The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  Lisa Eddington’s eyes were blank as she watched the sea wash over the Titanic’s bow. Tiny waves shimmered around the cranes and the base of the mast.

  In addition to sixteen regular lifeboats, the Titanic carried four collapsible boats. One of these, Collapsible Boat C, was being attached to the davits used by Boat Number One, and attracted a huge mob. Jason Eddington stood amid the crowd. The talk was ugly.

  “… we’ll stay here and die …”

  “… I’ve got a wife in the boats …”

  “… if they had enough room …”

  “… we can’t take this …”

  The men roared forward like a lemming invasion. Jason slugged First Officer Murdoch in the kidneys and dropped into the boat.

  Purser McElroy punched an attacker in the face, firing two pistol shots over his head.

  “Get out of this!” Murdoch yelled, as the mob drew back from the boat. “Keep out of this!”

  Two first-class passengers, Bjornstrom Steffanson and Hugh Woolner, shoveled through the men.

  “We saw the flashes …”

  “… what in hell’s going on …”

  “… those bastards in the boat …”

  Jason lashed out at them, his fist thudding in Woolner’s stomach. He grunted but kept on coming. With Steffanson, he grabbed Jason by an arm and leg and tossed him and another man out of the boat.

  Rising to his feet and wiping blood off his mouth, Jason heared the distant blaring of the band.

  “Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey? … won’t you come home? … She moans the whole night long”

  The sea surged around the bed Eva stood on, splashing at the legs of the Victrola and the end table. Amazingly the table lamp still burned brightly.

  “All right, Eva. Get out of the way.” McFarland waded to the far end of the cabin, bracing himself on the bulkheads. He poised for action.

  McFarland’s shoulders hit the door with a faint thunk of wood. It refused to budge.

  “… Remember that rainy evening, I threw you out …” Band leader Wallace Hartley tapped his foot to the beat. “… With nothing but a fine-toothed comb?”

  Jason Eddington stared over the port railing at Boat Number Four, level with the upper promenade. A man stacked deck chairs across the gap.

  John Jacob Astor loaded his wife aboard, then faced Second Officer Lightoller. “Can I please join her? My wife’s in delicate condition.”

  “No, sir. No men are allowed in these boats until the women are loaded first.”

  Jason mulled over the words as Astor walked away. He fretfully chewed on a thumbnail. Boat Number Four and Collapsible Boat D were the last two boats left.

  Low red light suffused B-76 as power drained from the table lamp. The sea rose past Eva’s waist as she stood on the bed. She gave no sign of noticing Clair Ryker’s face and the graceful underwater motion of her black hair.

  “Eva!” McFarland spit water by his chin. “Can you swim?”

  “Yes … yes!”

  “Come over here!”

  In a frantic dog paddle she flapped across the cabin.

  “Good! Good! Come on!”

  The light flashed out with an evil-smelling hiss and Eva’s scream filled the darkness.

  “Stop it! You’re all right! Over here!”

  “I can’t find you!”

  “There! Take my hand! Now hang onto my shoulders!”

  Guided by the faint strip of light shining underwater from the bottom of the door, McFarland tugged at the knob. It was coming! It was coming! He could feel it!

  The doorknob came off in his hands.

  Boat Number Four eased down into the ocean. The ship was so far gone that the lifeboat had a mere fifteen-foot drop to reach the water. The sea gushed through C Deck and into the first-class staterooms, swirling around the Chippendale chairs and swamping walnut and brass beds.

  Jason watched from above and made up his mind.

  “Hey!” A voice yelled behind him. “You can’t do that!” He ignored the shout and the footsteps pounding his way. Jason jumped over the railing, dropped twenty-five feet into the water by Boat Number Four, grabbed the edge, and pulled aboard.

  Women meekly made room; they were past caring. At the bow a trimmer glared contemptuously, then bent over his oars.

  “Everybody row! We’ve got to get away or the ship’s suction will take us down!”

  John McFarland shook his head, fighting the water rising past his collarbone. His fingers fumbled at the exposed lock mechanism.

  Eva started to slip off his shoulders.

  “Come on! Hold tight!”

  Her hands flexed around his neck as the door gave a faint crack. Arms straining, he tugged hard. Nothing.

  Muscles rippling under the strain of the oars, Jason watched the huge dripping propellers at the stern slowly creep from the water.

  “I can’t make it!”

  “You can Eva! Just hang on!”

  McFarland’s hands were bloody from jabbing at the door lock. In the blackness he searched his mind for the layout of the cabin.

  “Now keep calm, Eva. And hang on.”

  He pushed away from the door and treaded water to the end table. His hands reached down and touched the milk glass rim of the table lamp. Breathing raggedly in the stuffy air trapped at the ceiling, he felt the heavy weight of the lamp’s brass base.

  McFarland paddled back to the door and rammed the base against the lock. The cabin seemed to flinch at the noise. Again. And again. The door cracked slightly.

  Hand grasping hand, crewmen joined arms to form a circle around Collapsible Boat D. The last boat. Forty-seven seats. Sixteen hundred people. Second Officer Lightoller wasn’t about to risk an ugly scene.

  Women and children seeped through the barrier. Two babies were passed to safety by their father.

  Deck lights began to cast a reddish glow, reflecting bright orange on the brass trumpets and trombones. The band followed Wallace Hartley’s lead and broke into “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”

  Like surf breaking on shore, tiny waves washed up the slanting corridor of B Deck, foaming pink against the red carpeting. Glasses crashed in the distance.

  “Help me! Mommy! Mommy! Help me!”

  Eva choked on the water at her lips.

  McFarland gritted his teeth and kept hammering the door. Wood splintered against his hand.

  Crowds aft watched the little boat disappear in the night. They huddled inboard, away from the railing. Men struggled with Collapsibles A and B on the roof of the officers’ quarters as water rushed toward them.

  Lisa turned from her oar and watched the mob cluster toward the poop deck; scrambling army ants in the distance.

  Albert and Martha Klein sat quietly on a bench near the aft funnel.

  John McFarland had to breathe through his nose. “Sit on my shoulders!” he managed to sputter. “Breathe deep, Eva! In and out! That’s the way!”

  A huge jagged crack cut through the door.

  “Need a light?”

  The match flame flared yellow in the face of Bellboy Jock Croyn. His friend nodded, puffing on his cigarette. They grinned at each other. For the first time on the voyage no one bawled them out for smoking.

  Blood slammed through McFarland’s temples as he fought with the door.

  Water must be to the ceiling, he thought. Hang on. Don’t breathe. Don’t no matter how much you want to. Just hope to God Eva can hold on …

  The door gave way with a crackle, chunks floating past his face.

  Faster! Faster! Ignore the purple spots before your eyes. That’s right! Throw the lock out! Quick! Now push!

  He grabbed Eva and swam through. The sea stung his eyes as he peered up at the reddish lights above the surface.

  Kick! Drag Eva after you!

  The quicksilver surface beckoned; then he broke through. McFarland’s fingernails dug into the red carpet as he dragged himself from the water.

  Eva lay still next to him. He bent over her. Chr
ist, she was gone! No … she coughed, shaking her head. Slowly her eyes opened.

  “Come on, Eva!” He slung her over his shoulder.

  The sea tugged at his feet as McFarland struggled up the debris-strewn corridor. His shoes lost traction. He sank to his knees but managed to grab onto the doorknob of B-78. Knuckles popped as he dragged himself away from the water.

  Spreading his legs, he clung onto a door frame. Then a wall lamp. Another doorknob.

  A pullman case tumbled down the hall toward him. Hanging with both hands to the knob, he side-stepped the case as it plunged by, splashing into the rising sea.

  On the Boat Deck Wallace Hartley rapped his violin. The band was silent for a moment, then softly began playing the Episcopal hymn “Autumn.”

  The sea surged over the bridge, washing away Officer Lightoller and a dozen others struggling to free Collapsibles A and B. The boats tumbled into the water along with the men.

  Waves rushed up the Boat Deck as the bow gained momentum in its downward plunge. A woman kept ahead of the water until flying deck chairs toppled her overboard.

  Hands grasping the bannister, McFarland tripped and stumbled up the staircase to A Deck. The sea boiled and foamed at his heels.

  Sweaty palms slipped from the railing. Eva fell off his shoulders, screaming. She landed on her back and started rolling down the stairs.

  “No, Eva! Grab the railing!”

  Her hands lashed tight around the wood. Water cascaded at her feet as she stood and struggled. Together they made the first flight.

  Chef John Collins braced his legs in an effort to keep footing on the wildly slanting Boat Deck. He scowled at the baby in his arms. His damn luck! Where was that woman from steerage?

  The wave began its advance up the deck. Spinning to run, he slipped. Icy water surged over his head. Crying rose, then died as the baby was tossed out of his arms. A quick flash of a pink blanket in the white foam and it was gone.

  McFarland and Eva thrashed up the last flight of the grand staircase and reached the Boat Deck. The Honor and Glory Clock in the A Deck foyer spilled and crashed behind them, the bronze nymphs smashing into great yellow chunks.

  Eva ran around the still-playing orchestra and searched the deck. “We must find Mother. She’ll know what to do.”

  “No!” McFarland snatched her off the deck. “I’ve got to get you to …”

  His voice died as he saw the empty davits, those forward already sinking under the sea. He put Eva down, but she still struggled in his arms.

  “Stop it!” Holding one wrist, he shrugged out of his life jacket. “Here, put this on! I’m a better swimmer than you.”

  Eva spotted the wave rising behind McFarland as he tightened the lacings. She tore away from his grasp.

  He yelled after Eva, but she couldn’t hear. Dodging the careening deck chairs, she searched the swirling faces around her. “Mommy! Mommy!”

  Shrieking, shadowy figures roared around her as she ran astern toward the poop deck. Rosary beads glittered in the red light.

  “… Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee …”

  “… Our Father, who art in heaven …”

  Voices cried above the crash of breaking glass.

  “God help me! God help me! I can’t swim!”

  “Get out of my way …”

  “… Ave Maria …”

  “… jump! Jump!”

  Eva crawled between the crush of helpless bodies. Her fingers curled around a cable supporting the aftermast. Next to her an old man trembled on his knees, clutching a gold St. Christopher.

  Jason sat and watched from Boat Number Four as the Titanic swung on its center of gravity for the final dive into the sea.

  Eva clung to the cable, losing her footing. A little boy slid down the deck. People grabbed onto ventilators, cranes, railings—anything in the rusty glow of the lights.

  “Autumn” halted amid a clattering heap of brass and woodwinds.

  In Boat 13, Lisa saw the ship’s lights blink off and on, as if tolling the end of an intermission, before vanishing for the last time. All was black aboard the Titanic, except for the last kerosene lamp burning on the aftermast.

  Twenty-nine boilers moaned and twisted free from their moorings, crashing through the bulkheads. Everything within the ship somersaulted toward the bow, the noise rumbling in Eva’s ears.

  The cable cut into Eva’s fingers as the deck slipped out from under her.

  Swimmers already thrashing in the water groaned as the forward funnel snapped its cables and collapsed into the sea, sparks spraying over the deck. It hit the surface with an immense splash. Albert and Martha Klein each raised up an arm in reflex as they swam, before being pulped under tons of steel.

  The Titanic’s triple screws gleamed under the stars as she stood totally erect with the water rising between her funnels.

  Eva stared, mouth slack, at the frothing water four hundred feet below her dangling legs.

  The old man with the St. Christopher lost his grip and tumbled past Eva. A flash of his screaming face; then he dwindled; a tiny speck hitting the water below.

  “Let me go! Get away! There’s only enough room …”

  A war veteran fell, his hooked arm flailing through the air and catching on the steel superstructure arching sparks as he vanished in the sea.

  Twenty feet below Eva an old woman swung from a ventilator port, tongue lolling blue from her mouth, strangled on her diamond necklace.

  Hundreds of people writhed around the aftermast, those slipping off plummeting to the water.

  The sea embraced them all. Up over the third funnel. Then the fourth.

  Blood drooled down from Eva’s wrists.

  Over the davits. Spouting through the portholes.

  A hundred feet below. Eighty feet. Seventy-five.

  Past the fourth funnel. Seventy feet.

  Eva’s fingers slackened on the cable.

  Men and women plunged, struggling into the wake.

  Sixty. Fifty-five. Surging around the aftermast.

  Eva’s fingers slipped. Shouts spiraled around her as she tumbled over and over in a tight ball.

  The sea hit, driving through her body like a million needles. Breaking surface, she snarled with the cold.

  The Titanic dove past her, the poop deck railing gliding before her eyes. By instinct she grabbed it and felt herself being dragged below, following the ship.

  No! No! A voice in her skull yelled. Let go! Let go! Her hands were free but still she was dragged down. Life belt straps were snagged around the railing.

  Eva struggled, air bubbling from her mouth. Sinking in the cold. Her hands grasped the belts, throwing off the jacket.

  She kicked to the surface. Huge pieces of cork mat and deck chairs floated in the way. An unseen arm hit her face. Her teeth clenched tight. Lungs aching, dying. Water seeped into her mouth.

  Eva broke the surface with fifteen hundred men, women, and children crying in agony under a gray shroud of fog. The noise roared across the water.

  “Save one life! Save one life!”

  “Help me! Somebody help me!”

  Eva flapped past a baby floating face down.

  A Japanese man swept past, tied at the waist to a door.

  Hands grappled around her, a voice panting in her ear. She glimpsed panic-bulging eyes as she kicked him away.

  A low black shape loomed ahead, shadowy figures scuffling on top. Eva’s hand reached out and grasped the edge of the overturned Collapsible B. Men crouched in an effort to balance the hull.

  “Help me!” she cried. “Help me!”

  No one heard her amid the clamor of voices. The boat sunk lower in the water with each new arrival.

  “Lean to port; we’re losing balance!”

  Eva knew the voice. “Mr. McFarland! Mr. McFarland!”

  No one answered. The boat floated away in the night.

  Eva half-swam, half-drifted, unaware she was even moving. Cries faded away and bodies littered the sea
. The white jacket of a steward. A young French girl from steerage. An old man in a tuxedo. The war veteran, his hooked arm spread across the water.

  Still she swam, arms moving by rote, no longer under the control of their owner.

  Her hand hit wood planking with a hollow knock. Eva turned dazedly, aware of something blocking her path, but too far gone to respond. Her arms battered feebly at the side of the boat.

  “Over here!” a man yelled, as footsteps pounded to her. Hands grabbed her arms and dragged her aboard Number Four.

  “Who is it?”

  “A little girl. Half dead. Anyone got a blanket?”

  Eva felt cloth wrapping around her. Lamp trimmer Samuel Hemming called out to the stern.

  “Is there some room back there? The girl’s got to lie down.”

  Women chattered and dresses rustled. “It’s all right. We’ve made some room.”

  Eva vaguely felt herself being passed from Hemming to another man.

  “Put her over there. By the women.”

  Looking up, she saw the man’s head silhouetted by the stars.

  “She looks pretty bad,” Jason Eddington said. “I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

  Eva screamed and screamed as the stars whirled around her, flinging away like water drops from a spinning wheel as she fell through a blackness that had no end.

  29

  The eighteen lifeboats drifted across a five-mile area of the black sea. Most were alone, wandering aimlessly, their grief-stricken passengers listening to the dying cries of hundreds of swimmers freezing to death in the dark. Very few boats went back to pick up the helpless. Many erroneously feared a suction in the Titanic’s wake, which would drag them under if they returned to the scene. Others, more rightly, had visions of being swamped by panicky swimmers fighting to get aboard. So they sat and listened and wrestled unsuccessfully with their consciences.

  There were some exceptions. Boat Number Four was moored with Ten, Twelve, Fourteen, and Collapsible D in a rescue attempt under the leadership of Fifth Officer Lowe.

  “Consider yourself under my command!” he barked, standing at the bow of Boat Number Fourteen. “We’re going to go back and pick up any survivors we can find. I’ll need some men to volunteer.”