by Hazel Gaynor
As Séamus prayed alone in the all-consuming darkness, his father took a last, rasping breath and the covers on the bed were still.
New York
April 15, 1912
Frances Kenny was glad of the early-morning spring sunshine as she made her way to the Walker-Browns’ residence for her final day of work before Katie was due to arrive. The first soft rays of sunlight brought a small degree of warmth against the distinct chill that still hovered above the New York skyscrapers.
As she walked down Fifth Avenue, Frances passed businessmen in their smart suits and ties, catching snippets of their conversations about important matters of industry and finance. She passed other domestics, like herself, setting out to spend the day cleaning the houses of those businessmen, and others like them, knowing that it would be many exhausting hours before they returned to start cleaning their own homes. Walking farther away from the elegant avenue, she overheard the construction workers, shouting above the noise of their machinery, talking in a hundred different accents as they continued with the seemingly endless task of building more and more offices for the businessmen to occupy, going higher and higher into the clouds above. The profound diversity and cruel contradictions of this city never ceased to both amaze and appall Frances Kenny.
She passed a few coins to a tramp sitting on the steps of a church, telling him that he was not to buy ale. “Get yourself a cup of soup or some hot tea from the Army,” she said, speaking to him quietly yet firmly. “They will look after you.”
“God bless you, miss,” he replied, his accent unmistakably Irish.
It saddened her to think that his story had followed the same path as so many other Irish she had encountered since arriving on these shores herself: traveling to America in search of a better future and yet finding their lives had been worsened by their crossing of the Atlantic Ocean. She sighed and directed her thoughts to the work ahead of her, ticking things off the list in her head as she walked: things she needed to do in final preparation for Katie’s arrival the next day. Her anticipation at seeing her sister had been heightened by the excitement in the Walker-Brown household the previous day, when a telegram from Vivienne and Robert had been delivered.
“Oh, look! It’s from the Marconi company. It must be from Vivienne,” Emily Walker-Brown had shrieked, bustling through the large entrance hall, the two small Pekingese dogs she kept yapping at the hem of yet another new skirt.
Frances was used to these showy displays from her employer. She knew that she was required to continue with her dusting as if she couldn’t hear the conversation between Emily and her sister, who had called in for tea, but that really much of what was said was purely for her benefit.
“Listen, Bea,” Emily said, visibly puffed up with self-importance as she settled herself on the edge of the chaise longue next to the large, ornate fireplace. “She says, ‘Dearest Mother. Had the most wonderful dinner with Captain Smith—quite the occasion altogether. Mr. Astor dined with us along with his new young wife. Robert is well and Edmund is enjoying the sea air. Will arrive Tuesday! Fondest affections. Vivienne.’ So they will arrive a day early,” she continued, standing up and clapping her hands. “They will arrive tomorrow! Goodness me, and there is still so much to do!”
Frances chanced a half smile in the direction of the two women, the excitement in the room impossible to ignore.
“Isn’t that terrific news?” Emily enthused, almost acknowledging Frances’s presence. “And how wonderful to have dined with Captain Smith himself! I believe he is to retire after his arrival in New York. Twenty-six years at sea—no wonder he is ready to retire, after all that rocking from side to side. It’s a wonder the man can walk in a straight line at all!” The two sisters laughed heartily at Emily’s joke. “I presume the dinner was in honor of the many years’ service he has given to the White Star Line,” she continued. “I suspect it nearly killed that dreadful Bruce Ismay to bestow such an honor upon him.”
The sisters set to gossiping then about the many millionaires and influential businessmen traveling on Titanic, the most interesting topic of conversation seeming to be Mr. Astor and the scandal of his recent divorce and the disgrace of his hasty marriage to a young girl, only nineteen years of age. “And him nearly fifty years old. Goodness me, he’s old enough to be her father.”
Frances busied herself, her mind racing at the prospect of her sister arriving tomorrow—a whole day earlier than expected.
As she finished work for the day, she plucked up the courage to speak to Mrs. Walker-Brown about her hours the following day. “I was wondering whether it might be acceptable for me to start work an hour earlier tomorrow so as I can leave a little earlier than usual,” she explained as politely as possible. “I couldn’t help hearing you mention earlier that Titanic is expected to arrive a day early—and I would love to be at the terminal when my sister arrives.”
Distracted by her own excitement at the prospect of Vivienne and Robert’s arrival and the setting of a date for their wedding, Emily Walker-Brown gave her consent. “Oh, yes. Of course. I do keep forgetting that you have someone on the ship also! With all Vivienne’s talk of the grandeur of the first-class accommodations, it’s easy to forget that there are others traveling in the lower portions of the ship. That will suit me anyway as I will be asking the chauffeur to drive me to the docks so I can welcome Vivienne and Robert myself. They say that there will be quite some party to welcome Titanic—I shouldn’t wonder that half of New York will turn out for a look at her!”
Frances left then to make her way home. It was later than usual, since she had stayed on awhile longer to attend to a few extra chores and make sure that her employer had absolutely no reason to keep her late the following day, as she was apt to do whenever she had visitors arriving.
Her thoughts preoccupied with making plans for Katie’s first few days in New York, Frances did not immediately register the crowd clustered around the newspaper stand at the corner on Fifth Avenue. Moving into the gathering, she overheard fragments of conversation.
“An iceberg apparently. Early reports said she was limping back to Belfast for repairs.”
“Well, I heard she sank like a stone. They didn’t stand a chance.”
Bewildered and sickened with panic, Frances continued to move through the crowd. It was then that she saw the newspaper, bearing the day’s headline in oversize black typeface.
NEW LINER TITANIC HITS AN ICEBERG; SINKING BY THE BOW AT MIDNIGHT; WOMEN PUT OFF IN LIFEBOATS; LAST WIRELESS AT 12:27 A.M. BLURRED
She simply couldn’t comprehend it. She gazed frantically around the crowd, not sure what she was looking for. Seeing a smartly dressed gentleman standing to her right, she approached him, grabbing at his arm in her panic.
“Excuse me, sir, is it true? Do you know what has happened?”
He turned to her, a look of concern and shock on his face.
“I’m very sorry, miss. I don’t know. I really don’t know. They are reporting that she hit an iceberg in the night and went down in a matter of hours.”
“Went down?” Frances gasped, her head spinning, her knees feeling as though they would buckle under her at any moment. “But everyone’s all right. Aren’t they? My sister is traveling on Titanic.” Frances was now desperate to get confirmation about what had happened to the passengers. “The women were all rescued, weren’t they? It says so here,” she added, pointing at the headline.
“So it seems,” the gentleman replied. “We need to await further news. My wife and young daughter are aboard. I am praying for good news myself. I’m going straight to the White Star Line offices on Broadway. Maybe an official there can confirm the facts.”
Without hesitation, Frances knew that was what she would do. She started to run and didn’t stop until she saw a large crowd already gathered outside the offices, a palpable air of tension and confusion surrounding them. Men and women rushed up and down the stone steps with urgency. Passersby turned their heads to observe the commotion, so
me stopping those already converged outside the building to inquire about what was happening. Police officers on foot and on horseback moved among the crowd, which spilled off the sidewalk into the street, trying to restore calm and order. Motorcars and horse-drawn carts stopped in the middle of the road as the occupants conversed with the officers or with the uniformed White Star Line officials who had braved the crowds to relay information.
Frances’s gaze fell on a group of women dressed in the finest clothing and wearing the most impressive hats. They stood alongside humble, conservatively attired domestics like herself, who in turn stood next to smartly dressed gentlemen in bowler hats and ties, themselves standing alongside dockworkers with the grime of a day’s hard labor still evident across their hands, faces, and clothing. All of society, it seemed, was gathered there, all divisions of rank and social class forgotten.
Walking through the gathered crowd, she overheard someone saying, “My cousin works for the White Star Line, and he reliably informs me that Captain Smith personally ensured that all the women and children were safely removed in the lifeboats before any men were permitted to board, himself included.” Over the shoulder of another man, she caught the headline of another newspaper that read ALL SAVED FROM TITANIC AFTER COLLISION.
Frances stopped at the foot of the stone steps. She had never felt so helpless, so confused, so frightened.
Hours passed. Still, nobody seemed able to confirm exactly what had happened. Rumors raced among the waiting crowds. White Star Line officials were pressed for information, but their answers were vague and unhelpful. They did nothing to reassure the anxious crowd. Frances settled herself on the stone steps and prayed.
It was many hours later when a woman sat down on the step beside her. A young child settled in the woman’s lap, and she held an infant in her arms. Tears streamed down her face, words of desperate prayer tumbling from her lips. She gazed up and caught Frances’s eye.
“They say it’s gone,” she wailed. “They’re all gone. My husband and my brother, gone, miss. What will I do? Whatever will I do? How will I survive with them gone?”
Unsure of what to say to comfort her, Frances moved forward and bent down to the woman. Placing her hand on her shoulder, she simply said, “Courage and faith. We must all try to find courage and faith until we know for certain.”
Unable to process what she was seeing and hearing, Frances turned then to the other people gathered nearest to her, all talking frantically—to each other and to anyone who looked to be at all official—trying desperately to get some reassurance that the passengers were all right. It was simply incomprehensible that anything had happened to Titanic, let alone that she had sunk. Frances couldn’t begin to imagine what must have happened or how terrifying the experience must have been. Her poor sister—her poor little sister. She tried to take some small comfort from the fact that at least she had some of the more mature women with her, like Kathleen Dolan and Maura Brennan. They were strong, confident women, and at least they would mind Katie and tell her what to do.
Without much thought and barely able to stay upright with the shock coursing through her body, Frances resolved to wait outside the offices for further news. She pulled her coat around herself and bent her head in silent prayer as the sun began to set behind the towering office blocks, casting a dark shadow across them all.
It was late in the evening when the wires started to come through, confirming everyone’s worst fears.
From the Marconi radio station on top of the nearby department store, messages were picked up from the steamship Carpathia confirming that Titanic had gone down and that there had been a significant loss of life. Survivors were aboard the Carpathia, which was expected to arrive in New York on Thursday night. The survivors’ names were being transmitted from the steamship and would be displayed in the window of the White Star Line offices as soon as possible.
As news of the scale of the disaster became known, an eerie silence fell across the mass of anxious relatives and friends gathered on the street outside the White Star Line offices, all the way across to Wanamaker’s Department Store. As people filed into the office, praying that the names of their loved ones would be among those listed as having survived, the first tears started to fall. Frances watched as men and women emerged from the revolving doors, ashen faced and weeping, falling into the arms of others as they relayed the terrible news that the names they had been hoping to see were not there.
“Will you go and look for me, miss?”
Frances turned to the young woman who still sat beside her.
“I can’t bear to go and look. Will you please check the list for me?” She bounced the baby up and down in her arms as she spoke, trying to soothe its crying.
“Yes, of course,” Frances replied, although she could barely stand the thought of scanning the list for Katie’s name, let alone anyone else’s. “Yes, I’ll look for you.”
The young woman gave her the names and Frances stood then, smoothing her skirt before walking up the steps, patiently waiting her turn to start scanning the list.
For nearly thirty minutes she stood there, reading each name twice over before moving on to the next. When she had read the entire list once, she read it again, her throat tightening, making it hard to breathe. The names seemed to shift and blur in front of her. All around her, people gasped with delight and relief at seeing a name they knew, or fell to their knees in grief when they did not.
She recognized only one name on the list: Vivienne Walker-Brown. She envied the relief her employer would feel when she learned that her daughter was safe. She scanned the list again and again, desperately reading the Kenny names. There were several: Arthur, Eileen, Elizabeth, and others, but the name Katie was not among them; neither were any of the other names Frances might have recognized from the Ballysheen group. And neither were the names the young woman outside had given her.
With all hope lost, Frances returned to the stone steps and sat down. The young woman looked into her eyes, her two children nestled inside her coat, sleeping and unaware of the different path their lives were about to take. Frances looked at the woman, took her hands in hers, and shook her head.
“No,” she whispered as her own tears began to fall. “No.”
Castlebar, Ireland
April 16, 1912
Thomas Durcan stood in the middle of the unremarkable office he owned on the main street of Castlebar, unable to believe his eyes as he read the message informing him that Titanic had foundered in the Atlantic with great loss of life.
Rumors had been rife among the people in the town since late the previous evening.
“Is it true, Mr. Durcan, about Titanic?” people had asked, stopping him in the street. “But they said she was unsinkable. They must have their facts wrong.”
He barely knew what to believe himself.
“Ah, yes, probably limping back to Belfast as we speak for some swift repairs!” he’d replied, although he was no more convinced by this remark than were the people to whom he made it.
Feeling a distinct sense of responsibility for the dozen or so passengers he personally had booked on the ship, Durcan set about receiving confirmation for himself. He recalled the young girl Maggie, with her aunt, Kathleen Dolan, of Ballysheen, and how they’d exchanged a joke about the thousands of eggs there would be aboard the ship. It simply didn’t bear thought that any harm had befallen those poor people who were just trying to better their lot in life.
He wired the head office of the White Star Line in Liverpool and anxiously awaited a response. Eventually it came through.
Thomas Durcan knew that Titanic was capable of carrying more than two thousand passengers. Such a loss of life was unimaginable. He sank to his knees and wept.
CHAPTER 28
Atlantic Ocean
April 15, 1912
Taking hold of one of the long oars, Harry pulled against the might of the ocean with all his strength. He knew enough about boats to know that if Titanic went down, s
he would create a massive whirlpool, which would suck anything close enough down with it, and he had understood fully what the officer meant when he’d told him to row away from the ship.
“Grab hold,” he shouted to the women in the boat. “Grab hold and pull. We need to get farther away.”
Slowly, with the help of several of the stunned and freezing passengers, lifeboat 16 moved farther and farther from the ship, the distress flares still being sent up into the clear black sky adding a marvelous red aura to the millions of stars shining down upon the dreadful events unfolding on the ocean below.
Amid the panic and terror, it occurred to Harry that this must be the most tragic fireworks display ever seen, and his thoughts turned fleetingly to crisp November nights when, as a young boy, he had watched the few rockets his father could afford shooting up into the dark sky and exploding into a dazzling display of color. His sister always cried with fright at the bangs and cracks, but he loved it. He thought the display was beautiful.
He thought of his family then, his mother sitting alone in the front room, his father—coughing relentlessly—and his kind, gentle sister. He longed to be in his comfortable home and couldn’t bear to think about how worried everyone in Southampton would be when they heard about the catastrophe. There were so many boiler men, stokers, and crew from the city, already dead, he was certain, locked in the bowels of the ship when the watertight doors were closed. He knew many of them and knew there would be many mothers and sisters left without their sons and brothers now.
He rowed and rowed, lost in silent thoughts of his own family, of Peggy—who had made his heart skip a beat when she smiled at him—and the others in the Irish group, of Bride and Phillips in the Marconi room, of Billy and everyone else he had worked with and had such a lark with along Scotland Road. He wondered what had become of them all.