THE SHIP OF DREAMS
Chapter Thirty-Five

The night seemed to drag on forever. Anastasia, horrified after the Titanic broke in half and disappeared under the sea, broke into tears and sobbed herself into a restless sleep. She lay on Michael’s lap, shivering and trying to keep her coat as tightly around her as possible. The screams of panic and terror that once inhabited the ears of the passengers in the lifeboats were dwindling; those left behind in the water were slowly freezing to death.

Michael gulped; he wondered if Callista, Sam, Fabrizio, and Tommy made it off the ship in time, but a nagging thought in the back of his head told him differently. He still had no doubt about Mac’s survival, but it was so dark that he couldn’t tell where the other lifeboats were. Well, on occasion there would be a shout from a distant officer, ordering his crew to row faster, and the occasional blinding ray from a flashlight.

Rose, meanwhile, clung to Jack, who still remained unconscious. He did feel considerably cooler, thanks to the bitterly cold weather, but he was still having difficulty drawing in a good breath. Coddie Anna was sleeping soundly, cuddled in Ruth’s arms, exhausted from the cold and shock of the situation. Rose gazed up at the starry sky, and, though she swore her imagination was playing tricks, a group of stars worked into the shape of a heart.

Jack suddenly groaned, and Rose looked down quickly, watching as his eyes fluttered open. "Jack?" she whispered, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. Jack had absolutely no idea where he was, but he was so sore and dizzy that he didn’t care. The occasional rocking of the lifeboat on the sea made his stomach churn; if he stirred in the least, he felt as though he would throw up. Jack tended to get seasick if he were in smaller boats; he remembered the countless times he had lost it over the side while fishing with his father as a child. The Titanic had been an exception; it was too big to even feel the rocking, and if it did sway on occasion, it was a comfortable feeling.

"Rose?" Jack croaked, though all he was able to produce from his lips was a faint whisper.

"Don’t try to talk, Jack," Rose replied.

"Think…going to be sick," he croaked, and she gulped.

"Oh, dear."

Molly helped ease him into a sitting position so he could lean over the side of the boat. The officer in charge watched with a raised eyebrow; he always wondered what caused seasickness, especially since he himself was not bothered in the least by the rocking of the lifeboat. It seemed to claim certain people; he’d been working on the sea for years, so he probably had an immunity to it. Man’s probably not been sailing much, he thought as Jack retched twice.

Rose rubbed his back, relieved that he was dry heaving more than anything else. She couldn’t remember the last time Jack ate anything. Still, it was almost better to have something come up than to experience the feeling and have it end in vain.

"If only we had some ginger," one of the women suggested. "I had some back in my—my stateroom." She broke into tears, and woman sitting next to her gave her a comforting hug.

Jack gulped for air, wanting to die from embarrassment. Once his stomach stopped rolling, he collapsed against Rose, shivering as sweat poured down his cheeks. "I wish you would feel better," Rose told him softly, and he gulped.

"Thirsty," he whispered, and she sighed.

"Jack, I’m afraid we don’t have anything to drink," she replied.

"If we had more bloody time to get settled, we would have been able to bring aboard some canteens of fresh water," the officer growled.

Molly sighed heavily. She pulled her pocket watch out of her coat and peered at the time. It was now 3:30 AM; an hour away from daylight.

"I wish there was something we could do," the other women said. "I only have a drop of brandy left, and I’m not sure if that would help. It might." She handed over her flask, and Rose shook her head.

"No. Don’t worry about it." She sighed. "Jack, try to go back to sleep. I promise you’ll be able to have some fresh water soon."

Jack swallowed; his throat was swollen and painful.

"Rose, let him take a drop of that lady’s brandy. It won’t be much, but at least it’ll wet his mouth a little," Molly suggested, and Rose looked at her and then accepted the flask. There was indeed barely half, but Molly was right. It was either this or saltwater, and saltwater was worthless as far as drinking water was concerned. Jack’s lips were dry and cracked, and he cringed when she placed the tip of the flask against them.

He sipped very slowly from the flask, startled at first by the fiery taste, but was grateful to have something wet slide down his throat. "How far did you say the rescue ship was?" Rose asked after Jack finished what little brandy was left and returned the flask to its owner.

"Well, it was four hours away when the ship started sinking, ma’am, and it’s been about two since then. So we’ve probably got a good two hours left before anyone comes."

Rose sighed, cradling Jack close to her again.

*****

Callista was so sleepy. She knew her body was half-frozen to the door because it felt as though her skin would tear off if she attempted to move. The crowd of passengers who had once been thrashing about and screaming wildly for help was silent now. She didn’t know if Sam had found a piece of debris to climb onto, but she was grateful that he’d found one for her. She wished she had some company; it was so lonely, and though she wished she could move, she did not want to turn and see hundreds of dead bodies surrounding her.

Why hasn’t anyone come? she wondered bitterly, wondering what was keeping the lifeboats from coming back. Clearly they wanted to wait and avoid the suction of the ship when it went under the sea, but it had almost been an hour since that occurred, and there was no sign at all of them. Her breath came in small white puffs, and when she tried to sing an old Russian folk song, she could barely hear her own voice.

She now regretted having removed her shoes; her feet were numb with cold, as well as her legs. Attempting to sit upright, she cried out faintly as the door tipped sideways. She clung to it as her body slid into the water, and she cursed as loudly as she could. When she got a look around her at last, she gasped—a man was about five feet away, clinging to what looked like a barrel. He was clearly an officer, judging from his uniform, and a whistle was frozen to his lips. She remembered him; he was one who had yelled, "Return the boats!" repeatedly, and blew the whistle afterwards.

"Sam?" she croaked, feeling stupid, though there was no one to hear her. She knew it was useless attempting to find him; she couldn’t swim with a half-frozen body. It took a lot of effort to drag her body back onto the debris, but she was grateful to be lying on it again when she made it.

Sighing heavily, she wondered how long it would take for the news of the Titanic’s sinking to reach Russia. No doubt the Tsar and Tsarina would panic, wondering if Anastasia had survived. It clearly would not get to Russia for at least several days; probably not until after they arrived in New York.

What if we are not rescued? What if we are left to die out here? They will never know what happened to us, Callista thought, and realized Michael would probably tell them, or at least tell them what he suspected as being their fate. If he managed to get Anastasia safely to America, then she knew she would drop all charges of his stupidity with being partially the cause of Sam’s arrest the day before. Besides, Michael was just a boy, and very new at the position of secret police. Hard to believe that only a year ago he was the imperial family’s kitchen boy. She did like him very much, Michael, though he was rather mischievous, and annoyed Sam rather badly. Speaking of which, she had to smile at the time he’d been teasing one of the Grand Duchesses during a ball; he’d sneaked out to see what was going on. Furious, Sam had chased him off with the threat of dragging him off to see the Tsar personally.

Callista shivered violently, cringing in pain as her ankles throbbed. She was about to drift off into a restless doze when she heard the voice shouting. "Hello!"

It was most certainly a Welsh male’s voice; it couldn’t be! She saw the flashlight in the distance, casting a white glow over the heads of the bodies. "Is there anyone alive out there?!"

Callista cursed again, wishing she’d remained in the water. "Can anyone hear me?!" the voice shouted again, and Callista tried to yell, "Right here!" She splashed the water, trying to make as much noise as possible, but the voices were growing fainter as they moved on through the crowd.

"Is there anyone alive out there?!"

Callista lifted her head and saw that a lifeboat was indeed coming, but it was already a great deal past her. "Come back!" she cried, alarmed, her heart hammering. This was probably her only chance to be saved, and she couldn’t miss it. She just couldn’t!

"Come back!" She tried again, but her vocal chords wouldn’t cooperate. Suddenly, her eyes connected with the body of the dead officer with the whistle again, and she had an idea. Grunting, she forced herself off of the door once more, and gasped as she slid back into the water. Her legs felt useless; like long pieces of rubber, but she had to drag herself over to the body. It was her only chance.

Though it was difficult, Callista did manage to do so, and her feeble, frozen fingers fumbled around the dead man’s mouth as she grasped onto the whistle. Once she had hold of it at last, she blew with all of her might. The whistle echoed shrilly, and Officer Lowe, who was in charge of the rescue lifeboat, ordered his crew to stop rowing. He shone his flashlight in the direction of the noise, but he could not see anyone.

"Come about!" he yelled, and Callista thrashed her hands and her legs, trying to draw their attention. She blew the whistle again and again, not caring that it was exhausting her. The lifeboat was drifting towards her again; the flashlight was blinding her, but she could not hide her relief. Before she knew what was happening, Officer Lowe seized her by the arms, and, with the help of an assistant sailor, they dragged her aboard.

Callista fell into the wooden bottom of the boat, half-gasping, half-sobbing. They immediately wrapped her in one of the spare blankets, taking special care of her bare feet. "You’re all right now, love," Officer Lowe insisted, but Callista couldn’t stop crying. She felt like a child, but she wasn’t crying from fear. She was crying because she was so full of relief. Once she calmed down, she accepted a small shot of brandy from a small flask, nearly choking on it as it burned down her throat. When she attempted to stretch out her legs and find a comfortable position, she accidentally kicked something rather soft close to her. Her eyes widened as she felt the something with her hand, and realized it was another body. Oh, God, she breathed, forcing herself to turn her head to the side. A familiar head of dark hair was poking out from another spare blanket.

"Calm down, then," Lowe encouraged, and that was all that Callista needed to hear. She closed her eyes, and almost as soon as she did so, sleep overtook her.

*****

When Mac finally came to, daylight was starting to flood the once pitch-black sky. She lay bundled in a cocoon of blankets, and was much too warm and comfortable to move. The sinking of the Titanic felt like a strange dream at this point; but she was only reminded again that it was real when she struggled to lift her head.

She was lying in a lifeboat, which was handled by two crewmen. When she turned in the opposite direction, she saw the massive form of a ship. "Where are we?" she croaked, and one of the crewmen jumped; he’d almost forgotten about the little girl. She was so quiet the entire trip, having passed out before they got the boat in the water.

"Bloody ‘el, you gave me a start," he breathed, and Mac struggled to sit up. "Easy now; don’t sit up too fast. You just came out of a faint, you did."

"I—fainted?" Mac asked, blinking. No wonder her head felt as though an anvil had been dropped on it. "Ow." She cringed, squeezing her eyes shut. When she re-opened them, her vision was much clearer, and she looked up at the ship again. It was not, as she had thought, the Titanic, but was another liner with the name Carpathia painted on it’s side.

"About to be rescued," the officer explained, patting her head awkwardly. "And about bloody time, too."

"Rescued?" Mac croaked.

He stared at her. "Where have you been, girl? The Titanic sank over four hours ago."

Mac felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach; it had not been a dream at all, the sinking. "Where’s my father?" she suddenly asked, her heart thumping hard in her chest. The sailor frowned and shrugged.

"I wouldn’t know. That wasn’t your dad who gave you to us earlier was it? Italian chap?"

Fabrizio. Mac gulped; she remembered now. Her father was sick, and in first class. Rose was taking care of him, but where were they? Had they made it?

"No," she responded. "He was my friend."

"Ah…well, I don’t know what happened to your father, but hopefully he was one of the lucky blokes that got onto a lifeboat. For a good time they were only doing women and children. Men weren’t allowed on the lifeboats."

Mac felt sick again, and was quite ready to faint again. She lay back down, burying herself in her blankets again. The Carpathia was still a good twenty feet away, and there was a line of about five boats ahead of them. Mac felt tears falling down her cheeks; she prayed her father made it onto a lifeboat, prayed that she could leap into his arms again. Before she knew it, she’d fallen sound asleep again, a seagull or two cawing in the distance.

Chapter Thirty-Six
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