On a Cold Dark Sea(74)

Anna leaps up and shouts for everyone to look. She knows they won’t understand what she’s saying—“He’s alive! My friend! Hurry!”—but her outburst catches the other passengers’ attention, and they follow where she’s pointing.

It’s not Hiram, thinks Esme. But she can’t be absolutely sure, because she can’t bear to look at the figure in the water. She had managed to distance herself, somewhat, from all those upsetting screams when the ship sank. They had melded into an indecipherable wail that didn’t even sound human. It’s different, seeing an actual person out there, his arms flailing like a baby bird’s wings. Dread sinks over Esme like a net, holding her tight. They must save the man, of course they must. But what will she do if it’s Hiram? It can’t be, can it?

If only the Swedish girl would stop shrieking.

Charlotte stamps her feet, from frustration as much as the cold. Her toes are stinging with pain, and when she looks down, she sees they are submerged in water. Her mind notes the sight as odd; surely it wasn’t that wet when she crouched down to help Anna? But she is too preoccupied with the impending rescue to consider the implications.

Mr. Healy rummages around at the front of the boat. When he stands, he is holding the line of rope that lashed the oars together. He ties one end into a large loop and announces, “I’ll pull him in.”

Charlotte feels a surge of relief that her trust in him has been vindicated. Of all the people in this boat, he’s the only one smart enough to know what needs to be done and brave enough to do it. The man is floating only a few yards away, and Mr. Healy throws out the line with a sharp flick of his wrist. It lands inches from the man, and the passengers watch as he laboriously slides a hand toward it.

For Anna, the scene unfolds with agonizing sluggishness. The man in the life belt manages to reach the rope, but his hands are so frozen as to be nearly useless. It takes three tries before he can keep hold of it, then countless stops and starts as he pulls it over his head, his arms rigid as a tin soldier’s. By the time he shifts the loop around his chest, Anna has curled her hands into tight balls and pressed them into her thighs. Why won’t he look up so she can see him? The man’s hair is dark, darker than Emil’s. But it is night, and she remembers Emil stepping out from the lake after an evening swim. His hair never looked blond when it was wet. There is still hope.

Mr. Healy tugs on the rope, and the boat jerks. An ominous swish of water cuts through the silence.

One of the Armstrong sisters lets out a gentle “Ooh!” Then all three of the sisters are shifting in their seats, making splashes with their boots. Mr. Healy pulls again, and the water in the bottom of the boat shifts from side to side in rippling waves.

“Hold on!” Mr. Wells shouts. The gruff command makes them all start, and Mr. Healy turns around. “We’re taking in water!” Mr. Wells says. He has cast aside his previous indifference, and his face pulses with agitation. “There’s a leak.”

“Check the hull,” Mr. Healy tells him, the rope still in his hand but hanging limply. He looks down toward his feet, then around the edges of the boat. To the passengers, he says, “Look around you. Tell me if you see water coming in.”

The passengers lean over and begin searching. The boards are solid and tight-fitting; there are no cracks or holes, no trickles or sprays.

Mr. Healy would pace the whole boat if he could, inspecting every inch. But there’s no time, and he has to move slowly, to keep her on an even keel. He is baffled, but can’t let his worry show. Frantically, he tries to calculate how quickly the boat will fill up, given the time they’ve been in the water and how much has already seeped in. He has to know how many hours they have left, but he’s so tired, and everyone is staring, and his muddled brain can’t work out the numbers. He looks at the passengers, who wordlessly stare back, expecting him to deliver salvation.

Fools.

Then Mr. Healy remembers. Sharply, he asks, “The plug, Mr. Wells?”

“I put it in . . .”

“Check it.”

Esme gives Charlie a questioning look.

“There’s a hole in the bottom,” Charlie explains. “For rainwater to drain out when the boat was stored on deck. That sailor put a plug in it as we were being lowered down.”

“It’s broken?”

“I don’t know. But there shouldn’t be this much water. Something’s wrong.”

Esme’s own fear is fueled by Charlie’s worry. There’s a leak in their boat, and they’re alone in the ocean. Hiram had told her, before they even left New York, that sailing was safer than ever, thanks to the wireless. Even if a ship did go down, there was plenty of time to radio others for help. She had put all her faith in a rescue ship that never arrived.

Or maybe it had. Maybe it found the other lifeboats and left without them.

Mr. Wells is kneeling at Mrs. Dunning’s feet; she and Nurse Braxton have pressed against each other to make room. Mrs. Trelawny hasn’t released her hold on Tommy and Eva, but the boy leans over his mother’s arm to watch. Mr. Wells sticks his hand in the water, which comes halfway up his forearm. He prods around, his face a concentrated grimace, then stands.

“Must be a crack,” he says. “Can’t see any other way the water’s getting in here.”

“Or the plug was placed wrong.” Mr. Healy’s voice is frosty.