by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Art, wake up."
From a deep, warm blackness, Arthur Holmwood slowly and reluctantly rose, like a man drifting to the surface of a lake after diving in. He hadn't been far enough down to dream, but his mind had been sluggishly plodding on. The man in black was the primary thing worrying him, with Dracula a close second. Had John not rescued him, he surely would have been ruptured by the teeth of a nightmare. He'd been having them a lot lately. In them all Dracula eluded him, leaving him behind, impotent and shaking with rage and failure.
"What?" he muttered sleepily.
"We hit an iceberg," Seward said.
Those four simple words brought Art fully awake. Sitting bolt upright, his heart beginning to race, the first thing to dance through Art’s head was a hateful montage of death and destruction, shattered windows, twisted metal, smashed machinery, fire, smoke, water, and corpses floating in the icy sea.
"What?"
John was standing awkwardly over him, his face grave. "An iceberg."
"How much damage?"
"I don't know; I haven’t been on deck."
Art got out of bed. "Who have you spoken to?"
"Several people. Some gentlemen in the smoking room who say there's ice all over the foredeck and a steward who says we've only lost a propeller."
The impact must have been slight to not have awakened him, Art reckoned. Though his sleep had been deep as of late, it had been light. "You've seen nothing for yourself?"
"No, Seward admitted, "but...Art, the ship is stopped."
Indeed it was. Though Titanic was as steady a passage as could be booked, one could still tell that he was moving at 18 knots through the sea. Now, all was still.
"Something's happened," Art said as he shrugged into a coat and stepped into slippers, "wake Doctor Van Helsing while I go up top."
"I'd rather not," Seward said, "he's been working so hard, he's exhausting himself. I'd like to be sure before waking him."
"I agree...but now isn't the time for that. We may be in danger."
He was right. "Okay." Seward turned, and nearly started.
"Speaking of the Devil, I believe the phrase goes," Art said with a smile. Van Helsing stood in the open doorway like something roused from the grave. His eyes were red and his hair wild. It was a wonder he managed to dress himself.
"We have hit an iceberg?" he asked.
Seward nodded. "It looks that way. Art was just going to find out."
Van Helsing looked from one man to the other. "Let us go together. If there is a chance we turn over and sink, I'd like to be on the deck when that happens."
Art chuckled. "Certainly, Doctor."
***
A group of impeccably dressed men had gathered around the door leading to the smoking room, as if they were ready to dash back inside if the temperature should drop another degree. Most of them held drinks in their hands and spoke softly to the man closest to them, laughed and jokes were exchanged. Only a few of the wealthy passengers on deck looked uneasy, nervously looking aft and forward in an attempt to find a knowledgeable crewman or an officer. A few of the men had wandered off to the bridge, where the sound of an impromptu soccer match between some of the steerage passengers, using a large chunk of ice as a ball, came from the bow, where those unlucky souls in third-class were forced to take their sun, amongst capstans, cranes, and the other heavy deck equipment.
“Bloody good show!” exclaimed one of the well-clad men as he raised his glass in celebration of one play or another.
Art finally tore himself away from watching the odd sight, and began strolling down the deck. From doors and gangways, more and more people were coming onto the deck, most all sleepy-eyed and clad in nightgowns covered with fur coats, pajamas, slippers, and the occasional white padded lifebelt. There was a terrible ruckus on the deck, as officers bashed metal chains holding the boats securely in place to bits, a small multitude of people, mostly first-class men who had been awake when the collision occurred and their families, talked lowly and occasionally laughed at one bland joke or another. Close to the bridge, which was cast in a dimmer light than most of the aft leading deck, a few able seamen and an officer or two, milled about, talking lowly and awaiting the Captain, most likely.
Art thoughtlessly wiped the warm snot trickling down from his nostrils away with the sleeve of his coat as he walked. The men standing about on the starboard bridge wing, peering over at the bow at the large pieces of ice, or possibly trying to discern any damage above the waterline, were unaware of his approach.
“I’m sorry sir, crew only,” said a voice from Art’s left, startling him. He turned, and saw First Officer Murdoch stepping out of a door flanked on either side by brightly lit windows; probably the crews’ quarters or the officer’s lounge or something.
“Mr. Murdoch, do you remember me?” Art asked as he stopped. Murdoch, squinting his light adjusted eyes, approached, and studied Art’s face for a moment. Finally, recognition dawned in his eyes, and he smiled.
“Ah, yes; Lord Weakling, isn’t it?”
“Lord Godalming,” Art replied tersely, certain that Murdoch’s mispronunciation was intentional.
Murdoch nodded, a sly smile creeping across his shadowy face. He, like all the other officers, was dressed in a long, heavy blue coat with golden buttons and golden strips on the sleeves. The hat was still low on his head. “Ah, yes, Lord Goldoming, how can I help you?”
“I need to see Captain Smith,” Art said, swallowing his anger.
Without taking his eyes off of Art, as if he expected him to loot the bridge blind whilst unsupervised, Murdoch pointed one black gloved hand aft, “He’s in the wireless hut.”
“Thank you,” Art muttered under his breath, and at once shoved off toward the door which he supposed Murdoch had meant to indicate. He could feel Murdoch’s gaze boring into his back. What was his problem? He must have seen himself as a big fish in the pond because he was the highest ranking officer on Titanic’s bridge. He stuck Art as one to throw his weight around.
Unsure of which door Murdoch had meant, and unwilling to go flinging doors in at random, Art was relieved to see Smith stepping out of the wireless hut. He softly shut the door behind him, saw Art approaching, and smiled. “Hello, Lord Godalming,” Smith said, seemingly genuinely happy to see him. “I missed you gentlemen at the festivities.” Smith extended one gloved hand. Art took it. “Terribly sorry, but…well, you know how business goes.”
Smith nodded, and, when the handshake had ended, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his blue overcoat. “Indeed I do,” he said.
“It never lets you rest,” Art said by way of small talk. He didn’t want to cut right to the chase, but he forced himself; time was of the essence. “Captain, I need to know…it would make my work a bit easier, though I hope not for obvious reasons, but…is the Titanic going to sink?”
Smith’s gaze wavered, the first such time that Art could remember. His eyes clung to the buttons of his coat, but finally they met Art’s; in them, cold and soft, Art saw the dreadful truth, and not just the one that he had already guessed. Titanic was not only sinking, but it was to be a catastrophe.
“Mr. Andrews has estimated that we have no more than three hours at the outside,” Smith said, and then smiled warmly once more. He placed on hand on Art’s shoulder and squeezed. “I suppose that this does make it a breeze for Scotland Yard; after all, would not the opium be lost?”
Art nodded, his stomach reeling. He looked into Smith’s eyes, now warm and affectionate, and realized that, tonight would be the last night of his life. If indeed no rescue materialized, and the Titanic slipped beneath the waves, Art knew that Smith would be right on the bow, defiantly facing the black rolling sea with a placid look on his face, and his hands clasped behind his back.
Art tried to speak, but found that a watery lump was blocking his throat. He looked once
more at Smith’s eyes, and his heart dropped anew at the sickening prospect that this fine English gentleman before him was not going to survive the night. His father’s death had been bad enough, but now Smith…? The man who he held as a second father?
Goddamn Dracula! Goddamn him to hell!
“Art,” Smith said, once again squeezing Art’s shoulder, “I know that you and the Drs. will be gallant to the last; it’s women and children first, you know, the rule of the sea.”
“Of course,” Art said from far away, his thoughts on what a life would be like with absolutely no older, wiser friend to give advice and lead the way, on what life would be like knowing that his friend of decades, the dignified Smith, was but a corpse on the ocean floor.
Art forced his English to reassert itself. “No more than three hours,” he marveled, realizing that his death, and the deaths of Dr. Seward and Dr. Van Helsing, and the death of Smith, could be only one-hundred-twenty minutes away, or, thanks to Dracula, unthinkably closer.
“Thank you,” Art said through numb lips, the cold, and the shock, were conspiring to freeze him down to the bone. His nose was running again, and he quickly wiped it. His face, even to his shaking hands, felt like a block of ice.
“Be British,” Smith said, “see the best for the women and children. When the time comes, and there is nothing left to do, see for yourself.”
“I shall,” Art assured Smith. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Certainly.”
As Art walked back to the smoking room, the shock and the brief flash of fear were already melting away.
Inside of three hours, they would meet Dracula.
