SAVE ALL WHO DARE THE EAGLE’S FLIGHT
Chapter One
O Spirit, whom the Father sent
To spread across the firmament
O wind of heaven, by Thy might
Save all who dare the eagle’s flight…
December 16, 1939
I have just read the newspaper
this morning; Patrick O’Keefe died. I can’t believe it; he was only forty-nine,
a few years older than me. I remember him very well; he was an Irishman who had
been on my lifeboat. He’s the second of our boat to have died so far; the
colonel was the first. But I’m rambling. I came here to write, and there’s no
telling how much time I’ll have before I’m discovered bent over a notebook in
the attic, looking over the newspaper articles I’ve collected since 1912. My
son has no idea what I’ve gone through and my husband has made it clear that
the Titanic is not to be discussed in our household until our son is of age.
They called it the Ship of
Dreams. It certainly was the Ship of Dreams; I had nightmares about the Titanic
for years after just barely escaping in a lifeboat. I hardly ever spoke of it
after the Carpathia, and even then it was only to the survivors. My husband and
I have talked about it quietly, but we abstained from doing so ever since the
first lightning storm that brought our baby running to our room. Children tend
to leave little room for esoteric conversations.
The Titanic was and is not
something taken lightly. There are those who can recall the events of a war
they fought in or an automobile accident they were injured in easily enough. I
am not so fortunate. Some survivors have no issues with recalling all that they
saw that horrible, fateful night. Others, like myself, refuse to speak about
it. I speak of it now only because I feel that it is time I remove one last
burden before my time comes to join all my friends who perished in the icy
waters; if Patrick can die before he was fifty, who’s to say I won’t as well? I
have kept this in my heart for far too long, only allowing occasional
recollections with my husband and close friends, but now it is time to let my hand
tell the story of the longest night I have ever endured.
There were many who died that
night, many whom I had come to know and love. All of these people died because
of one chunk of ice. Because of the foolishness and arrogance of the White Star
Line and the press, which has become considerably more corrupt since 1912; they
are eager to report every battle in Europe, egging America into joining the
throng. I dedicate this memoir to the memories of all who lost their lives on
April 15, 1912, and to any survivors who might have died since then; may they
rest in peace.
Although this memoir primarily
concerns the Night to Remember, my story really starts with one man. He was the
man who, however inadvertently, led me to the Titanic. He was the first man I fell
in love with and the only one who never knew. His name was Jack Dawson.