A ship’s hull loomed above the boat, the word Carpathia emblazoned across the front. Rose watched, rocked by the sea, her expression blank.
Seamen helped survivors up the rope ladder to the Carpathia’s gangway doors. Rose was helped up the rope ladder. As she reached the top, she collapsed absentmindedly, almost in a dreamlike state. Seamen handed her some hot tea and layered blankets on her, but she did nothing.
She was led into the first class dining saloon, where she was seated on a finely upholstered chair and draped in blankets. Rose looked around, seeing survivors just like her, some crying, some sitting expressionless, but all feeling the loss. Was Jack there?
A steward approached her, putting more hot tea in front of her. Rose did not make eye contact with him, but spoke quietly. “My husband…”
The steward bent down so he could hear her speak. This time, she looked at him, her eyes red and motionless. “Sorry, Miss. What did you say?”
“Where is my husband?”
The steward stood upright, feeling tears burn his eyes. Many women had asked him this question, but he replied just the same. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. There isn’t a full list of survivors yet. Perhaps he could be on another ship.”
With that, Rose’s eyes turned away from him to a woman lying in the corner of the room clutching her screaming child. She, too, was crying.
She felt no emotion—none. She just wanted Jack, to see his face and for him to hold her through their pain.
A tear slid down her face and she looked at the steaming tea in front of her. She still felt cold, even though she was layered in blankets. The cold she had felt last night would stay with her for the rest of her life.
Moving her hand slightly, she reached out shakily for her tea, seeing her wedding ring glitter. She felt an unbearable pain overcome her—she had to find Jack. Taking the tea in her shaking hands, she sipped a little of it, ignoring the nauseating feeling.
Outside on deck, the Titanic’s survivors were still being brought onto the ship. They were handed blankets and warm tea, coffee, or hot chocolate. Rose walked outside onto the deck, seeing the other passengers around her. She felt the same pain as they did.
“Perhaps he is on another ship!” a woman cried to an officer, who shook his head.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. We are doing all we can.”
Looking around, Rose saw that some children played, while some cried for their families. Women sat alone, awaiting news of their husbands or sons, while others sat with their families, clutching them for dear life.
Rose approached the officer slowly. “Excuse me. Is there a Mr. Jack Dawson on the list?” she asked him calmly, still clutching her tea. The officer looked at the list under D but found nothing.
“I’m so sorry, miss.”
Rose nodded her head. “How about Mr. Thomas Ryan?”
Again, the officer shook his head.
“Sharon Ryan?”
The officer checked the list again. “No, ma’am. I’m very sorry.” With that, he walked away. They were all gone except her—Tommy and Sharon, along with the baby she was carrying, and her husband, Jack. Within moments, she was on the deck in a collapsed state, her tea spilled everywhere.
*****
She awoke six hours later in a strange room, filled with strangers, in a bed. “Jack…” she called, holding out her hand, but he wasn’t there.
A doctor came into the room and smiled at her. “Good to see you awake. I’m Doctor Connelly.”
Rose stared at him blankly. “Where am I?”
She looked around the room. It was a stateroom, she knew that, obviously first class with the opulence of the room, but it wasn’t her suite.
“Mr. Beavers has kindly given up his room for you to rest until we reach New York. I understand you have had a very upsetting day, as I know from your collapse earlier.”
Rose felt her head pound.
“But miss, please eat. I urge you. Keep up your strength.” Doctor Connelly handed Rose some rice pudding on a tray.
Sitting upright in the bed, she looked at it, not feeling hungry in the slightest. She noticed her hands still shaking as she spooned up the rice pudding. “Thank you.”
“I will come back to check on you within the hour. I have to get back to the infirmary. Mr. Beavers may also check in on you.”
Rose watched as the doctor left the room. She shakily ate two mouthfuls of the pudding before bursting into tears. She was alone yet again, with no Jack. The pain was unbearable. Life without Jack was pointless. She didn’t know how she was going to live.
She prayed that another ship had picked him up or that he was aboard somewhere and had not yet put his name on the list. She made a decision right then and there to look for him. She wouldn’t rest until she had searched every part of the ship. Jumping out of bed, she pulled on the same coat Jack had helped her into the night before as they had learned the ship had hit an iceberg, and ran out of the room.
She checked every corridor. Survivors slept on blankets on the floor. A steward was settling the passengers down for the night.
“Excuse me.” She approached him. “Could you tell me if a Jack Dawson is on the list?”
Looking at Rose, he smiled very weakly and ran down the list of names. He couldn’t find anything. “No, miss.”
Nodding, Rose slumped to the floor. A blanket was already lying there, and she climbed beneath it and cried herself to sleep. Other survivors heard her pain and they, too, broke down, the harsh reality finally kicking in.
*****
Rose refused to move from the floor in the corridor until the ship docked. She had no reason to. She wished she had died with Jack and the Titanic. She couldn’t even have a funeral for him. His body was at the bottom of the Atlantic.
At the railing of the Carpathia, at nine PM on April 18, 1912, Rose gazed up at the Statue of Liberty, welcoming her home with her glowing torch. It was just how she had imagined it so clearly in her mind. But she had envisioned Jack beside her, smiling, telling her how much he loved her and that they had finally made it home—together. They could embark upon a new adventure and start a great life together…but that wasn’t to be. She was alone, in a strange city.
At the Cunard pier, Pier 54, over thirty thousand people lined the dock and filled the surrounding streets. The magnesium flashes of the photographers went off like small bombs, lighting an amazing tableau. Several hundred police kept the mob back. The dock was packed with friends and relatives, officials, ambulances, and the press. Reporters and photographers swarmed everywhere, six deep at the foot of the gangways, lining the tops of cars and trucks. They jostled to get close to the survivors, tugging on them as they passed and shouting over each other to ask them questions.
Rose was covered with a woolen shawl and walked with a group of steerage passengers. Immigration officers were asking them questions as they came off the gangway.
“Name?”
“Dawson. Rose Dawson,” she replied.
The officer steered her toward a holding area for processing. Rose walked forward with the dazed immigrants. The boom of the photographers’ magnesium flashes caused them to flinch, and the glare was blinding.
There was a sudden disturbance near her as two men burst through the cordon, running to embrace an older woman among the survivors, who cried out with joy. The reporters converged on this emotional scene, and flashes exploded. Rose used this moment to slip away into the crowd. She pushed through the jostling people, moving with purpose, and none challenged her in the confusion.
As she walked, she thought of Jack. He would want her to be all right, to continue with their adventure alone--so she would. There was no way she would let him down. Maybe it was destiny, as he always used to say. Maybe it was destiny.