The Light in the Darkness 1

by Carla Louise Robinson

  Everything on the Titanic was more than Claire could ever have imagined, let alone expected. While she had to fight during the day to secure a scheduled bath – part of her thought that Adene had the right end of the stick, waiting until night – she had never experienced free-flowing water.

  “This ship is spoiling me,” Claire confessed. “I am afraid that when we dock, I won’t know how to live without all these luxuries. I don’t know if I could ever return to a life where my stomach knows hunger more than it does food. And while you are sworn not to tell Ma, as she’s still convinced electricity is a sign of the devil’s handiwork – I enjoy electricity. I cannot believe that a light flickers on, so easily, and one never has to worry about falling asleep, because it’ll never catch fire. Everything is so … perfect here. I’m afraid I do not wish it to end.” She looked into Cillian’s eyes – they were such an intense blue-grey, it was easy to be lost in them – and felt an overwhelming desire for him to ask her permission to take her in his arms and kiss her. She felt as she’d waited her whole life, even since she was a gangly, awkward teenager.

  “You are afraid,” he whispered gently, his finger stroking her cheek as he tucked a tendril behind her ear. “You are afraid that I will not honour my promise to follow you and Nora.”

  Claire looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I was talking about the ship, not you.”

  “Claire, I know you. You weren’t. It won’t happen,” he said, his declaration firm. “Claire, I know you’ve talked about the other women I’ve seen, but that has never meant much to me, you must know. I am not sure what rumours you have heard, and while I won’t tell a lie and pretend I have never kissed another lass, it’s not gone further than that. I’ve never had true feelings for a lady before. Paddy … he knew how I felt. I asked him if it was okay if I wrote you, in an intimate fashion. He was pleased, Claire Bear; he offered his permission freely. I wrote to you that night. By morning, we were sent on a patrol, though in different regions. He never returned, and I did not think you could bear my response, having lost Paddy.” He took her gloved hands, holding them in his. “I am not trying to play you for a fool or make promises I cannot keep. But this is real for me, most ardently. It has been for some time. I did not expect to see you ever again; and I certainly did not expect to see you on the same ship as myself, making your journey to America. Yet, somehow, by God’s miracle, it has happened, and I do not want to be parted from you again.”

  Claire smiled, and, in a move bolder than she could afford, took Cillian’s hand. He looked startled, which pleased her all the more.

  “Claire …” he breathed, his voice catching. “Claire, you are so beautiful, do you know? I do not mean your pretty hair, that sings the songs of sirens, or your eyes, like a doe’s; I mean your very soul. You remind me so much of Paddy; he always saw the good in everyone. Claire, I love you.”

  “And I love you,” she breathed, and then she reached up, letting her lips gently meet his.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Friday, April 12th, 1912

  Cecilia

  “Goodness,” Henry lamented. “Are all your family dinners so … stimulating?” Cecilia laughed more loudly than she intended, seizing attention she had not expected as Henry walked beside her on the Boat Deck.

  “They’re something that requires a certain palette,” Cecilia replied. “Most unfortunately, there have been worse dinners. Need I even remind you of last night’s extravaganza?”

  Henry smiled, his blonde hair blowing lightly in the wind. “I beg you not.”

  The two continued strolling in silence, and she delighted in the fact that most people were not paying her much attention. She was glad Alfred Vanderbilt, Thomas’s uncle, had cancelled his voyage. The ship was filled with prominent Americans, and for once, the Gresham family seemed less noticeable. Americans recognised their American counterparts; they were less familiar with English families. However, had Alfred Vanderbilt boarded the ship as was intended, he would have insisted dining with Cecilia, and his small brown eyes and large ears would be the eyes and ears of every passenger’s, and Cecilia would not have the same freedom.

  “Cecilia –”

  “Pray, don’t.”

  “Don’t? You do not even know what I wish to say.”

  “But I do; I can hear it in your voice.”

  He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I think we are being too rash, too bold.”

  “And I think it’s you who is afraid, not I.”

  “Afraid?” Henry laughed. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Yet you are,” Cecilia replied. “I can see the way you look at me. I see you watching me when you think no one else is. I see the way your hand twitches, as if you’re longing to reach for me but daren’t. I see the longing in your body, with every smile you grant me. I hear it in the words you do not say, not the ones you do.”

  Henry looked bemused. “My lady, it seems you know me better than I know my own self.”

  Cecilia beamed. “Does that mean you concur?”

  “Of course I do, Celia! But how can any man ask to take you from your family? How can I afford to compete with a Vanderbilt? I would not be a man worthy of you if I allowed you to sacrifice so for me. I have nothing to lose, Cecilia; yet you have everything.”

  Tears blossomed in Cecilia’s blue eyes, and Henry raised a hand to her cheek, cupping it softly. “I do not have everything,” she replied. “I do not have you. I have no use for more money, or fine clothes. I do not need everything what we have, and I do not care for it. What I want, however, is to have a happy life. You would not be taking anything from me, Henry; rather, you would be granting it.”

  He leaned forward, his forehead embracing hers. Cecilia could feel his warm breath on her lips, which parted slightly in anticipation.

  PART III

  “Striking the water was like a thousand knives being driven into one’s body. The temperature was 28 degrees, four degrees below freezing.”

  - Second Officer Lightoller

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  LIVERPOOL, April 15th, 1912

  Sir Walter J. Howell, K.C.B.

  Marine Department,

  Board of Trade,

  Whitehall,

  London.S.W.

  Dear sir,

  We beg to thank you for your telegram reading as follows and to express our appreciation of the kind enquiry contained therein: -

  “Trust rumours about ‘Titanic’ unfounded pray send me news “most anxious.”

  We confirm our reply as under and will not fail to keep you posted with any reliable information we may receive: -

  “Many thanks for your telegram for Mr. Ismay who is on “board ‘Titanic’ so far our only information is telegram from New York as follows begins ‘Newspaper wireless reports “advise Titanic collision iceberg lat 41.46 north long “50.14 west women being put lifeboats steamer Virginian “expects reach Titanic ten a.m. today Olympic Baltic “proceeding Titanic we have no direct information’ ends.”

  We are,

  Yours faithfully,

  For ISMAY IMRIE & CO.

  P.S. We have since telegraphed you as under: -

  “Underwriters have message from New York that ‘Virginian’ “is standing by ‘Titanic’ and that there is no danger of “loss of life.”

  “Latest word from Press agency ‘Titanic’ proceeding “to Cape Race all passengers transferred presumably to “’Virginian.’”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Saturday, April 13th, 1912

  Bride

  Bride, who had just alternated a shift with Jack was preparing to send and receive countless messages, mostly from the ship’s most elite passengers. Due to the substantial costs of sending a Marconi gram – it was seven bloody dimes for every word after the first ten, and the first ten words weren’t cheap, either. Most of the messages he was sending for the first-class Titanic passengers were trivial; some of the first-class passengers deemed it necessary to update family memb
ers or business-related work every day, even if the Marconi-gram simply stated, “All is well. We are loving the Titanic.” It amazed him how much money people were willing to spend to illustrate they had access to the latest technology. Many of the first-class passengers were conversing with other first-class passengers on separate, nearby ships, as if to gloat that they were travelling on the Titanic, and their poor, sad friends weren’t.

  Now and then, a message of substance would pass his desk, but mostly, he was intercepting the exciting news from ships in the surrounding area. Unlike the majority of the neighbouring vessels, those that had a Marconi wireless system fitted didn’t have the range of the Titanic – most ships didn’t – and many of them, especially the smaller cutters, would be unlikely to have any wireless system at all. Bride had talked a few times last night to Cyril Evans, the operator for the Californian. The Californian’s range wasn’t as powerful as the Titanic’s, but Titanic was easily able to pick at Evans’ signal. Cyril was a friend of both Bride and Jack’s, having attended Marconi school with them and graduating at a similar time.

  Fortunately, as they’d made their way across the trans-Atlantic passage, both Bride and Phillips had been able to keep on top of their duties. More than once, a message regarding ice had appeared across their desk; the first time, Phillips had merely laughed. “Don’t be frettin’,” Jack had told him. “It’s the Titanic. As if a bit of ice could hurt her.”

  Bride had been comforted by Phillips’ precise determination – he, like many of the passengers, had taken comfort in the fact that the Titanic was likely unsinkable – or, at least, she wouldn’t founder without help reaching her, especially not with the ship’s state-of-the-art Marconi system. It wasn’t that Bride thought that the ship couldn’t sink – he doubted there were many that really believed it was indestructible – it was just that the Titanic was simply too large. She’d take her time before she foundered, and with her Marconi system reaching a range of four hundred miles, any ship listening in would easily be able to hear her cry for distress. It wouldn’t take long for another liner to reach the Titanic, passengers safely transferred.

  Bride couldn’t ignore his good fortune; he was nary twenty-two when he’d snared one of the most coveted jobs in all of the United Kingdom.

  Securing his listening device to his ear, Bride began to type out to all neighbouring ships ‘RPT PLS MGY’ (report please Titanic).

  Immediately, the telegraph register began tapping quickly back in his ear, from varying neighbouring ships; many were talking excitedly about the growlers they’d seen.

  Disinterested in the idle chatter – though he’d invited it – he and Phillips needed to ensure that as many of the passengers’ Marconi-grams were transmitted while they remained in range of the Cape Race station. Once the Titanic left the transmitting area, they would only be able to converse with nearby ships with similar frequencies until they’d entered the wireless sector of Newfoundland. So far, none of the reports from the other Marconi operators had not been marked with MSG – Masters’ Service Gram – which indicated that they weren’t needed to be sent to Captain Smith. So far, Bride was aware that the captain had adjusted the ship’s course to account for the prodigious number of icebergs – he’d done so before they’d even left port, or so he’d been told by Jack, late one night.

  As Bride gathered himself, glancing at the increasingly growing pile of messages he and Phillips had to send, he was about to begin hitting the transmitter when Captain Smith entered. Bride immediately jumped from his seating position, “Captain.”

  “Bride,” Smith nodded. “How are the reports coming along?”

  “Fine, sir,” Bride said, pulling himself up. “There’s a few bergs and growlers in the area; there’s more chatter from the operators each day we pass through this route.”

  Smith nodded, stroking his fine white beard. “Anything of note?”

  “Not so far, sir,” Bride said. “The last report didn’t come in with MSG, though I can bring the latitude and longitude of the report to the bridge.”

  Smith shook his head and smiled. “You’re young.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I’ve been sailing my entire life, son,” Smith said, and while Bride was acutely aware of Smith’s grand accomplishments – not because he was a boastful man; he was the opposite, but because everyone knew of Captain Smith’s ability to handle ships under duress. “When the Hawke collided with the Olympic, she was able to make her way back to port.” He paused. “I was able to make her limp to port. And do you know what I said, when I was asked about the ship’s accident?”

  Bride wasn’t sure what to say. He knew the British papers, for the most part, had avoided placing fault on Captain Smith’s shoulders; however, he also knew that the Hawke hadn’t collided with the Olympic.

  The Olympic had crashed into the Hawke, devastating both ships, costing the White Star Line millions of pounds in damages, delays and repairs.

  Smith leaned in, as if he had a secret. “The truth is, Bride, we’ve reached the age of modernity. There are no such thing as truly sinkable ships anymore. This ship is its own lifeboat. It can’t sink, and even if God tried, it’d likely take days for her to founder, if she ever did. This industrial revolution has brought us into a new age, Mr Bride. Mark my words; it’s the dawn of a new and different era.”

  Bride wasn’t sure if he agreed with the captain; yet, at the same time, he found it impossible to imagine a situation where the Titanic could sink. After all, what on God’s green earth was capable of bringing down such a vessel? Perhaps a water monster of some terrible kind, but those were the types of things that appeared in stories about sailors, demigods and Krakens, not ones based on reality.

  “I expect it has, sir,” Bride added, after a pause. “I can’t imagine the ship foundering.”

  “Because it can’t,” Smith told him brightly. “I’ll let you carry on then, Bride. I see you’ve got your work cut out for you.” Smith indicated to the enormous piles of paper in the ‘transmitting’ folder. As Smith went to open and close the door, he added, almost as an afterthought, “If any messages do come through with MSG, inform the bridge immediately. If there’s anything of concern in the vicinity, we need to change course immediately.”

  The door clicked shut softly, confusing Bride. Smith seemed beyond certain that the Titanic was unsinkable; yet his last statement was about changing the ship’s route if any credible receipts came through regarding the size and proximity of icebergs. It rattled him, though he tried to remind himself that Captain Smith was a favourite among the White Star Line because he was so safety conscious. Before the Olympic’s disaster, he had an impeccable record, and was well-liked by the passengers and crew alike.

  Bride moved on to his tasks at hand, comforted in the knowledge that they were safe with Captain Smith at the helm.

  Chapter Fifty

  Monday, April 22nd, 1912

  Howard

  Howard watched as men, all half a foot shorter than he, grappled about, desperately trying to photograph the iceberg, that was at least 90ft high and 400ft long, they were passing, pointing, shouting, “This is it! This is the one that sunk the Titanic!”

  Howard disagreed. The iceberg didn’t sink the ship, God did, reminding man of his place, that nature could not be tamed. The men, despite their harried elation, missed the photograph; the ship was moving too fast for the image to be caught well. Howard wasn’t sure what the fuss was; the iceberg was more substantial than most they’d seen, but bergs and growlers always surrounded them. They were in the middle of an icefield. To him, it didn’t appear much taller than the iceberg he’d seen yesterday that reminded him more of a fairy story than anything real at all. If he’d heard the description from another man’s lips, he’d think the man was topped with drink; to see it with his own eyes was something very different.

  For the first time, Howard felt the cruelty of God weigh down upon him. He understood that it was necessary for Him to remin
d man of his place – after all, they had forgotten themselves many times before, and most grievously, man’s failures cost God’s son His life. However, each body weighed a ton, and there were more bodies than wreckage. The wreckage itself was eerie; he’d passed upon a dresser, filled with woman’s night garments, that was floating in the sea, forever parted from its home. They’d come across a small cutter boat but had found it was too damaged to do anything with; they had to use their axes, forcing the boat to sink to the ocean. A piano, soundless except for the beats of swells against it, half-floated; mattresses littered the sea. Howard wondered how so many mattresses had not sunk, though he pondered this as they passed a casket of wine that one of the crew eagerly swat at.

  The bodies were farther than they’d been yesterday; the swell was taking what the Mackay-Bennett wasn’t. The men weren’t just battling God, they were contending with the damn Arctic swells. The ocean was its own god, and it did not forfeit its victims easily.

  Darkness came quickly and early, despite the fact it was nearing summer now. Howard had watched as the Sardinia had approached the Mackay-Bennett, taking some of its cargo as it headed toward Newfoundland. While Howard knew that these men wanted sorely to help – when they’d buried a young woman yesterday, some had openly wept – he disliked the feeling that some were interested in the horrifying details that were almost immediately answered upon arrival of the debris site. Each man that saw the wreckage, the bodies that stood to attention, bleached white in the swell, their clothes creaking and cracking with every movement, frozen solid, came close to losing his breakfast. It was a painful sight to bear witness to this deathscape.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  It was the sound; the splash, splash, splash, that started from eight in the evening, followed by a general prayer, then a prayer for each victim condemned to the deep, followed by the splash, before it repeated, engraving itself inside Howard’s mind. Now, whenever he heard the splash of cream in coffee, or the splash of food entering the kitchen’s fryer, it chilled him to the bone. Despite his years on the sea, and all he’d witnessed – and he’d witnessed more than one man’s death, some at the behest of the Captain he served, most from disease – had never prepared him to be haunted so. Last night, there’d been fifty-one splashes.