyone left on the Titanic were already dead! Reg is the cleverest person Charlotte knows, clever enough to find his way into another lifeboat or cling to the wreckage until the rescue boats arrive. Yet Charlotte sees no lights on the horizon. Not even the glow of another lifeboat’s lantern. Where have they all gone?

  The passengers sit at attention, like toy soldiers, as the lifeboat makes a slow, stiff turn. Charlie and Mr. Healy lean into their oars and pull back with broad, strong movements, but their efforts are barely enough to budge the boat. Mr. Wells lights up a pipe, to loud protests from the women in the back. “I will not be treated in this manner!” one of them pronounces, but Mr. Wells pretends not to hear. He continues to smoke, each exhale defiant.

  Most people have turned their backs on the Titanic, shielding themselves from its destruction, but Esme can’t look away. She hears a muffled rumble as the ship’s bones twist and break, the engines and machinery and beams crashing downward. There is a hypnotic quality to the ship’s leisurely descent. Esme imagines describing the scene to her friends, sometime in the future. The words “tragically magnificent” come to mind, and she is swept up in the self-important gratification that comes from witnessing history.

  Esme feels the mood in the boat shift. The immigrant girl is the only one crying, but the other women are struggling to maintain their composure. The old woman is pale—like she might faint any moment—and the mother is looking around wildly, and the women in the back are squawking over the fireman’s smoke, as if it matters at a time like this! They’ll all be at each other’s throats if someone doesn’t impose order. Esme turns to the younger crewman, the one who appears to be in charge. He has an open, honest face, and a self-possession Esme admires.

  “Mr. Healy, is it?” Esme asks. “You have command of the boat?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We need a distraction. I thought I might make introductions.”

  Mr. Healy doesn’t see the point of social niceties at a time like this, when it’s taking all his strength to pull clear of the ship. But if the rich American woman keeps the passengers occupied, it will stop them pestering him, at least. He guesses they have ten minutes at most before the Titanic is gone. He pushes his oar up and down, back and forth, wondering why he can’t see the light he’d been told to head for. One of the officers on deck told him the rescue ship was only a mile or so away, but Mr. Healy hasn’t been able to find it. He mustn’t let anyone else know; it would only start a panic. His only hope is to stay close to the other lifeboats, which are already worryingly far away.

  Esme shifts her body around so she can make eye contact with the others. “We must work together,” she says loudly, instantly drawing all eyes. “It’s the only way we’ll survive. So we might as well get acquainted. I’m Mrs. Hiram Harper, from Philadelphia.”

  For a moment, Esme sees the absurdity of her gesture. Here she is, in the middle of the open ocean, acting as if she’s hosting a dinner party. But her fellow passengers don’t seem put off by her presumption. They watch her intently, greedily, grateful to have their attention drawn away from the Titanic’s death throes.

  Esme tilts her head slightly to the left, toward Charlie. “Charles Van Hausen,” she says. “Of the Boston Van Hausens.”

  She is gratified by the reaction to his name: eyes widening in recognition, a few direct stares. She has placed a claim on Charlie by introducing him, but she can’t imagine it’s raised any suspicion: it must be obvious to all of them that she is a woman traveling without the protection of her husband, and he is a family friend acting as her escort. There were a dozen such pairings on the Titanic; it’s perfectly respectable. The old lady gives Esme a puzzled look, but Esme barely notices. She is too preoccupied by the women in the back, who seem quite pleased to have a Van Hausen on board.

  “My maid,” Esme says, with a gesture toward Sabine.

  The slight shift of her body brings the Titanic in view. The stern is still partially afloat, and Esme feels a bright, jumpy sort of panic. Why haven’t they gotten farther away? It’s all happening so fast, but she mustn’t speak of it, mustn’t acknowledge what is happening a quarter mile away. She turns and smiles encouragingly at the woman with two children.

  “Mrs. David Trelawny,” the woman says stiffly.

  She is wearing a brown traveling coat and modest hat; her children are bundled up like Arctic explorers. Judging from the woman’s voice, they are British, middle-class, and not accustomed to making conversation with strangers.

  “My daughter’s called Eva, and this is Tommy. He’s six and Eva’s nine.” Mrs. Trelawny’s voice has started to falter. “My brother-in-law’s to be married on Sunday, in New Jersey.”

  Her arms are like wings encircling her chicks, and she flaps them from the children’s heads to their shoulders and back. Everyone in the boat can sense her unspoken questions: Will there be a wedding? Or a funeral instead?

  The old woman on the bench next to Mrs. Trelawny speaks up next. “Mrs. Abraham Dunning. I am returning to New York after a sojourn in southern France for my health.” Her voice quavers with age, but she speaks confidently. “This is my tenth Atlantic crossing. All the others passed without incident, not even a rainstorm. I used to joke about my luck, didn’t I, Braxton?” She twists her shoulders in a stiff half turn and looks at the woman holding the tiller.
“My nurse.”

  “That you did, ma’am.” Nurse Braxton’s voice is deep, her demeanor humorless. Just the sort of person Esme can imagine bossing around her patients.

  “I shall certainly have a story to tell now,” Mrs. Dunning says. “Won’t we all?”

  Mrs. Dunning shakes her head wryly, and the amusement in her voice strikes Charlotte as unseemly. “Charlotte Evers,” she says.

  Charlotte thinks, fleetingly, that it’s not her name at all. It has no meaning without Reg. She tips her head toward Anna. “She told me her name was Anna Halversson, but I haven’t been able to understand anything else.”

  “Halversson?” Mrs. Dunning asks. “Norwegian, are you? Swedish?”

  Anna nods. She knows what “Swedish” means, at least. Worry for Emil has settled into her bones, a leaden ache. What can she do, when she cannot make herself understood? He’s gone now, taken by the waves or the cold, and she wishes she could crouch back in the bottom of the boat. If only she could block out all these people and voices and grieve in peace.

  “You’re good to look after her, Miss Evers,” says one of the women in the back.

  “Mrs. Evers,” Charlotte corrects her.

  “Beg your pardon.” The woman takes a deep breath, the sort of ostentatious gesture one makes before delivering a speech at a charity luncheon or reproving a servant. “I am Mrs. William McBride. These are my sisters, Mrs. Westleigh and Miss Armstrong.”

  Charlotte judges them to be in their forties or fifties, their faces variations on a theme. Round cheeks, high foreheads, lips that curve naturally downward. All are stocky from years of easy living and the labor of good cooks.

  “The Armstrongs of Baltimore?” Mrs. Dunning asks.

  “Yes.” Mrs. McBride nods with affable pride. “I don’t believe we made your acquaintance on board?”

  “The fault is mine,” Mrs. Dunning says. “I took meals in my stateroom. I had the pleasure of meeting Porter Armstrong many years ago. Is he a relation?”