S.O.S. Titanic (13 page)

Now the creW was fitting cranks into the davits and uncoiling the lines. The cranks turned, the pulleys squealed, and one of the boats swung out from the ship to hang level with the deck.

He had to find Pegeen. Hurriedly he pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring Watley's shout of "Mr. O'Neill!" He edged around talking, laughing groups.

"Think of the stories," someone was saying. "We'll probably get headlines in the
Times— 'Titanic
Passengers Brave Cold on Deck for Safety Drill.'"

Lady, lady,
Barry thought. He had the urge to wave his arms, to shout and scream, "You idiots. Take this seriously. Have you thought this might not be a drill? Have you thought it might not be a joke?"

Up toward the bow he thought he saw Pegeen, and he half ran, thinking how he'd tell her, what he'd say to her. He'd stay with her. Bring her back with him.

But it wasn't Pegeen. There was no sign of her or of Mary or Mick Kelly, or of Jonnie or Frank Flynn either. None of them. He stopped an officer rushing by. "The third-class passengers. Where would they be?"

The officer shrugged off his hand. He had a sheaf of papers and was obviously in a hurry.

"I have no idea. They're probably being kept on another deck."

Barry held on to his sleeve, striding fast beside him to keep up. "Another deck—C, maybe?"

"Naturally the captain doesn't want all the passengers on the same deck. Do you know how many passengers there are on this ship? They'll be brought up when it's time," the officer said.

C. Two decks down.

Barry raced down the grand staircase. Were the stairs at a slope, too? No, he was imagining it. Still, he held on to the banister.

He went quickly around C Deck, looking at everyone. There were people standing about in groups, some sitting on the long wooden chairs. Nobody that he knew, nobody. Where were the third-class passengers? He went back again to the boat deck.

"I told you this ship was doomed," a doom-filled voice behind barry said. It was Howard, with his wife, Mrs. Cherry Hat, standing just inside the doors to the boat deck.

"Oh, this is just a simulation, old chap," a hearty man said, pushing to get out himself. "Get in the spirit of the thing. I intend to be on the first lifeboat away, just as I'd be if it were a real shipwreck."

"It is a real shipwreck, and you won't be on the first boat away," Howard said; but he sounded sad, not irritated. "How old are you, son?" he asked Barry.

"Fifteen, sir."

Howard shook his head, and Barry's heart gave another sickening lurch. What did Howard mean by that mournful shake of his head?

Mrs. Cherry Hat was wearing lipstick that had probably been a cheeky red when she put it on, but it looked purple out in the deck lights. She hadn't done a very good job of it. Her lips looked lopsided, like the curtains on the bed, Barry thought. Like his clothes in the wardrobe. Like that chandelier. Everything sliding down toward the bow ... He shifted his glance to the deck, looking for a slant forward, but there was nothing to see except the smooth wooden planks, so beautifully made and level as a tabletop. Nothing but the shoes and boots of the people milling around, the trailing hems of coats, a couple of grips set close to their owners' feet. Up here everything seemed normal.

Howard took his wife's arm. "I think we'll go 'round to port side," he told Barry. "I'd like to know what's going on over there. If it's any better." Suddenly and unexpectedly he grasped Barry's hand and shook it. "Good luck to you, young man. Remember, if the ship goes down and you are on it, swim for dear life, get away. There will be a lot of suction when it goes, and it will take you with it. That's how a lot of lives were lost on the
Titan.
"

His wife gave a little sob and hid her face on his shoulder. "It's so cold," she whispered. "The sea's so cold. I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

Barry felt her terror rising in a cloud around him. She hung limp and boneless as an empty coat on Howard's arm. "Don't leave me, Howard. Don't leave me. Don't..." Her words were a dirge said over and over, running together till they made no sense. Barry could still hear her as she and Howard disappeared among the crowds on the deck.

Around Barry, others were laughing and calling out cheery invitations. "See you in the smoking room when we get the drill over. A nightcap sounds good right now."

"It isn't for real, is it?" a woman asked nervously, hunching her shoulders against the cold.

"Of course not," another reassured her. "There would have been a warning siren if it were real. There has to be. I'm sure that's the law."

There'd been nothing. Barry forced himself to take a deep breath. The cold air seared his lungs. He knew it took three breaths to calm a person down, but tonight one would have to be enough.

Watley moved his group back against the bulkhead. "We will wait here for further instructions," he said. He had his life jacket on like the rest of them, and for the first time Barry noticed that he was carrying the green-patterned box. Inside would be the caul, cobweb fine, gray as old goose grease.

When Barry looked up he saw that Watley was watching him, not speaking.
A penny in his slot,
Barry thought.
A penny in his slot and he'll spit out a card and I'll know what's going to happen next.

He jumped at the sound of Scollins's voice. "Mr. Watley," Scollins said, "if we do have to go in one of those boats I must have my bag with me, the one I left with the purser for safekeeping. I gave my word to Mr. Billings and Mr. Fetters. You will watch out for Mr. O'Neill?"

"You may trust me," Watley said. "But if you must go, please go quickly. The purser will be busy taking care of passengers' requests for their valuables."

Scollins nodded. "I understand. I will not delay."

Barry watched him go. He was still thinking about those third-class passengers. Where were they? Why, they were on the poop deck, of course. Their own deck. That's where the crew would be holding them until it was time to come up.

He waited till he saw Watley in conversation with another steward, then edged away, back to the promenade deck, where he could look over the railing. This was where he'd stood to watch the dancing, where he'd lost his glove, where he'd seen Pegeen dancing with her skirt ballooning out around her. Looking down now, he saw two couples on the deck, standing there staring across the ocean. No one else. No Pegeen.

Up the stairs again, yet another time. Back to where Watley and the others stood.

The Goldsteins and her brother, Arthur, had stopped next to their little group.

"Do you know, it is our anniversary today," Mrs. Goldstein told Barry. "It's after midnight now, so it's April fifteenth." She was wearing the leather flying cap with the ear flaps, but her face looked smaller somehow and had lost its healthy glow.

"This trip was our treat to ourselves." Mr. Goldstein pulled one of the leather ear flaps and smiled lovingly down at his wife.

Barry had seen Bowers pull one of the hound's ears like that, softly, gently. But he hadn't been that soft and loving to the Flynns back in Mullinmore. Hadn't Pegeen said so?

"I have arranged for the orchestra to play your favorite song tonight, my dear," Mr. Goldstein added.

Mrs. Goldstein smiled wanly. "I'll like that." Did they really believe there would be a tonight? Barry wondered. Or did they suspect, and were they putting on an act for each other and for him?

"What is your favorite song?" he asked.

"'Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming,'" Mr. Goldstein said. "And..." He paused dramatically. "Arthur here has ordered a cake for us, too."

"We'd be pleased if you'd come over to our table after dinner and share in our festivities," Arthur said.

"Thank you," Barry told him.

"Look behind you. Now what are they up to?" Arthur asked.

Barry saw that some of the boats were being lowered even further so they'd hang alongside Promenade Deck A directly below.

"They'll probably have some of us go down there," Mr. Goldstein said. "There'll be less confusion when we have to get in."

"You think they're really going to put us into the boats?" his wife asked.

Mr. Goldstein shrugged. "It seems that way."

Barry turned to look across the pale, calm ocean that surrounded them, and there was only quiet and beauty. How could anyone believe that there was danger out there?

"Will the women and children kindly go down the stairs to Promenade Deck A," a loudspeaker boomed. "Women and children only."

"Why don't you go down?" Mr. Goldstein said to his wife.

"Without you? Certainly not," Mrs. Goldstein said. She paused. "Perhaps, though, you should go, Barry. How old are you?"

It was the second time tonight he had been asked that question.

"Fifteen," he said.

There was a silence. "You know," Mrs. Goldstein said, "if you're asked your age by a crew member it might be wise to take off a year or so."

"He wouldn't want to do that, my dear," Mr. Goldstein said gently. "He wouldn't want to be less than honorable."

Barry felt that chill again. That horrible, sickening chill, colder than the air around him, colder than the sea ice.

"But he's only a boy, Samuel," Mrs. Goldstein whispered. "He's only a child."

"Nevertheless, my dear. There will be younger children."

Barry's eyes met Mr. Goldstein's. They knew. This wasn't a drill, and the Goldsteins knew it, too.

Mrs. Welsh, who was being urged toward the stairs by Watley and her nurse, was protesting in a bad-tempered voice. "Go down the stairs now? I just came up the stairs. And are you proposing I get into one of those...?" She pointed with her cane. "I'm much too old for night ca-vordngs. I shall stay where I am."

Would Grandmother have gone? Probably not, Barry decided. And certainly not without Grandpop.

"There's plenty of time, Mrs. Welsh," the nurse said soothingly. "And plenty of lifeboats. You don't need to make the decision right away. Isn't that so, Mr. Watley?"

"I shouldn't wait," Watley said.

"I intend to wait." Mrs. Welsh gave the deck a thump with her cane.

"Do as you please, madam."

Watley was urging the two solid, sedate women toward the stairs, counting the rest of them. "One, two, three..."

Like a tour guide,
Barry thought.
Like the men and women who show people around Saint Patrick's Cathedral, the guide standing very still, counting. Waiting to make a speech about the beauty of the stained-glass windows or the wood carvings in the sanctuary.
He felt a terrible longing to be there, smelling the mustiness of the carpet, the hot wax of the candles flickering against the altar. So familiar. So much a part of home. So safe.

Women and children were trooping past them toward the stairs. Small children, Barry noticed, either up in their mothers' arms or straddling the humps of the life jackets or holding their mothers' hands.

His mother would be looking forward to him coming. What if he never came? What if they never got to know each other? She'd cry. He remembered her crying the last time she and his father had left him. This would be worse, though. He felt the burn of tears in his own eyes.

The ship's band suddenly appeared on deck, all eight of them. Bandmaster Hartley and his men had been playing in the first-class lounge. Now they had moved to the boat deck, near the entrance to the grand staircase. Their music added to the party air. Did they know about the flooded compartments as they played "The Tales of Hoffman"? Grandmother could play that, too, on the piano.

The small group of women and children who had gone down the stairs came tromping back up. One of them, not much older than Barry, looked at him and giggled. "They haven't an idea what they're doing around here," she said. "They forgot there are glass windows on the promenade deck. Nobody knew how to get them open, and there we were, the boats on the outside and us on the inside. Mama says the crew on this ship couldn't organize a Sunday-school picnic."

"At least we got our exercise for this evening," someone said, and Mrs. Welsh boomed in a loud, triumphant voice, "Didn't I tell you it would be better to stay where you are?"

One of the officers waved the group over to where he stood by one of the upper lifeboats. Barry remembered him from the bridge. His name was Murdoch. "Come over here, please," he called. "I'm asking only for women and children."

Nobody moved. "This is so silly," someone complained. "Honesdy."

"Come on, come on!" Murdoch shouted.

One woman stepped nervously forward. "Are you sure we have to?"

"Mind your step." Murdoch held out his hand to help her in.

"Do you have your pass with you to get back on board, Elizabeth?" a woman called from somewhere back in the crowd. "You can't get back on the
Titanic
without a pass, you know, and it'll be a long row home."

"So amusing," someone said.

"Six cents a ride. Once around the big boat and back," a man bellowed, and there were gales of laughter.

Why wasn't anybody taking this seriously? Barry wondered. Because it seemed impossible. Unthinkable. Unsinkable.

Another woman with two little children and a baby was next to get in the lifeboat.

"Wave good-bye to Papa," she told them, and they waved and blew kisses. "We'll be back soon."

Barry wondered about Mrs. Adair and Jocelyn and Malcolm. They were probably over on the port side. The third-class passengers might be there, too. Pegeen, her black shawl clutched around her. Pegeen with her friends and no thought of him. No real understanding of the danger.

Several more women had scrambled on board the lifeboat. Two seamen were
already in charge, one at the rudder, the other helping with the boarding. Still the lifeboat was almost empty.

"We need some more ladies," Officer Murdoch yelled.

"No chance," someone called. "I'm staying here. I'm not going to swing down in that little thing and maybe have it tip and throw us all into the sea."

"I didn't think of that." The mother who'd boarded with her two children and baby stood again, ready to get out.