by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Time slowed to a trickle, and the ear grinding noises on the deck formed into an unintelligible blur of sound. Art’s heartbeat slowed, as did his breathing; the biting chill in the air faded, and his face was no longer numb; he felt not the snot trickling down from his nostrils, or the burn of the rope cutting into his hand. With his pocket knife he sawed vigorously, but his arm did not become tired. His entire being was focused on the rope, which was sluggishly but steadily parting in the middle. The other men doing likewise were carrying their part of the work, and he had to carry his; if the rope defeated him, then the boat would be dragged down into the dark depths of the Atlantic with Titanic, thus denying salvation to dozens.
Art had always had the keen ability to shut out the world around him when he became engrossed in something. It wasn’t really a controllable talent, he knew, but a natural function that had come to him either at birth, or some time before he reached the age of ten. During his world travels with Quincy Morris and John Seward, Art had been envied by one and all for his trait. He had once read an entire Dickens novel while the wooden ship he was on was tossed back and forth in the stormy Pacific. The muttered prayers and religious fear of the men around him; the sickeningly frightful groaning and moaning of the wooden hull around him; and the crashes of thunder, like God firing a massive cannonade at wicked humanity had not been enough to penetrate his concentration. Once, a wave struck the side of the ship with such force that the book was knocked from his hands and slid along the floor, and under a man’s bed.
Aware for the first time of the reeling sea and the utter danger surrounding him, Art franticly scrambled to the book, and once again dipped in, this time in a conscious effort to escape the battering sea, and the wailing wind, and the specter of Death.
The damn rope was a stubborn thing, so thick that it could conceivably have tethered the Titanic itself to a berth. Though his mind had slowed and thoughts had been shoved aside in an attempt to “dehumanize” himself for proficiency, Art did have enough power encased in his skull to wonder why in the name of God anybody would use such a plump rope to hold a boat to the deck. In stormy sea, with waved lashing the ship, rocking it from side to side and washing over the deck, that kind of rope would be real fine. But in other situations, such as the bow of the ship sliding into the waves, it rendered the small craft useless. One would need nothing short of a sword to chop the damn thing in half; and all that any of the men had were small little pocket knives which would grunt and sweat attempting to half a stick of butter. Art’s knife was no better than anyone else’s, and he damned himself, when he had a thinking moment, for not carrying something a bit more manlike.
He was making a bit of progress though, for the intertwined strands were starting to flay and unravel. After doing a bit more damage, Art figured that he could rip the rope with his hands; that would go a lot faster than using this child’s plaything.
Little by little, the rope eventually began to sever, and Art intensified his attack, his teeth gritted and grinding to dust, his heart leaping in anticipation of the coming Great Accomplishment. When the boat was free, then he and Van Helsing and all the other men on the roof of the officers’ quarters had a chance for it. If only the damn…rope…would…give!
Nearing triumph, Art was jostled as the ship lurched out from beneath him. Casting one frantic glance toward the bow, he started at what he saw: The water was rushing over the roof of the wheelhouse, approaching swiftly, putting him crazily in mind of the Angel of Death. The sea had already washed across most of the boat deck, leaving the raised bridge feet above the surface. People struggled in the tide, screaming and thrashing. The water made a terrible roar as it swept over the ship. Faintly, he could hear music still playing, a grotesque accompaniment.
Art stopped what he was doing, so overwhelmed by the sight was he. The ship was sinking steadily now: He could feel the deck sliding forward.
“Hurry, damn it!” Lightoller yelled.
Suddenly, the ship lurched forward, and a wall of water seemed to rush up the bridge, hitting Art in the mid-section and knocking him down. He gasped as the bitterly cold Atlantic pounding him, his hand tightening instinctively on the rope. The knife was knocked from his hand and disappeared into the drink.
Screaming almost against his will, he pulled on the rope with all his might in an attempt to get back to his feet, but the rope snapped and the sea shoved him into Lightoller; both of them went under.
Under water, the sounds of the sinking were distorted and lent a nightmarish quality. Art kicked and flailed his arms, and when he broke the surface he was several feet ahead of where the bridge had been. Titanic’s lights glowed jauntily, mockingly, and its decks were jammed with people running hysterically toward the stern. Countless people were in the green-tinged water, along with a jam of wreckage, mainly deck chair but also suitcases, life preservers, pieces of wood paneling, and garbage. Here and there water bubbled white as beneath, the sea rushed into every conceivable opening. The screaming was very loud then.
Art was transfixed by the terrible yet strangely beautiful sight. He was awoken from his stupor, however, by a rough, metallic grinding. The stinging cold of the sea forgotten, he jerked around, and gaped: The forward funnel, surrounded by water and bobbing heads, was kneeling over like a wounded animal, sparks showering out of it. Presently, the wires securing it to the deck snapped with whip-crack reports, and the stack toppled over, seeming to fall very slowly. Art reflexively closed his eyes as it fell into the sea; a dozen people had been directly in its path.
Art, thankfully, was far enough away to escape the impact, but not far enough away to avoid the massive splash: It knocked him under, and suddenly he was being dragged down into the darkness. He fought, but was unable to escape the suction: He was ripped against one of the grates on the bow and stuck fast.
Art had never feared death, and at that moment he was prepared to accept his fate; however, he still found himself fighting against the suction, his actions governed by his mindless body, flesh and bone intent upon preserving itself.
This is...
Before he could form the rest of his hopeless declaration, an air pocket somewhere in Titanic’s hold burst, and a geyser-like eruption shot him to the surface and beyond. Screaming, albeit silently, he was propelled several feet into the air, and came back into the sea head first, dropping like a stone before he frantically began clawing his way back up, toward the light, his lungs bursting and heaving. It seemed like it was a lifetime before he again tasted sweet air, but in actuality it couldn’t have been more than three seconds.
Head again in the world of oxygen, Art coughed so hard and long that his head throbbed and his vision grew gray. Close by, someone screamed, and Art, still hacking unabashedly, saw the entire forward section of Titanic, which lay some twenty feet ahead, diving below the sea, the second funnel slipping beneath the waves.
Again, he was taken by the morbid beauty. In fact, he had never seen a more beautiful vessel, not even the Titanic he boarded in Southampton.
Snapping presently back to reality, Art looked about himself, and saw the sea dotted with dozens of people, all or most swimming mindlessly away from the foundering ship. Off in the distance, he caught a green twinkle, and surmised that most of the boats had pulled at least a mile and a half out.
Thinking of the boats reminded him of his mission before he had been sucked under; the overturned collapsible, the one that was washed off of the bridge when the Titanic dipped.
Turning in the water, Art saw it not far behind him, upside down. A number of men clung to it and circled the water around it, clawing like damned souls at the gates of glory.
Quivering with exhaustion, Art tried to swim toward it, but stopped, his muscles spasming and weariness heavy upon him like the clothes he wore. He tried once again to swim for it, but agony thrummed through him. He would have to rest a moment.
But even treading water was suddenly too much
, and Art found himself sagging lower and lower.
Damn it, man, he reprimanded himself, snapping back to attention, get ahold of yourself, you...
But before he could finish that thought, the lights burning aboard the Titanic dimmed, flickered, and then went out; the screams on deck grew louder, more terrified.
She’s going!
If he stayed where he was, he would be dragged down with the ship.
Momentarily throwing off the yoke of exhaustion, Art swam for his life. Behind him, in another world, a great grinding roar split the night, and the screams came together in a hellish melody.
He looked back only once: The ship rose black against the sky, sliding down, down.
Yelling and splashing surrounded him. He realized that he was shivering, his teeth chattering noisily together. God, it was so cold.
And he was so tired.
Being as dark as it was, he didn’t know where the boat was. Not that it mattered. Death awaited him. He resolved to close his eyes and sink into eternity, but suddenly, someone grabbed him by the back of the coat and pulled him up. His aching eyes shot open, and a startled yelp passed his lips.
More hands laid ahold of him and dragged him out of the sea and aboard the overturned boat, laying him out like a trophy kill. Above was the night sky, vast and wondrous, the cold stars twinkling like icy fire.
“Lord Godalming!”
A circle of wan faces were peering down at him, their eyes seemingly black hollows and their drawn flesh clinging tight to their misshapen skulls. Fear burst within him, and for a moment he believed that he was being met by a group of Titanic’s dead for a trip across the Styx.
“Lord Godalming...is it you?”
The man who spoke, Art saw, closely resembled Archie Butt, but certainly wasn’t. He tried to match a name with his face, but couldn’t; his mind felt as though it were mired in cold mud.
“Y-yes.”
God, the sky was so beautiful; star washed was the phrase that came to mind. And a good phrase it was.
“Are you alright?” The man asked, drawing Art back to reality, back to the dark boat which rocked side to side in the swell, back to the sea, where a chorus of hundreds of dying voices sang praises to hell.
Annoyed, Art snapped, “Yes, damn it, I’m fine!" He wasn't, though. He felt like a man stripped naked and thrown out into a blizzard. His heatless flesh was numbing, his wet, heavy clothes clung to him like a curse, and when he spoke his teeth chattered.
"Are you sure?" the man asked, his voice nearly drowned out by the din of death surrounding them. The most heart wrenching screams, shouts, wails, and moans filled the icy night. The boat swayed sickeningly back and forth as people in the water splashed nearby and tried to climb aboard. Someone shouted hysterically for them to get back or they would swamp the boat. Art tried to sit up, but didn't have the strength.
"None of that, now," the man said. He was huddled over, rocking back and forth for warmth. "You just rest a moment."
Art let out a shivering sigh and nodded. "It's turned out to be night to remember." He chuckled. He thought of Dracula, dead, his ashes, his slime, his whatever, resting on the ocean floor, in a deep, dark tomb forever lost to man, and smiled.
The man, of course, thought only of Titanic. "It has. Absolutely dreadful. Hopefully the rescue ships aren't too far off. They can't last long in that water, nor we ourselves."
"No," Art mumbled as his eye lids closed.
"Lord Godalming!" the man reproached, "you must stay awake. If you don't you'll die."
Art opened his eyes and blinked them. "Right. Help me up."
The man helped Art sit. He was too weak to stay up on his own, and had to lean against the man. It hurt.
"Are you alright? I doubt we can sit much longer. There'll be more room if we stand."
Art revolted at the thought of standing. "We'll be fine here for a bit," Art said. They were to one end of the boat, near the tiller. Most of the other men were at the further end.
"Yes," the man said.
Art yawned.
"How was your trip other than this, Lord Godalming? Fair, I hope." Art knew that the man was trying to keep him engaged lest he fall asleep.
And hated him for it.
"I...I didn't have much time to enjoy the ship." Art's eyes slid closed again. It was dark, Surely, the man wouldn't see and make him open them. He would just rest them a bit.
"Neither did I, I suppose. I spent a lot of my time on the squash court."
"An athlete, then," Art commented apathetically.
"Oh, yes. In fact, I had an appointment for tomorrow morning. Earlier, before I jumped, I happened to meet my instructor and canceled. The court was no doubt underwater by then, but it seemed the right thing to do."
"Yes," Art murmured. "Lose anyone? I think I lost Doctor Van Helsing." Art was too cold to grieve, too cold to care. When he realized that he had lost the old man back on the boat deck, he hadn't felt more than a slight jolt to the frozen heart.
"No, thankfully, I was traveling alone."
“That’s good,” Art said.
And slept.
EPILOGUE
“Pandemonium,” John Seward said.
It was May 23, 1912, a warm spring day in New York City. The courtroom was packed with people; mostly reporters, but also a curiosity seekers, families of the dead, and several survivors.
The United States inquiry into the Titanic disaster had started a little over a month ago. Called to testify on account of his actions onboard the ship, Seward was prevented from returning to England, and had been staying in a hotel overlooking Midtown since April 22.
Behind their lofty bench, the seven subcommittee members watched him expectedly. Seward realized that it was hot in the courtroom, too hot.
“You were therefore forced to open fire, were you not?” Senator William Alden Smith asked. A tall, severe looking man, Smith was the chair of the committee.
“That is correct.”
“And you were given the gun by Officer Lightoller for the express purpose of keeping the men at bay, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many shots do you think you fired, Dr. Seward?”
“Three or four, sir,” Seward replied. “I honestly cannot remember.”
“And you hit people with them?”
“Yes.”
Smith nodded. “Do you think, as a citizen, Dr. Seward, that it is fair for officers on a passenger liner, much less those they deputize, to go about shooting the passengers they were sworn to protect?”
Seward had pondered that question many times since he had been called to testify.
“If there is a situation where the lives of women and children are endangered by chaos, then yes. I am not a brutal man, Senator. I do not delight in pain and suffering. I regret being forced to use the gun, but I do not regret doing so. Had I not, the men would have stormed the boat and could very well have caused it to break free of its moorings.”
Senator Smith nodded sternly. “In the altercation you fell into the boat.”
“Yes, sir. Rather, I was knocked into the boat.”
“You were unconscious?”
“I wasn’t until I hit the boat.”
“When did you next regain consciousness?”
“Some time after the ship had gone down, sir.”
Seward remembered the panic he felt when he saw that the ship was gone...when an officer told him that it was “all down.” Art and Dr. Van Helsing were still aboard; knowing them, they never would have departed the ship ahead of any women or children, and when the Titanic sank, or so he was told, it was crammed with both.
During his testimony the week before, Officer Lightoller had given his account. He mentioned Art and Dr. Van Helsing...not by name but by description.
“When did you last see Lord Godalming?” Senator Smith had asked.
“When the water came over the bridg
e,” Lightoller replied. “He was knocked under and that was the last I saw of him.”
During his testimony, the American real estate investor Archibald Gracie, who had met Art several times in the past but didn’t know him very well, recounted Art’s last moments, and Seward openly wept:
“I tried my best to keep him awake and talking, but he slipped away.”
“And what became of Lord Godalming?” Smith asked.
“Me and another man pushed him overboard. There were people in the water still and I figured that a man such as Lord Godalming would wish his spot taken by someone who could use it.”
The “someone” turned out to be wireless officer Harold Bride.
As for Dr. Van Helsing, no one knew what became of him. The last person to see him was Lightoller. “He was sucked away from me and I didn’t see him again.”
Presently, Smith cleared his throat. “What happened once you woke?”
“Officer Pittman rowed us to a group of boats that were lashed together. There was talk of sending a boat back for survivors, and I volunteered my services.”
Seward told the committee how he, Officer Lowe, and a few others had emptied a boat (distributing its passengers to other boats) and gone back into the night.
“Was there much screaming?”
“It had died down before I woke,” Seward lied. In fact, there had been a great deal of screaming. Seward still heard it even now, ringing in his head. Last week there had been a parade of sorts past his hotel, and the sounds of jubilation reminded him so much of that night that he was forced to leave and return only later, once it had stopped, lest he go mad.
“Did you find any survivors?”
“Yes,” Seward said. He recalled the faces of the dead, white and bobbing in the swell, and shuddered. He remembered seeing a baby clutched against its mother’s breast, both frozen solid, and shuddered. It was a sight he saw each night in his dreams, and a sight he expected to see each night until he died.
“How many?”
“Five or six.”
The one that stood out most to Seward was the Japanese fellow who had been clinging to a piece of wreckage. Officer Lowe was against taking him aboard. “There's others better worth saving than a Jap!"
“You persuaded him to take on the Japanese man, correct?” Smith asked.
“Begged is perhaps the closer term.”
A nervous titter ran through the spectators.
The Japanese man recovered quickly and began to row with great gusto. Lowe said: “By Jove, I'm ashamed of what I said about the little blighter. I'd save the likes o' him six times over, if I got the chance."
Seward heard that the fellow returned to Japan where he was held in high disdain by his countrymen for surviving while so many others had died.
“Alright, Dr. Seward,” Smith said now. “That is all. You may go now.”
***
I miss my friends terribly. Dr. Van Helsing was a second father to me, and Art like a brother. The ache in my heart does not abate. In fact, it grows stronger each day. And now word has come that Quincy Harker, whom I love as a son, has been killed at Ypres by German artillery. My heart cannot take it. When I am awake I hurt, and when I sleep I dream: A thousand dead, white faces bobbing in the darkness, their eyes open and staring. I see Dr. Van Helsing, Art, Quincy, now, and Dracula. Though I know it cannot be, I fear that we did not kill him, that he is alive down there, trapped in the decaying husk of Titanic, waiting to emerge from the depths once more. This thought is perhaps the most horrible. It was all in vain. Dr. Van Helsing drowned, most likely, and Art frozen...for naught. I am sorry to John and Mina. I know you feel the losses as acutely as I do, but I simply cannot take it. Perhaps if I had not been aboard Titanic like you, perhaps if I hadn’t shot two men and looked over a field of dead women and children, I could solider through. But I did shoot two men, and I did look over a field of frozen women and children. And it haunts me to this day. It gnaws me. A slow burning cancer eating my heart and soul. I love you all. Please forgive me.
- John. November 29, 1914.