CARPE DIEM
Chapter Sixteen
The crewmen’s staircase led up to
the E-Deck corridors to the laundry room near the storage closets. I chose that
staircase because further up, leading off the east side, E-Deck corridor was a separate
staircase running up to the boat deck on the forward starboard side. Both
staircases were unused by passengers, small and aesthetically unfinished, but
certainly the most direct way up and out of these rapidly flooding hallways.
The rate at which the water rose was astounding. I looked back down the
passageway, marking the difference between now and ten minutes before.
My attention diverted, I missed
the first step, slipped, and fell. I thrust out my hand to grab the banister,
but my reach was too short. My hand found a water-covered step instead, and I
found myself floundering in ice water.
"Goddammit!" I cried,
rising as soon as I found my footing, my breath nearly stolen from my lungs by
the frigid sting of the North Atlantic. I grasped my shoulders, hugging my
chest, attempting vainly to quell my shivering. I stepped up and out. Stepping
out of the water was momentarily relieving. The pain and aching ceased briefly.
But my dress was drenched, and the air out of the water was nearly as cold as the
water itself. I brought my hair to one side, wrung it out, grabbed the bottom
of my skirt, and tried to squeeze the water from it before climbing the stairs.
My hands ached. My legs felt weighed down by iron.
I picked this first staircase
because of the other one, no other reason, but as I entered the laundry room,
rubbing life back into my hands, brushing as much water from my skirt and
bodice as possible, I laughed and mused at my own sudden turn of fortune.
Laundry--dresses and jackets,
skirts and sweaters, chemises and blouses--in every imaginable size and fashion
surrounded me. They hung from every possible standing object, every hook on the
wall, and lay over every piece of furniture, every wash basin, wherever the
laundresses abandoned them after work earlier this evening. And oh, dear God in
heaven, the clothes were all dry.
"Small favors," I
muttered, then laughed out loud once more.
I slipped out of my day dress,
ripping the buttons that ran the length of the front as I did, grabbing a full
chemise from a brass hook on the wall as soon as I released myself from the icy
fabric. I replaced the chemise I wore. The soft, dry cotton fell against my
skin warmly, as if in mercy. My eyes fell on a deep green evening dress, layers
upon layers of silk, heavy skirt, trimmed in Belgian lace. And then a red and
black striped French day dress, chiffon, satin lined, five gored petticoat,
white as fine porcelain, peeking out from beneath. Beautiful…and so dismally
impractical.
I found a simple blue frock and a
long wool overcoat that fell to just above my knees. I pulled my hair to one
side again, tried to dry it with a cotton blouse, then discarded the blouse on
the floor by my torn dress and soaked chemise. I held the overcoat closer to my
still shaking frame, lamenting my lack of gloves, and left the laundry room.
I don’t know what I thought as I
climbed the stairs to the starboard side boat deck. I’m not sure what compelled
me up to the boat deck anyway. Thomas would not be waiting by any boat. He
would still be emptying the staterooms, ushering passengers to the upper decks.
Or elsewhere, but not on the boat deck. There was no reason. He was resolved to
his fate. The cold water had impaired my ability to think rationally. In fact,
I thought of nothing but how cold I was, held the wool coat closer still.
And then, suddenly, coming out
from the dark, silent stairwell to the boat deck, voices raised in a racket,
passengers milling about, the crowd still sparse on this side, officers running
back and forth, my brother standing no more than twenty feet from me, I forced
myself to focus. Bruce stood near Collapsible Boat C with Mr. Murdoch, Mr.
Hockley, and some other man I did not recognize. Mr. Murdoch called out for
anymore women and children, as he was evidently about to lower the boat and had
room for one more.
"Women and children? Anymore
women and children?" Mr. Murdoch was looking directly at Mr. Hockley in a
strange manner. Mr. Hockley swore and moved off with the other man, striding
down the deck at a fast pace, as if he had somewhere to be and he’d missed the
appointment. But where must one be on a sinking ship? I watched both men until
they were out of sight, perplexed.
"Miss Ismay!" Mr.
Murdoch must have said my name twice, for his words held an insistence that
said he’d called to me once before. I snapped my head back, walking over to
where both he and Bruce stood by the boat.
"Yes, Mr. Murdoch?" I
asked.
"This boat’s being launched,
Miss Ismay," he stated flatly. "I’m asking you to get in now."
"No, sir," I answered
immediately, glancing at my brother briefly, who had not met my gaze and must
have noticed me before this. At my response, he did look up, and I was shocked
by the expression I found there. He seemed relieved. But at what? That I wasn’t
boarding the lifeboat? That there was still a seat left? No. He’s your
brother, your own flesh and blood. I turned back to Mr. Murdoch. "I’m
quite resigned to remaining onboard, Mr. Murdoch. But thank you."
He nodded, apathetic to my words,
moving slightly to my right and scanning the deck for anyone else.
I was going to say something to
Bruce, but found I had nothing to say, and my compulsion to find Thomas was
returning. I began walking away.
"You made a spectacle of
yourself in the chartroom." Bruce’s voice stopped me short. I turned
slowly, clenching my left fist at the accusation.
"What?" I asked.
"Thomas Andrews is a married
man, Mary Catherine. Do you think no one notices? Well, he made it clear this
time. Said it blatantly, didn’t he? In front of every officer on this
ship." His face contorted with disapproval, he spit out each word as if in
bad taste.
"What are you talking
about?" I demanded, coming forward. I stood directly in front of him now.
Mr. Murdoch stepped around me, shouting to Mr. Lowe further down the deck,
asking him if he had any other women and children in need of a seat on a boat.
His voice sounded distant, as if Bruce and I stood in the front parlor of the
house in London and Mr. Murdoch was mere street noise in the background. A
vendor selling fish, a newspaper boy calling out headlines.
"You have nerve, don’t you?
Ready to tarnish the Ismay name beyond repair, without a thought to anyone else
but yourself! How long, Mary Catherine? How long have you been his
mistress?"
I slapped his face then, hard
across the jaw. He reeled back, surprised. Mr. Murdoch’s attention came back to
Bruce and me, stunned and more than a bit confused. The anxious passengers in
Collapsible Boat C began to gawk.
"Did you order the gates
closed on the lower decks?" I asked my question calmly, my voice steady
and deliberate. He didn’t reply, but his contemptuous expression and his
suddenly defensive stance answered well enough. I shook my head in repudiation,
though without disbelief. No, I certainly believed my brother was capable of
exactly this.
I walked away, tears burning at
the corners of my eyes and threatening to fall, the result of an absurd grief
that came of knowing that my brother, the only father I’d ever known, had no
regard for me. I held back those tears, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of
seeing them. I wiped my eyes, turned back once, faced Bruce and Mr. Murdoch,
smiled at Bruce facetiously, shrugged my shoulders, and said, "Why don’t
you just ask Mr. Murdoch to give you a hand into the boat, Bruce, instead of
waiting around for your chance to jump in unnoticed?"
He blanched and I blew a satiric
kiss, then turned and continued toward the aft of the ship.