CARPE DIEM
Chapter Thirteen

The boat deck was crowded, finally. Passengers lined up to board the boats, speaking amongst themselves, musing aloud, commenting on the chill of the night. The noise of two or three hundred voices carried out over the water, mixing with a crisp melody, a familiar polka, the name of which I was unsurprised to find I could not recall. The cello player and three violinists had come out on deck and now played with abandon. I was disorientated by the music, could not decide whether its eerie presence was soothing or altogether jarring to the senses. I found myself judging the band leader’s choice once more, again wished he’d play Debussy, if only for a moment. Then I shook my head slightly, wondering at my own inattentiveness and fixation on silly details.

Consider that moment, wherein you find yourself the sparrow in the midst of a hurricane…or better yet, consider a half-blind woman carrying a soon-to-be motherless little boy through the crowded boat deck of a sinking ship, lamenting the selection of music. Here is where life seems very oddly constructed indeed.

I remember, as my mother faded from this world, on the day before the night she died, she informed me that she rather preferred to die on green pillowcases, if it wasn’t too much trouble? The pale blue ones on which her head lay were distressing, not at all a pleasant color.

Oh, and if you would, Mary Catherine, bring me my lace shawl as well. The one from the Mediterranean. I always said I’d be buried in that shawl. And mark my words, Mary Catherine, I die this night. Mark my words.

Oh, I certainly did not doubt anything she said in that hour or so before drifting off to sleep forever. She knew my name for the first time in years, after all, spoke in lucid tones I had not heard since my father’s death, even if she was directing that lucidity in absurd directions. Perhaps this was the natural way of endings. When all hope was lost, when the resolution was clear, why not turn attention on frivolous things, no less controllable for their frivolity?

Then again, my mother was crazy, and perhaps this was all nonsense.

I pushed my way through a gathering of men and women near lifeboat number six and would have stopped there had I not observed Captain Smith off by himself further ahead, standing near the railing and gazing seaward. I approached, shifting the little boy in my arms to free my right hand, then reached forward and touched his arm lightly, just above the elbow. He turned to me.

"Captain, you—" I stopped abruptly, but I don’t think Edward Smith noticed. He had the expression of a lost soul drifting down the River Styx, the blanched features of a man lacking consolation.

"Not one ship in fifty miles, Miss Ismay…no one’s coming to save us." His whisper was bluntly stated, but barely audible. The little boy in my arms was holding a large portion of my hair, and when the captain said those words, in that somber tone, the little boy grasped my hair tighter and unconsciously pulled it hard. I slapped his little hands away lightly, insistently, though not unkindly.

"Oh, you mustn’t say that," I replied firmly, suddenly very sure that the good captain had given up, had succumbed to the workings of fate in an entirely dangerous manner. "Never that, sir…not while you have men and women who believe otherwise."

He took my arm, held it too tightly, saying, "They’re all going to die, Mary Catherine!"

I recoiled from his touch, bade him keep his voice lower, remove that blighted speech from his tongue. His manner bordered on hysteria, and I would not be swept up into it. Would not, I promised myself as I straightened up and shifted the little boy in my arms once more.

A young couple stood near enough to see our exchange, though evidently not near enough to hear it. The young man, awkwardly helping the young woman into her lifebelt, paused in his ministrations and cast a glance towards us. But he said nothing, seemed undisturbed by any apparent misunderstanding between Edward Smith and myself. I sighed.

"You would do well to remember that you are captain here," I continued in the same way as before, with determination. His idleness of thought and hand were not appropriate, not for the captain of this ship. Easy enough, but inappropriate. For God’s sake, we are English! I wanted to shout. I shook my head, added, "Good night, sir," and then turned from him, left him by the deck railing in his despair and bereavement, the sight of which I could stand no longer.

"We will retain dignity," I muttered to myself convincingly. The little boy in my arms echoed me softly. Surprised by his voice, I glanced down at him, dirty little urchin from South Wales or some other near place--I found it odd that I had not recognized his accent earlier since I now heard it distinctively, even when he spoke quietly--and, meeting his dark brown eyes, that wise look well beyond his years, I could not help but think, once more, that he could easily be the son of Thomas Andrews.

"What’s it mean, lady?" He was asking either about retain or dignity, or perhaps both together. It means Mary Catherine Ismay is a fool, I answered in my head automatically. But to the little boy I responded more acceptably.

"It means no more tears now. Tears never help anyway, do they?" He shook his head from side to side, wiping his tear-stained cheeks clean. I smiled at his set expression, wishing I might see this little boy grow into a man.

"Mary, honey! What’re you doin’?" Molly Brown’s unmistakable voice rang out over the boat deck. I looked up, saw her helping Mrs. DeWitt Bukater into lifeboat number six, which had yet to be lowered. The officers were not moving fast enough.

I walked over to Mrs. Brown, handed the boy in my arms to her without explanation. She took him without question. The little Welsh boy clung to me momentarily, afraid, but by speaking tokens of encouragement, I convinced him to stay with Molly Brown, who regarded me with a measured look of sudden comprehension and…pity.

"He’d want you to get in a boat," she stated flatly, knowing that I’d pay her words no heed. I shook my head slowly, deliberately, as I pushed the fisherman’s cap back on the little Welsh boy’s head, out of his eyes.

"Good luck, Mrs. Brown," I replied with finality, leaving her presence without another word, with not one glance backward. My remaining hesitation had ended. I had condemned myself in one breath, cast myself upon the mercy of God and all things holy.

Chapter Fourteen
Stories