They had yet to know what was truly waiting for them.
Do they know there aren’t enough lifeboats?
“Help me get these ladies in,” an officer commanded, startling Barrett. He looked around, ensuring that the officer was indeed talking to him. He spied no one else that the officer could be referring to; already there was more than one man in the boat. One of them he recognised as one of the firemen he oversaw, George something. Beauchamp, perhaps.
Barrett nodded; he found words were frequently unnecessary. He helped the woman, and her babe – not even a year old – into the lifeboat. Barrett carefully held the baby as he passed it to the woman, who was crying silently.
The lifeboat was full; there were at least sixty people, if not more. And it won’t be enough.
Barrett tried not to think of how many people would be left for their deaths. He watched as one family fought over who would be staying to look for one of the girls; Barrett wondered if they knew they were fighting the inevitable.
At least the family had the sense to put the young children in the lifeboat.
Barrett was sure and certain not all of steerage would be able to afford that luxury. He averted his gaze in disgust at the thought; he did not want to imagine tiny frozen corpses littering the sea.
“Get in,” the officer hissed, and Barrett looked at him in surprise. George Beauchamp, a fireman he worked with, was already sitting in the lifeboat, as well as more crew than he’d expected.
“What?” Barrett asked, in an attempt to make his voice sound gruff. Instead, he seemed enervated and impaired, affected by what he’d already witnessed that night.
What is more to come before the night ends?
“Get in, for God’s sake, lad!” the officer replied. “There’s women who’ll be needing help from the crew, we need more able-bodied men to man the raft.”
Barrett didn’t respond; he did not know how to thank someone, knowing that the officer he didn’t recognise was likely to die when he, who had been in the boiler rooms when the ship had struck ice, was being given a chance to live.
At what cost?
Barrett climbed in, immediately assuming authority, trying not to dwell on the blood debt he owed. The officer above shouted, “Lower away!” and the lifeboat began being lowered slowly, creaking through the davits.
“We’re just over the condenser exhaust, ladies and gents. We can’t stay or we will be swamped. I need you all to bend down to the floor, ready to pull the pin that frees us from the davits, as soon as the boat touches the water. We shan’t have much time, so make sure you’re ready.” He heard the scuffle among the passengers, each reaching for a pin, but kept his eye on the lifeboat above them.
It’s going to crush us.
The list had deepened significantly in the few minutes it had taken to release Lifeboat Fifteen; Barrett could see the propellers poking out of the water, rising slowly but steadily. Each one was bigger than anything he could have possibly imaged.
Barrett’s ears were filled with a monstrous roar, as they approached the outlet, and passengers became to scream as they realised that they, too, would be crushed. He watched as the young mother who had been arguing with her family flung herself across her two small children.
“They can’t hear us,” Barrett muttered, the officers oblivious to the happenstance. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his pocketknife, moving to the aft of the lifeboat, cutting the davits free; another man, one Barrett didn’t recognise, moved quickly toward the forward of the raft, doing the same. “Get ready to push us away!” Barrett yelled at the occupants as his knife sliced through the thick rope.
Some of the other men, and a few women, grabbed oars, pushing away from the ship’s side frantically; the second lifeboat hit the ocean’s surface fifteen seconds later. Some of the women were still sobbing, though the men looked aghast; it was one thing to know you were going to die; it was an entirely separate thing to be so close to survival and almost have it taken from you.
After a few minutes, someone asked, “What’s your name?”
“Barrett. Fred Barrett.”
“Well, then, Mr Barrett, I think it’s best we left you in charge now, aye?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Claire
By the time Claire and Cillian resurfaced on the Boat Deck, Claire was shocked at the state of the ship. The bow was so deeply sunk, she could see the water rising towards the bridge. A funnel appeared to have broken off; perhaps two. It was difficult to tell. There were screams all around her now; people were pushing and shoving, and the propellers were clearly visible, even from the Boat Deck. How can the ship be afloat if the propellers are in the air? Claire wondered dully.
Cillian had been right.
She was a fool, and now she was going to pay with her life.
“Oh my God, Cillian,” she wept. She grasped his side, as if holding onto him would somehow bless her with survival. How would Nora cope, losing her aunt? What would Adene say? That Claire, a dumb fool, had left the safety of the lifeboat, abandoning her only niece, for her Ma’s hat?
“Claire, get it together,” Cillian snapped. “There’s a lifeboat being prepared right now. See? There.” He pointed, and Claire saw an overflowing lifeboat hanging in the davits. Cillian pulled her towards it; the man in the silk pyjamas and robe was there, the one she had remembered from before, who had tried to prevent her from leaving the lifeboat and was still assisting passengers. Claire frowned, wondering who he was; he seemed mighty determined to see as many passengers off. Claire could not help but wonder if he had known what she had not; that the ship was doomed, and so was every man, woman and child on it.
Cillian, his grip tight upon Claire’s arm, pulled her through the mass of crowds. The air was different from her first trip; it was if the rest of the passengers were acutely aware that their time was near. She spied blood on the Boat Deck; she wondered if someone had been badly wounded. Cillian pulled her to the front of the group, thrusting her in front of the commanding officer. “Is there room for this young lady?” Cillian asked, and the man in the pyjamas smiled down at her. The officer, trying to stop a group of crew members rushing for the raft, did not respond; instead, the man with the kind eyes and the fancy pyjamas spoke.
“I remember you,” the man said. “You got out of the boat, earlier. I see you found your mother’s hat.” Claire blushed; the officer swore loudly, his temper flaring.
“Get in the boat,” the officer ordered, directing his attention to Claire. “We don’t have time for this.” Claire looked at Cillian, not willing to get in without him – he had promised he would try, and he had not yet spoken a word – when the officer turned to Cillian. “Can you row?”
“Yes,” Cillian responded, and Claire wondered if it were a sin to lie if it meant saving one’s life. God thought that to take one’s life was an irredeemable sin; surely a lie that meant no harm could be easily absolved?
“You, too, then. And you, Mr Ismay,” the man instructed. Claire was surprised the officer knew the man in the pyjamas’ name. Perhaps that was the way among the wealthy; they did seem to know each other.
“Charlie, I don’t know,” the man named Ismay replied, looking around to see who else was on deck. Claire could tell, as she took a seat, that he desperately wanted to take a seat, but daren’t. She wondered what the man feared; was the other option worse than death?
“Look, Mr Ismay, I don’t think we’ll get many more out. We’ve only got a few collapsibles left. You heard what the Captain said, and Andrews. If you don’t get in, you’ll just be adding one more dead body to the sea to collect. It’s my job to get as many passengers as possible to safety, Mr Ismay, and you are a passenger of this vessel. Are you going to make it difficult for me to complete my job? Are you going to send me to a watery grave with the knowledge I didn’t save every man I could?”
Ismay shook his head, his face ashen. He shook the man’s hand, a gentlemanly goo
dbye, and climbed in silently, as if he did not dare to speak another word. The officer ordered the life vessel to be lowered away, though the trip was a short one; there were only a few metres now between Titanic’s side and the sea. As they hit the ocean, Claire realised the situation was more dire than she’d first thought: The three propellers were raised high, and the centre one looked almost dry, making her question how long the bow had been underwater. She watched as water traipsed through the portholes on C Deck, and her stomach churned. Water was bursting in and out of portholes. The ship looked to be almost half-taken by the sea, and she watched as the third funnel crashed nearby, rocking the boat with a giant wave, splashing the passengers. Some of the women were crying, but Claire found she could not: She had no words.
She’d gone back for a hat.
Her Ma’s hat, but a hat, nonetheless.
Claire watched as the water suddenly swarmed the deck, and heard, through the terrified screams and cries, the band playing Autumn, and through frozen tears, she wondered how the band could possibly still be playing. As the wave took hold of the Titanic’s bridge, the ship’s hull rose to an impossible angle; bodies, and any loosely fitted items flung people down the deck. Claire could not tear her eyes away as she saw one man fall, his head hitting the propeller, splitting it open. The screams were like nothing she had heard before and were worse than any story or ballad she’d heard describing the Bad Times. Glass shattered, and she watched as a mother and her children were sucked into a whirling maelstrom; to where, Claire did not know. The third tunnel broke off, crushing some of the victims who’d already been taken by the ocean, and the wave the funnel sent partially swamped Claire’s boat; her teeth began chattering, her body lashed with water that felt like fire.
She heard a revolver fire a few times, and she saw an officer’s body collapse after he shot himself; she wondered if even God would blame him for his sin. How could He, knowing what horrors the officer was about to face?
The ship’s hull was still rising, and a roar filled Claire’s ears, deafening her from the sounds of the victims. Then the ship lurched, the Titanic’s hull pulling back against the bow; a gulf of water covered the boat, and then a second lurch, emitting a roaring sound from the liner, before the lights flickered once, twice, before plunging the ship into darkness.
Claire could not be sure, but perhaps the fourth funnel had collapsed, because a secondary wave tried to engulf her lifeboat; despite herself, she grasped a hold of Cillian, burying her head in his hard chest. Cillian, silent, wrapped his arms around Claire. She could see the stern, albeit faintly, rising higher than it had before, and it seemed content there, for a moment. Claire could not help but wonder if, despite all that she had witnessed, God would refuse to let the stern sink. Perhaps He, in all His wisdom, only wanted to teach man a lesson; not punish them for the follies of others.
No sooner had the thought passed through Claire’s mind when the stern began bubbling, the ocean finally devouring its long-awaited prey.
Claire grabbed her ears, trying to block out the sounds that now filled the night sky: There were hundreds, if not thousands, of people screaming.
They screamed for their mothers.
They screamed for God to save them.
They were splashing – perhaps attempting to swim – and screaming for the others to save them, screaming to be plucked from the ocean, to be saved.
But mostly, Claire noticed, their screams were indistinguishable.
A thousand screams littered the sky, a demented orchestra of the undead.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Monday, April 15th, 1912
Bride
Bride felt fear bellowing inside him, insatiable. He did not know how Jack stayed so calm beside him; as the power waned now, he was simply repeating ‘SOS MGY’ in desperate attempts to reach any Marconi operator that may have woken.
They’d contacted the Carpathia, and when the Marconi operator replied – Harold Cottman; they knew him by his own call sign – asking if it were serious, Jack had responded, “Come at once. We have struck a berg. It’s a CQD, OM. MGY”, and the operator had replied shortly with the Carpathia’s location, and the fact that they were currently heading towards the Titanic.
Shortly after they’d reached the Carpathia, they both frantically messaged as many ships as possible: They’d reached the Ypiranaga, Frankfurt, Olympic, Prinz Friedrich Wilhelm, then Frankfurt again, Mount Temple, Celtic, Caronia, Baltic, Cincinnati, Asian and Virginian. Each message bore the same text: “Tell your captain to come to our help. We are on the ice. CQD, SOS, CQD, MGY”. All had responded, though none were near; despite Jack’s assurances about the Californian, they had not been able to reach Evans.
“I thought you said the Californian was near,” Bride whispered. He did not want to blame his friend, though he was currently finding it hard not to blame everyone and everything. He’d listened to the noises change in the background throughout the night; he’d heard the chatter and raucous laughter, even as the ship began to list. None of the passengers seemed disturbed, and for a while, that had quenched his fears. However, the noises had changed; there were screams now, and sounds of gunshots. Those on board were beginning to realise their fate, just as Bride and Jack were. They’d never imagined that the ship would founder without another ship reaching their side. At worst, Bride had envisioned some of the crew, maybe even a few of the steerage, to perish; but now it seemed no one had any choice. God had determined their fate, and it was not a good one.
“The Captain has sent up distress rockets,” snapped Jack, “if it were nearby, they would respond to that, even if the operator has turned his receiver.”
Jack’s words were true enough; if a ship was nearby, they would not miss the distress rockets, especially on a moonless night.
Bride forced himself not to focus on himself; if any ship nearby reached them, they would be saved. They had lifejackets; they would not drown. The water was likely to be cold, but if they could endure it, there was hope for survival. The men that laid between that chance for survival were Bride and Jack; they were currently the Titanic’s best hope for survival, as the Carpathia was still several hours away, though they wouldn’t be able to power any messages if the electricians and engineers weren’t keep her going. Bride was astounded they’d managed to do so for as long as they could. He contacted the Olympic again, hoping that the Olympic had the turbine power to reach the Titanic in time. Bride wrote, “We are in collision with berg. Sinking head down. Come soon as possible, CQD MGY”. A few minutes late, he added, “We are putting the women off in the boats. CQD, MGY”.
The list of the ship was growing now, and panic was setting in. Those that hadn’t believed the ship could founder were beginning to realise that their belief would lead to their doom.
Captain Smith returned. “Our engines are taking on water now, gentlemen,” he said. He looked as if he were already dead, his body just did not know it yet. “It is unlikely the dynamos will fare much longer. The engine rooms are filled up to the boilers. Do what you can. There isn’t much time left now. See if you can reach Carpathia. We will need her to search for the survivors.”
The words felt like a slap to Bride.
If there were survivors, that meant that there would be casualties. By the sounds of the mass of people still on the Boat Deck, a great many of them.
“You men have done everything you can, everything that can be expected of you. You have served this ship well. Once your message is cast, don your lifejackets, and may God have mercy on your souls.” With that, the captain departed, leaving the room to fill with the gravity of his words.
They were not making it out.
“Go,” hissed Jack, typing a frantic message to the Carpathia, listening for their response. “They say they won’t … they won’t be here for another hour, maybe two.”
Bride fumbled with his life vest, throwing Jack’s at him. “Put it on. I’ll check the Boat Deck, see what we’re in for.” Even though he kn
ew what they were fated for, his mind would not allow it. He was desperate; as he opened the wireless room door, ice-cold water rushed in, soaking his shoes, his feet freezing. He gasped and shuddered; he’d assumed the water would be cold, but this was unlike anything he could imagine. Men, women, and even children scrambled aft; he could see why; the bridge was all but disappeared into the blackness of the ocean. There wasn’t any time.
Bride returned to the cabin; a man – Italian – was rushing at Jack, trying to steal his lifebelt. Bride jumped him, and Jack, who had been busy, not noticing the man creeping behind him, turned and belted the man. The man fell, knocked unconscious.
“Bastard,” spat Jack. “What kind of rat attacks a man when he’s not looking?”
Bride agreed, but as the water rushed in, rising quickly, taking the fallen body hostage, he knew that they had not the time to argue over what they’d done, or what the man had done.
“Quickly,” Bride hissed. “We need to flee. Lightoller’s trying to get one of the collapsibles free.”
“No,” Jack replied. “You need to flee. There’s still power. It’s faint, but while there’s a chance I will stay at my post. It’s our only hope.”
“There is no hope, Jack,” pleaded Bride. He did not want to lose his friend, and he did not want to face death alone. “The ship is listing poorly. Already, the water has risen several feet. We must leave.”
“Go, Harry,” he said firmly, returning to his desk. “Go now.”
Bride looked at his friend, before heading toward the collapsible lifeboat he saw Litghtoller trying to affix. He turned back to glance his friend, who was still sending messages despite the flickering power – how on earth the engineers had kept the electricity going for so long was beyond Bride’s comprehension, but he was sure and certain they would not keep it up for much longer – when the swell rose up around him, almost knocking him off his feet. He looked back, and the bow appeared to be gone; the water was a maelstrom now, rising quickly. Shrieks of terror began as the passengers tried to clamber towards the stern, gripping the rails with white knuckles. Bride watched as a young couple, honeymooners he surmised, were holding each other. The man held the railing with one arm, the other wrapped firmly around his crying wife. She was dressed in a silk nightdress, wearing a dressing gown, staring up into her husband’s eyes with love and devotion. The ship lurched again, and this time, the vortex seized the pair, taking them into the icy abyss.
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