Hearts That Survive (12 page)

N
ot even God can sink this ship."

"William." Caroline's warm breath mingled with his and condensed in the cold air. She knew the
Titanic
had been labeled unsinkable. But upon hearing her husband say that, at a time such as this, Caroline felt a chill colder than the frigid night. His words seemed as stiff and frozen as the chunks of ice that the ship had scraped off the iceberg, and which now lay on the listing deck.

She looked into his eyes, which held a vacant expression, bleak and drear. "I'm only repeating what the ship's officer said." His tone had become bland, calm as the glassy sea surrounding them. Her gaze followed his as it lifted to the starry sky, glittering with a magnificence with which the ship's chandeliers could not compete. William had said the opposite.

She'd never seen such a vacant expression on his face. Her movement to pull the fur closer around her shoulders as a protection from the icy air brought his gaze to her. His eyes widened. "Caroline. The life vests." Neither was wearing one.

His eyes searched for Bess and found her a few feet away talking to another maid. "Bess." He glared. "Where are the life vests? I distinctly told you to get them."

She stepped closer, dread on her face. "I put them on the chair for you to take. I thought you just stepped out a moment with Mr. Dowd." She began to cry and spoke with effort. "I put mine on and waited for Mrs. Chadwick. I had the coats."

"You should have made sure Caroline had what she needed. She is your responsibility."

Bess was unfastening hers.

"No," Caroline protested. "Everyone is saying this is only a formality. I'll be fine."

"Wait," Molly said. "There's a stewardess over there handing out vests."

"I'll get them," Bess scurried away. Within seconds, she reappeared.

While William strapped her into the vest, Caroline looked around, seeing men making sure that women and children had vests. William might have remembered such a thing, but he had been busy making sure he had important papers in his black bag. Caroline excused that by reminding herself this ship couldn't sink. It was only a drill.

But Caroline began to fear this was no drill. But some were saying they would fix the problem. The boats would return before breakfast. This was a precaution.

A precaution—for what?

The ship leaned. Caroline grasped William's arm. He clutched the railing. Some passengers seemed unnaturally quiet, talking in whispers, while others conversed and even laughed in an eerie sort of way. Through it all, the band kept playing.

The Strauses remained in their deck chairs. Many efforts were made to persuade Mrs. Straus to get into a boat. She refused. "I've been with my husband for forty-one years and I'm not leaving him now. Where he goes, I go."

"You ladies may get in," the officer said.

"I can't. Daddy hasn't come." Then Phoebe jumped out of Molly's coat and ran, yelling, "Daddy! Daddy!"

Her father rushed to them, carrying Henry. He set the boy down, then glanced around. "Don't let him get away. He'd rather sleep."

Hadn't they all?
Caroline mused silently.

Phoebe rushed to her father. He held her closely for a long moment. He moved back and said, "I have something for you." He motioned to a stewardess, who handed him a blue teddy bear that he then gave to Phoebe. "You hold onto that, now."

She nodded and hugged it close.

S. J. knelt in front of Henry. He stared long into the small boy's big brown eyes. It seemed to take all his strength to do no more than hold him tightly, then kiss both cheeks and say he loved him.

He let him go and glanced around at the stewardess, who handed him a package wrapped in colorful paper. "This is your birthday present. Tomorrow you may open it. Hold it tight." His voice caught. "I love you both with all my heart."

"I love you, Daddy," Phoebe said, and Henry repeated the words, looking confused. A short while ago these children had been the highlight of a wedding, happy and smiling, and now their father was leading them to a tiny lifeboat that would drop, with them aboard, into the sea.

"Ladies, you must get in with the children," the officer said.

Caroline looked at Bess standing back, watching. "Bess," she called.

Bess came, tears in her eyes. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Yes. Take off that cap."

Bess looked bewildered. But she obeyed, whispering, "Remember me."

"Remember you, nothing. Now pull that coat close around you, take Henry's hand, and get into the boat."

Too shocked not to obey, Bess went to the side of the boat and took Henry's hand, and the crew helped them in.

Caroline turned to William. His arm tightened around her shoulder. His face was ashen. He wouldn't turn loose. "I have to go with her. She . . . I'm all she has."

"I'm sorry, sir," the offer said sternly. "Women and children only."

"I must go. She needs me." Caroline felt him shaking and knew it wasn't just from the cold. Then he lied. "She's ill."

He struggled to get into the boat, but two officers held him back.

"Sir, please," a man said. "We can help the women and children, then find our own lifeboats or stay with the ship until they get the problem solved."

The officer beside Caroline was pushing her into the lifeboat. William again grasped her arm and wouldn't let go.

An officer forced William's hand off her arm. As the lifeboat was lowered, William screamed, "I have to go. You have to let me go. Caroline, don't leave me. Don't leave me."

Someone said, "Just tell your wife you love her and you'll see her again."

William obeyed. His voice was strained and fearful, but he called, "I love you, Caroline. I will see you again." This did not have the ring of truth.

As the lifeboat took on more passengers, Caroline reminded herself he wasn't the only man to be pulled away. Some even plunged into the freezing water trying to get into the boats.

Some men were going to other lifeboats, helping women and children. She wondered what made the difference between William's cowardice and the other men's bravery, and reprimanded herself for the thought. Suppose she had been made to stay on the ship. What would her reaction be?

Lydia had wanted to stay with John.

If she had not felt this responsibility for Phoebe and Henry, would she have attempted to stay with William?

Perhaps he didn't know it, but he needed her.

Finally, she turned from his stricken face and looked into the dumbfounded one of Bess, who seemed not to comprehend how she managed to get into this boat with first-class passengers.

But Caroline knew. Wearing her white apron and cap she was a servant with quarters in second class. Without the job as maid, she could have been in steerage. Wearing Caroline's coat and without the cap, Bess was simply a woman.

Caroline looked at Phoebe. Just a little girl. Brave as any woman. Terrified as any woman.

They all gasped and jumped when a blast sounded and a flash flew high into the night sky. The rocket burst into tiny, distant stars, much smaller than those that were stationary, high above them. They twinkled down like fireflies.

"Fireworks," someone said with a tone of irony.

"Ohh." Henry, holding tight to his package, lifted his sweet face and stared with an awed look in his eyes.

But no one celebrated.

No one applauded.

Rockets.

Rockets at sea meant only one thing.

J
ohn stared at Lydia as long as he could. Panic and chaos were taking place on deck. No one spoke of a drill anymore. Passengers crowded to the railing, throwing kisses, waving.

Surely he hadn't heard that. Nobody would shoot a thirdclass passenger who just wanted to live. No one would lock them behind iron gates because—what did they say? Not enough lifeboats? John watched his wife and unborn child move away from him.

Peering down the deck, he spied S. J. waving to his children being rowed away from the ship, out to sea.

S. J. had lost his wife several years ago. Now he wouldn't know if he'd ever see his children again. His mother was ill somewhere below deck, perhaps alone. John made his way down to him. This was not a time to say they might not make it. "How is your mother?"

Without looking at John, S. J. spoke, sounding like a suffering man, "Not well at all." He stopped waving and grasped the railing. The ship listed noticeably. "She's in a stateroom, lying on a bed." His shaky breath was like icy mist. "Part of her face wasn't working right. Her ramblings were incoherent, but I pieced together the story."

S. J. looked out at the tiny boat, moving farther away on an empty ocean. He related the incident, as if trying to convince himself it was real.

"Mother and the children were asleep when a steward awakened them," he began.

John pictured the events as S. J. told them. The steward demanded they put on life vests and go on deck. The nanny and maid were overcome with fear, saying water was flooding the ship. They couldn't get the vests fastened properly. The vest was too big for little Henry.

People passed by, telling them to hurry. Henry fought them, wanting to sleep. The nanny popped Henry on the backside. When his mother reproached her, the nanny and maid ran from the room. Phoebe cried. Henry clung to a pillow. A steward entered and picked Henry up, and they went on into the hallway with their vests. When the steward moved on, Henry ran back to the room.

"At the first sign of trouble, I hurried from second class and found Phoebe trying to pull Mother along." S. J.'s voice faltered, "Mother kept saying there was no hope. She fainted. She has an innate fear of water. She would not be able to leave this ship in a small boat. And she's terrified of water coming up into the ship and drowning her."

He waved again. The children were too far away to see. "She was breathing, but she was just staring. I'm going down to be with her."

The ship was slanting eerily now. John blew a kiss toward Lydia's boat. She wouldn't see that. Maybe she would feel it. He turned to S. J. "I'll go with you."

They pushed through the crowd. "You should find a boat," S. J. said.

"We should." John grieved for S. J., who should do everything in his power to be with his children, all the while knowing that the woman who gave him life lay, probably alone, in a room where water was rising, and she was terrified.

They no longer needed to ask about boats. Officers and crew kept repeating loudly, "There are no more boats. And no more life vests. We can do nothing."

The deck slanted further. The band stopped playing. The horror became more pronounced. People screamed, begged, pushed, shoved, tried to find something to hold onto. Then the band resumed playing "Autumn Dreams." The beauty of the music was a decided contrast with the cries of the panicked, pleading humanity facing the reality of their helplessness.

"Strange, what one thinks," S. J. said as the two of them hurried as best they could, like salmon swimming upstream. "I was with some writers. We heard a strange sound and felt a shudder. We stopped talking, trying to comprehend what had happened. Then the ship stopped." He shook his head. "It reminded me of when I'm editing my work and come across a line that doesn't belong. I visualized a giant pen scraping along the side of the ship as if a hand directing the pen said,
Let's just cross this one out."

S. J. glanced over at him. "That must sound fool—"

"No." John grabbed his arm. "It reminds me. There's something I must do. I must go to my stateroom."

S. J. nodded. "If either of us make it . . ."

"I know," John said. "We will. I promise."

"Glad I met you," S. J. said as John ran. The ship was listing even more, but he mustn't dwell on that. He rushed inside and went immediately to the writing desk. He had to finish the poem.

Taking the paper from the notebook where he'd tucked it, and a pen, he hurried from the room. He stopped to look where others were leaning over the deck and pointing. Far below, about five decks down, was seawater, deep green from the lights and noticeably creeping higher.

Forcing himself from the hypnotic scene, he made his way to the reception room, fighting through the throng trying to go somewhere, anywhere. He reached the room. It had not been cleaned. There hadn't been time. Three waiters sat around a table, tipping bottles of champagne to their mouths. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

John had something to say to Lydia. But there was so little time for one's last words to the one he loved.

His life must not end with his work left undone. There wasn't time to follow his initial intent. The first quatrain was a simple love poem. The second was more serious, assuring her of the depth of his love. Now he must quickly write. Yes, he would convert it into an Italian sonnet.

Form was not the important thing here but rather the words. He wrote quickly, from his heart. He signed it "John," and added a scripture reference. He folded it, ready to put it into his pocket as if water would not wash away the ink, the thoughts, the love, the words.

He stood, having finished.

Water entered and rolled across the floor.

The icy flow crept into his shoes.

A line from Emily Dickinson crossed his mind.

A word is dead when it is said, some say.

I say it just begins to live that day.

Her poetry had begun to live posthumously. Could his words, his love, his message live on and somehow reach his beloved wife, who had captured his heart? Could it reach Lydia?

Stifled groans sounded from the table. Water rose to their ankles. These were brave men. John understood their wanting the oblivion of excessive drink instead of feeling frozen water that would invade their throats.

"I'm John." He waded over to them. "I need a bottle."

"Paul. Patrick. John-same-as-you," they said in unison. They each picked up their bottles and held them out to John as if pushing back the inevitable and attending to their duties. One last request of those committed to serving a first-class passenger. Perhaps to feel one last deed would make some kind of difference.

John had witnessed unselfish acts on deck. Men being brave, facing death while encouraging their loved ones and others, praying. Older women giving their places in a boat to younger ones. Women refusing to leave their husbands. Telling others to be ready to meet their God.

"No. I need an empty bottle. And a cork." John took the poem from his pocket. Paul emptied his bottle's contents down his throat, making sure he got every drop, while John rolled the paper. He took the bottle and inserted the poem. Patrick gripped the bottle while John-same-as-he forced the cork into the opening, making it airtight.

The water rose to John's knees, and kept pouring in. It rose to the seats of the chairs, but the men didn't try to stand. There was nowhere to go. Patrick swallowed hard. "It'll find its way. Don't worry."

John felt strangely calm. Maybe because everything was completely out of his control. If there was something to which he could swim, he'd try. But already his tingling legs were going numb, and he sat in the fourth chair at the table. All four held onto it. There was only one thing to say. "Do you believe in Jesus?"

"Yes."

"I hope so."

A nod.

With icy water up to his waist, John began to quote, and the men joined in.
God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

The "amen's" sounded.

Tables and chairs floated. Something bumped into Paul. He lost his grip on the table that had begun to slide. He and the chair fell away. John-same-as-he, with eyes wide and mouth opened, seemed deliberately to let go. Patrick called on God to help him just as the water covered him.

John tightened his grip on the bottle. His chair slid out from under him. He tried to stand but tottered like a child unable to walk.

A child.

Oh, Lydia.

The water pierced him like icicles. He held his breath. Chairs, tables, bottles beat his body. A pink rose floated by.

That's when he lost his grip on the bottle. Frozen eyes watched it wobble into a corner of the ceiling. It would be trapped. Lost forever. Please, God.

Life did indeed flash across one's mind at the end.

His life was Lydia, their child, and God.

He had to let go. He could not bear the pressure.

Liquid breath froze his throat.

The water turned dark.

With complete abandon he let go with a last thought,
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

Painful darkness . . .

To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.

. . . turned to serene light.

The joy of the Lord flooded his soul.