On a Cold Dark Sea(67)
“We should go,” Charlie says.
His decisiveness spurs the sailor into action. He and Charlie had both taken up oars to row free of the ship, but they’d made little progress and stopped completely when they saw the girl in their path. Now, the sailor cuts the rope binding the rest of the oars and hands one to the bearded, sour-faced crewman in the back, whose clothes are grimy with soot from the engine rooms.
“Mr. Wells, is it?” Mr. Healy asks.
The fireman nods.
“Able Seaman Edmund Healy. We’ll turn her around at the bow.”
Mr. Wells takes the oar and dangles it from his hands, testing out its weight. He points the paddle away from the boat and down, and it splashes ineffectually at the surface of the water.
“What are you doing?” one of the three matrons snaps.
“Saving our lives,” Mr. Wells shoots back.
“Have you ever rowed before?” Her voice is a mix of sharp British consonants and broad American vowels, an accent widespread among well-traveled, well-funded society women. “You must put it in the oarlock, to hold it in place.”
With a gruff exhale, Mr. Wells slides the handle into position. “Never held an oar before in my life,” he says, boastful of his inexperience, and the matron gives her companions a pursed-lipped look of disapproval. He doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.
“We’ll need someone to steer,” Mr. Healy says, looking doubtfully at his prospects. The old woman will be no use; neither will the fretful mother. The pretty young woman in the middle might do—she’d impressed him with her steely self-assurance when she stepped into the boat—but she’s busy tending to the girl they’ve just rescued. Mr. Healy’s eyes meet those of a middle-aged woman with broad shoulders and the unruffled composure of a longtime headmistress.
“I’m from Portsmouth,” she says. “I know a bit about sailing.”
Just as he’d hoped: no fuss and no dithering. Mr. Healy takes her hand and escorts her to the triangular bench that fills the rear tip of the boat. The woman grabs the wooden tiller and pushes it from side to side, testing the movement of the rudder below. When she nods in satisfaction, Mr. Healy gingerly winds his way back to the middle of the boat.
Sitting on the front bench of the boat, Charlie secures his oar, his movements forcing Esme to shift away. Her right arm and leg press against Sabine, and though it’s awkward to be so close to one’s maid, Esme pretends she doesn’t mind. They’re all in this together, and she must set a good example.
Behind Sabine, Mr. Healy begins rowing. The bow jerks unsteadily. Mr. Healy looks back toward the woman at the tiller—she gives him a “Don’t blame me” shrug—then sees Mr. Wells’s oar hanging limply from its lock, while Mr. Wells rubs his hands with exaggerated vigor. Two minutes in, and the man’s already shirking his duty. Mr. Healy, flustered by the weight of command, says nothing. If all these lives are in his hands—an unbearable, unwanted responsibility—he can’t afford to provoke the other men. He needs them too much.
A few feet from Mr. Healy, Charlotte is kneeling by Anna. Water has pooled from the girl’s soaked dress, and Charlotte feels it sink into her skirt and chill her legs.
“Don’t worry,” Charlotte says. She reaches around Anna’s back and pats her shoulder, tentatively at first, then more firmly when Anna doesn’t resist. “You’re safe.”
Anna doesn’t understand what Charlotte is saying, but she recognizes the voice as a kind one. She can’t stop shivering. Even if Anna herself has lost the will to keep fighting, her muscles are determined to shake her back to life.
The girl must be freezing, Charlotte thinks, in such a thin dress. And only a shawl around her shoulders, thoroughly drenched and likely to freeze solid. Charlotte takes off Reg’s coat and wraps it around Anna. Then she pulls Anna up onto the bench, rubbing her hands to warm them.
Anna is only dimly aware of Charlotte’s efforts. Her mind is struggling to make sense of what has happened. She was on the deck with Emil and Sonja; then they were in the water. Is Sonja dead? Even thinking it feels like a sin, as if Anna were wishing it true. Emil was swimming right behind her, but he isn’t here, which can only mean they will pull him in next. She can see the sailor, the one who appears to be in charge, looking out, searching.
Mr. Healy holds up his lantern. Its glow is stubbornly faint, despite his attempts to strengthen the flame, and the moonlight isn’t strong enough to illuminate the turmoil around them. “Where’s he gone?” he calls out.
“Who?” the old woman asks, bewildered.
“There was a man, near the girl we rescued,” Esme tells the old woman. “We’re trying to find him.”
Charlie’s expression is intent as his eyes survey the darkness. “He was close.”
Mr. Wells thrusts his oar down with an angry shove, splashing the matrons in the back. They glare at him furiously, displaying the same expression in triplicate. Esme is pleased to see that the other passengers look to Charlie as much as Mr. Healy for guidance. As she shifts in her seat, she catches a glimpse of the Titanic’s back half, rising like an accusation from the sea. The monstrous image dominates the horizon, yet no one points or gasps or cries. The passengers sit straight-backed and silent, and many turn their faces away from the unfolding disaster. Anxious to show Charlie that she’s as strong as the rest, Esme gulps down her dread.