“Our father,” Mrs. Westleigh says.
“Fancy that,” says Mrs. Dunning. “We met at Westport, the summer I came out. He was one of the most dashing men of my season. Had no end of admirers.”
The sisters titter like girls at a coming-out dance, and Anna doesn’t understand why the ladies in the back of the boat are smiling. It’s as if they don’t realize the world is collapsing around them. Is that what it means to be rich? To never be afraid?
Esme has heard of the Armstrongs. Not quite high society, but gobs of money. Mrs. McBride, who has taken on the role of official mouthpiece, is explaining that the sisters travel abroad each spring. Last year it was Egypt; this year, they’d taken painting lessons in Florence.
“We end each holiday with a few days in London, at the Savoy,” Mrs. McBride explains. “A welcome return to civilization. One can only take so much foreignness, don’t you find?”
The boat makes a sudden shift to the right. Nurse Braxton has swung the tiller too hard, at the same moment that Mr. Healy has paused to stretch his cramped hands. The view has now shifted, and Sabine gasps. Mrs. Trelawny lets out a short, anguished cry, and Charlie’s oar drops to his lap. The passengers of Lifeboat 21 watch in silent horror as the very tip of the Titanic’s stern shifts and settles and sinks, disappearing into the inky water.
“What time do you make it?” Mr. Wells calls out to Mr. Healy.
Mr. Healy holds his pocket watch next to the flickering lantern. “Two-twenty.”
Mr. Wells exhales with a loud puff. “That’s the last of our wages, then.” In response to a stare from Mrs. McBride, he says, “They stop our pay as soon as the ship goes down.”
There is no whirlpool, no suction. The ship is simply gone. Out of the darkness, a rumble gathers and grows, expanding into a monstrous roar of anguish and grief. Hundreds of desperate voices moan and scream, begging for salvation, and the passengers of Lifeboat 21 listen in silent shock. Titanic survivors will describe the sound differently in the coming days and weeks: one will compare it to locusts on a summer night, another to the cheers at a baseball field when the home team hits in a run. None of them will ever forget it.
It is impossible to see the people in the water. Mr. Healy relights the lantern, but the flame remains tentative. All Charlotte can make out are a few specks of white—life belts, she presumes—amid a jumble of wreckage. The nightmarish howling pummels her, each cry a blow directed at her chest and heart.
“What’s going on?” Esme asks, even though she knows. She simply can’t believe it’s possible. There were no crowds on the deck when she boarded the lifeboat; she’d assumed most of the other passengers had already left. Where have all these people come from?
“The orders were quite clear,” Mrs. McBride says. “We were all told to report to the boat deck.” Implying that she’d done her duty, and the drowning have only themselves to blame for dawdling.
Mr. Healy holds up the lantern. To Charlotte, a few feet away, his face looks sickly. “There weren’t enough lifeboats,” he says.
“They said another ship was coming,” Mrs. Trelawny says. “For the men.”
Mr. Healy decides not to respond. She can see for herself that it never did.
Charlotte looks at Mrs. Trelawny’s pale but stoic face. She is putting on a brave front for the children, Charlotte supposes, but she must be thinking of her husband. He could be out there right now, fighting for his life. Mrs. Harper’s husband, as well, and Georgie and Reg. The captain and the officers and the stewards and engine-room laborers—all those men who did their duty and went down with the ship. It sounds like a noble sort of death, but it isn’t: it’s loud and painful and terrifying. No one surrenders to the water without a fight. Through the din, Charlotte hears a high-pitched shriek that she’s convinced is female. There are women out there, too. Good God, she thinks, there might even be children.
Charlotte turns to Mr. Healy, who is staring into the tumultuous void. The dim moonlight illuminates only the shapes and gestures of those still clinging to life. His quiet, dignified strength gives Charlotte hope. He is the consummate British sailor, the spiritual descendant of Sir Francis Drake and Lord Nelson, a man as much at ease on water as on land. He will know what to do.
“We must help them,” he says.
Mr. Wells speaks up, adamant. “I’m not going back there.”
“It’s Mr. Healy’s decision, isn’t it?” Charlotte demands.
Mr. Healy puts down the lantern. “We will do what we can.”
Mr. Healy picks up his oar, but everyone else looks around, as if waiting for countermanding orders. Charlotte can’t understand why they’re all acting so helpless. Every minute they spend debating is a human life potentially lost.
“Mrs. Trelawny,” Charlotte urges. “Your husband may be there . . .”
Mrs. Trelawny hisses at Charlotte to be quiet. “Not in front of the children!” she says in an angry whisper. “I will not have them upset!”
They’ll be far more upset if their father dies, Charlotte wants to retort, but she manages to hold back. They’ll get nowhere if they descend into bickering. Tommy’s eyes are clamped shut, but Charlotte gives Eva an encouraging smile.
“It will come out all right,” Charlotte says, trying to be kind, but Eva is old enough to know she is lying. Mournful, she presses her face into her mother’s shoulder.
“Do not speak to my children again,” Mrs. Trelawny orders. Defiantly, she turns away, freezing Charlotte out.
Charlotte picks up an oar and settles on the opposite side of the bench from Mr. Healy. “I’ll row,” she offers. Then, to the boat at large, “Who else?”
Charlie is ready, though he looks more apprehensive than energized, gauging the prevailing mood. Esme takes advantage of his stillness to shift slightly closer. If she could only touch him. She lays one hand on the bench between them, hoping he’ll notice. One squeeze is all she needs to settle her worries. If only that incessant wailing would stop. If only she weren’t so afraid of all those desperate hands, grabbing at the boat, pulling and pushing, tipping them over.
The screams come at Anna like knives, cutting her with guilt. She hears Emil and Sonja, demanding to know why Anna has been saved and they have not. Had Papa not ignored Mama’s objections and taught her to swim, she’d never have made it to the boat. It was only her ability to kick and push her body forward that brought her miraculous rescue. Anna is not sure what Charlotte is saying, but from the way she is gesturing at the water, it is clear she wants to go back. Anna points to Charlotte’s oar and mimes that she will row, too. It will mean moving to a different part of the boat—she can’t row while she’s seated between Charlotte and Mr. Healy—and she tries to stand. But her shoeless feet have long since gone numb, and she staggers against Charlotte and falls back.
In the back of the boat, the Armstrong sisters have drawn into an even more tightly contained unit.
“I don’t think that is the wisest course of action,” Mrs. McBride says.
“We have space,” Charlotte says, gesturing toward the wooden platforms that run along either side of the boat. Designed as seating, neither are being used. “We could easily take a dozen people. Perhaps more.”
“It’d be risking all our lives,” Mr. Wells objects. “We’ll be swamped.”
“Oh goodness,” Mrs. Dunning says, and her breathing shifts.
Nurse Braxton climbs down from her position at the tiller and leans toward her employer. “You mustn’t distress yourself, ma’am.” To Mr. Wells, at her right, she says, “You think it’s dangerous to go back?”
“It would be madness,” he says.
He can’t know, Charlotte thinks. He’s a fireman, a job little removed from factory work. He’s already admitted he knows nothing of boats or sailing. But she notes the way Mrs. McBride and her sisters are listening to him, as if he’s some sort of oracle. Mrs. Trelawny has shifted her attention from her children and is listening, too. Mr. Wells, gratified by the attention, nods
like a grizzled old sage of the sea. All pointedly ignore Mr. Healy’s expectant stare.
“We’d set off a frenzy,” says Mr. Wells. “Imagine, all those poor fellows, fighting to get in ’ere. Wouldn’t be surprised if we capsized.”
The Armstrong sisters produce a unified murmur of concern, and Mrs. Dunning frowns. Nurse Braxton takes a small package from her pocket and hands a pill to Mrs. Dunning.
“She mustn’t be distressed,” Nurse Braxton says, as if Mrs. Dunning were a child frightened by a ghost story. “She has a weak heart.”
“Please . . . ,” Mr. Healy urges, trying to maintain his authority, and Charlotte knows she is the only one who can sway the rest to his side.
“People are dying!” she shouts.
That’s a bit much, Esme thinks, and she can tell from her shipmates’ expressions that most agree. The sounds coming from the water are awful enough without Charlotte haranguing them, too. She’s not the captain of their shaky little vessel; the sailors are the ones who know what’s safe. And Charlie, of course. Esme knows he’ll make the right choice.
“We don’t have to go all the way back,” Mr. Healy says. “Only a little farther, close enough to see if any swim to us.”
An uneasy compromise, but it’s the best he can do in the circumstances. Mr. Healy and Charlie and Charlotte dip their oars in the inky water; the boat slides forward. Mr. Wells might well be right. Returning to the scene of the sinking could put them all in danger, and Mr. Healy’s first loyalty must be to those lives already in his hands. Still, it’s likely they’ll be able to rescue a few people. A bulky mass floats by their starboard side, some indistinguishable remains of what was once the finest ship he’d ever seen. Mr. Healy gives the signal to stop. He waits, still and tense, as pleas from the water wash over him like curses, impossible to track and impossible to ignore. They are ghosts that will haunt him for the rest of his life.
Anna cradles the oar in her lap, feeling helpless. She has always been proud of her ability to take on hard work without complaint; gifted with neither beauty nor charm, it is her only advantage. Now her stiff fingers cannot even grasp the handle. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the others have put down their oars, and the boat bobs aimlessly. Anna tries to move her toes, but her extremities will not comply. She pulls her feet up and realizes they are still soaking wet. No wonder they haven’t thawed: there is a layer of water at the bottom of the boat.
The Armstrong women look annoyed by the cries for help, as if they were a personal affront. Nurse Braxton hovers over Mrs. Dunning, her own patient’s discomfort taking priority over the suffering of the nameless. Mrs. Trelawny’s mouth has condensed into a thin, straight line, and she is holding her children tight. Eva’s eyes wander, as she stealthily follows each observation and disagreement, but Tommy stares down at his lap, hands pressed over his ears. Charlie is on edge, a man of action frustrated at not being able to do anything. Esme tries to catch his attention, but he is preoccupied by the noise; like Mr. Healy, he stares out at the water. He’s handsome even when he’s sad, Esme thinks, and wishes she could kiss him. Blot out all this misery by burrowing into the one thing she’s certain of: Charlie’s love.
Charlotte and Mr. Healy exchange glances. She is not sure why—their Britishness, the working-class accents they both try so studiously to hide—but she feels a kinship with him. His steadiness reassures her, and though she hardly knows the man, she trusts him to do the right thing.
“Do you see anyone?” Charlotte asks.
“Not yet. It’s hard to be sure, in the dark.” Then, hesitantly, as if he already knows the answer but feels compelled to ask anyway, “Are you traveling with your husband, Mrs. Evers?”
“Yes.” A lie. “He has business interests in America.” Another lie. Charlotte has never been much concerned with telling the truth, but it feels wrong to mislead this decent man.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Healy says quietly, offering silent condolences.
He doesn’t know Reg, Charlotte thinks, indignant. Reg will find a way.
The cries for help continue, but they have become distinct, separate sounds. Solos instead of a symphony.
“It’s thinned out,” Mr. Healy says.
Which Charlotte immediately understands to mean: Enough people have died that we won’t be overrun. “What shall we do?” she asks.
“Our duty,” Mr. Healy says. Then, to the boat, he announces, “I can hear voices, quite close. It won’t take much effort to find them.”
Charlotte takes up her oar and verifies that it’s tucked in the oarlock. Mr. Healy makes similar preparations. He looks to Charlie, who nods.
“Ready, Mr. Wells?” Mr. Healy asks.
The fireman drops his oar with a defiant clatter. “I’m not going in there.”
“Do you think . . . ?” Mrs. McBride delicately allows the unspoken part of her question to linger. Do you think there’s any point?
“It’d be going against Captain’s orders,” Mr. Wells says.
A deliberate provocation, intended to sow doubt in their commander’s abilities. Mr. Healy tries to keep his voice level. “What do you mean?”
“We were told to row for the other ship.”
No use hiding it from the passengers now. “I never saw lights,” Mr. Healy says. “I don’t think it ever turned up.”
“Aren’t we supposed to stay close to the other lifeboats, then?”
“Yes, and where are they? Will you chart a course for us to find them, Mr. Wells?”
Esme tries not to worry. She was certain when the lifeboat launched that they’d be rescued any minute, yet Mr. Healy is right. There’s been no sign of another ship, and the other lifeboats have disappeared. They are drifting, alone, in the middle of the sea. The enormity of all that water terrifies her, and the boat suddenly seems horridly flimsy and open; one large wave could wash them all overboard. Esme pulls her coat more tightly around her chest, stroking the fur, telling herself she mustn’t lose control in front of Charlie.
A strained cry hurtles through the dark. Charlotte feels the force of it, like a punch. It’s a man’s voice, deep. Could it be Reg? It’s ridiculous to think that he of all people would make it to this particular boat, but the suspicion takes hold and digs in. He could have watched her lifeboat from the deck and swum toward it when the ship sank. Wouldn’t that be just like him?
“Turn around!” Charlotte shouts. She twists back and forth, trying to grab everyone’s attention, her body skittish with hope. “There’s someone behind us!”
Anna scrambles to retrieve the oar tossed aside by Mr. Wells. She doesn’t know how it’s possible, but Emil is out there. She heard him, clearly, and that means she has been given a second chance to save him.
“Vi kommer!” she calls out.
The Armstrong sisters exchange perplexed looks, and even Charlotte is surprised by the girl’s sudden outburst.
“What can she be saying?” Mrs. Dunning asks Nurse Braxton, as they watch Anna wrestle the oar into place. The sight would be comical, in another setting: a skinny little thing battling a piece of wood that’s nearly her height and not all that much thinner. Still, Esme feels a grudging admiration for her. Anna’s efforts might not move the boat any faster, but at least she’s willing to make an effort, unlike that lazy Mr. Wells. It’s only a matter of time before he lights up his pipe and sets off another round of grumbling from Mrs. McBride.
Anna can row as well as any of them; she has gone out in Papa’s boat hundreds of times. But she can’t get a grip on the wood, not with her frozen, clawlike hands. She could cry with frustration, but she won’t, because crying would only weaken her further. She must be strong, for Emil.
In the back of the boat, Mr. Wells is sulking, and the Armstrong women are murmuring to each other. They haven’t shown much interest in a rescue mission, but they haven’t spoken up against it, either. If Charlotte can convince Mrs. McBride to help, her sisters will fall in line.
“We need as many people rowing as p
ossible,” Charlotte says, working hard to moderate her voice. Polite subservience is the way to convince a woman like Mrs. McBride. “Please. We haven’t much time.”
“I don’t know what good we’d do,” Mrs. McBride says doubtfully. “I haven’t rowed in years.”
“I have rheumatism in my wrist,” Mrs. Westleigh says, holding up one limp hand as evidence. “I wouldn’t want to make it any worse.”
Miss Armstrong offers only a startled look, which Charlotte takes to be answer enough. That ninny would do more harm than good messing about with an oar.
“You could work the tiller,” Charlotte tells Mrs. McBride. “Help us turn around.”
Mrs. McBride looks to her sisters for approval, and Charlotte wants to scream: Get up, you stupid woman! But she can’t lose her composure, not now. Reg could be in the water at this very moment. She must find out if it’s him.
Slowly, with the dramatic composure of someone who revels in attention, Mrs. McBride scoots to the back of the boat and grabs hold of the tiller. “Which way?” she asks.
“We’ll turn her to port,” Mr. Healy says. Then, when Mrs. McBride stares at him blankly, “Left!”
It can’t be Hiram, Esme thinks. He’s old and slow—she’s not even sure if he knows how to swim. But she has an eerily clear vision of Hiram plodding toward her through the water, his arms moving in methodical strokes, his face set in that familiar expression of amused detachment: You weren’t really going to run off with Van Hausen, were you? Silly girl—I’m here to take you home. As the boat slowly turns around, Esme feels a sudden urge to throw herself against Charlie’s back and pull his hands off the oar. She’s afraid of what they’ll find.
Other cries occasionally pop out from the void, like frogs croaking in a country pond. But they are intermittent and tentative, coming from nowhere and disappearing into nothing. The person closest to the boat—whoever he might be—is louder and more forceful. Seeing the boat’s movement, he urges them on with a desperate exclamation that is almost certainly the word “Help!”
On a Cold Dark Sea Page 22
