by Joseph Rubas
***
That night, the men dined at the captain’s table.
Van Helsing, while a simple man, was familiar with eloquence; he counted several heads of state among his friends, and regularly supped and bunked in grandeur. The sheer magnitude of Titanic’s first class dining saloon, however, rendered him speechless. The grand, dome-topped staircase leading into the first class reception room, where the rich and famous gathered before taking their seats, was stunning in its own right: the risers were gold-encrusted, the woodwork of the richest mahogany, and the craftsmanship as fine as any sculpted in the Old World. He especially enjoyed the ornate clock upon the landing, depicting Honor and Glory Crowning Time. Here, the old intellectual paused, his breath bated and the corner of his lips quivering into a smile. It took everything he had to stay his fingers from running themselves over the smooth contours of the regal timepiece.
“Magnificent,” he marveled to himself.
The reception room was palatial and exquisite, reminding Van Helsing of French castles in which he had studied dark works on the supernatural; the only difference was here, there was no sense of foreboding, only one of wonder. The furniture was simple yet beautiful, the windows stained like those in a church, and the potted plants, spaced evenly throughout the crowded room, were green and vibrant.
All three of them were impressed, and so too, it seemed, were the other passengers, men and women decked in the latest fashions. As they mingled with the others, rubbing elbows with the richest men in the world (there, holding a glass of brandy and chatting with his valet, was Benjamin Guggenheim, not three steps away from John Jacob Astor), Van Helsing and Seward both found themselves overcome with awe.
When the time came for them to retreat to the dining room, they reluctantly bid farewell to the reception. The Jacobean-style dining room was not as stunning as Van Helsing had imagined it would be, but perhaps that was because he had quickly become accustomed to high splendor. The floor was linoleum intricately laced to resemble a Persian rug, the tables were finely set, and the oak paneling was rich and waxed.
The Captain’s table sat in the center of the room, in-between two classical pillars, putting Van Helsing in mind of Roman excess. Set for at least nine, the table sat only a small handful of men. Art introduced them before they sat: at the head of the table, dressed in a bright white uniform, a number of medals upon his broad breast, was Captain Smith himself, an imposing figure with piercing blue eyes and a snowy white beard. At his right hand was a small, well-built man with a moustache; J. Bruce Ismay, the President of the White Star Line.
The men shook hands all around; Van Helsing was pleased to find Smith’s grip thoroughly English: firm, strong, reassuring.
“This is a nice ship that you command,” Van Helsing earnestly complimented as they sat.
“A modern wonder,” Smith smiled, and humbly added, “but you really should lavish your praise on this man.” He gestured to Ismay.
“I merely dreamt Titanic; our workers made it reality.”
With a smile, Van Helsing leaned over a whispered into Seward’s eye, “You’re to answer to him if you break anything.”
Seward turned a wistful smile on his lined face. “Don’t worry, Doctor; I’ll tread lightly.”
Art and Smith made small talk for a bit. When the latter freed himself to take a sip of water, Van Helsing said, “Captain Smith, the Titanic seems a perfect home away from home; though I myself could never live on the sea.” He took a drink of his wine, and made a mental note to nurse the drink, more than one could possibly put him to bed.
“Indeed, the lodgings are splendid,” Smith said, “but I am afraid to say that this is not only my first voyage with Titanic, it is also my last.”
Ismay nodded. “It is a tragedy to lose such an accomplished and capable commander. You will not be easily replaced.”
“I’m sure you’ll find someone,” Smith smiled.
“Of course,” Lord Godalming said, “but what about you? How will you ever spend all the time?”
Smith shrugged. “I suppose I’ll write letters to Mr. Ismay and tell him how to run his company.”
The table erupted into laughter.
“I welcome it,” Ismay said, “a man of your wisdom would be a perfect addition to the company.”
Smith smiled politely. “I think that I’ll pass on that; I just want to be with my family.”
Lord Godalming checked his pocket watch and cast a furtive glance at Van Helsing. Van Helsing nodded. The hour was growing late and they had pressing matters to attend to.
“I hope that dinner will not be late in coming,” Art said. “I am simply starving.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Ismay, “Titanic’s kitchen staff is the finest on the sea, and, I might add, the fastest.”
Dinner, in fact, was not long in coming; shortly thereafter, the sounds of forks scraping and clinking on china for the most part replaced the other noises.
“Fine meal, one of the best I’ve had,” Seward praised in-between bites of his supper.
Captain Smith smiled. “It is.” He took a bite, and then said, “Lord Godalming tells me you run an insane asylum.”
“Yes,” Seward said. Once upon a time he had been embarrassed when the topic came up around Art’s lofty friends. Now he didn’t think twice. “It’s nowhere near as nice as Titanic, but the residents seem to enjoy it.”
“Are they allowed wine?” Ismay asked. “Personally, I could never be happy without at least a glass a day.”
Seward lightly shook his head. “No wine. Milk and water only. And tea, of course, if they take it.”
“You know, in France the children drink wine due to the filthy conditions of the water,” said Ismay, looking thoughtfully into his glass, which he presently held at eye level. “Almost makes me wish I were French.”
Laughter circled the table.
“I jest, of course. England is my beloved home.” He raised his glass then. “To England.”
The rest of the men raised their fanciful wineglasses in return. “To England,” they said in harmony, and then drained their glasses.
The men spent the next half hour dining and conversing, enjoying the company of one another. All the while, below decks, two young Irish girls on their way to the golden shores of America, both named Mary, disappeared.
After dinner and plans were made to meet at the captain’s table again tomorrow, Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and Lord Godalming retired to the spacious first-class smoking room. Van Helsing sank into a plush armchair before the roaring fireplace, while the two younger men took to a couch that sat next to the armchair at an L-angle. Van Helsing removed a smooth oaken pipe from the inside of his jacket, filled it with a measure of rich, dark tobacco, and stuck a match into the bowl.
“As I was telling John earlier, Arthur, we’ll need to look inside of the cargo hold. That is the only safe place where he could have his boxers of native soil.”
Art nodded. “I figured as much, Doctor. All we need to do now is get down there and send him back to hell.”
“Now, hold on,” said Seward, “sure, we should, and we will, but do you have any idea how many crates, boxes, cases, trunks, and the like there are in the hold? We very well could still be down there at the turn of the next century. We need to devise a way in which we can narrow down the possible boxes.”
“There is no way,” Van Helsing said sadly, “we’ll just have to go down there and pray God that we happen upon him.”
“What if he is hiding or elsewhere on the ship?” Art worried.
“It is possible,” Van Helsing confessed, “but if he is, we will still come across him. We will need to search the ship itself, anyway.”
“If you think the cargo hold is big, take a look around you at the Titanic,” Art retorted.
“I have, it is a wonderful ship,” Van Helsing said and smiled. “Titanic isn’t th
at big, Arthur, we can split up and each search a class.”
The men were quiet for a time. “I have the idea,” Van Helsing said, “that he will come for us no matter what.”
“Seriously?” Art asked. “I rather think he’d hide like a rat until we docked.”
“That is a possibility as well; but I think…no, I know, that Dracula’s pride and vanity will lead him to try and avenge himself.”
Art was silent, brooding. He had a point.
The smoking room was beginning to fill with sharply dressed gentlemen playing cards and enjoying languid after dinner smokes. Van Helsing was rather enjoying the dimly lit room, with its tasteful furniture and fanciful paintings on the freshly painted wall, but he didn’t want to linger too long and draw unwanted attention to him or his cause. “Come, let us go to my cabin and speak of this matter further.”
***
Dracula spent his first day on Titanic wandering third class, driven partially by his lust for blood and partly by his innate curiosity; he had never been on such a large, modern ship, and found himself genuinely interested in it. At one point he ventured to second class, but for some strange reason could not force himself into first class. He told himself that it was because he disliked the snobbery that came with money earned without bloodshed, but deep inside, he knew that he was afraid he might see someone he recognized.
At dusk, feeling drained from the day, he cornered a woman in a high necked dress and hypnotized her into giving herself willingly, but the blood he took did little to replenish him. He ordered the woman to follow him, and deep in the hold of the ship, he forced her to sleep. He would come back for her at some point. When, he didn’t know. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.
Shortly after nightfall, he went on deck and stayed close to the stern, walking through the shadows and watching people as they enjoyed the evening. At some point he observed a young woman staring out into the night. He sensed despair.
Licking his lips, which had gone dry, he approached, and stood next to her.
“You seem troubled,” he said, watching her in his peripheral vision. Her jaw was strong and angular. Her curly red hair hung around her face like dull fire.
“I already miss Ireland,” she said with a sigh.
“I miss my home too,” Dracula said. “But America is the land of opportunity, no? So much can be had.”
“Maybe,” she said and turned toward him. “Are you...?”
Dracula didn’t hear the rest: A large wooden cross hung from her neck. Dracula’s eyes were instantly drawn to it, and weakness overcame him.
“Sir?” the woman asked, concerned at his expression of horror.
“I-I must go now.”
With that he spun and walked as quickly away as he could.
In the shadows, he leaned against a capstan and tried to catch his racing heart. The momentary encounter with the cross had left him feeling shaken and weak. Before, he had been strong, but now, since he was woken, he was weak. Why?
Not for the first time, Dracula had a sense of approaching doom.
It won’t last, he thought. They did something wrong when they raised him. He wasn’t the same and, he realized, he never would be.
No. That can’t be.
Nerves. It was only nerves.
I am strong.
He told himself.
I am big.
I am DRACULA.
Calmer now, he pushed away from the capstan and went back into the hold.
Where he fed.
***
Once situated in Van Helsing’s stateroom, Van Helsing in a wicker chair and the others on the sofa, Art’s legs propped uncouthly upon the frail table before the sofa.
“We all know how this evil dies, so all that is really needed is to find and destroy him.”
“I’d like to know how the bastard came back,” Art said, not noticing that he had broken one of his own personal rules. He didn’t like to curse, but when it came to Dracula, all bets were off.
“Ah, right here, in this book, Life and Death of the Vampire, is the answer to the question you ask,” Van Helsing said as he removed the book from the table.
“I’ve already told John,” Van Helsing told Art absent mindedly as he opened the book to his place, “that I am not paying for damages done.”
After an uncomprehending moment, Art smiled and removed his legs from the table. “Bruce Ismay won’t make you pay for anything; in fact, if I say so, he’ll pay you.”
Van Helsing snorted, “He struck me as a snob.”
Art laughed. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. But he knows which side his bread is buttered on, so he’ll leave you alone.”
For a moment, both Van Helsing and Seward stared uncomprehendingly at Art.
“I donate large sums of my money to the White Star Line,” said Art as he, with a flourish, placed his booted feet back upon the table’s surface. “Large sums.”
Van Helsing shrugged.
“Doctor, Arthur Holmwood strikes me as a snob,” Seward told Van Helsing.
“I am no snob,” said Art, “I just know that Ismay would rather have me smash his weak furniture to bits than lose my overwhelming financial support.”
“Every time you get around the upper crust, you do too become a snob.”
“It doesn’t matter who is snob and who is not,” Van Helsing said a bit flustered, “what matters is what I am going to tell you.”
Art and Seward quieted down.
Van Helsing read aloud from the book thus:
“The Vampir may be brought back from death in one of several ways, though there are reportedly more ways than these to return an un-dead to life. One may, on the night of the first full moon of the harvest season, spill the blood of a virgin on the ashes or bones of the Vampir. The Vampir thus arises from the grave as a whole man, as he was before he was killed. Another popular method used by certain North American Indian tribes involves the remains of the un-dead being made anew with the first menstrual blood of a maturing female.
Another way to raise a Vampir is to take the ashes, bury it in a wooden box on All Hallows Eve, or on St. George’s Day, and beg Satan to restore the Vampir, at the cost of your own soul…”
Van Helsing stopped and read on by himself for a moment, his lips mumbling and his eyes rapidly racing across the page, back and forth.
“So, we are able to assume that one of these things brought Dracula on us again. The method is notwithstanding, though. He is the same as before. He has the strength of ten men. He can control the weather. He cannot tolerate holy items. And a stake to the heart will kill him. I suspect that he is travelling in the cargo hold. I want us to search that area first. He has no way of knowing that we are here unless he has seen us himself, and I would like to keep the element of surprise.”
Van Helsing stopped speaking, and a tense silence fell over them. Each man was lost in his own thoughts. Art imagined the hateful bastard hiding like a rat in the hold, and shuddered with hatred. He wanted dearly to get hold of the beast, to make him pay for everything he had done...especially what he had done to poor, beautiful Lucy.
“We should post a watch,” Van Helsing said, “in case Dracula knows we are here and comes for us in our sleep.”
“Good idea,” John Seward said and got to his feet.
Van Helsing waved one gnarled hand. “No, I’ll take the first watch. When you’re old you cannot sleep very well, anyway.”
“I’ll take second,” Art said. “Johnny can have third.”
“Two hour increments,” said Van Helsing, “starting at midnight. Tomorrow we will check the hold. Arthur, you may have to speak with the captain and secure his permission. I would like to not be thrown into Titanic jail.”
***
At 11:30 pm, Van Helsing stepped off of the bitterly cold deck and into the pleasantly warm wireless hut, set behind the wheelhouse off the boat deck. For a long moment, he stood in the doorway, panting and holding his icy hands against his heatless cheeks. He had felt plenty worse in his time, but it was April, and to Van Helsing, April meant spring, warm fragrant air, and the occasional balmy day.
The tap-tap-tap-tap of the Marconi drifted to Van Helsing’s ears from a small rectangular window set in the wall before him, allowing a view of the wireless room proper. Van Helsing slowly ambled to the window, and rested himself against the countertop over which business was conducted. A tall youth in a white shirt and black trousers was standing behind the fully uniformed man at the Marconi; his back hunched determinedly, a set of headphones upon his ears.
The younger man saw Van Helsing, jerked almost as if he had seen a ghost, clapped the other man on the shoulder, and moved forward.
“‘Lo sir, can I ‘elp you?”
“Yes,” replied Van Helsing, “I’d like a wire sent to Jonathan Harker. ‘We have not met our friend, D.’ This is from Van Helsing.”
The young man, whispering back the message to himself, jotted it down onto a notepad, and snapped it shut.
“That all, sir?”
Van Helsing nodded. “Thank you.”
The young man nodded and turned back toward the wireless station.
Van Helsing steeled himself against the rush of bitter wind that he knew awaited him, and opened the door back to the boat deck. Despite the blustery conditions and the fancy that his face was numb almost upon quitting the hut, he stayed in one spot for a moment, gazing out into the star-speckled void. He had always loved the peace and tranquility of the sea. It was magical in a sense, in that the night sky went on forever; one was totally free from the rigors of land and traditional life.
Smiling to himself, Van Helsing began limping toward the stern, his cane thumping along the deck. He passed an officer in a thick overcoat and a white-and-blue hat languidly strolling toward the bridge.
“Evenin’, sir,” greeted the officer in a rich voice, his hands clasped behind his back. A furry mustache adorned his near blue upper lip; Van Helsing vaguely wondered how long he had been on his round.
“Good evening,” Van Helsing replied warmly, “’tis cold out this night.”
The officer smiled pleasantly. “Sure is, haven’t seen an April like it since I was a boy.”
“I have seen one or two like it in my travels,” Van Helsing said, “but not in England and the North Atlantic.”
The officer nodded, seemingly intrigued. He stopped, and Van Helsing likewise grinded to a halt.
“No, sir. You say you travel; have you ever been to Moscow?”
Van Helsing nodded, a small smile on his lips. “Yes, once or twice back in the eighties; a very bad place in the wintertime. I once saw a man lying on the ground frozen, and I had just seen him no more than ten minutes before, hale and healthy at the pub.”
The officer whistled. “I lived there with my mother when I was just a boy. I can’t recall much; just that in the winter the air was so cold that it felt like you stepped into a sobering slap.”
Van Helsing chuckled, “I remember those days, so many, harsh.”
“Yes. It’s been nice talking to you, but I must to get back to it, busy night.”
Van Helsing nodded, happy that the officer would not hold him on the inhospitable deck much longer.
“It is tomorrow that we dock at Queenstown?”
The officer nodded. “We can’t actually dock, Queenstown doesn’t have a berth big enough for the ship; we’ll have to drop anchor about a mile or so off shore, and then the little boats will bring out the passengers and mail.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“You have a good evening, sir; enjoy your trip.”
“I will, thank you. Good night.”
***
Past midnight, Dracula forced himself into first class.
A few men played a game of cards in the grandiose smoking room while a few women read in the ladies’ reading room.
The corridors were dim and quiet, completely unpeopled.
It was with a great shock then that he saw a man sitting in a chair outside one of the staterooms, dozing. When he recognized the man, he nearly started.
Van Helsing!
For a moment Dracula stood frozen where he was. His greatest fear was realized!
But memories came flooding back, and his fear turned to anger. How dare they? How dare they come after him?
Suddenly, he wanted to rush forward and snatch the old man up by his shirt, but didn’t. If he killed one but not the others it would alert them, and in his condition he might not be able to face them.
Instead, he turned and went back to the hold, where he lay awake in his box for a long time.
The best thing to do in his position was to hide. When they got to New York, he could make a run for it. By sundown he could be halfway across the country.
But remembering what they had done to him so long ago, what they had made him into, nagged him. Hatred filled him, and he began to dream of killing them one-by-one. Tomorrow night or the next. Get them alone and snap their scrawny little necks.
When Dracula finally slept, he smiled.