Written by Harriet Wilde
I am an old man now, with most of
my old friends gone on before me, as well as two of my sons. I am ill—have been
for two or three years now, with heart trouble, and will not be loathe to go.
In my day, I was one of the best—not
just a merchant officer, but an officer of the White Star Line. As I soon will
be, the Line is gone now, but I remember all the same. I sailed on many ships,
but the most magnificent of all was the Titanic...once known as the Ship of
Dreams. When she went, she took from me not only the dream of one day
captaining a great ship, but, more importantly, she took Will Murdoch, my best
friend—the best friend a man could ever hope to have.
Oh, now, what is this? I'm in
water, but I can breathe and see. I am flying down into the abyss, through
thousands and thousands of feet of ink-black water, a blackness such as I have
never beheld before.
In that darkness, bioluminescent
creatures are sending out flashes of cold light—blue, green, and white—as my
passing disturbs them for a moment. Down and down I am flying, as if drawn by
instinct...which perhaps I am.
Suddenly, I can see lights ahead
in the stygian blackness, row upon row...now, closer, I see deck lights
illuminating four tall black and buff funnels. As I draw closer, I hear the
sound of engines cutting through the eternal silence of the oceanic abyss,
engines whose sound is unmistakable, engines whose sound I have longed to hear
for so long.
I am making a sweeping turn to
port, coming in over her bow, and below me is the familiar long foc'sle, the
mammoth center anchor still in its home at the point bow. As I glide over it, I
see the huge anchor chains marching aft in a double row towards their capstans.
I come in and touch down on A-Deck, marveling at how beautiful it all is...I
look down to see my old black shoes, and the legs of uniform trousers...looking
higher, I see a uniform jacket, each button gleaming like new, and just above
the lapels, I see the snowy expanse of a shirt which could only be Saville Row.
As I walk through the first class entrance, a steward opens the door, greeting
me.
My word, so many people are
here...I see Mr. Andrews, Mr. Astor...old Mr. and Mrs. Straus...the Allisons
and their little girl, Mr. Stead...good old Chief Engineer Bell and in a
cluster, old EJ, Wilde—who actually looks glad to see me—and young Mr. Moody,
all of them looking quite spiffed in their best. And a bit apart, oh, my word!
It is my dear friend William...looking as he did the day I first met him on the
Medic all those years ago...with his old mustache, his uniform looking as if it
had been tailored for him, the old silver watch fob sparkling in the light from
the chandelier.
"My God, that is you, isn't
it, Murdoch?" I see my reflection in a pane of glass and—what's this—I am
once again that young officer on Medic, no wrinkles and my head full of dark
blond hair. Not a sign of old age anywhere in sight!
"See, Lights, I told you
that you would see me again." He smiles in that wonderful way of his, his
brogue rolling over me as I remember that long ago night on the Celtic when he
told me not to grieve because I would see him again.
I am home at last and now William
is welcoming me, hugging me, slapping my back, and telling me he's been waiting
a very, very long time for me...we walk out onto the promenade toward the crew
stairs and the bridge and I know that I have all eternity ahead of me.
The End.