by Joseph Rubas
***
Lord Godalming slowly strolled along the boat deck under the stars, from stern to bow, stern to bow. He had looked in the smoking room, the gymnasium, the Turkish baths, the dinning saloon, and every other place easily reachable in first-class; no Dracula. He figured that he would have to go and look in second and third class for his elusive foe; Titanic was such a big ship, the thought of scouring every square inch of it made Art tired even though hot ire still simmered in his chest. And, Van Helsing was right about Dracula; he did not, nor would, fight fair. Dracula could just grab him from a dark doorway as he passed by, and drag him to his death…or worse.
The blustery sea wind held many people inside the great sparkling liner. Art had passed a few men and an officer or two, including Mr. Murdoch, but for the most part he had the boat deck to himself.
Every so often, he would stop and look into the black sky, his gaze held by the beauty of the twinkling stars, or out to sea, in an attempt to differentiate the sky from the water. He was never at total ease though, for Dracula could have been behind any door, any window, any one of the covered lifeboats, waiting to step out into his path, a fiery smile on his face, hate in his eyes, and the faux voice of Lucy passing hatefully though his dreadful lips.
Near the lighted wheelhouse, Art thought of entering the wireless hut and sending a message to Jonathan in London, but he decided against it.
With a sigh, Art turned aft and entered the smoking room; Van Helsing in his customary place by the fire and Dr. Seward was sitting on the nearby couch, his legs crossed. The only sound in the magnificent room was the crackle of the flames in the fireplace; a group of men quietly sat to themselves, discussing something, in hushed tones, that must have been of great import. Another man sat on a leather sofa, his bulbous nose buried in a thin red book; only two men occupied the card table tonight, both of them smoking, drinking, and chatting more than playing.
“No sign of Dracula,” Art said as he sat down next to Seward, and Van Helsing started with a jerk. He had been nodding off; the faded blue eyes behind his tiny spectacles were red and blurry. John, though not so rudely treated, had also been evicted from the palace of sleep by Art’s arrival.
“We searched the second class a bit,” Van Helsing yawned, “and we found nothing at all.”
Seward sadly nodded his agreement, his gaze held by the dancing flames in the fireplace, and Art sighed.
“Well, there isn't much more we can do tonight; you both are tired, let’s go to the stateroom. I’ll take first watch.”
Van Helsing reluctantly nodded and pushed himself out of the chair; Seward stood too, and stretched. “Isn’t ship’s time different from real time?” Van Helsing asked lowly as they let the smoking room.
“About an hour and a half later, I believe,” Art said, “why?”
“I am wondering why I am so tired all the time.”
“It may be that, I’m not sure if that interferes with one or not.”
The three men, abreast, descended the grand staircase, and made their way down the long corridor off of which their staterooms opened. They passed a few ladies in nightgowns and slippers, and a few men. Two stewards and a valet were walking from the opposite side of the hall, and they six men had to scatter and regroup once the other crowd was passed.
Van Helsing and Seward tiredly bid Art a good night, and entered the dark stateroom. Art was a bit apprehensive, for Dracula could have been in there, hiding under the bed, maybe, but there were no noises, and when Art opened the door and peaked in, he saw Van Helsing and Seward safe and sound, preparing for bed.
Art, satisfied that his friends were in no danger, clicked the door shut, and sank into the wicker chair. He had a long night ahead of him, for he planned to cover Van Helsing’s shift so that the old man wouldn’t be working under too much strain. He thought briefly of Van Helsing wondering why he was so tired all the time, and Art worried. Any number of things could make an old man tired, any number of horrible cancers and ailments.
Or maybe he was just exhausted from worry and from the trip, much as Art was.