On a Cold Dark Sea(77)
Mr. Healy tries to stop her. “Don’t, please . . .”
“One man.” A man who might have been Reg. Forgive me, Reg. Forgive me for not saying goodbye. “He was someone’s son or brother or father. He meant nothing to you, but he may have meant the world to someone else.”
Esme begins to weep. It wasn’t Hiram in the water; she’s almost completely sure. But she can’t help thinking of him standing on the deck, ready to meet his fate without a word of complaint. Poor old loyal Hiram. She never loved him, not like she loves Charlie, but it seemed a sorry end for such a decent man. It’s wrong to be thinking of the future already, when Hiram might possibly still be alive, but if he is dead, and she does end up marrying Charlie, Esme believes Hiram would understand. He always wanted her to be happy, didn’t he? She likes to think of him watching over her, like a guardian angel.
“We’ll be all right, won’t we?” Esme whispers to Charlie.
He doesn’t answer. At first, Esme feels slighted by his inattentiveness, until she realizes he is searching for signs of the other lifeboats. How like Charlie, to keep up hope when everyone else is sulking! Of course they’ll be all right; she doesn’t need to hear him say it. They’re together, aren’t they? Only a few hours ago, Esme was mourning their inevitable parting, convinced she was about to lose the love of her life. Yet here they are, side by side. Charlie followed her into the boat, and he has held her hand and kept her safe, just as she knew he would.
Charlotte stamps her feet. The water is up to her ankles, and she sees that Mr. Healy has noticed, too. How much time do we have left? she nearly asks, but she doesn’t want to frighten the others. Neither does he, from the beseeching look he gives her. Their earlier rapport has been replaced by wary tension. Mr. Healy is watching her, afraid of what she might do or say. Charlotte has always been quick to act and speak her mind, qualities she used to think of as virtues. But her impulsiveness has pushed away the one person in this boat she has any respect for, and she doesn’t know how to set it right.
“What provisions do we have?” Charlie asks.
The question is addressed to Mr. Healy, but Mr. Wells responds. “A barrel of water and a tin of hardtack.”
“How long will that last us?”
“A day or two. No more.”
With Mrs. McBride shocked into silence—for once—Mrs. Westleigh speaks on behalf of her sisters. “We’ll be rescued before then, won’t we?”
Mr. Wells shrugs. To Esme’s irritation, he appears to be enjoying himself, frightening the passengers for his own amusement. She looks pointedly at Charlie, hoping to nudge him into speaking up. When he ignores her, she whispers, “You must make him stop.”
“Why, if he’s telling the truth?”
Charlie’s curtness cuts into Esme, and her feigned bravery withers. So this is how it ends. Days and nights drifting in the north Atlantic, more than a dozen people without enough to eat. Or will the lifeboat sink before the food runs out? She looks around at the others: slumped-over Mrs. Dunning, sleepy Tommy Trelawny, glowering Mrs. McBride—and wonders what will happen when they’re forced to start rationing. Esme trusts Charlie and Mr. Healy to be fair, but not Mr. Wells, and she wouldn’t put it past those Armstrong sisters to cheat their way into an extra serving. Mrs. Trelawny will fight on behalf of her children, and Nurse Braxton on behalf of Mrs. Dunning, and before you know it, they’ll be at each other’s throats. Even the Swedish girl must be stronger than she looks if she swam through that deadly water. She’s already proven that she doesn’t give up easily.
If only Charlie didn’t look so disheartened. Charlie’s life force has always burned hotter and brighter than anyone else’s—Esme has fed off it, craved it for herself—but the events of this night have extinguished it, leaving a glassy-eyed shell. In a moment of insight that upends her, Esme understands that this is Charlie, too. The part of him she was never allowed to see. Charlie will never be a true hero, because he always follows, never leads. In the boat, his eyes caught in the moonlight, he is a statue: beautiful but helpless.
Well, if it comes to it, Esme will fight for both of them. No one in this boat will dare go up against a Van Hausen and a Harper.
Charlotte can feel the miasma of despair move over and through her fellow passengers. The darkness is receding, but the approach of a new day offers none of the hoped-for consolations. They are still lost, still alone. Freed from the terror of the sinking and no longer distracted by the shrieks of the dying, they must face the sobering reality that there is no promise of salvation.
Mr. Healy is rummaging in the bottom of the boat, his hands splashing in the water. He hasn’t given up, but the others watch him listlessly.
“Mr. Wells, have we any glasses?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Did they give any thought to provisions?” Mr. Healy mutters, his voice strained, as he continues to search the flooded hull. Charlotte wonders if he’s already planning to ration out the drinking water—they should wait a while longer, surely? Then she realizes he is looking for a spyglass, to spot another boat. Charlotte is moved by Mr. Healy’s dogged persistence, and the last remnants of her determination urge her to help him. She should be searching alongside him, or seeing what can be done to make the plug more secure, or rallying the others to row—to warm up, if nothing more. But Charlotte is too exhausted, and she can no longer bear to be the object of angry stares. All she can do is drift, like the boat itself, and watch as Mr. Healy makes his lone and possibly futile attempt to save them.