by RA Williams
‘It is freezing,’ he said, shaking uncontrollably. ‘We will be rendered helpless in minutes.’
Unscrewing the cap of his nip flask, Balthasar offered it to him.
‘Danke,’ said the German, looking to the distant lifeboats. ‘They will come for us, ja?’
‘We’re to fend for ourselves,’ Balthasar replied. ‘It looks as though they’re lying on their oars.’
‘Um Gottes willen!’ said the German. ‘They are.’
He pointed to a single lifeboat, bow lamp glowing in the darkness. It was closer than the others, perhaps only a tantalising hundred yards off.
‘That boat, nearer to us. Let us try for it.’
‘We’re quite happy here,’ replied Balthasar, reserve habitually British.
‘Dann wirst du verschwinden,’ the German replied emphatically.
‘Death would be welcomed.’ Balthasar smirked at his comment. Mahmoud agreed. Neither of them would die. Not that night, anyway.
‘Wie ist ihr Name?’ Mahmoud asked.
‘Erik Frisch.’
‘I’m Mahmoud. My colleague is Balthasar.’
‘We wish you luck, Herr Frisch.’
The German nodded before saying farewell. Slipping out of his lifebelt and coat, he began to stroke away from them.
Mahmoud watched in silence as Herr Frisch swam towards the nearest lifeboat. To his relief, the German reached it and was hauled aboard. God only knew if he would survive the night. He stood a better chance than those remaining in the water. Already, the sea grew quiet. All around floated the dead. Mahmoud paid them no mind. He had long since grown accustomed to their company.
Looking to the diamond-clear sky, he imagined the faint changing hues of the Northern Lights were the shimmering souls of the dead, floating to heaven. The thought of it made him smile. Although he knew there was nothing noble about death, the horror of the night was magnificent.
Morning gilded the sky in streaks of orange, along the sea’s ridge to the east. Mahmoud followed Balthasar’s lead. Kicking their legs, they were able to keep their pile of flotsam following the lifeboats. They weren’t hard to follow: every so often a green flare arced into the sky. Although the sea remained relatively calm, they were surrounded by mile upon mile of icebergs.
Mahmoud quietly sang refrains from his favourite Gilbert and Sullivan song to pass the time.
‘He is an Englishman.
For he himself has said it,
And it’s greatly to his credit,
That he is an Englishman!’
Balthasar repeated the chorus. ‘That he is an Englishman!’
Prising a frost-covered hand from the netting, Mahmoud held it up to Balthasar.
‘I’m bloody useless. My limbs have frozen.’
‘My feet have swelled so much they’ve burst the seams in my leathers,’ Balthasar replied.
‘Buster, let us pack it in and climb on one of those growlers,’ he said, pointing out a substantial iceberg nearby. ‘At the very least we’ll thaw out in the light of day.’
‘And look like a couple of wayward polar bears on an ice floe? By Jove, that won’t look conspicuous.’
He said nothing. Arguing was pointless.
‘For he might have been a Roosian.
A French, or Turk, or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an!
But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations—’
‘He remains an Englishman!’ sang Balthasar.
‘He remains an Englishman!’
Mahmoud prised his right hand from the netting. His knuckle joints cracked as he stretched out his frozen fingers.
‘I’ll never quite think of HMS Pinafore in the same way again.’
‘Mahmoud,’ Balthasar said, with a sudden gleam in his eye. ‘I’ve just realised what’s keeping us afloat.’
Through the netting, he showed Mahmoud white lettering, stencilled on the crate: Alberta Premium Canadian Rye.
Plunging his fist through a gap, he smashed open the crate and retrieved a bottle from inside.
‘Couldn’t hurt, could it?’ he said and smiled, breaking the seal on the bottle before cracking the top. Taking a long drink, he exhaled with grateful pleasure. ‘That’s not at all bad.’
Mahmoud swigged from the bottle too, the spirit tingling as it slid down his throat. ‘It’s quite shit as rye goes. But given our present circumstance, I’ll not spit it out.’ He drained the bottle and tossed it into the sea. ‘Not likely we’ll run low on our supply.’
Rummaging around in the crate, Balthasar pulled out another bottle. ‘Depends how long we’re adrift.’
The rye had already made Mahmoud feel better. ‘Quite a night.’
Balthasar nodded, opening another bottle before putting it back. He looked at the ice field surrounding them.
‘How could a captain let his ship steam at such speed through growlers and bergs?’
‘Perhaps they were unawares?’
Balthasar shook his head. ‘Do you see the sheen floating on the surface of the sea?’
The Persian lowered his hand to the water. It was viscous, similar to oil. ‘Yes, what’s all this then?’
‘Spicules.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Frazil ice. The first stage in the formation of pack ice. A proper night watch would recognise such a thing.’
‘How would you know?’ Mahmoud asked.
‘This isn’t the first ship that’s gone out under me in the North Atlantic.’
‘Not that I find palaver dull…’ Mahmoud took a long drink from the bottle. ‘But what are we meant to do now?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind just yet,’ Balthasar said, and looked to the distant lifeboats. ‘Neither have they.’
Joining his gaze, Mahmoud saw a green light in the distance, at first confusing it with the bowhead light of a lifeboat until he picked out a red sidelight and then a white masthead light.
It was a ship.
‘Buster.’
‘Let us linger a spell,’ replied Balthasar.
The Persian became still as the pre-dawn glow revealed the outline of a single-funnel steamship. It was adrift, a blast from its horn all the proof they needed that the ship had spotted the lifeboats ahead. Jacob’s ladders and boatswain’s chairs hung down its port side as crewmen from the steamer began loading survivors.
The two of them waited amid the pack ice until the survivors were all taken aboard. Crewmen lassoed the lifeboats, a cargo crane raising them to the ship’s forecastle deck.
‘Crack on, Mahmoud,’ said Balthasar, slowly kicking his legs. ‘Can you help steer a course?’
He had a go, but it was no good; he had lost all feeling in his body and even his hands were now frozen to the netting.
‘I can’t move, Buster. I have frozen solid.’
‘I can kick my legs a bit. And the current is carrying us generally towards the ship.’
Slowly, they moved closer to the steamer until they were just yards from two crewmen preparing to raise the last two lifeboats. As the flotsam raft nudged the side of the lifeboat, the crewman with his back to the sea leaped in fright.
‘Would it be all right if we come aboard?’ asked Balthasar.
‘Cripes,’ the crewman shouted, latching on to their raft with a fending hook. ‘There’s two blokes down here in the water.’
‘Can’t be,’ said the other, climbing from the lifeboat, blocked in against the hull of the steamer. ‘Couldn’t possibly survive in the sea all them hours.’
His eyes met Mahmoud’s.
‘Poor bastards. Must be nearly frozen solid.’
The seaman with the fending pole shouted up to deck. ‘There’s two more alive here!’
‘By Jove,’ yelled an officer, leaning over the side. ‘Have them out the water this very instant.’
The second crewman grasped hold of Balthasar by the shoulders. ‘Come on then, mate. Let’s get you warmed up.’
‘What’s the name of t
his ship?’ Balthasar asked as he was hauled out.
‘This is the Carpathia.’
‘Carpathia,’ repeated Mahmoud as he too was pulled from the water. Ironic a ship so named was the deliverer of their salvation.
‘I haven’t any sugar for you,’ the cabin steward repeated as he sat the tray of tea and biscuits on the narrow table between their bunks. ‘It’s very unusual to serve steerage passengers in their berths. But the captain said we could make an exception for you two gents.’
The accommodation was cramped: two bunks separated by a narrow aisle with a tiny side table between. Mahmoud and Balthasar were the only occupants.
‘I don’t understand it.’ The ship surgeon put a firm hand on the Persian’s exposed arm. ‘I’m having the devil of a time warming you two chaps.’
Mahmoud’s eyes darted to Balthasar. Each had three blankets covering them. It wouldn’t matter if a dozen more were heaped on top.
There was no warmth to raise.
‘Who is ship’s captain?’ asked Balthasar.
‘That would be Captain Rostron,’ replied the steward, as he poured tea into a pair of enamel cups.
‘He’s eager to meet you both,’ said the surgeon.
‘Is that so?’ Mahmoud replied, lifting a cup to his lips. The tea was bitter. ‘Perhaps he can let us have a few lumps of sugar?’
‘I’m afraid Carpathia’s larder wasn’t provisioned for an additional seven hundred passengers,’ said the steward. ‘The sugar is for First and Second Class passengers.’
‘Only seven hundred survived?’ asked Balthasar.
‘On Carpathia. There are other ships about. Surely others have been picked up.’
Mahmoud knew otherwise. Only the dead remained in the sea when they left the wreck site.
‘That’ll do,’ interrupted the surgeon. ‘No need to upset our guests. They’ve had a difficult enough time of it.’
‘We’re ever so grateful you’re permitting us a two-bunk berth,’ said Balthasar.
‘Normally, we move immigrants to the States in Third Class,’ said the steward. ‘We’ve filled the four- and six-bunk berths with a lot of foreigners.’
‘It’s plain to see the both of you are gentlemen and haven’t got measles,’ the surgeon added.
Mahmoud reached for another shortbread. ‘Perhaps we could have a bit more?’
‘If you feel well enough, you can leave your cabin for the lunch messing. But it’s all right if you don’t. Titanic’s Marconi operator is suffering from severe frostbite in his legs. The poor man can’t walk,’ explained the surgeon, before there was a knock at the cabin door. ‘Do please enter,’ he called.
The captain entered, buttons on his double-breasted Cunard jacket perfectly polished, collar tight below his lean face and officer’s cap perched atop his head.
‘Surgeon McGee, how are our guests?’
‘Not bad, Captain Rostron. Having a bit of trouble warming them, though.’
‘Not surprising, considering how long they were in the water.’ He turned to Mahmoud and Balthasar. ‘You’re being well looked after?’
‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Though the steward is being a bit mean with the sugar.’
The captain looked to his steward.
‘We’re having to ration sugar to First and Second Class only, sir.’
‘I think we could make an exception for these gentlemen,’ the captain said through a thin smile.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll fetch a sugar bowl.’
‘What’s become of our clothes?’ Balthasar asked.
‘On deck. Drying,’ replied the captain. ‘Expect you’ll have them before too long. Carpathia isn’t crewed for this many passengers. Valeting takes a bit longer.’
He touched Balthasar’s bare arm. Startled, he drew it away. ‘Damn sorry about the cold. To make as much speed as possible, we diverted the steam from heating. I’ve instructed the engineer to revert that now. Sorry to say, we’re having trouble heating the steerage. It’s a mild day on deck, though. If you’re well enough, the sea air might do you good.’
‘We’re grateful,’ said Mahmoud.
‘Your survival is something of a miracle,’ said the captain.
‘Slight frost nip on their fingertips and some swelling to their feet,’ said the surgeon. ‘Nothing more.’
‘In all my years at sea, I never heard a man survive more than twenty minutes in these frigid waters. You chaps managed six hours.’
‘They tell me they shared a bottle or so,’ said the surgeon.
‘Oh, indeed?’
‘One of the crates we clung to,’ said Mahmoud.
‘Full of rye,’ added Balthasar.
‘We managed to get into it and drink our fill.’
‘Good thinking, that,’ Surgeon McGee replied. ‘It may have saved your souls.’
‘Have you requested a marconigram?’ asked the captain. Mahmoud shook his head, averting his eyes.
‘Thank you, no,’ replied Balthasar.
‘Surely you have relations who would wish to know you’re safe and well?’
‘We have no one,’ replied Balthasar, glancing back at Mahmoud. The Persian understood. Preserving their omertà was important above all else.
‘I see,’ said Captain Rostron. ‘White Star has requested a survivor list. A purser will be round presently to collect your details.’
Sensing Balthasar’s growing frustration, Mahmoud asked, ‘What’s our destination?’
‘Carpathia was making for Gibraltar. But I’ve decided to turn round and return to New York.’
‘When do you expect we’ll make landfall?’
‘We’re in the midst of quite an ice field. We’ll make half a knot until we get through it. Once we’re clear, Carpathia can make fourteen knots. Expect we’ll arrive in New York in three days’ time.’
‘So rest up,’ said the surgeon, closing his medical bag. ‘I’ll look in again once you get your feet under the table.’
With a nod, they excused themselves.
Balthasar stood. Dressed only in a nightshirt, he propped open the porthole between their bunks, taking in the sea air. ‘Seven hundred survivors,’ he said, inhaling. ‘There were more than two thousand aboard Titanic.’
‘There will be hell to pay.’
Balthasar nodded. ‘You heard the name of this ship?’
‘Carpathia.’
Balthasar repeated the name, almost sadly.
Mahmoud watched him go away with his thoughts. He knew where they took him. To the place where the banshee turned him: to the hamlet at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains. Uličské. Mahmoud drank his tea, palmed the tennis ball, and waited for Balthasar to return.
‘I’ve gotten us into the soup, haven’t I?’
Mahmoud nodded, tossing the ball against the corner of the wall, trying to regain a sense of normality – whatever that meant, in men such as they – after the night’s events.
He caught it, the tingling sensation from frost nip subsiding at last.
‘What are we to do, Buster? Our ℑungfräu went to the bottom of the Atlantic with Titanic.’
‘There’s more.’
Mahmoud was genuinely surprised. ‘More?’
‘On a ship.’
‘You’re going to tell me it’s at the bottom of the sea as well, aren’t you?’
Balthasar nodded. ‘Off the Honduran coast. Where the water is shallow and warm.’
‘Griffin?’
Balthasar nodded again. ‘What shall we do about Captain Rostron?’
‘What about him?’ asked Mahmoud.
‘He’s expecting our details for the survivors’ list. We’re attracting attention. I should have taken your advice and had us wait it out on a growler.’
‘Two blokes sitting on an iceberg like lost polar bears?’ the Persian replied, echoing Balthasar’s earlier remark. ‘That’s not going to attract attention?’
Balthasar’s eyes zeroed in on something outside the porthole. Turning back to Mahmoud, he a
sked, ‘Fancy going to California?’
Joining him at the porthole, Mahmoud looked out. Among the growlers, another ship sat adrift. A freighter. SS Californian.
Looking away from the porthole, he asked, ‘And what then?’
‘We find her,’ said Balthasar, turning back to the other ship. ‘We find Siobhan.’
❖❖❖
27 AUGUST 1936
ST DUNSTAN’S,
BLOOMFIELD HILLS,
MICHIGAN
The Gift is therefore at one and the same time what should be done, what should be received, and yet what is dangerous to take. This is because the thing that is given itself forges a bilateral, irrevocable bond… The recipient is dependent upon the anger of the donor, and each is even dependent on the other. Thus, one must not eat in the home of one’s enemy.
—Mauss, ‘The Gift’
‘Morning, Dr Annenberg.’
Elle looked across Thompson Oval, her morning walk interrupted by a huddle of preps in rolled-up chinos and Oxfords, tossing a pigskin about the dew-covered football field. One of them waved.
‘Morning,’ she replied from the shade of a row of stately oaks providing respite from the morning sun. Looking into the branches, she inhaled the pleasing odour of waning leaves.
She marvelled at those oaks. They had been planted after the completion of the athletic field sixteen years before, and she had watched them grow – like her students grew – from saplings to adulthood. The sun drifted through the murmuring leaves, touching her face. She cherished her walks across campus during those ephemeral August mornings, before the tedium of a new semester.
Nothing compared with the calming rhythm of a Michigan summer’s morning when the dew was heavy on the grass and the cicadas droned from perches high in the oaks’ summer foliage. Fall semester wouldn’t commence for another week, and with the exception of the football team, there were few students to interrupt her bliss.
‘How was your summer?’ asked a varsity prep, as he ambled across the field grass to fetch his pigskin.
‘Very fine, thank you,’ she replied.
Picking up the football at her feet, she tossed it back to him before continuing her stroll to the academic hall.
She wished her statement was true. She had turned forty-two that summer. Although she was no longer to be confused with a co-ed, dressed in her Schiaparelli-print skirt and linen blouse, her breasts hadn’t fallen, she had yet to find a grey hair amid her unruly locks of chestnut, and her beguiling smile still caused young bucks and old dogs to give her the come hither.