On a Cold Dark Sea(12)

Senator Smith: How many sailors were in your boat?

Mrs. McBride: Two.

Senator Smith: How would you describe their conduct?

Mrs. McBride: One of them was a very rough fellow. He waved his oar all around, and I said to him, “Why don’t you put the oar in the oarlock?” and he said, “Do you mean that hole?” He’d never held an oar in his life. He also smoked a pipe against many of the ladies’ objections. We were quite upset that our safety had been entrusted to such a man.

Senator Smith: And the other sailor?

Mrs. McBride: I had no complaint with him. He seemed quite comfortable rowing and steering, and he was properly deferential with the passengers. I had great confidence in him until the disagreements broke out.

Senator Smith: What disagreements?

Mrs. McBride: There was some confusion as to what we should do, after the ship was gone. It was not always clear who had charge of the boat.

Senator Smith: Would it not be the senior crewman?

Mrs. McBride: Yes, I suppose.

Senator Smith: What was the nature of these disagreements?

Mrs. McBride: It does not matter now. We were all quite upset. It was very dark and very cold. We did our best in trying circumstances. We survived.





ESME

Afterward, people would always ask Esme where she’d been when the ship struck the iceberg. Had she heard the impact? Did she know what had happened? She learned to deflect questions by saying she’d been in bed, asleep. The momentous event had passed her by, unnoticed.

It was partially true; she had been in bed. But she wasn’t asleep, and she wasn’t alone. When the Titanic’s starboard flank scraped against the ice, with a sound that one passenger later described as rolling over a thousand marbles, Esme was curled up next to Charlie, her arm draped over his chest, smiling as he twisted a finger through her hair.

Soon, the honeymoon would be over, and she’d be back in Philadelphia. Esme was amazed by how essential Charlie had become, in so short a time. Every thought she had meandered toward him; every breath she took in his presence restored her. She had been stockpiling sensations during their nights together, crafting memories she could draw strength from later. As the first surge of water poured through the Titanic’s hull, sealing its doom, Esme was thinking: I love him so much it hurts.

She heard a faint metallic groan, and Charlie turned his head toward the door.

“What d’you think that was?”

Esme was still floating in the haze that overtook her after giving in to Charlie’s whispered urgings. Before, she’d always put up a show of being reluctant and shy. At first, anyway. That night, with her homecoming looming ever closer, she’d flung herself against him as soon as the stateroom door was closed. She’d nuzzled his neck as he attacked the buttons of her dress, her skin prickling in anticipation of his touch. She hadn’t cared how she looked or what she did, because Charlie was the man she loved, the person who knew her best in all the world. How could something that brought them both such joy be wrong?

Esme glanced at the gold pocket watch Charlie had placed on the nightstand: 11:43 p.m. They didn’t have much time. She swept her fingertips across his lips. Charlie was elegantly attractive in his evening clothes, or when tipping his hat to ladies on the promenade deck. But the sight of him like this—cheeks flushed, his dark hair mussed, bare shoulders and chest peeking out from the sheets—made her nearly sick with longing. And it was more than simple physical attraction; Charlie was clever and witty, affectionate and kind. When he fixed his inquisitive eyes on Esme, it was because he wanted to truly know her, as no one else ever had.

Esme kissed Charlie’s cheek, hoping to draw back his attention. He absentmindedly stroked her back. Even now, after all they’d done, he didn’t take for granted that she was his; he always waited for Esme to signal when and where he could touch her. Esme pulled him toward her, and Charlie tucked the covers around their bodies, molding them together in a private cocoon. Esme knew she’d have to ask him eventually about their future, about what they’d do when the Titanic docked in New York. But with Charlie’s arms encasing her, and her heart racing, she could only kiss him, over and over, with frenetic pleasure.

The steady hum that had been a constant backdrop to the voyage suddenly stopped, leaving an eerie silence. Charlie froze.

“The engines are off.”

He pulled away and sat up. Esme heard muffled voices in the hallway. A door opening.

“Maybe they’re broken,” Esme said. “And it will take days to repair them, and we’ll have that many more evenings together. Sounds rather blissful, doesn’t it?”

“Little goat,” Charlie said affectionately. It was the nickname he’d given her the first time they kissed. “You don’t want to go home, do you?”

Esme shook her head. Thinking of home, and what it meant, brought on an overpowering despair. She didn’t trust herself to speak without crying.

Hurried footsteps thumped closer and gradually faded away. Someone else passed in the opposite direction, talking quickly. Esme thought she recognized the voice of Mr. Trumbell, the steward, though she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Charlie slid out of bed and pulled on his drawers and undershirt.

“Do you think it’s serious?” Esme asked.

“Of course not,” Charlie said, but not in a reassuring way. “You’d better get dressed, too. With all this commotion, it’s going to be harder to get to your room without being seen.”