by Paul Gallico
'The tree there!' Scott said, 'Give me a hand.' He called up to Peters, 'We want to get to you. If we push the tree up, can you hold it?'
Peters replied, 'I was going to suggest that, sir. We've a deckhand and a couple of kitchen staff here. If you can swing the tip up to us, we can manage.'
They had all but forgotten the incongruity of the big Christmas tree. It lay now almost at the feet of Scott's group, the bottom at an angle partly screening the space where the top of the grand staircase had been.
'What do you want to do?' Shelby asked.
'Use it to get up there,' Scott said. 'You fellows had better make yourselves more comfortable. It's going to be heavy.'
Shelby pulled at his black bow tie and opened the collar of his shirt. The others followed, with the exception of Martin, who was still on his knees, holding his head and retching. Somewhere below that stink of oil and water that he had seen, Mrs Lewis with her big, pneumatic bosom and her scented hair which had given him both such excitement and comfort, was floating suspended in her water-filled, luxury cabin or lying wedged and drowned in the bed that they had shared.
'We'll swing the heavy end around first,' Scott said and the six men went to dispose themselves for the job. They were joined by Susan and Robin.
Jane Shelby wanted to help too, but her husband murmured to her, 'Save your strength. God only knows what we're going to find when we get up there, if we do, or how it's going to be.'
Unbroken ornaments and bits of tinsel tinkled musically as they worked the butt around until it lay parallel to the ship's side, with the tip just beneath the opening above.
Scott ranged his crew along its length; himself with his great height and strength in the middle, then Rogo, Muller and The Beamer at intervals, with Shelby, Rosen and the two youngsters at the back to push.
'Now, walk it up,' he said. 'When I lift, get it on to your shoulders. Dick, you heave.' He lifted the trunk of the tree, some four inches thick at that point, on to his shoulders and said, 'Now walk! Push, Dick!'
The top of the tree began to rise and slide up the wall of the dining-saloon, towards the opening above from which Peters, lying on his stomach, was waiting to grasp it.
At the far end of the hall, the other passengers watched them dumbly and offered no help. They were paralysed by their own indecision and looked upon what was going on as a kind of madness.
'I ain't got any more breath!' Rosen gasped.
'Manny, you'll hurt yourself!' Belle cried.
'Come on, fellow, push!' said Shelby and wondered how his fifty-year-old back muscles, unused to anything more strenuous than swinging a mashie, would stand up under the strain.
Scott turned his head over his shoulder to the three behind him and ordered, 'Now lift!' and raised the trunk high above his head.
'Got it!' cried Peters and seized the tip which had risen to the top of the opening.
'Attaboy!' said Scott. 'You pull, we'll push.' The cooperation now worked smoothly; those above hauling, those below shoving until Scott cried, 'That's got it!' He and the others came out from under the branches, panting. Susan's chiffon frock had a tear at the sleeve.
The tree had come to rest at an angle of forty-five degrees and for a moment they stood there regarding it with pride, having shared in a team effort that had succeeded.
Martin stood up and said, 'I'm sorry I was sick. I'll help now.'
Belle Rosen said, 'You want we should go up that?'
Scott replied, 'It won't be too difficult. You've got the branches to hang on to. Wait 'til I see.' For all of his great bulk he went up the tree as agile as a monkey, his feet testing it. 'Great!' he called down, and dropped back on to the floor.
The tree had some of the aspects of a ladder, with sturdy branches emerging from either side to give foot and handhold.
Scott turned to Martin. 'Are you all right? Do you think you could get up there now?'
'Yep.' He wanted his mind and the pictures it was screening for him to be taken forcibly away from Mrs Lewis. Paid had been put to their affair. He would never have to risk the visits to her in Chicago that he had promised. He was safe. Ellen could not possibly ever find out. If he thought of Wilma any more he might cry in front of them.
'Okay, skin up there,' Scott said. 'Then you can reach down and lend a hand to the women.'
Martin went at it effectively, thrusting the branches away from his face as he went and at the same time using them as steadying holds. But he paused in the middle.
Scott coached, 'Don't look down. Just keep going. You're doing fine!'
Martin was not looking down; he was thinking down to what that cabin, now below, must be like. Action had not succeeded in erasing the images. Why had not he insisted that Wilma come to dinner? Why had not he gone to her room?
The next moment Peters had him by the hand and was hauling him through the upside-down doorway. 'There you are, sir. We'll have you all up here in a minute.'
Scott looked from Linda Rogo to Pamela Reid. 'I'm afraid those long gowns will have to come off. The short frocks are all right, but you'll never make it hobbled like that. And take off your shoes. The men can put them in their pockets; you'll be wanting them later.'
Linda said, 'What does he want?'
Rogo answered, 'The dress! The dress! Take it off. How are you going to get up there with your can in that sausage skin?'
'What do you want me to do?' Linda spat out at Rogo, 'Strip? In front of everybody?' Indecencies rose to her lips like air escapng from water.
'Honeybun,' Rogo began, when she cut him off.
Her lip and nose were swollen where he had struck her, and her doll face was suddenly all askew with venom.
'That bum, there, just wants to see me with my clothes off. I know his kind: preach on Sunday and screw all week. He's had his eye on me the whole trip.'
Rogo said, 'Aw, baby doll, you shouldn't say things like that. Here, lemme help you with your zipper.'
Linda said, 'Take your filthy hooks off me,' and raked the backs of his hands with her fingernails. Blood seeped from the marks. The others tensed for the explosion to come.
But it was milder this time, for Rogo only shook his head sorrowfully, 'They always ask for it,' and then with another of his lightning-like movements, ripped her gown from her body. She stood there in bra and pants, holding her arms over her bosom as he said, 'Baby, sweetie, you always make me do things I don' wanna do.'
Linda began to cry again, 'Oh, I'm so ashamed with everybody looking!' She only took her arms from her breasts when she noticed that no one was interested.
'Miss Reid?' said Scott.
The English girl had been standing at The Beamer's side in her ice blue, rumpled satin dress which fitted neither her personality nor her person. She had not spoken since she had learned of the fate of her mother, but she had been thinking hard. She was a sensible girl; there was nothing she could do. Mourning could come later. She turned to The Beamer and asked, 'Is it true about Mummy?'
He said, 'Yes, I'm afraid so, Pam.'
'Is she really dead?'
The Beamer looked helpless and his eyes went to that pool where the central staircase had been and whose oily surface was now unbroken. What could he say further to the poor kid? But she had followed his glance and, accepting it as final, asked no further. She did something to the shoulder straps of her frock so that it simply fell down about her legs and she stepped out of it unembarrassed. She was wearing a short, white nylon slip. The shedding of the dress was some kind of farewell to someone or something that she had been. She said nothing but simply slid her hand into that of The Beamer.
He thought to himself: Oh, my God! What will I do now? For the gesture had been like a wedding. She had not a pretty body and looked no more graceful in the slip than she had in the dress. She had been a great drinking companion but he was not in love with her; did not want to be; did not want her; did not want anything ever but just to be allowed to live in alcoholic peace. The brakes on his drinking had been taken off wh
en his wife had died a few years ago and he had found himself free to dwell in the perpetual, never-never land of whisky haze, where he could feel secure and unassailed. What was he to do with this motherless girl, who had just given herself over to him? He gave her arm little pats without realizing he was doing it.
Scott said, 'Now then, Susan, how about it, will you go next?'
'Okay!' She kicked off her shoes and handed them to her father. She was young, fresh and strong. She had found her limbs trembling after the ship had capsized but at no time had the thought of death, or that she might be going to die, entered her head. Now she understood what Scott had meant by apathy versus action. When you were doing something you stopped being frightened. She was pleased that he had selected her to go as an example to the others and hoped she would do a good job of it.
Indeed as Scott had predicted, it proved less difficult than anticipated. For with the tall Minister to reach up a hand, Susan was held firmly half-way up the climb and had only two more branches to negotiate before Martin, leaning down, secured and pulled her up triumphantly.
Unexpectedly Belle Rosen said, 'Should I go next?'
Her husband said, 'You want to, Mamma?'
'If I don't go now, I never will. I'm so nervous.'
'Good for you, Mrs Rosen!' Scott encouraged. 'You saw how easily Susan made it.'
'She don't weigh what I do. Will it hold me?'
'It held me. Here, give me your hand.'
'Must I take my dress off?' she asked.
'No,' said Scott, 'it's short. It won't get in your way.'
'You hold my shoes, Manny.'
'Take it easy, Mamma,' said her husband and helped her.
With Scott steadying her, she made her way painfully up through the branches but was stopped momentarily by the gap where there was no one to hold her. Shelby was reminded of a black bear cub he had once seen like that, caught half-way up a tree, unable to get up or down and wondered whether she was going to fall.
Manny Rosen called out, 'Belle, keep going! It ain't much farther.'
But Scott distracted her more successfully with his quiet, 'Just take Mr Martin's hand and you'll be all right.' Almost without thinking and in obedience, she climbed the next two branches and was hauled up to safety to a cheer from below. She was as delighted with herself as a child and gave them a wave and a smile.
'A regular Peter Pan,' she said.
A few minutes later they were all at the top. Scott, standing at the edge called down, his deep voice carrying to the farthest end of the saloon, 'Anybody else? We're going to try to reach the ship's hull in case there's an attempt to rescue us.'
There was an unusual stir amongst the remaining passengers. A man called back and said, 'We've decided to wait here.'
A steward came shuffling forward through the debris, a bloodstained napkin in his right hand. His left arm hung queerly from his shoulder. When he reached the bottom of the tree he called up to Scott, 'I'd like to get up to my mates, if I could, sir. I've done all I can.'
'Well then, come up man. Hello! What's happened to your arm?'
'I don't know, sir. I can't seem to move it.'
'Is the other one hurt, too?'
'No, sir,' the steward replied. 'It's just that I've been looking after some of those who were bleeding.'
In an instant Scott was down the tree, gripping the man's good hand and gently hauling him up after him.
A steward said, 'Okay, Jock, you're better off with us up here.'
Peters asked, 'Need we hang on to the tree any longer, sir?' The tip was still resting on the ledge.
Scott looked down into the chaos of the dining-saloon once more -- the dead, the dying and the living huddled like sheep. His expression was pitiless. 'No,' he said and kicked it away. It fell to the floor with a crackling of branches and a last tinkling of breaking ornaments.
Jane Shelby cried, 'Why did you do that? They might have changed their minds.'
Scott glanced at her briefly but she was aware that he was not there with her, was hardly seeing her.
He said curtly, 'If they do, they know how to go about it.'
Jane thought that this man's utter contempt for the weak could not have been more bitterly expressed. Was this what leaders were like? Would she have wished her husband to be like this? She wondered what would happen if Scott were to be really crossed and how much of a heart beat within that massive frame. And yet how quickly and with that resolution combined almost with tenderness he had fetched up the injured steward. She both admired and despised him.
They now found themselves in the corridor leading to the kitchens. On one side in sequence were the serving pantry, the sommellerie where wines for which there might be an immediate call were kept and a restaurant bar. These were the last stops of the waiters on their way out from the kitchens, where they picked up cutlery, extra glasses, serving spoons and drinks.
'Mind the pipes,' Peters warned. 'You're walking on the ceiling.'
This caused them to look up quickly and to see what had become of the floor. Its polished vinyl surface was now over their heads. Underfoot were lines of metal pipes, some asbestos-covered, of various widths and colours, serving as conduits for electrical wiring, plumbing, telephone lines, steam for heating, water under pressure for the thousands of fire prevention sprinkler system heads scattered through the ship, and even pipes to bring up beer directly from the tuns to the bars, variously spaced and slippery; the members of the party found it difficult to stand.
Rogo said to Scott, 'You didn't think of that one, did you?'
The Minister replied, 'There'll probably be a lot of other surprises awaiting us. I expect the higher we go, the worse it will be.' He looked at Rogo almost with amusement and concluded, 'I never said it would be easy.'
Acre, the other steward, lay full length where he had been hurled during the roll-over. Close by were the remains of the laden tray he had just been about to carry out. Salmon timbales, chicken, steaks with potatoes, vegetables and rice grains were scattered about. When the ship had begun to heel, he had put out his leg to try to counterbalance. It had snapped between knee and ankle.
There was a strong smell of spirits, wine and beer, and the head of The Beamer came up like a fire horse. But there was not a whole bottle left in either the bar or the sommellerie, though the floor was aslosh with the stuff, mingled with soup and blood. There were broken glasses and dishes underfoot, serving trays, dishcovers, sauce-boats, ladles, soup tureens and vegetable servers, filling the spaces between the parallel lines of piping.
Peters was standing by Acre. He had managed to straighten out the fractured leg and wedge it between two of the conduits, thus immobilizing it almost in the manner of a splint. A bearded seaman in dungaree trousers and white, half-sleeved cotton shirt with S.S. Poseidon in blue letters across the chest, stood leaning against the wall, braced with his palms flattened against it. His eyes were mirrors of terror.
Two young chefs in white stood half-way down the passage to the kitchen. They still wore their tall hats, which they must have recaptured and automatically put on again when they were knocked from their heads. Their faces were as pale as their neckclothes and their limbs were shaking.
The corridor extended on down past the kitchens which were located in the middle of the ship and not immediately visible. There were a dozen or so dining-room stewards there from other tables; several of them were injured and had already been bandaged with strips torn from tablecloths or napkins. Those who were unhurt were still dazed and the presence of the group of passengers in their domain confused them further. Passengers did not belong there. There was that uneasy air of unreality that prevails immediately following upon or during a disaster when the first terrors have abated and the victims are trying to adjust to catastrophic changes in their surroundings and their lives. Only Peters and Acre seemed to have retained a special relationship as servers of Scott and his party.
Miss Kinsale asked, with what appeared to be more interest than
concern, 'Are we all going to be drowned?'
Acre replied, 'I hope not, miss.'
The smooth, unlined face of Miss Kinsale gave no indication of any fears, if she had them, and Susan thought how little any of them knew about her, or for that matter, about any of the others who were following the lead of the Reverend Scott. And even he was something of a mystery.
The casual query of Miss Kinsale: 'Are we all going to be drowned?' had sent a sudden chill of realization through Susan and she hoped it did not show as it did on Linda Rogo, whose husband had removed his dinner-jacket and hung it about her shoulders. She stood next to the seaman against the wall, the upper part of her body encased by the black cloth and shiny lapels. She had drawn the ends together over her breasts. Her silly curls were falling over one eye. The swelling from the blow she had been struck gave her a slightly porcine look. Her teeth were chattering and she was moaning.