THE SHIP OF DREAMS
Chapter Twenty-Nine

Coddie Anna stormed into her stateroom, furious at the situation that had just occurred. She checked her face in her vanity mirror, and found her right eye quickly turning black and blue from where she’d been punched. She swore under her breath, practically throwing herself into her seat. She removed her high heels, tossing them across the room, and was about to tear the necklace from her throat. Her fingers had barely reached the string of pearls when she remembered that it had been a gift to her from her father.

She massaged her neck, reaching up eventually to remove the clip from her hair, and shook her curls until they hung loosely around her shoulders. How dare her mother invite those horrid bohemians to the party when she knew it was against ship regulations?

Coddie Anna stared at her reflection in silence for a good while, breathing heavily. She loathed Jack Dawson, hating him for what he was doing to her mother. She didn’t care that he’d saved her mother’s life. He truly should have just accepted the invitation to dinner and been done with the whole affair, but of course not. That was not enough for him. He was turning their lives upside down, and she refused to let that continue.

Coddie Anna eventually stood, walking over to her trunk, and began rummaging through her things. She eventually found the diary she’d started two days before, and removed the worn photograph of her father. The picture showed him in a suit and tie, standing in the garden. He smiled cheerfully, his dark hair tousled slightly by the breeze. She longed to run into his arms again, to have him pick her up and swing her around. Even after all this time, she could hear his musical laughter in her ears, her mother calling them for dinner in the doorway. She would never hear that laugh again, no matter how often she wished to.

She turned the picture over, reading her mother’s writing--Andrew Calvert, 1905.

What am I going to do, Father? she thought, turning the picture over again so she could look at him. I wish you were still here…

At last she let the photograph fall from her hands, and buried her face in her arms as she wept.

*****

Michael, Mac, and Anastasia entered the cabin, shutting the door behind them. All three were panting and clutching at stitches in their sides, grateful when they were finally able to sit down. Michael sat in the desk chair, resting his head against the wood, and the girls flopped down on their respective beds. "What time is it?" Mac gasped, once she managed to find her voice, and Anastasia looked at the clock on the wall.

"10:30. It’s late…your father would have a fit if he knew we were still awake at this hour, wouldn’t he?"

All three of them heard a loud snore from Fabrizio and looked up at his bunk. The Italian man lay with his back to them, clearly not having heard a thing. Mac quickly slid off of her father’s bunk bed, hurrying to fetch a candle, and lit it. "Shut off the light so we won’t wake him," she whispered, and Anastasia did as she was told. When the cabin grew dark again, Michael held the candle so they could see each other.

"What do you think is going to happen to him?" Anastasia asked, trying to keep her voice to a whisper. "You don’t think they’ll send him to prison when we get to America, do you?"

Michael set the candle on the desk and shook his head. "I don’t think so. He and Callista are too clever. She’ll get him out."

"I hope she can find him," Mac added. "I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking!"

"Have they ever been caught?" Anastasia wondered, watching as Mac gratefully removed her shoes, and bit back a giggle as her friend wriggled her toes with relief.

"Wait a minute, Ana, you’re bleeding still," Michael noticed, and Anastasia touched the cut on her cheek with the back of her hand. A bright red streak appeared on her skin, and she stared at him. "I’ll clean you up, if you don’t mind, of course."

She shook her head, asking him to fetch her small, hand-held mirror. "Do I look very bad?" she asked, peering at her reflection.

"Well…" Mac paused, watching as Michael disappeared into the water closet to get a damp rag. "Does it hurt?"

Anastasia shook her head. "Not really…I mean, my head still does, and I’m sure I’m going to have a lovely lump tomorrow. But the cut doesn’t hurt at all."

Michael returned, and Anastasia moved over so he could sit next to her. "This might sting," he warned, and touched the warm cloth to the wound. She hissed in surprise, jerking away from him.

"Ow!" she snapped, and he raised an eyebrow.

"I warned you ahead of time," he told her, and she glared at him. "It’ll only sting for a moment or so, and then it’ll feel nice."

She hesitated, finally allowing him to place the cloth against her again. He was correct…it was actually much better after the first shock. She sighed softly, her body slowly relaxing. "Thank you," she told him, and he nodded.

For a little while, they didn’t speak at all, and Mac gazed up at the bottom of Fabrizio’s bunk. She’d actually grown quite comfortable with life on the Titanic, wondering what it would be like when they finally pulled into New York. They still had a good four days to go yet, though if her father’s health was still poor when they reached Ellis Island, he would probably not be allowed to leave for a time. "I hope they don’t send him back," she announced suddenly, and Anastasia and Michael looked at her curiously.

"Send who back?" Michael asked.

"I’ve heard of it happening. You know, if a passenger is sick when they reach their destination, they might be sent back to where they started from…just so they’re not a threat."

Anastasia gasped. "Oh, I hope that’s not true!"

"But he’s not contagious," Michael pointed out. "They might not worry so much. I think it’s only for infectious diseases like cholera or something."

Mac nodded. "We might not be able to go into the city for a bit, until he’s feeling better. He won’t be strong enough to work right away."

"I’ll help make money," Michael offered, once he finished cleaning Anastasia’s cut and rinsed off the rag. He handed the Grand Duchess the mirror, and she peered at her reflection.

"Oh, wonderful!" She beamed.

"He won’t let you," Mac told Michael.

"He’s not paying my way anywhere. Callista, Sam, and I were given money before we left because we’re expected to support ourselves. Besides, I’d planned to work a little in America if I could. Maybe I’ll stay if I like it enough." He winked, and Anastasia pretended to shove him.

"Russia is much better, and you know it, Michael!"

Mac snickered. It figured that Anastasia would say such a thing, because she didn’t know much at all about the rough conditions the lower class had to deal with there. Alexandra kept her children as sheltered as possible, which made them somewhat…as Mac hated the term, socially retarded. Still, they were as intelligent as could be.

Michael chose not to respond to Anastasia’s comment and sighed. "So, now what are we going to do?" Anastasia asked, flopping backwards onto her bunk and narrowly missing the wall by a few inches. "I’m not the least bit tired!"

"Me, either," Mac agreed, "but maybe we should try to get to bed. We might just be more exhausted than we think we are."

Michael had already fallen sound asleep on the bunk next to Anastasia, who peered at him in surprise. She giggled, pointing. "Michael was certainly sleepier than he looked," she whispered, and pointed at him. He’d gone down without any warning, and was snoring away.

"Well, he has been through a lot tonight," Mac admitted. "It’s not a surprise he’s tired."

"But he’s sleeping in my bed," Anastasia whispered, and Mac shrugged.

"You can sleep in mine. I don’t care."

Anastasia started to say something else, but sighed and carefully climbed down the stepladder to the bunk below. The girls got into their nightgowns, whispering good night to each other in Russian before snuggling under the blankets.

*****

Callista ran down the decks, trying to find someone who she could ask about Sam’s possible whereabouts. At least you’ve taught him to do his job, she thought, her breath coming out in white puffs against the ice cold night. She noticed a man carrying a set of maps in his arms, walking towards the first class entrance.

"Excuse me!" she called, and he turned around, startled by the voice. "Are you involved with ship employment?" she added, not wanting to ask a passenger by mistake.

The man blinked. "I am the ship’s designer," he explained, and Callista did a double take.

"Ah…" She wet her lips, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I’m sorry. I just…I have a very important question to ask you, if you have a moment?" She tried to sound as calm as possible, and he nodded, turning to face her. "Thank you," she added, and folded her hands nervously. "I was wondering…where would the Master-at-Arms—if someone were to be taken into custody—where would he bring that person? Do you know?"

Mr. Andrews gave her a look up and down and raised his eyes. "Well, more than likely he—or she—‘d be taken down the crewman’s passage, because that is where the Master-at-Arm’s office is."

Callista sighed with relief. "Could you tell me how to get there?"

Mr. Andrews felt it was wise not to get into too deep an explanation, so he gave her the directions as straight-forwardly as he could. She listened very carefully, repeating the words over and over in her head until they were engraved there. "Thank you again, Mr. Andrews," she told him, having seen the ship designer’s name in the brochure. She hurried off, waiting until he’d walked inside before hopping over the rail towards the lower deck.

*****

In the Master-at-Arm’s office, Sam was indeed being handcuffed to a white pole, which stood next to the small desk. He listened to the rumble of the engine, which sounded louder here than it did in his cabin. He looked up to see another man come into the room, carrying a gun in one hand and smiling a bit too politely. "Mr. Hockley sent me," he explained, and Sam gulped silently.

The Master-at-Arms nodded. "Good…I’m about to make my rounds again, so make sure you keep a strict eye on this one until I come back." He left the room just as he saw another young woman dashing down the corridor, looking quite frantic.

"Miss, is there trouble?" he asked, and waited until she could stop and catch her breath.

"That man in there…what is going to happen to him?" she asked, and Sam’s ears pricked at the familiar female voice. Callista…he knew she would come to rescue him! He tried to peer out through the doorway, though he could only make out shadows.

"That man…how in the name of heaven did you know?" the Master-at-Arms asked, and Callista shook her head.

"My son told me what happened…he was nearby, and said my husband has been arrested for assault!"

Sam felt his insides twist into a knot, and would have laughed had he not been so shocked by her lie.

"He’ll be taken to trial, naturally, when we reach the States," the Master-at-Arms replied seriously. "There will his real punishment be decided."

Callista swallowed, feeling slightly sick. She had to free him, but not just yet. She peeped through the doorway, catching Sam’s eye, and he mouthed, "What are you doing?" to her. She shook her head, and he stared. "You’re going to leave me here!"

Callista wet her lips and took a deep breath. "Tell him…" She spoke loudly in Russian so the other two men would not understand her.

Sam nodded in understanding and leaned back, raising his eyes to the ceiling of the room.

"Madame, if you please, that is quite enough. Your husband is in a great deal of trouble, and he will be treated justly. Go on."

Callista nodded obediently, hurrying back to the third class cabins. There was no way she could rescue Sam now, not without risking both of them being caught. She had to have a detailed plan of action, not some random, spur of the moment breakthrough. Callista pushed the door open to Anastasia’s cabin, startling all of them but Fabrizio, who slept like a rock through anything, awake.

"There is going to be trouble," she began, and the trio looked at each other worriedly.

*****

The night ticked away slowly, as Rose sat beside the bed in the hospital wing, trying desperately to bring Jack’s fever down. Occasionally, he would open his eyes and whimper something that she could not comprehend, but would calm down if she took his hand.

"My sweet Jack," she whispered, brushing his sweat-soaked bangs away from his forehead.

The doctor came over to her, shaking his head when he took a good look at the patient. "It’s time for him to take a bit of medicine now if we can rouse him," he told her, and Rose gently stroked Jack’s cheek.

"Sweetheart, can you open your eyes for me?" she asked, and he only stirred. "You can do it," she added, and a moment later, Jack’s eyes fluttered open. "We’re going to give you a bit of medicine, so I’m going to help you sit up for a few moments. All right?"

Jack groaned as she eased him into an upright position, his head spinning wildly from the sudden movement. He leaned against her shoulder, watching as the doctor poured a bit of dark liquid from a bottle into a tiny shot glass-sized cup. "Take it all down, lad. It’ll eventually help you feel better."

Jack was so weak that Rose had to hold the glass against his lips. He sipped it very slowly, finishing the last drop of it before gasping for breath. "There we go." Rose handed the glass back to Dr. O’Loughlin, who rested the palm of his hand against Jack’s forehead.

"His fever is definitely taking a turn for the worse," he told her. "If this medicine does not help him, I’m not sure what will."

Rose felt tears in her eyes…Jack was possibly dying. "The pain medication has been helping him somewhat…he hasn’t complained of anything." That is stupid, she added silently. Of course he wouldn’t.

Jack began coughing hard into a fist, his cheeks turning red from the exertion.

"Poor lad." Dr. O’Loughlin sighed. "I wish there was more I could do for him."

Rose eased Jack back under the covers, pulling them close to his neck in a vain attempt to stop his shivering. "What time is it?" she asked, tucking the blankets more tightly around Jack’s feet.

"10:55," Dr. O’Loughlin replied. "And very late. I would recommend you return to your stateroom for the night, love. There is no need for you to sleep in here."

Rose couldn’t leave…she couldn’t bear being away from Jack. "I won’t go," she croaked. "I can’t."

"Ma’am…" the doctor started to say, but she looked to be in such despair that he set his teeth.

Jack turned his head towards Rose, and she bent over to kiss him softly. "I will bring an extra cot if you are absolutely insistent. But I will insist that you rest, or you will become ill also."

"I’ll be all right," she insisted.

The doctor started to respond again, but thought better of it and shut his mouth. He gave a nod and wandered off, checking on other patients.

Chapter Thirty
Stories