On a Cold Dark Sea
Elizabeth Blackwell
PROLOGUE
April 15, 1912
Captain Rostron ordered rope set out by the deck chairs to restrain anyone driven mad by the disaster. But the crew of the Carpathia also busied themselves with more mundane preparations: gathering spare pillows and blankets, heating up soup, and brewing tea. Dr. McGee bustled back and forth from the medical bay, laying in supplies for an unknown number of patients. A few light-sleeping passengers poked their heads out of staterooms and asked why the engines were going so loud. The captain had insisted they not be told. No use in starting a panic.
They’d all find out soon enough.
In those frantic hours before dawn, it didn’t feel quite real. The Titanic sending out distress signals? Loading her lifeboats? There wasn’t anything heroic about the poky Carpathia, yet the Mediterranean-bound liner was now speeding to the rescue, more than fifty miles off course. Lookouts stationed on the bow scanned the treacherous obstacle course before them, cheeks stiffened by the arctic air. Chunks of ice dotted the water in shades of white and blue, an awe-inspiring sight to anyone not trying to steer through them.
The sky was softening from black to gray when one of the officers saw the first lifeboat. A gangway door was opened and ladders hung down for those strong enough to climb; the others would be lifted up in slings. The lifeboats were undermanned, and the Carpathia’s officers were cautious, making each approach and unloading a drawn-out affair. In all, it took four hours to unload the boats, each filled with a ragtag assortment of millionaires and immigrants, some in hats and fur coats, others in what looked like nightclothes. The only thing they had in common were the life belts fastened around their chests.
And then, when the Carpathia’s deck was crowded with stunned passengers and exhausted survivors, one last lifeboat emerged from the sea’s icy camouflage. Weaving erratically, it made pitifully slow progress as the bent figures at its oars struggled to bring it flush with the Carpathia’s side. Three stout American women climbed up the ladder first—clearly sisters, by their family resemblance. A twitchy-faced British woman clutched the hands of two small children and looked relieved at a steward’s offer of tea. An elderly lady, assisted by her nurse, had to be pulled up in the sling; she was the only one who managed a smile.
When the officer in charge turned to greet the next passenger, his heart sank. The creature standing before him looked like a character from a fairy tale, a frost maiden carved from snow. Her dark-blonde hair was frozen in icicles around her homely face, which showed no emotion at all. A man’s coat hung limply off her slender frame. The officer asked the girl her name, and she stared at him, bewildered. He looked at the girl’s homespun dress and patched stockings. Lord have mercy, she wasn’t even wearing shoes. Third class. And a foreigner.
“Votre nom?” the officer asked, trying French. Then, adopting the time-honored English strategy of speaking louder in order to be understood, “Your name!”
The girl stared at the officer, who found the blankness of her features unsettling. “Anna Halversson,” she said.
The officer steered the girl toward a steward and whispered, “Find that boy Olaf, in the kitchens. We’ll need a translator.”
When the officer returned to his position, the next three passengers were already aboard, and for the rest of his life, the pitiful tableau they formed was the first image that sprang to mind when he thought of the Titanic. The handsome young man in his evening dress, eyes haunted, one hand pressed protectively against his companion’s back. There was a girl hovering nervously behind them—a maid, by her cowed bearing and black dress. And then there was the lady, swathed in a fur coat over a shimmering green gown, a vision of ruined elegance. She looked done in, her thick auburn hair cascading in a tangle over one shoulder, a dull burgundy gash blighting her cheek. Yet there was a nobility to her suffering. She was young, the officer realized, younger than she appeared at first. Too young to have learned that the world can inflict harsh blows on even the most charmed lives.
“Your name?” the officer asked, his manner markedly more respectful than it had been toward the third-class girl.
“Mrs. Hiram Harper,” the beauty replied. The officer was surprised to hear the flat American tone; he’d assumed by the woman’s bearing that she was English.
“Charles Van Hausen,” the gentleman said.
So, not her husband, as the officer had assumed. He jotted down “and maid” after Mrs. Harper’s name, and nodded dismissively at the girl in black. Proper names were not required for servants. He directed the passengers to the first-class steward waiting to escort them further, then turned to see a young woman staring at him with disconcerting directness. Quite lovely, he couldn’t help but note, though her disheveled hair and white-cold skin gave her an eerie wildness that distracted somewhat from her beauty. She couldn’t be past her early twenties.
The officer asked for her name, yet she kept staring, as if the question were beyond comprehension. She didn’t look like a foreigner; she was quite respectably dressed, though most likely second class rather than first.
The officer repeated the question. This time, he saw her struggle to respond. It must have been the shock. It left some people quite unable to speak.
“Charlotte Evers,” she managed at last. Her voice was more refined than her clothes: British, well bred. “Mrs. Reginald Evers.”