Hearts That Survive (13 page)

T
he rowers moved away as fast as they could. The ship slanted, like a big toe testing to see if the water were too cold, or if the temperature were suitable for a dip. The decision came from somewhere far below. The explosion burst into the silent night. A great red light flashed and disappeared below the surface. The ship cracked, snapping right in two.

Half the ship was going down. Pianos and furniture and deck chairs and objects of all kinds, even parts of the ship, were flying through the air and falling into the sea. People sought a handhold but found none. The water passed through their naked fingers, and their arms were heavy in the icy gelatin. They had nowhere to go.

Thousands and thousands of desperate screams pierced the cold night air. Surely, surely a ship somewhere would hear.

But only—

Only half the ship went down. The other half settled back on the water. Lydia knew John had to be on the floating half. She screamed. Others in the boats screamed. Lydia's voice joined with those of other women, pleading that their husbands were out there and to go back, go back. The boat's not full.

The rowers kept moving farther out to sea, saying the ship would pull them under. How could half a ship do that? She wished John had been a coward. Had forced his way into the boat.

But she knew he wouldn't as long as there was a woman or child, even another man, left on the ship. He might even try to save third class. She knew, just as she'd known she was carrying his child, before there was conclusive evidence.

On deck he had placed his hands on his midsection, reminding her they had a child. That was no solace now. She was in a worse predicament than the night she'd stood at the railing wondering how to tell him. She couldn't survive this without John. If he wouldn't come to her, she would go to him. She stood but was pulled down.

"Let me go. Someone else can take my place."

"Hold her. She's delirious."

"We have enough to do without your making it worse," said the man rowing.

That was disrespectful. Didn't he know who she was?

No.

What and who they were on the ship was a lifetime away from who and what they were in a lifeboat in the North Atlantic with an iceberg looming and a ship sinking.

They didn't even know she wanted to exchange her place with those wailing the chorus of death groans in the freezing water.

Hundreds and hundreds of passengers were packed on the floating part of the ship, and some of the screaming abated. Only the struggling, freezing ones were pleading. John would be on the floating part of the ship, safe.

Of all the unbelievable things that occurred, the strangest was what next took place. Silence replaced the screams. Only helpless groans accompanied the event. The floating half of the ship began to melt like a dollop of butter on a hot roll. It just melted smoothly into the ocean and the hoard of people were in the water. Their hair didn't get wet. No water splashed on their faces. For an instant they didn't scream. They couldn't. A communal gasp went out over the sea, produced by hundreds and hundreds of terrified people who unexpectedly stepped into icy water up to their necks.

No one even cared that she didn't want to live if John didn't.

Looking out at the vast, still water, she told herself it was all right. She hadn't been put out here to live, but to die a slow, agonizing, freezing death.

Was that her punishment? A silent sea? A silent sky. The stars weren't even twinkling. Just there. Like eyes. Watching. She stopped screaming.

Death groans came from the throats of others in the boat, one louder than the others. Then she realized it was her own.

She wasn't imploring, pleading for God and Jesus to save her, like those trying to swim to safety but who had nowhere to go, or who were beaten back from the boats lest they pile in and capsize and kill them all. One of the rowing crew members said the captain told them it was every man for himself.

That's what it had become. For man and woman.

Save me? For what, without John?

She felt . . . already dead.

Her eyes hurt from trying to see what wasn't there. She'd seen the lights of the ship underwater, exposing green sea water. Then black. Then nothing.

The ship of dreams had vanished, disappeared completely, as it sank into the sea.

In its place emerged a nightmare.

C
aroline could not take her eyes from the sight. From out in a small boat, the ship had not looked so big. Not invincible, not unsinkable. It seemed like a giant hand had taken it and snapped it, breaking it in two, like a human hand might snap a little twig.

Half of it fell into the ocean, and anything not fastened down cluttered the sea. Half the ship leveled off. It would float. They wouldn't sink. There was an eerie quiet. All would be well.

And then it sank.

Her world became a tiny boat on a vast sea. The life she'd questioned was gone. There was nothing she could now be sure about. One wave, one shark, or freezing to death. Would they freeze or starve or die of thirst? Should they hasten the inevitable by slipping into the water? William?

Too late for her resolve about William. He was out there among the frozen. How strange, when and where one sees one's self most clearly.

When it's too late?

Just when she'd decided to love him unconditionally, it was over.

Oh, if I had to do it over, William, I'd put you first instead of efforts to bear a child. Did that help freeze our relationship?

The last hymn she heard the band playing was "Nearer My God to Thee." To whom did that apply?

Where was God in this? Did he see?

She saw. Ice. Toy boats on a cold ocean. Heard hundreds. Hundreds! of voices pleading God. Jesus. Save me.

In vain. The ship didn't. The life vests didn't. The boats didn't return to pick them up, although there was room for more. God didn't.

Nobody and nothing helped those screaming, pleading, freezing human beings packed in ice. Not drowning, but being frozen alive.

Too late.

Did life really matter? Could hopes and dreams and plans and life end so quickly, so terribly? She looked at the sky. Was anything there besides stars? What did it all mean? What was God? Who was God?

Why was she here, vulnerable, with no assurance of anything?

Did life mean anything?

If it didn't, she might as well slip off the side as easily as the man being rolled over the edge of the boat because he froze to death. She almost laughed. This was not real. You can't see this, hear it, believe it, and . . . survive.

Little Henry cried. She'd rather hear that than the crying of hundreds dying.

Her gaze moved to Phoebe, whose huge, unblinking eyes saw it all. Heard it all. She hugged her only possession, a blue teddy bear. Little Henry cried and screamed until his weary eyes closed. Caroline willed her attention to the children.

Was their daddy out there trying to swim to them while the rowers moved farther away? Where was their grandmother? William?

How long does it take to freeze? Later, she knew.

It took an eternity before the voices became fainter. They were a roar at first, like a crowd at a polo game or a horse race. Then they became a bad musical where voices couldn't hit the right notes but only screeched in terror.

The silence sounded worse. Hundreds. Thousands? Out there floating. Dead. They no longer screamed.

Just in her head. And in her heart.

Even in this ridiculously impossible situation she still had one thing.

Choice.

And so she drew little Henry closer beneath her coat. She forced her trembling, freezing mind to think of the little warm body next to hers. He dozed, then awakened to cry for Phoebe, and she would pet him and say, "I'm here, Henry. Be quiet and go to sleep."

He'd doze, awaken again, terrified, and Caroline soothed him, as she'd done in orphanages, in volunteering in baby wards at the hospital, with friends' children when their mothers were at their wit's end and Caroline knew, believed she could be a better mother than they.

The silence stopped her thoughts.

She saw bodies floating like ice.

She no longer wondered how many were crying for help, raising their hands, wailing, pleading, screaming, God help, Jesus save me.

How many were crying now?

None.

How many were in these boats? A few hundred.

Which meant that out there, floating, silent, freezing, frozen, were over two thousand.

Spread out for miles were hundreds.

She tried counting how many hundreds on her icy fingers. One hundred, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

She didn't have enough fingers for them all.

She'd have to count twice.

And then each hundred was made up of one person at a time.

One, two—

William was just one.

The losses were how many Williams?

And as the seconds, the minutes, the hours droned on with only the sound of oars rippling the water, she counted how many were losing someone and didn't even know it.

She was one.

She had parents. William had parents. There were distant relatives. Business associates. Friends. Acquaintances. They all lost tonight. And how many of those could she count? No, not enough fingers or toes. Perhaps she'd count them by the brilliant sequins in the sky.

And dear Bess, who leaned against her to give any warmth if there happened to be any. There wasn't. But it gave comfort. Who would miss Bess?

Did she have anyone to care one way or another?

Yes. She had one. She had her.

Caroline looked up.

Were there even enough of those stars?

Yes. There were enough for all the losses, and more.

Someone intruded on her contemplation. "We should pray."

Those able to speak, agreed. They debated how and settled upon the Lord's Prayer.

They all knew the words and spoke them in unison.

That was a ritual in the church she'd often attended.

Our Father which art in heaven.

Had that ever been an assurance? or a hope? or was it just words?

She kept her eyes on the stars. Was He above, beyond that?

Give us this day our daily bread.

They had none. Nor water.

But this wasn't really asking for anything. It was a eulogy.

Amen.

Nothing changed. The passengers on the way to nowhere remained silent. The men and women took turns rowing to stay warm, as if there were a destination. The sea remained calm. The air still. Caroline thought of them as freezing figures suspended in a twilight of uncertainty.

Until there appeared the first gray light of dawn. She felt no elation when the thought came.

She thought she wasn't going to die.

But she didn't know why.

A
rmand Bettencourt awoke to an aggravating buzzing that disturbed his warm, comfortable state of being. Unwilling to open his eyes, he turned on his side and pulled the covers over his head. Ah, that stopped it. Then it started again.

Groaning, he lowered the covers and peered out at the dim room. Gray, foggy mist dared not enter through the open window out of respect for his sleep.

Squinting at the black hands on the white-faced clock, he thought it too early in the morning for anybody to call. Not here, anyway. This country home in Bedford was his haven. His office knew he was taking today off, and nobody but close associates and friends knew where to find him. That's why he kept only one phone in the house, and it was downstairs in the kitchen, near where he liked to cook.

Tomorrow he'd have one installed upstairs so he could pick up the receiver, put it back down, turn over, and go to sleep again. It was probably a wrong number or somebody who hadn't learned how to operate the relatively new contraptions.

"All right, all right." He sat up, switched on the lamp, and made his way out the door, across the hall, down the stairs, past another hall, and into the kitchen. He could have done it with his eyes closed. Just follow the persistent ringing.

He reached into the small nook in the wall and lifted the receiver. "Yes?"

"Mr. Bettencourt?"

Resisting the urge to ask if that's who the caller wanted, he replied blandly. "Speaking."

"This is Jarvis."

Jarvis. Yes, one of his young interns, who came to the office early to bring the mail and to be ready to run errands by the time the others arrived. Didn't that boy know the sun might be coming up in the city, but here in the country things moved more slowly? Looking at the fog-laden window, he thought about the cool mist that would be rising from the lake. A light breeze would be blowing through the trees, and he liked to walk in it. A little later in the morning, however.

"I took today off," he reminded Jarvis, in case he hadn't gotten the word. He'd had a long day on Saturday, with several of his neighbors having a dispute with a railway company over a property line. Then Sunday had been church and rest and fishing. Well, rest and fishing were just about one word. Certainly one activity. He'd stayed up late reading and had looked forward to sleeping in this morning.

He heard Jarvis's deep breath. "Have you heard about the
Titanic?"

Now
that
penetrated Armand's sleep-laden mind. "Everybody in the world has heard about the
Titanic,
Jarvis."

"I mean, there's been an accident."

Armand turned from the window and lifted the candlestick base of the phone from the nook, then set it on the small table in front of the window. He pulled out a chair and sat.

"Accident?"

"The radio says the
Titanic
hit an iceberg. She got a little banged up. Since Halifax is closer to them than New York, the ship's coming here."

Wondering if he were dreaming, Armand ran his fingers through the curls that fell across his forehead and which felt as disheveled as his emotions. "The passengers are going to disembark here?"

"I guess so. Otherwise they wouldn't need to send the report, would they?"

Armand supposed not, unless they needed to wait until the ship was repaired or they could get on another one. He tried to calculate. The
Titanic
was due in New York on Thursday. It would arrive here maybe late Tuesday or Wednesday. There was time to find out more and help where needed.

"Let me know if you learn any more. Thanks, Jarvis."

"Yes, sir."

By the time Armand had his coffeemaker perking on the stove, the phone rang again.

"Me again," Jarvis said. "Now the word is that White Star chartered trains for friends and family of passengers to come here. They'd expected to meet them in New York."

Armand could hardly comprehend this. Almost three thousand passengers were coming to Halifax by ship. Who knew how many by train? Maybe Jarvis had taken up drinking. "Why are you calling about this, Jarvis?"

"I was told to. The other attorneys in the office are trying to find out what they need to do. People will need places to stay."

Armand spoke his mind. "This is not making a lot of sense."

"Nothing is. Some reports are that everything's fine. Another says the
Titanic
is badly damaged."

Armand sighed. "I'll come in. Maybe I can make some sense of it."

Before he had finished the cup of coffee he took upstairs to drink while dressing, the phone rang again. He didn't go down to answer, but instead listened to the radio broadcasts. They were as mixed as Jarvis had said.

Armand called the pastor of the little country church and then proceeded to dress in his business suit. He was the attorney for the Marstons, a couple of church members traveling on the
Titanic.

The Marstons had been friends of Armand's parents and were a great comfort to him after his parents were killed several years ago in a train wreck. As difficult as that had been, it had conditioned him for a worse catastrophe. But this wasn't the time to be thinking of that.

Shortly, Rev. Oliveera arrived in his carriage. "What you've heard is all they're reporting on the radio." The man's tone of voice revealed his own effort to comprehend such news.

They rode in the carriage, with the horse driven at racing speed, to the Bedford station and boarded the train to Halifax. The pastor was as befuddled as other passengers, passing information back and forth, finding it difficult to believe a great ship like the
Titanic
could be in trouble. "If it is, the people will need us. Sounds like we might be getting about three thousand people coming into Halifax Harbor."

Armand nodded. That was among the more heartening of the reports.

Others on the train seemed equally hopeful, saying if people couldn't be safe on a great ship like the
Titanic,
who'd be safe on any ship at all?

As soon as they arrived in Halifax, they heard other reports from people gathered at the station and in the streets. Armand and the pastor hurried to Barrington Street and into a two story building much like others on the block that had been turned into offices. Bettencourt Law Firm took up the entire first floor. Armand's town residence was on the second. He stayed in the office, where he could receive telephone and wireless messages.

Armand had a direct connection with the Cunard Line, which wired that White Star had sent the message that the
Titanic
had hit an iceberg but all was well. As he conveyed the message to the pastor, both breathed a sigh of relief. The damage wasn't as bad as some reports made it out to be.

He began making and receiving calls immediately. Halifax would need to take care of the ship's passengers until they could be transported by another ship or by train to New York. He didn't know what he could do, but he'd be available.

Nobody believed that there was any real trouble. The
Titanic
was the greatest, grandest mode of transportation ever built.

Other than the one Noah built, Armand thought with a trace of humor. But God had directed that one down to the kind of wood and the size. He'd have to look into it and see which was larger, the Ark or the
Titanic.

But he wasn't trying to make a point. For all he knew, God had instructed Andrews and Ismay and each worker about how to build that ship. Noah's problem was rain. The
Titanic's
was an iceberg.

Both floated, apparently, because the next message came that all the passengers were safe on the
Parisian
and the
Carpathia.
Because of ice encountered on the way to Nova Scotia, they would be taken directly to New York.

The train trips were cancelled.

It looked like their initial scare was unfounded. They wouldn't have to find available space for thousands of ship and train passengers.

But the crew would need their help. The
Titanic
was being towed by the
Virginian
to Halifax.