TITANIC: A STORY TOLD
Chapter Nine
Bodine started a computer animated graphic on
the screen, which paralleled his rapid-fire narration.
"She hits the berg on the starboard side
and it sort of bumps along...punching holes like Morse code...dit dit dit, down
the side. Now she's flooding in the forward compartments...and the water spills
over the tops of the watertight bulkheads, which unfortunately don't go any
higher than E Deck, going aft. As her bow is going down, her stern is coming
up...slow at first...and then faster and faster until she's got her whole ass
sticking up in the air, and that's a big ass, maybe 20 or 30 thousand tons. Now,
the hull isn't designed to deal with that kind of weight, so what happens? She
splits...right down the middle. Skrrt! Now the bow swings down and the stern
falls back level...but the weight of the bow pulls the stern up vertical, and
then the bow section detaches, heading for the bottom. The stern bobs like a
cork, floods, and finally goes under about 2:20 AM. Two hours and forty minutes
after the collision."
The animation then followed the bow section
as it sank. Rose watched this clinical dissection of the disaster stoically,
showing little sign of the emotions within her.
Bodine continued. "The bow pulls out of
its dive and planes away, almost a half a mile, before it hits the bottom going
maybe 12 knots. Kaboom!"
The bow impacted, digging deeply into the
bottom. The animation then followed the stern.
Bodine, delighted with his handiwork,
grinned. "Pretty cool, huh?"
Rose just looked at him. "Thank you for
that fine forensic analysis, Mr. Bodine." Bodine had the grace to look
sheepish. "Of course, the experience of it was somewhat...different."
Brock pulled out a tape recorder. "Will
you share it with us, Rose?"
Her eyes went back to the screens, showing
the ruins far below them. The image of the doors to the first class dining
salon appeared on one of the monitors, and Rose looked at it, seeing in her
mind's eye a steward opening the door for her as well-dressed people walked
about inside the brightly lit room. Remembering, she could almost hear the soft
waltz music playing.
Abruptly, she snapped back to the present.
The doors were covered with rust, enshrouded in darkness. Rose put her hands
over her face, gasping against other memories that flooded her mind. Lizzy
rushed up to her.
"I'm taking her to rest." She tried
to escort Rose away.
"No." Rose's protest was almost
feeble.
"Come on, Nana."
"No!" The feeble old lady was gone,
replaced by a woman with eyes of steel. She sat down next to Lovett.
"Tell us, Rose."
Rose closed her eyes for a moment, then
began. "It's been 84 years--"
Lovett interrupted her. "Just try to
remember anything, anything at all."
"Do you want to hear this or not, Mr.
Lovett?" Lovett looked at her in consternation. "It's been 84 years,
and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The
sheets had never been slept in. Titanic was called the Ship of Dreams. And it
was. It really was..."