SAVE ALL WHO DARE THE EAGLE’S FLIGHT
Chapter Thirteen

Dinner was a quiet affair that evening. Well, quieter than normal, in any case. Jack never showed up—I suppose that he and Rose were having a nice long chat and were unlikely to part anytime soon. I vaguely wondered if Rose would be joining us again this evening. Timmy and Nora were also absent because they were still not feeling well; Kathleen reported that they were a bit peaked and that she would bring some dinner to them.

"Are they sick?" I asked; seasickness was not an unlikely possibility.

"I don’t think so," Kathleen said slowly. "They don’t feel warm, and they were well enough to sit up and play fer an hour or so earlier this afternoon. I think the excitement of the ship is catching up with them at last."

"I think it’s catching up with all of us," said Bert, stifling a yawn. "I’ll tell you one thing. I’m going to bed nice and early tonight!"

A ripple of assent ran down the table—many shared that sentiment. I was relieved to hear that I was not the only one who felt so fatigued; staying up late to drink and dance for the past few nights was catching up with me and starting to take its toll. I wouldn’t feel guilty about retiring early, not if everyone else was doing it. I was ready to skip the party and go straight to bed until Eugene plunked himself in his corner and the other musicians joined in and they struck up a light ditty to warm up. I was lost then; the call of the music beckoned, and I had to answer.

I had been afraid that not many people would dance due to the lassitude that had hung over us at dinner, but the music worked its magic. Heads raised, worn faces smiled, feet tapped, and the quiet rumbling of the dinner conversation turned into shouts and laughter. I knew that I couldn’t skip the party for bed even if I really wanted to; the music ensnared me and I was powerless to escape it. It’s not something you can explain easily, this magnetic pull, but the best way to describe it is like the effect the smell of delicious food has on your stomach: it makes you yearn for it and it’s nearly impossible to get it out of your mind until you’ve been sated.

Even without Jack, I managed to have as good a time as I always had. I surrendered to the need to move my feet and I found myself begging the Gundersons and Tommy to dance. Helga, being the kind soul she was, even encouraged Fabrizio to dance with me a few times. Or at least, I assume she was encouraging him; I still hadn’t managed to learn a lick of Norwegian. There were more trains tonight, more people joining hands and winding around the room like snakes until we ended up in a circle where we presented our dancing prowess.

Bjorn taught me how to do a Swedish polska that night, a dance done in the escort position that mainly consists of walking fancily, as many of the lads called it. I can’t say whether or not I was good at it, because I couldn’t understand Swedish and even if I had been awful at it, no one would have remarked upon it. That was one of the things I could never get over about the Titanic; there was this amazing spirit of camaraderie on the dance floor. You could run right into someone and bowl them over, and as long as you apologized, they waved it off. Sometimes they even seemed to love you for it.

After I had gotten the hang of it (or so I think; I looked like the other couples who were dancing to the polska), Bjorn showed me a variation on it where the man puts his arm around the woman’s shoulders and she holds his left hand with her left and his right with her right. I had seen many couples perform it before, most of them being Scandinavian, and I had always assumed that it was a very intimate dance for couples who had been courting awhile. I soon found out that the dance wasn’t nearly as intimate as I had thought; having Bjorn’s arm around me wasn’t romantic in the slightest in this dance that wasn’t really a dance.

Naturally, I had to get Olaus to try it with me as well, and I even managed to convince Tommy to do it (I wasn’t about to let Helga see me with Fabrizio’s arm around my shoulders; the dance may have been innocent, but it could certainly look intimate). Getting Tommy to dance with me was always a magnificent victory.

"Where do you think Jack is?" I asked Tommy after having pulled him onto the floor and securing his arm around my shoulders.

"Angie, just forget him," Tommy growled, rolling his eyes.

"But I can’t," I protested, feeling foolish even as I did so. I was glad I wasn’t facing him, because it made it easier to look away. "I just…you don’t know what it’s like, Tommy."

"What what’s like? Mopin’ after a lad who’ll never see yeh the way yeh see him?"

I became fascinated with my shoe.

"I do know what it’s like, lass," Tommy said in a gentler tone. "When I was a lad I was head-over-heels for Maggie McCulloch. She had flaxen hair and blue eyes like gems and freckles that always put me in mind o’ the stars…" He trailed off, a sappy grin coming over his face. This was not Tommy Ryan.

"So?" I broke into his reminiscences. "What’s this Maggie got to do with Jack?"

"Well," Tommy began, looking a little annoyed that I had interrupted his thoughts. "I was a bleedin’ arse when it came ter her. If she told me ter jump offa cliff, I would’ve. The point is that I know how yeh feel, an’ no matter what anyone says, it doesn’t make yeh feel any better about it."

"Then why are you telling me this?" I asked, feeling a flicker of annoyance; that had been a completely pointless speech.

"Because sometimes it helps knowin’ that yer not the only one ter know what it feels like," Tommy said in perhaps the softest tone I had heard him use yet. I mean soft as in gentle, not as in sound; although the band had wound down due to the amount of time they had been playing, they were still pounding out music loudly.

"Well…" I hesitated. "Well, I can’t help being worried about Jack. What if Rose, you know, told him to bugger off and he threw himself off the ship or something?"

Tommy caught the levity I was attempting and grinned. "Nah, he’d do somethin’ poetic."

"But that is poetic," I argued, starting to get carried away with my imagination. "Think about it; he throws himself off of the ship that he broke his heart on. Or something like that. Plunging into the icy depths below. And of course Rose would have to be watching to complete the tragedy, because what good is it to kill yourself without someone watching helplessly?"

"I thought yeh said Jack was in a better mood after yeh talked ter him, and that Rose went ter go talk to him," Tommy pointed out.

I smiled. "Yes, love, but I also said he was quiet."

"So?"

"So, Tommy dearest, the quiet ones are always the ones planning a fantastically poetic suicide," I explained seriously. Not that I would know from experience, or anything; I’ve yet to meet someone who killed themselves. Which is actually impossible when you word it that way, now that I think on it.

"So, sometime between when yeh left Jack on the bow and now, Jack planned his suicide, told his Rose about it when she came ter talk to him, and then jumped off the RMS Titanic," Tommy said as if he were giving it serious thought.

"We’re horrible." I laughed. "Honestly, I think he’s just sulking on deck."

"Yeh don’t think he’s with Rose?"

I shook my head. "She’s engaged to be married, remember? You can’t just abandon your fiancé on a ship for someone you just barely know. I’ll bet you anything he’s just moping and doesn’t want us to see him. Shall we go bring him back?"

"We probably should," Tommy agreed. "The lad needs ter get good an’ drunk and then forget her. That’s what I would do, anyway."

"Is that how you got over Maggie?" I asked slyly.

"I was only a sprog when I was sweet on her!" Tommy exclaimed as we threaded our way through the crowd to get our coats.

"Yes, and you also told me that you drank whiskey straight from the cradle," I reminded him.

"Oh, ha, ha," he said sarcastically, pinching me on the arm. "Anyone seen Fabri?"

The Gundersons, understanding Fabri, shook their heads.

"Oh, are yeh lookin’ fer yer Italian lad?" Bertha asked us, looking up from her conversation with Maggie. "He’s over there with that Norwegian lass." She pointed over to where Fabrizio was indeed deep in what must have been a strangled conversation with Helga.

"We’ll let him be." Tommy chuckled, shrugging into his coat as I pulled on my own.

"Where are yeh goin’?" Bertha asked.

"Out fer a walk," Tommy said shortly but carefully; we both had mutually agreed not to let word of Jack’s sullenness get around. He was already suffering enough. Even if he was, in my opinion, being something of a pansy over it. I grabbed hold of Tommy’s hand so as not to lose him in the crowd, and he pulled me through the people milling about until we reached the stairwell. The cloud of smoke that hung over the dining room evaporated as we ascended the steps and I found that I was much more awake in the fresh air. It must have been too much for Tommy, however, because he promptly lit up a cigarette.

We took a rather rapid turn about the deck (it was so cold that hardly anyone was out, thus limiting our search), and as you’ve probably surmised by now, Jack was not to be found. An irrational part of me was afraid that Jack really had jumped off the ship, but the more logical side reminded me that Jack was not the sort of person to do something like that, especially given the circumstances. Jack may have been an artist, but he wasn’t as crazed as Van Gogh or something.

"Well, lass, I think it’s safe ter say that Jack…what was it? Plunged into the icy depths below?" Tommy teased as we descended, shivering, into the third class area.

"You’re awful," I gasped, hitting him lightly on the arm. I put the back of my hand over my mouth to stifle my huge yawn. Since the evening was winding down and I hadn’t been dancing for a bit, my fatigue was finally catching up with me and I knew that I needed to sleep before I passed out at the table.

"Tired?"

I nodded. "Exhausted. I’m going to bed. You?"

"Aye." Tommy nodded as well. "I’ll need ter sleep before I get ter the States." He paused for a moment. "What exactly is America like, Angie?"

I smiled. "Too much for me to talk about right now. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, I promise. Right now, I’m gonna find the Cartmells and go to bed."

"Are yeh that tired? I didn’t know me own strength," Tommy quipped, his eyes twinkling.

"Keep it up, Ryan, and I’ll make you sorry for it!" I warned.

"Oh, what’re yeh gonna do, whine at me?"

I made an indignant noise that only fueled him to laugh. After weaving around the various dancers and waving off people who wanted to know why I was in a coat or could I get them a beer while I was up and why wasn’t I dancing and had I seen so-and-so, I finally found the Cartmells at their table. Cora was fast asleep on Bert’s lap, her head against his shoulder, and he was blinking blearily at the dancers, a tired smile on his face. Emmy was talking to Maggie and Bertha, all three of whom looked as if a good night’s sleep would do them some good.

"Oh, there you are, Angie," Bert noted as I drew closer. "And all wrapped up in your coat, too!"

"Tommy and I went up on deck to look for Jack," I explained, taking a swig of an unattended beer.

"Oh? Did you find him?" Bert asked, shifting Cora on his lap.

I shook my head. "No. But it’s a ship; there are only so many places he could have disappeared to. Especially considering we lovely steerage folk don’t have as many places to go to as the other classes."

"True, true," Bert acknowledged. "Well, are you ready to head off to bed? Or would you rather stay here? I’m trying to get to bed meself, once I can get Emmy away from Mrs. Daly and Miss Mulvihill."

"Oh, no, I’m more than ready," I assured him.

Bert reached over and tapped Emmy’s shoulder. She finished up her sentence to Maggie and Bertha and then turned to her husband.

"Love, we’re all ready to go to bed, and we’re waiting on you," Bert said patiently.

"Oh, well, best be off, then," Emmy said, sounding slightly flustered. Bert gathered Cora into his arms and led the way to the cabin.

"What’re you all trussed up for?" Emmy asked me, indicating my coat.

"Tommy and I went up on deck to see if we could find Jack," I explained a second time.

"And?" Emmy prompted.

"No such luck." I sighed. "But at least we know he can’t have simply disappeared. He’ll probably show up at breakfast tomorrow explaining how he found his way into the boiler room or the cargo hold or something."

Emmy laughed. "Your imagination, Angie! Only the officers and the crewmembers know how to get there."

"Oh, it’s not so unlikely," I protested. "I’ve been on a fair share of tramp steamers, and Jack figured out how to get to the boiler room to warm up sometimes or hide something in the cargo hold."

"Yes, but those were tramp steamers," Emmy reminded me. "This is the RMS Titanic, the Ship of Dreams! It’s the largest ship in the world, and this time, Jack is not in its employ. He’d have a time finding his way around!"

"You have a point," I conceded. And she did; it was trouble enough navigating one’s way around the third class areas—imagine the whole ship. Eugene had it from one of the second class band members that the White Star Line had intentionally built the ship so that any areas reserved solely for crewmembers were as difficult to find as possible, save the bridge and the crow’s nest, of course, which were necessities. It almost gave the ship the illusion of being unmanned, as if no mere mortal could control it. It was an intriguing thought, of course, but it was also a somewhat uneasy one if you think about it.

Bert, ever the gentleman, took his things and went to change in the latrine down the hall while we girls changed in the cabin. Bert didn’t return until we had settled into our bunks; obviously, there had been a long wait. Sleep came easily that night. Later on that night, I would hate myself for not being awake; it would have given us more time to get ready and a better chance of getting to safety. Now, however, I’m glad I did sleep so well for a couple of hours or so; I would need every second of that sleep later on.

Nothing was unusual about that night for us; we fell into our routine as usual. I imagined the day ahead of me, possibly the last full day at sea, for there had been rumors that we would make port on Tuesday night. And to tell the truth…I had hoped we would. Oh, I loved the Titanic and all; everyone did. It truly was the grandest ship in the world; I have yet to see its rival in any aspect and I pray the day never comes when they boast of a ship that is better than the Titanic—I fear I know how its end will come. But the fact of the matter was that I was somewhat eager to get to America, and by God, I have never forgiven myself for it. I realize that it’s foolish, feeling guilty for such a thing when I had no idea the Titanic would never bring us to America, but I can’t help feeling as if I betrayed her somehow.

I know that what I’m saying probably makes no sense at all, but there really is no simple way to describe what I am trying to say. Many people hate the Titanic; I, among others, lament her. She was a work of beauty; no model or even a genuine photograph can ever compare to her splendor and magnificence. One felt awed merely by looking at her. In my mind, she was misused; she was used to serve the wealthy and no one seemed to spare a thought for her safety. She was more than just a ship. Call me foolish if you will, but that is how I felt and how I will always feel.

Chapter Fourteen
Stories