Like a thousand trash cans rolling down stairs, the noise rang through the steerage quarters, toppling screaming women out of their bunks.
Jason braced his feet on the carpet and listened to the long ripping noise. Lisa watched the shivering chandelier overhead, mouth agape. Eva felt the bed quivering beneath her but was strangely unafraid. She threw open the porthole and stuck her head out into the darkness.
The iceberg reared above the Titanic’s stern, silhouetted by the stars. It vanished in the night even as she watched.
“Eva, close that!” Lisa slammed the glass and settled her on the bed.
Jason said, “I’m going to find out what’s going on. You two stay here.”
He shut the door behind him. Lisa bent down by Eva and smiled weakly. They both examined the cabin, as if plumbing it for safety.
In the smoking room, men filtered back to their highballs and bridge, reassured that the ship seemed as safe as ever.
In the galley Chief Night Baker Walter Belford swore feebly and picked up Parkerhouse rolls littered across the deck.
Marching down the B Deck corridor, Jason approached the steward on duty. “Say, what was that noise all about?”
John McFarland smiled in reassurance. “I’ve heard talk about an iceberg, sir, but I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
Jason’s eyes hooded over, his voice hollow. “Yes, you’re probably quite right. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.” With a nod and a smile McFarland continued on his way. Jason watched the steward go, his face tight and unconvinced.
The Titanic, ablaze with lights, still raced through the water as Captain Smith ran from his cabin near the wheelhouse to the bridge.
“Mr. Murdoch, what was that?”
His face was slightly shaken. “An iceberg, sir. I hard-a-star-boarded and reversed the engines and I was going to hard-a-port around it, but she was too close. I couldn’t do any more.”
“Close the emergency doors.”
“The doors are already closed.”
Captain Smith stepped closer to the light, worry lurking in the corner of his eyes. “Stop all engines, Mr. Murdoch.”
The first officer nodded. “Stopping all engines.” His hand wrenched the telegraph.
The ship’s three props, ninety-eight tons of steel churning the sea white in their wake, glided to a halt.
The wind ceased its whistle through the wireless antenna stretching far above the smokestacks.
Walnut and teak paneling in first-class cabins stopped the telltale squeaking that had lulled passengers to sleep since the ship left Southampton.
The glass dome covering the A Deck foyer no longer clattered within its frame.
Eva Ryker felt the gut-deep purr of the ship slow, then die.
“We’re stopping.” She sat up and peered out at the blackness beyond the porthole. “Lisa, why are we stopping?”
Lisa took her by the hand. “Lie down, dear. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Laying in bed, Eva solemnly regarded her. “Where’s my mother? I want my mother!”
“Yes, I know, dear.” Lisa patted her forehead gently. “I know.”
With a thundering hiss that cut through the freezing night air, three of the four funnels shot steam from the boilers into the blackness as the Titanic stood still amid the millpond calmness of the ocean.
Jason Eddington stood on the Boat Deck and studied the funnels and the starlit sky. He was one of the handful of people wandering about. Jason looked over the railing, down the rows of lighted portholes, to the water far below.
“Well, Mr. Eddington, what do you think?”
He glanced over his shoulder to see fellow passenger Jack Thayer, dressed only in an overcoat and pajamas. His adolescent face looked tremendously excited.
“Oh, hello, Jack.” He gestured casually at the ship around him. “I don’t know what’s going on. Everything looks all right.” He buttoned up his coat, mist clouding by his lips. “I’ve heard some chatter about an iceberg, but…”
“It’s more than chatter! Haven’t you seen the ice?”
Jason scowled, shaking his head.
“Come on!” Thayer led him all the way forward on A Deck, where they looked down on the starboard well deck near the foremast. Steerage passengers tumbled laughing among tons of crushed ice on deck, like characters in a Currier and Ives engraving.
“You see?” Thayer laughed. “It’s a major tourist attraction. Christmas in April!” His laughter died when he saw Jason’s frown.
Captain Smith wasn’t smiling either. From the bridge he watched the playful passengers, then turned away and looked evenly at Fourth Officer Boxhall. “Go down and find the carpenter and get him to sound the ship.”
Boxhall was saved the trouble. Carpenter Hutchison brushed past him on the bridge ladder. He panted as he stood in front of the captain. “She’s making water fast!”
Captain Smith said to Boxhall: “Get me Mr. Andrews.”
Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland and Wolff, the builders of the Titanic, sat in cabin A-36, surrounded by a pile of papers and blueprints of the ship. The phone rang. Andrews glanced up from a floor plan of the first-class writing room, then turned back to his work. It rang again. And again.
“I hear you, I hear you,” Andrews muttered, grabbing the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mr. Andrews, the captain wants you.” Boxhall’s voice was crisp. “Quickly please.”
Jason Eddington smiled patiently at Jack Thayer as they stood gazing down at the Titanic’s bow.
“No, I don’t feel like souvenir hunting, Jack. You go on.”
“Okay, Mr. Eddington!” Thayer ran for the stairs leading below decks. “I’ll save you a piece!”
“You do that,” Jason murmured absently. Standing alone, he took one more look around him. There was nothing more to do out here. Maybe he could corral one of the officers and learn something.
Turning his collar up around his ears, Jason wandered back toward the stairs.
In an effort to avoid curious passengers, Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews clambered down the crew’s stairway leading to the innards of the ship.
They inspected the flooded mailroom on F Deck, then moved down to G Deck and stood in the spectator’s gallery of the squash court. Seawater sloshed over the floor of the court like a big shallow bathtub.
“Eleven fifty-five.” Andrews checked his watch. “A little over ten minutes after the collision.” His voice was dry; he studied the water, then swallowed, and met Smith’s eyes. “Let’s see how the boiler rooms are doing.”
Coming down the grand staircase in the A Deck foyer, Jason glimpsed the huge clock, flanked by bronze nymphs symbolizing Honor and Glory. Nearly midnight.
His eyebrows raised in surprise as he saw the crowd, clad in everything from Gimbels long johns to ermine stoles, standing around waiting for some word. No one seemed troubled, he thought. Just curious. Probably being silly, getting worried …
His thoughts were interrupted by the passage of Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews through the foyer. No one asked any questions. Something about the two men’s faces told them not to. People simply stood and sniffed the air for any omens. As the men left, on their way to the bridge, the crowd chattered softly in bright, hearty speculation.
In the chart room near the bridge, Andrews pulled out a longitudinal section blueprint of the ship and spread it flat on the table, grabbing a pencil from his vest pocket.
“All right, Captain, let’s see what we’ve got.” He began marking the chart. “Water is in the forepeak, the first two holds, the mail room and the fifth and sixth boiler room. And by the time we got below decks, the sea was already well above keel level.” Andrews’ eyes held no emotion as he drew a line from the forepeak back on the starboard side. “That means the berg sliced about three hundred feet from there to there, doing in the first five watertight compartments.”
Smith studied the chart silently. Then he looked up at Andrews. “Where
do we stand?”
He pursed his lips, then threw the pencil on top of the chart. “We don’t.”
“Goddamit it, man! Are you trying to tell me …”
“Captain, the simple fact is that the Titanic cannot float with five compartments open to the sea. Take a look at this.” He pointed with the pencil. “Here you see the bulkhead separating Compartment Six and Compartment Five. It’s only built as far up as E Deck. These five compartments will settle so water will naturally spill over the top of the bulkhead into Compartment Six. Then Compartment Seven, Eight, Nine …” Straightening upright, he shook his head. “It’s as inevitable as the next sunrise, Captain.”
Smith bent over the chart, examining every detail. Finally he drew back.
“How long do we have?”
Andrews’ voice was hollow. “An hour and a half to two hours. At most.”
Neither man spoke. Captain Smith walked out of the chart room onto the bridge and gazed at the ship’s commutator. It showed the bow seven degrees down at the head. Even as he watched, the figure changed to eight degrees.
“Mr. Wilde,” he said to the Chief Officer, “uncover the boats.”
When Thomas Andrews went to his cabin to get his lifeboat, a young man waited in front of the door. He looked familiar … ah yes, it was Clair Ryker’s latest young buck.
“Good evening, Mr. Eddington. Can I help you with something?”
“I want to know what’s wrong.”
Andrews put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Now, I’m sure …”
“The truth, Mr. Andrews.”
“Well, I would get my life belts and report on deck. Not that I …”
“… is it serious …”
“I’m sure panic isn’t …”
“… are we …”
“… I wouldn’t …”
“… is this ship sinking?”
Andrews’ smile flattened. “Get your wife up on deck. Get any valuables, too. We don’t have more than a couple of hours.”
Pushing past, he went inside and slammed the door behind him.
The news spread quietly. From First Officer Murdoch to Purser McElroy to the stewards, on duty and off. Down through first class, second class, and steerage.
John McFarland got the news from the chief steward during a coffee break. The two men sat alone in the steward’s quarters on the port side. He didn’t speak until the chief rose to leave.
“Uh, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. McFarland?”
“How serious is all this?”
The chief made a face. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably just a precaution. By the way, one more thing. Don’t spread any gossip among the passengers if you can help it.”
McFarland nodded, eyes glazed, as the chief left to brief the starboard crew.
Well, he thought, there’s no use wasting time. Walking to the faucet, he plucked a glass off the rack, filling it halfway. He gulped the water, then looked down at the glass shaking in his hand. Why, he was being an ass! A grown man quaking like some bloody schoolgirl!
His fingers fumbled and the glass fell on its side, water drooling across the surface. He swore a little under his breath and grabbed a rag. The pool was only half blotted when he stopped and studied the glass. At first he wasn’t sure why. Then it came to him. The overturned glass was rolling to the end of the counter.
McFarland snatched up the glass and returned it to the rack. Why would a glass be rolling toward the bow like …
Rolling toward the bow.
McFarland stood still for a moment, his face expressionless. Then he turned and walked, briskly, to warn his passengers.
Stepping into the corridor, he saw a familiar figure. “Mr. Eddington!” he called as Jason brunted past. “I say, Mr. Eddington …”
McFarland’s voice died as Jason rushed into his cabin and the door crashed behind him.
Ah well, he thought. He had other passengers to muster awake. The Eddingtons could wait a bit.
The table lamp threw Jason’s torso shadow over the bed as he drew close to Eva. His skin looked gaunt and membrane-tight, like drying leather stretched over bones.
“Come here,” he said to Lisa in a raspy whisper. “I want to talk. Alone.”
Eva clung to her hand. “Don’t leave me, Lisa! Please don’t!”
She shook away. “Don’t be silly. Nobody’s leaving you!”
Lisa joined her husband in the semidarkness of the bathroom.
He licked sweat off his lip. “We’re going to sink.”
“What do you mean …”
“… I talked with Thomas Andrews …”
“But we can’t be! We just …”
“He was telling the truth …”
“But sinking …”
“God damn you!” He shook her. “Don’t you understand? We don’t have more than a couple of hours!”
Lisa stared at him, her face sagging like a wax mannequin in a hothouse.
Eva Ryker sat up in bed and watched them tower over her. She frowned. She wasn’t sure why. Then she could see it in their faces. The lips. Around the eyes. They were strangers.
Jason and Lisa both reached for their life belts stashed under the bed.
Eva looked alarmed. “What’re you doing?”
Jason grappled with the belt and glanced at her in irritation. “Everyone has to get to the lifeboats.”
“But why?”
He stood above her, arms akimbo. “Why in the hell do you think?”
Scared by the tone of his voice, she began to sniffle. “I … I want my mommy!”
“For Christ’s sake, Eva,” he mumbled, fiddling with the life belt strap, “will you please shut up?”
“I want my mommy! Let me go!” Tears brimmed over her eyes. “I want my mommy!”
Lisa looked dully at her as she put on her jacket. “You can’t see her.”
“I want her! I want to see her now!”
Jason tapped one of the bedposts with his foot and broke into a smile of a sort that Eva had never seen. “You want to see her?” Walking to the door, he unlocked the latch. “You go out and find her.”
Eva gaped uncomprehendingly.
“You little bitch! Get out of here! We don’t need you anymore. Just get out!”
“I thought you were my friend.”
He snorted in disinterest.
“You just wait!” she yelled, her face red. “Wait until I see J.H.! He’ll beat you up real good!”
He grinned at Lisa. “I’ll bet.”
“You’ll see!” Eva bounded for the door. “One word from J.H. and my father’ll get you!”
Jason helped his wife with her life belt. “Sure, kid.”
“He’ll tell my father all about you!” Eva’s fingers curled around the doorknob. “He’ll see him right away! As soon as we dock! He’s got a package he’s giving him right from the ship!”
Smiles vanished on the Eddingtons’ faces. Leaping across the cabin, Jason dragged Eva, kicking and screaming, away from the door and locked it behind him. He threw her on the bed and Lisa held her down.
“A package?” Teeth flashed in Jason’s face. “What sort of package?”
She said nothing.
His fingers lightly massaged her throat.
“You’re going to tell me, Eva. And you’re going to tell me now.”
Surrounded by the calm sea, the Titanic sat motionless in the water. Seen from the distance with its lights ablaze, the ship resembled an improbable stage prop pasted on a starry backdrop. Even up close it seemed sublimely confident. But the lowest portholes were no longer parallel with the water-line. They slanted toward the bow. With painful slowness the forward porthole sank underwater.
Deep within the flooded forecastle hold water seeped into the crate marked “Ryker Industries.”
The passengers gathered out on the Boat Deck; first class in the middle of the ship, second class to the rear, and steerage at the stern and bow; covering their ears against the noise of the steam hissing
from the funnels.
Under Officer Wilde’s direction crewmen started uncovering the boats. There were four near the bridge, both port and starboard. The same number toward the stern. Completely full, they could accommodate 1, 178 people
The Titanic carried 2,207 on this maiden voyage.
Passengers watched the crewmen bustling around the boats, unsnarling lines, stashing lanterns, and pulling off tarpaulins.
New arrivals up on deck stood by the railing and watched the boats begin to totter away from the ship’s side. Roused from their cabins by the stewards, some scrambled into their clothes while others dawdled.
The couple in B-78 were going to be dawdlers. John McFarland could sense it as he knocked softly on their door. Mr. Klein peeked through the crack.
“What is it?”
McFarland patiently explained.
Considering his words for a moment, Klein eased open the crack. Through it McFarland could see Martha Klein sitting up in bed. Albert Klein bent down and whispered the news to her. In her nightgown she rose and gathered her best dress from the closet as her husband returned to the door.
“It’ll be a few minutes.”
“Please don’t take too long,” McFarland called, but the door had already shut.
In B-76 Eva Ryker struggled uselessly against Lisa’s arm as Jason’s blue eyes examined her coolly. His lips smiled in reflex action.
“The package, Eva. You know something. Tell me.”
“No!”
“Don’t be clever, Eva. We don’t have the time. You said J.H. had a package. I want to know where it is!”
“No! Leave me alone …”
Eva’s words ended in a scream as his hand crashed across her face. Lisa’s hand clenched over her mouth.
“You stupid twat! Do you think this is some sort of game?”
Two eyes stared, terrified and unbelieving, over Lisa’s palm.
In B-78 Albert Klein tied his shoes, then grabbed his suspenders, while his wife tugged at her corset strings. Out in the corridor John McFarland stood waiting, one foot tapping impatiently. He heard the low voice of Jason Eddington in B-76, but paid it no mind.
The Memory of Eva Ryker Page 24