by Joseph Rubas
***
As the molten sun sank into the ocean, leaving behind a glorious show of orange and purple, a light numbing breeze sprang up, and washed over Titanic’s boat deck. The ship was cast in gloom, and the outside deck lights had already sprang on to light the way for passengers and crew. Lord Godalming strolled along with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his overcoat, passing no one, for all the passengers had already retreated into the warm accommodations to celebrate the fact that Titanic was nearing New York. As he passed large windows, Art peered in at the enjoying warm splendor; the Astors were entertaining a group of well-dressed friends. Caledon Hockley and his new wife-to-be stood in the middle of the festivities, he chatting with a man Art didn’t recognize and she gazing somberly at the floor, as if the party were the last place on earth she wanted to be.
For all the people in the saloons, the deck itself was empty; Art had seen only a few sailors and crewmen out on break or walking around for the hell of it. He had passed one man slumped against the wall near the stern, his eyes red and his husky voice slurring the words of one popular song or another. Lord Godalming had no idea how the poor bloke could stand passing his few off hours drunk on the cold deck, but to each his own. There were many other worse things that one could do with his leisure time. Jack the Ripper…well, the world knew that he did with his off time.
Presently, Art was nearing the bow at a slow creep, his feet singing a sad song of soreness, his tight back also added in its own choruses. His forehead ached slightly; it had been a busy and productive few hours, and now he wished to rest. He had spoken to a great many people, including some of the housekeeping staff, and had shown the sketch of Dracula to as many people as he could. One of the maids was sure that she had seen a man fitting his description the day before, but no one else seemed to recall ever laying eyes on him. He had also persuaded the purser (with a small monetary bribe) to open a few of the unlet cabins. None of them contained anything out of the ordinary. The pursuer, a beefy fellow with a beard and mustache, implied that he was not above letting Art into the other cabins during the day, when most passengers were out and about. Certainly, that was an avenue to be explored, but now he wasn’t as sure as he had been earlier that Dracula was hiding a box in a stateroom. Most likely, he had boxes salted around the Atlantic on other ships. If he were wont to do so, he could merely abandon Titanic and make his way to New York unopposed.
Such a simple and brilliant out, but he wouldn’t take it, Art knew. Van Helsing was right; he was proud and he was vain. Though he wanted to face the beast on his terms alone, he knew that he would face him regardless. It wasn’t all about him, as he had told Van Helsing that morning, but it never had been. He was dedicated to killing the monster who had taken his Lucy; if that was a sin, then so be it. As far as he was concerned, the others could step aside. He wanted to be the one to meet him, to kill him, to send him screaming and crying back to hell. He could live with himself if John or Van Helsing did it, but he simply did not want that.
He wanted to be the one; and he would have to act fast, for Dracula was feeding. He hadn’t heard much, but from what he had gleaned from Captain Smith when they had chanced upon each other earlier, two or three third-class women had gone missing, and their families were franticly scouring what parts of the ship they could with the help of officers and other crew members. Ambiguously, they were threatening a lawsuit if they did not have their loved ones by the time that the Titanic had reached her berth in New York City.
Though Smith had said nothing of the sort, Art felt that Smith blamed…no, suspected, Art’s imaginary opium fiends. The way that Smith’s steel blue eyes had borne into Art’s own, as if he wanted to telepathically communicate, instead of asking outright if the opium smugglers would do such a thing. Art knew that Smith would not want to bring up such a subject with him, but if Dracula kept up his antics…
Thump.
Blackness.
***
Like a man ripped from the depths of the sea, Art’s eyes and mouth flew open and a gasp escaped his trembling lips. For a moment he was fuzzy and disoriented, the hard discomfort in his chest and stomach a mystery. But as reason returned to his dazed mind, he came to the startling realization that he was lying lengthwise along the top railing along Titanic’s boat deck, one arm and one leg hanging over, and someone was working to push him the rest of the way off.
He was slipping.
His stomach lurched and his heart exploded. He screamed. Mindlessly lashing out, spasming, he wrapped his arms around the railing.
“Bastard!” his unseen enemy grunted, and at once began pounding his fists against Art’s legs and lower back, “go over!”
Art screamed wordlessly and tried to hook his feet into the lower rails, but couldn’t. If he went over, he realized then, nobody would know. He would be alone in the great ocean as the shimmering Titanic sailed into the twilight.
Insanely, another realization struck him: That wouldn’t happen. He would hit the water, and within moments, Titanic’s giant propellers would suck him in and chop him to bits.
“Help me!” Art wailed, the spray and cold wind choking him.
“Bastard!” howled his murderer, as if he had seen something unsavory. With one final push, he shoved Art’s legs over the side.
Shrieking with unashamed fear, Art swung over the side, his wrists twisting painfully. He cried out, but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go. Now, he was upright, dangling over seventy feet above the sea.
Looking straight up, past the glare of the lights on the deck, Art could see the sky above, black velvet adorned with a smattering of cold, callous, twinkling stars, seeming to wink hatefully down at him.
Art blinked, and found a black silhouette looming over him. “Bastard!” hissed the form, and then, with a balled fist, pounded each of Art’s straining hands in an attempt to loosen him.
“HELP, HELP, HELP!” Art wailed as he clung fast, his hands aching, both from exertion and from his attacker’s blows.
Suddenly, the attack stopped, and the dark form seemed to evaporate.
Art’s hands, weary and throbbing at the wrists, began slipping, and his heart boomed in his chest.
An instant before his fingers unhooked, three concerned faces hoved into view. A set of strong arms grabbed his aching wrists, and more hands grabbed him under the arms.
Faint, vision graying, Art was wrenched back on deck and fell into a heap atop another being. There were excited voices, but the clamor of his heart in his ears and blood thumping in his forehead (and the hot pain in the back of his head, where he had been brained by some unknown coward) prevented him from discerning words.
Finally, the man under him managed to push Art, heart gripping and thumping like an abscessed tooth, off of him and against the railings. In the horrible moment that he was in motion, Art was sure that, despite the safety precaution, he would plummet over the side and become fish food after all.
“Lord Godalming!” someone gasped, and Art opened his eyes. Thomas Andrews knelt before him, his eyes wide and his face pale. Behind him, Captain Smith and Bruce Ismay huddled close, each one looking as though it had been them hanging over the side.
“I…I misstepped,” Art ejaculated in-between gasps for air.
Bruce Ismay snorted, “That’s a doozy of a misstep, Lord Godalming.”
“Oh, yes,” Art said as he rose weakly to his feet, and promptly began to sink to the deck. Captain Smith and Ismay grabbed Art under his arms, all three men talking loudly over one another, advising the others to do this and to do that.
“I’m fine,” Art smiled as he shrugged off the men’s help. He stood on his own, swaying like a drunkard. “See, all good. I was just looking over at the surf, and bam! There I go, my own stupidity, my own fault, all better now.”
&
nbsp; The three men exchanged a glance among themselves. “Are you really fine?” Thomas Andrews asked disbelievingly.
“Sure,” Art said and dismissed their worries with a flap of the hand. “I’ve been in worse pickles.”
“By the sound of it, this one was pretty bad,” Ismay said, “you were screaming like a woman.”
Art’s face reddened. “Of course it was bad.” He glanced over his shoulder. “But not the worst I’ve ever seen. Had me scared, though.”
“Gentlemen,” Smith said tightly, never taking his steely gaze off of Art, “go on without me; I need to have a private word with the Lord. I’ll catch up.”
With a few murmured protests and a few pats to Art’s back, Andrews and Ismay departed, heading aft.
“Arthur,” Smith said sharply, “come with me.”
Art followed Smith as he sullenly led him to his office behind the wheelhouse. Art had never before been in here, and was surprised to find that it contained nothing more than a deck, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a soft reading lamp atop the desk.
Smith sank into the chair behind the desk, and Art eased himself into the one opposite. Smith sat there for a long time in the glow of the lamp, his hands tented, covering his mouth and nose. Finally, he stood and, hands laced behind his back, began pacing along his side of the mahogany wall.
“The other night, you were beaten by a large man in the hall of B-deck. I didn’t bring it up, mostly because, knowing you, I knew that you would be ashamed at losing like you did…”
Art moved to say that he had not really lost, seeing that there had never been a fight but an ambush, but Smith held up a forestalling hand.
“I know that it wasn’t a fair fight, and to keep from further…rubbing your face in it, so to say, I never brought it up. But now…I find you hanging on for dear life on the boat-deck, in front of God and everyone. Mr. Astor saw you the first time, and that was bad enough, but I think he’ll keep quiet, he’s a good fellow. Now, however, Mr. Andrews and Mr. Ismay see you dangling off the side of the ship. I simply cannot stand for that sort of thing. And, as a deeply concerned friend, I cannot stand to see you in such peril. This wasn’t a dirty fight; this was an attempt at murder!”
Art grunted, grasping for, and not finding, the right words.
“The opium people did this to you, didn’t they? You may have amused Mr. Ismay with, ‘Oh, I tripped,’ but you do not amuse me. I not only have you to worry about, I have an entire ship. What are these men capable of? Should I call for assistance? Will they go willy-nilly tossing people off the side, or will they only do that to you and your friends?”
There was no use in lying (on top of lying), Art figured. Smith was not stupid, neither were Andrews or Ismay. They had all seen through his flimsy fiction. He damned himself for ever telling Smith about the “opium smugglers.”
“They are only dangerous to those who get in their way, as they have well demonstrated.”
“What about..?”
“Oh, those girls in steerage? Surely not, sir. These men are drug peddlers, they do not worry about stealing young girls. They…are only concerned with their wares.”
Smith was quiet for a moment, studying Art from above. “Would it be any help if I had my men made aware of the situation?”
“Yes,” Art said. Though Van Helsing didn’t want to risk the lives of the crew, having their help would be invaluable.
Smith blinked. “What shall I do?” he asked.
Remembering the sketch, Art reached into his pocket and pulled it out. Smith took it, unfolded it, and studied it.
“This man,” Art said, “is the leader, Dracula.”
“Dracula?” Smith tasted the name as one would swill rotten wine.
“Yes. He’s a very dangerous chap, John; therefore I don’t want your men approaching him. Tell them whatever you will, but make sure they know that they are not to challenge him. I want extra eyes, not extra hands.”
Smith nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll inform them at once. If anyone spots him, are they to come to you?”
“Yes, or to Dr. Seward or Doctor Van Helsing. But preferably me.”
Smith nodded again. “Shall I keep the drawing?”
“Yes.”
“Is that all I can do?”
Art nodded. “Yes. For the time being. Now if you’ll excuse me...”
Smith looked hard at Art. “Official business?”
“Yes. I’ve gotten some leads that I must follow up. That’s where I was heading to when I was attacked.”
Smith heaved a heavy sigh. “Go. Will I see you at my party tonight at the Á la Carte?”
“I would like you to,” Art said, “but I’m not sure if you will. The Wideners are hosting it, am I correct.”
Smith smiled, “Yes, the Wideners.”
The only people that Art disliked more than the Wideners were the Thayers. If John Seward thought that Bruce Ismay was a snob, he would be floored by the total inhumanity of The Thayers and the Wideners; inhumanity at least when it came to anyone not able to afford a first-class ticket on Titanic.
“Well, do make sure that you can wrap up your business without getting yourself or someone else killed.” The soft affection in Smith’s open eyes profoundly touched Art. He wished, for a very brief moment, that he could hug Smith and tell him how much he meant to him. Art, though denying it even to himself, felt more for Edward Smith than he did for his own father.
Smith came around the deck and escorted Art out of his office, through the wheelhouse, and onto the blustery deck. Mr. Murdoch was standing near the small box-like structure on the edge of the starboard bridge’s wing, peering intently toward New York, languidly enjoying a cigarette.
“Mr. Murdoch, would you please see that Lord Godalming makes it safely inside the ship?” Smith asked his first officer; Art’s face immediately flushed with embarrassment.
“Captain, I assure you that I can make my own way…”
Murdoch dreamily turned from the angry red horizon and regarded Smith as if he had antennas standing from his head. His face was cast in darkness by not only the dusk hour, but by the fact that he wore his hat low on his head as if he were trying to block out the sun. Art figured that he had affixed the hat so earlier when the sun had been high and bright, and had neglected to rearrange it.
“Sir?” he asked bewildered, and looked to Art.
“Lord Godalming can’t seem to traverse the Titanic’s decks without meeting with disaster.”
Murdoch looked from Smith to Art again, and back, his brow furrowed.
“Please, captain; I am an adult, I can make it inside under my own power.”
“Very well,” Smith sighed. “But do me a favor and look behind you more often.”
***
Art found Van Helsing and Seward in the smoking room near the roaring blaze. Van Helsing was slumped in his chair as if he were a man who had just finished a long day of exceedingly arduous labor, and Seward sat with his cheek in his hand, staring thoughtfully into the fire, which cracked and popped when a knot of wood burst. There were very few men in the sleepy room; someone had scraped up a card game at the table closest to the fireplace, and three men idly whiled away the time with unenthusiastic plays.
Art sank into the sofa on the other side of Van Helsing’s chair, and at once related his account of being attacked from behind and nearly dumped overboard into the sea. Seward came to attention and intently listened as Art told of his hanging onto the railings as and dangling above the ocean, of how the figure had tried to pound his hands into submission, all the while using the word ‘bastard’ over and over. He told of his being rescued by Smith, Andrews, and Ismay, but left out the part wherein Smith confronted him about the drug smugglers and his executive decision to put the crew on alert.
Finally, the flow of words died and silence, save for an oc
casional grunt from one of the card players or the clink of plates be carried to and fro by harried stewards preparing for dinner, prevailed. Seward opened his mouth to speak, but Van Helsing cut him off.
“It would seem now that the battle is three to two,” his voice was shaky and watery; his wrinkled hand never left his face.
Art looked to Seward, who nodded. “Dr. Van Helsing was attacked below decks by a man in black. He is here only for the bravery of a stoker who interfered, at the price of his own life.”
“I figured that it wasn’t Dracula who sneaked me,” Art said, “he was smaller, thinner, and sounded like a Briton.”
“He is a human, no doubt under Dracula’s spell.” Van Helsing sighed mournfully. Art only now noticed the ugly gash across the old man’s forehead. Anger swept through him.
Seward, hoping to boost his comrades’ spirits, told them of his rambles in second-class, how he met a man who claimed to have dined with Dracula in the past.
“I asked if he would arrange a meeting with him for tonight, but he said that he hasn’t seen Dracula since the day before yesterday. He did, however, promise that the next time he saw him he would, and then notify us.”
“Could he be this man-in-black?” Art asked.
Seward shook his head. “He’s an Italian, and his accent is rather thick.”
Art nodded. “Either way, we have a new playmate and we have no idea what he looks like. He could be anyone.”
“The dynamic has changed,” Seward said.
“We can handle them both,” Art went on, “we’ll just have to be more careful.”
“Yes,” Van Helsing said, “from now on, we stay together. We will be harder to combat in numbers. And we must never, never let our guard down, whether we’re on an empty deck or a crowded saloon.”
“Let’s get back at it now, shall we?” Art asked. “Third class seems to be where he’s most comfortable, so we should focus there for now.”
Van Helsing nodded. He was hopeful. Perhaps Dracula’s use of an emissary meant that he was too weak to fight himself. Either that, or he was conserving his energy. Both ways, it proved to him that Dracula’s boxes were ruined.
It also meant that they could not just sit and wait for Dracula to come to them anymore. They had to find him, and soon. If that meant barging into cabins uninvited and drawing the attention of the Captain, then so be it.
Play time was over.