On a Cold Dark Sea(70)

“Mrs. Evers,” Charlotte corrects her.

“Beg your pardon.” The woman takes a deep breath, the sort of ostentatious gesture one makes before delivering a speech at a charity luncheon or reproving a servant. “I am Mrs. William McBride. These are my sisters, Mrs. Westleigh and Miss Armstrong.”

Charlotte judges them to be in their forties or fifties, their faces variations on a theme. Round cheeks, high foreheads, lips that curve naturally downward. All are stocky from years of easy living and the labor of good cooks.

“The Armstrongs of Baltimore?” Mrs. Dunning asks.

“Yes.” Mrs. McBride nods with affable pride. “I don’t believe we made your acquaintance on board?”

“The fault is mine,” Mrs. Dunning says. “I took meals in my stateroom. I had the pleasure of meeting Porter Armstrong many years ago. Is he a relation?”

“Our father,” Mrs. Westleigh says.

“Fancy that,” says Mrs. Dunning. “We met at Westport, the summer I came out. He was one of the most dashing men of my season. Had no end of admirers.”

The sisters titter like girls at a coming-out dance, and Anna doesn’t understand why the ladies in the back of the boat are smiling. It’s as if they don’t realize the world is collapsing around them. Is that what it means to be rich? To never be afraid?

Esme has heard of the Armstrongs. Not quite high society, but gobs of money. Mrs. McBride, who has taken on the role of official mouthpiece, is explaining that the sisters travel abroad each spring. Last year it was Egypt; this year, they’d taken painting lessons in Florence.

“We end each holiday with a few days in London, at the Savoy,” Mrs. McBride explains. “A welcome return to civilization. One can only take so much foreignness, don’t you find?”

The boat makes a sudden shift to the right. Nurse Braxton has swung the tiller too hard, at the same moment that Mr. Healy has paused to stretch his cramped hands. The view has now shifted, and Sabine gasps. Mrs. Trelawny lets out a short, anguished cry, and Charlie’s oar drops to his lap. The passengers of Lifeboat 21 watch in silent horror as the very tip of the Titanic’s stern shifts and settles and sinks, disappearing into the inky water.

“What time do you make it?” Mr. Wells calls out to Mr. Healy.

Mr. Healy holds his pocket watch next to the flickering lantern. “Two-twenty.”

Mr. Wells exhales with a loud puff. “That’s the last of our wages, then.” In response to a stare from Mrs. McBride, he says, “They stop our pay as soon as the ship goes down.”

There is no whirlpool, no suction. The ship is simply gone. Out of the darkness, a rumble gathers and grows, expanding into a monstrous roar of anguish and grief. Hundreds of desperate voices moan and scream, begging for salvation, and the passengers of Lifeboat 21 listen in silent shock. Titanic survivors will describe the sound differently in the coming days and weeks: one will compare it to locusts on a summer night, another to the cheers at a baseball field when the home team hits in a run. None of them will ever forget it.

It is impossible to see the people in the water. Mr. Healy relights the lantern, but the flame remains tentative. All Charlotte can make out are a few specks of white—life belts, she presumes—amid a jumble of wreckage. The nightmarish howling pummels her, each cry a blow directed at her chest and heart.

“What’s going on?” Esme asks, even though she knows. She simply can’t believe it’s possible. There were no crowds on the deck when she boarded the lifeboat; she’d assumed most of the other passengers had already left. Where have all these people come from?

“The orders were quite clear,” Mrs. McBride says. “We were all told to report to the boat deck.” Implying that she’d done her duty, and the drowning have only themselves to blame for dawdling.

Mr. Healy holds up the lantern. To Charlotte, a few feet away, his face looks sickly. “There weren’t enough lifeboats,” he says.

“They said another ship was coming,” Mrs. Trelawny says. “For the men.”

Mr. Healy decides not to respond. She can see for herself that it never did.

Charlotte looks at Mrs. Trelawny’s pale but stoic face. She is putting on a brave front for the children, Charlotte supposes, but she must be thinking of her husband. He could be out there right now, fighting for his life. Mrs. Harper’s husband, as well, and Georgie and Reg. The captain and the officers and the stewards and engine-room laborers—all those men who did their duty and went down with the ship. It sounds like a noble sort of death, but it isn’t: it’s loud and painful and terrifying. No one surrenders to the water without a fight. Through the din, Charlotte hears a high-pitched shriek that she’s convinced is female. There are women out there, too. Good God, she thinks, there might even be children.

Charlotte turns to Mr. Healy, who is staring into the tumultuous void. The dim moonlight illuminates only the shapes and gestures of those still clinging to life. His quiet, dignified strength gives Charlotte hope. He is the consummate British sailor, the spiritual descendant of Sir Francis Drake and Lord Nelson, a man as much at ease on water as on land. He will know what to do.

“We must help them,” he says.

Mr. Wells speaks up, adamant. “I’m not going back there.”

“It’s Mr. Healy’s decision, isn’t it?” Charlotte demands.