On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  Anna hears it clearly: Hjälp. She pulls the sleeves of the coat over her clumsy hands and tries to clutch the oar, but it slides out of her grasp. No matter—the boat is moving at last. Emil is close; she can feel it. They will pull him out of the water, and he will be so wet and so cold, and she will wrap him in Charlotte’s coat and pull it tight around him. She will rub his frozen hands with hers, and she will bring him back to life.

  All this time, Emil has been fighting. With every shout, every breath, he has been calling to Anna, telling her he hasn’t given up. If God has indeed spared him, Anna must prove herself worthy of his devotion. When he is here, beside her, and his shivering has calmed and he is able to speak, she will tell Emil yes. She will marry him. That will be her offering.

  They are so close. Charlotte can see a white blur: the life belt, bobbing in the water. She can’t see the man’s face, only a darkness that could be Reg’s hair or could be an illusion of the moonlight. Soon, she will know for sure, but the boat keeps turning, and suddenly the bow is pointing away and Mr. Healy is crying out, “Stop!”

  Charlie tips his oar up with an irritated sigh. He shoots Mr. Healy a look of commiseration: We’re the only ones here who know what we’re doing. Esme wants to tell Charlie what she suspects about the man in the water, but she can’t catch his attention.

  Mr. Healy stands and glares at Mrs. McBride.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “You kept us turning when we were meant to go straight,” Mr. Healy says, frustration evident in the tightness of his voice. “The man’s right there—can’t you see him?”

  “It’s difficult to see anything,” Mrs. McBride says, all wounded pride.

  “Turn us back to starboard. Right.”

  “Now you’ve got me all flustered,” Mrs. McBride protests. She fiddles with the tiller. “This way?”

  “Mr. Wells!” snaps Mr. Healy. “Will you lend a hand?”

  Mr. Wells, legs stretched out leisurely before him, shakes his head. “Already told you, I don’t know nothing about sailing.”

  Why aren’t we moving? Anna’s blood is pounding; she can’t sit still. Why do they keep talking when every second is a matter of life or death? She is the only one who knows what it feels like to freeze. How the cold paralyzes from the outside in, so your body dies around you even as you still breathe. The man’s face is hidden, but she no longer needs to see it; she is convinced, with blind certainty, that only someone as strong as Emil could have survived so long in this murderous northern sea. He’s gone silent, and Anna mentally wills him to hold on. He can’t give up, not when they’re so close. Then she sees a flash of movement. The man is moving his arms. Waving, or swimming, or both.

  Anna leaps up and shouts for everyone to look. She knows they won’t understand what she’s saying—“He’s alive! My friend! Hurry!”—but her outburst catches the other passengers’ attention, and they follow where she’s pointing.

  It’s not Hiram, thinks Esme. But she can’t be absolutely sure, because she can’t bear to look at the figure in the water. She had managed to distance herself, somewhat, from all those upsetting screams when the ship sank. They had melded into an indecipherable wail that didn’t even sound human. It’s different, seeing an actual person out there, his arms flailing like a baby bird’s wings. Dread sinks over Esme like a net, holding her tight. They must save the man, of course they must. But what will she do if it’s Hiram? It can’t be, can it?

  If only the Swedish girl would stop shrieking.

  Charlotte stamps her feet, from frustration as much as the cold. Her toes are stinging with pain, and when she looks down, she sees they are submerged in water. Her mind notes the sight as odd; surely it wasn’t that wet when she crouched down to help Anna? But she is too preoccupied with the impending rescue to consider the implications.

  Mr. Healy rummages around at the front of the boat. When he stands, he is holding the line of rope that lashed the oars together. He ties one end into a large loop and announces, “I’ll pull him in.”

  Charlotte feels a surge of relief that her trust in him has been vindicated. Of all the people in this boat, he’s the only one smart enough to know what needs to be done and brave enough to do it. The man is floating only a few yards away, and Mr. Healy throws out the line with a sharp flick of his wrist. It lands inches from the man, and the passengers watch as he laboriously slides a hand toward it.

  For Anna, the scene unfolds with agonizing sluggishness. The man in the life belt manages to reach the rope, but his hands are so frozen as to be nearly useless. It takes three tries before he can keep hold of it, then countless stops and starts as he pulls it over his head, his arms rigid as a tin soldier’s. By the time he shifts the loop around his chest, Anna has curled her hands into tight balls and pressed them into her thighs. Why won’t he look up so she can see him? The man’s hair is dark, darker than Emil’s. But it is night, and she remembers Emil stepping out from the lake after an evening swim. His hair never looked blond when it was wet. There is still hope.

  Mr. Healy tugs on the rope, and the boat jerks. An ominous swish of water cuts through the silence.

  One of the Armstrong sisters lets out a gentle “Ooh!” Then all three of the sisters are shifting in their seats, making splashes with their boots. Mr. Healy pulls again, and the water in the bottom of the boat shifts from side to side in rippling waves.

  “Hold on!” Mr. Wells shouts. The gruff command makes them all start, and Mr. Healy turns around. “We’re taking in water!” Mr. Wells says. He has cast aside his previous indifference, and his face pulses with agitation. “There’s a leak.”

  “Check the hull,” Mr. Healy tells him, the rope still in his hand but hanging limply. He looks down toward his feet, then around the edges of the boat. To the passengers, he says, “Look around you. Tell me if you see water coming in.”

  The passengers lean over and begin searching. The boards are solid and tight-fitting; there are no cracks or holes, no trickles or sprays.

  Mr. Healy would pace the whole boat if he could, inspecting every inch. But there’s no time, and he has to move slowly, to keep her on an even keel. He is baffled, but can’t let his worry show. Frantically, he tries to calculate how quickly the boat will fill up, given the time they’ve been in the water and how much has already seeped in. He has to know how many hours they have left, but he’s so tired, and everyone is staring, and his muddled brain can’t work out the numbers. He looks at the passengers, who wordlessly stare back, expecting him to deliver salvation.

  Fools.

  Then Mr. Healy remembers. Sharply, he asks, “The plug, Mr. Wells?”

  “I put it in . . .”

  “Check it.”

  Esme gives Charlie a questioning look.

  “There’s a hole in the bottom,” Charlie explains. “For rainwater to drain out when the boat was stored on deck. That sailor put a plug in it as we were being lowered down.”

  “It’s broken?”

  “I don’t know. But there shouldn’t be this much water. Something’s wrong.”

  Esme’s own fear is fueled by Charlie’s worry. There’s a leak in their boat, and they’re alone in the ocean. Hiram had told her, before they even left New York, that sailing was safer than ever, thanks to the wireless. Even if a ship did go down, there was plenty of time to radio others for help. She had put all her faith in a rescue ship that never arrived.

  Or maybe it had. Maybe it found the other lifeboats and left without them.

  Mr. Wells is kneeling at Mrs. Dunning’s feet; she and Nurse Braxton have pressed against each other to make room. Mrs. Trelawny hasn’t released her hold on Tommy and Eva, but the boy leans over his mother’s arm to watch. Mr. Wells sticks his hand in the water, which comes halfway up his forearm. He prods around, his face a concentrated grimace, then stands.

  “Must be a crack,” he says. “Can’t see any other way the water’s getting in here.”

  “Or the plug was placed wrong.” Mr. Healy
’s voice is frosty.

  “I placed it just as I was supposed to.”

  “If it’s the least bit crooked, it won’t be watertight . . .”

  “Come see for yourself!”

  Esme can see Charlie tensing as he considers whether to play peacemaker in what will soon be an all-out fight. Esme wishes he would. The two sailors obviously dislike each other, but they should know better than to bicker like children.

  Why do they keep fighting? Anna wonders, appalled. Has everyone else forgotten the man they came to save? She reaches toward the rope, which still trails from Mr. Healy’s hand. Charlotte grabs Mr. Healy’s arm and points outside.

  “Please,” she urges.

  Charlotte’s touch sparks Mr. Healy into action. He starts to wind the rope around his hand, and Mr. Wells calls out, “Stop!”

  “For heaven’s sake . . . ,” Charlie begins, but his is not the only voice. Mrs. Dunning is chattering to Nurse Braxton, and the Armstrong sisters are asking questions, and Tommy has started to cry. Mr. Healy ignores Charlie and is about to say something to Mrs. McBride when Mr. Wells steps between Charlotte and Anna, pushing them both roughly aside. He stands next to Mr. Healy, his very closeness a threat, and Charlotte thinks of tomcats behind the fishmonger’s, hissing over scraps.

  “We’re not pulling no one in if she’s taking water,” Mr. Wells says. “No extra weight.”

  “One more person won’t make a difference,” Mr. Healy protests.

  “A big fellow could tip us right over. Wasn’t easy getting her in, was it?”

  Mr. Wells points at Anna, who does not understand his words but recognizes the disdain in his brief glare. She does not know how she has made this man angry, and she slides closer to Charlotte, her only protector.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Dunning is saying. “It does sound dangerous.”

  Nurse Braxton purses her lips, mirroring her employer’s disapproval. Miss Armstrong brings her hands to her mouth in a gesture of girlish dismay.

  “And she’s a little thing,” Mrs. Westleigh says. “I don’t see how we can pull a man in without upsetting the boat.”

  Mrs. McBride nods. Esme looks at the sides of the lifeboat. They are taller than a regular rowboat, intended to create the illusion of a safe enclosure. But Mr. Wells is right: the weight of a man will throw off their balance. It’s a risk they can’t afford to take.

  Charlotte grabs the rope that hangs slack from Mr. Healy’s hands. She tugs, and the figure at the end jerks, but he’s no longer moving his arms. Is he conserving his strength or has he given up? She pulls again, frustrated at how slowly he moves forward, even though she is tugging so hard her shoulder muscles scream. And then, suddenly, she feels a heavy push against her back, and her body jerks away from the rope. She trips over Anna’s legs and falls into the water at the bottom of the boat, her hip landing with a thud against the wood. She looks up and sees Mr. Wells holding a knife, the same knife Mr. Healy used to cut loose the oars. Mr. Wells slices forcefully downward, cutting the lifeline.

  Charlotte and Anna both cry out, Charlotte in bitter protest and Anna in horror. Charlotte winces as she tries to stand, but Anna is already up, leaning over the side of the boat, trying desperately to catch hold of the strand that is tied around the man in the water. But the end has already drifted away, out of her reach, and Mr. Healy grabs her by the arms and pulls her backward as she screams.

  Mr. Wells, his work done, turns away and returns to his perch in the back of the boat. Mrs. Dunning, Nurse Braxton, and Mrs. Trelawny look down as he passes, relieved by what he’s done but unwilling to openly condone it. Mrs. McBride and Mrs. Westleigh give each other approving nods, but they, too, ignore the fireman when he takes his place behind them. He’s done the right thing, they believe, but that doesn’t mean they’ll engage him in conversation.

  Mr. Healy points Anna toward Charlotte, silently pleading for her help. Anna stumbles into Charlotte’s arms, and Charlotte presses Anna’s head against her chest. The gesture muffles Anna’s sobs, but her anguish ripples through the boat. Charlotte looks wildly around her, at the faces that show a mix of sadness and embarrassment and grim denial. Mr. Healy is turned away, fiddling with the rope, avoiding her.

  “Please,” Charlotte says, addressing her fellow passengers in a final appeal. “We can’t leave him to die. Mrs. Trelawny . . .”

  Mrs. Trelawny looks pointedly away. Her family is its own self-contained island, and Charlotte can tell by her expression that Mrs. Trelawny will not listen to anything she says. She has retreated inside herself.

  Charlotte looks at Charlie, whose hands rest lightly around the oar in his lap. He gives her a rueful half smile, a look that acknowledges her plucky spirit while urging her to accept defeat. The betrayal stings. Charlotte has thought him an ally, one of the only ones who did his share and rowed without complaint. If he chose to rally the boat for a rescue, they’d all obey without question, because who would speak up against a dashing American millionaire? Charlotte sees, now, that Charlie’s actions have been driven by pragmatism, not conviction. He doesn’t care if the man in the water lives or dies; he cares about whether he’s seen as doing the right thing. He rowed harder and faster than anyone when it suited him, but the mood in the boat has shifted, and he won’t go against the popular will.

  At least Charlotte can count on Mr. Healy to help. She eases a shaky Anna onto the bench and takes hold of an oar. Resolute, she looks to Mr. Healy for the signal to start. Slowly, he shakes his head.

  “We must go,” she urges.

  “It’s no use.”

  His voice is little more than a whisper; his shoulders are slumped in defeat. Charlotte can still hear occasional distant shouts, but so much fewer than before. So much fainter. Every voice is an accusation, and her own breath comes raggedly, as if she, too, were fighting to breathe.

  “They’re drowning!” Charlotte cries.

  “They’re not drowning. They’re freezing to death.”

  And with that, a shocked silence settles over the boat.

  Mr. Healy turns his back to Charlotte, and that is even worse than seeing his mournful face. Charlotte looks at the icicles that have formed in Anna’s hair, and she feels a chill so deep that her bones seem to shiver. The oar slides from her hands into her lap, and then into the water at her feet.

  When Anna sees Charlotte’s surrender, she knows it is the end. There will be no more fighting, no more attempted rescues.

  They’d come too late, in any case. When Anna made her futile grab for the rope, she’d seen how the man’s head was slumped over his life belt. He hadn’t called out or waved his hands; he hadn’t moved at all. Though she couldn’t see his face—she never did—Anna knows he is dead.

  Please, let it not be Emil.

  Anna shuts her eyes and prays. She can’t bear to think of Emil in the water by himself, crying out for a rescue that never came. God would not be so cruel as to guide Emil to her lifeboat only to let him die.

  Or was there a touch of mercy in such an ending? During those last moments of his life, Emil would have heard Anna’s voice. He would have known she was coming. He wouldn’t have been alone.

  Rage surges through Charlotte, prodding her to keep fighting. She looks ahead, at the French maid who’s been so quiet she might as well be invisible. Mr. Van Hausen and Mrs. Harper are paying no mind to anyone other than each other. They’re talking in whispers, faces practically touching, and Charlotte feels a prickle of suspicion, her instincts for trouble well honed. Then she realizes Esme’s hand is inside Charlie’s coat pocket. The intimacy of the gesture is the final piece of a puzzle, and the truth takes shape. Mrs. Harper has not been faithful to her husband.

  Esme swiftly turns around. She sensed someone staring, and it’s that imperious Charlotte, hovering right behind them. Charlotte meets Esme’s accusing look with a scowl, and Esme feels a flicker of unease. She hasn’t seen anything, has she? Still, Esme pulls her hand out slowly from Charlie’s pocket and leans away from
him. Feeling his skin—the rub of his thumb against her fingers—has restored her.

  The screams of the dying have weakened into sporadic pleas, the calls of seagulls at dusk. Mrs. McBride’s face is set in an annoyed grimace, self-interest having twisted guilt into anger. Hurry up and die, she and her sisters seem to be thinking. Get it over with, so we don’t have to hear you anymore.

  And then, at last, there is nothing. No sound but the gentle slap of water against the lifeboat’s hull. The passengers of Lifeboat 21 are alone in the vast open sea. Anna has been praying for an end to the suffering of the souls in the water, but their release brings no relief. She looks at the others in the boat, who seem equally unnerved by the eerie silence. The women in the back look angry; the sailor next to them is holding his pipe but hasn’t yet decided whether to light it. The little boy is wriggling to escape his mother’s tight grip, and his sister is watching the woman in the fur coat, who is absentmindedly stroking the cut on her cheek. The diamonds in her hair glimmer like stars.

  Mr. Healy turns to Charlotte, the muscles in his face clenched tight. “We did what we could.”

  As if they were equally culpable. As if they’d both given up.

  “Did we?” Charlotte asks sharply.

  “My duty is to my passengers,” he says. “I must put their safety above all other concerns.”

  “We let a man die, right in front of us.” Charlotte doesn’t bother to hide her bitterness; she no longer needs to charm anyone into taking her side. “We as good as murdered him.”

  “Murder?” Mrs. Dunning asks. “There’s no call for that sort of language.”

  Mr. Wells lets out a disgusted snort, and Mr. Healy gives the fireman a reproving stare. If only Mr. Wells would stop provoking the rest of them. It’s hard enough commanding this boat without a near mutiny on his hands.

  Unfortunately, Charlotte has risen to the bait. “His death is on your hands!” she says, pointing at Mr. Wells. “We had him, and you cut him loose!”

  “Aye, and I’d do it again.”